Mary Slessor of Calabar: Pioneer Missionary | Page 5

out of it. She would carry home the statements that arrested and
puzzled her, and refer them to her mother, who, however, did not
always find it easy to satisfy her. "Is baptism necessary for salvation,
mother?" was one of her questions. "Well," her mother replied, "it says
that he that repents and is baptized shall be saved; but it does not say
that he that repents and is not baptized shall be damned." Some of her
mother's sayings at this time she never forgot. "When one duty jostles
another, one is not a duty," she was once told. And again, "Thank God
for what you receive: thank God for what you do not receive: thank
God for the sins you are delivered from; and thank God for the sins that
you know nothing at all about, and are never tempted to commit."
Mary was a favourite with her classmates. There was something about
her even then which drew others to her. One, the daughter of an elder,
tells how, though much younger, she was attracted to her by her
goodness and her kind ways, and how she would often go early to meet
her in order to enjoy her company to the class.

III. MISERY
The explanation of much in Mary Slessor's character lies in these early
years, and she cannot be fully understood unless the unhappy
circumstances in her home are taken into account. She was usually
reticent regarding her father, but once she wrote and published under
her own name what is known to be the story of this painful period of
her girlhood. There is no need to reproduce it, but some reference to the
facts is necessary if only to show how bravely she battled against
hardship and difficulties even then.
The weakness of Mr. Slessor was not cured by the change in his
surroundings. All the endearments of his wife and daughter were
powerless to save the man whose heart was tender enough when he was
sober, but whose moral sensibilities continued to be sapped by his
indulgence in drink. Every penny he could lay hands upon was spent in
this way, and the mother was often reduced to sore straits to feed and
clothe the children. Not infrequently Mary had to perform a duty
repugnant to her sensitive nature. She would leave the factory after her
long toil, and run home, pick up a parcel which her mother had
prepared, and fly like a hunted thing along the shadiest and quietest
streets, making many a turning in order to avoid her friends, to the
nearest pawnbroker's. Then with sufficient money for the week's
requirements she would hurry back with a thankful heart, and answer
the mother's anxious, questioning eyes with a glad light in her own. A
kiss would be her reward, and she would be sent out to pay the more
pressing bills.
There was one night of terror in every week. On Saturday, after the
other children were in bed, the mother and daughter sat sewing or
knitting in silence through long hours, waiting in sickening
apprehension for the sound of uncertain footsteps on the stairs. Now
and again they prayed to quieten their hearts. Yet they longed for his
coming. When he appeared he would throw into the fire the supper they
had stinted themselves to provide for him. Sometimes Mary was forced
out into the streets where she wandered in the dark, alone, sobbing out
her misery.
All the efforts of wife and daughter were directed towards hiding the
skeleton in the house. The fear of exposure before the neighbours, the
dread lest Mary's church friends should come to know the secret, made

the two sad souls pinch and struggle and suffer with endless patience.
None of the other children was aware of the long vigils that were spent.
The fact that the family was never disgraced in public was attributed to
prayer. The mother prayed, the daughter prayed, ceaselessly, with utter
simplicity of belief, and they were never once left stranded or put to
shame. Their faith not only saved them from despair, it made them
happy in the intervals of their distress. Few brighter or more hopeful
families gathered in church from Sunday to Sunday.
Nevertheless these days left their mark upon Mary for life. She was at
the plastic age, she was gentle and sensitive and loving, and what she
passed through hurt and saddened her spirit. To the end it was the only
memory that had power to send a shaft of bitterness across the
sweetness of her nature. It added to her shyness and to her reluctance to
appear in public and speak, which was afterwards so much commented
upon, for always at the back of her mind was the consciousness of that
dark and wretched