CHAPTER XI.
A PLACE IN THE WORLD.
I was an humbler child when I got out of bed the next morning, Ithink, than ever I had been in my life before. But I had anotherlesson to learn.
I was not angry any more at Miss St. Clair. That was gone. Even whenshe did one or two other mischievous things to me, the rising feelingof offence was quickly got under; and I lived in great charity withher. My new lesson was of another sort.
Two or three days passed, and then came Sunday. It was never acomfortable day at Mme. Ricard's. We all went to church of course,under the care of one or other of the teachers; and we had our choicewhere to go. Miss Babbitt went to a Presbyterian church. Miss Maria toa high Episcopal. Mme. Jupon attended a little French Protestantchapel; and Mlle. Genevieve and Mme. Ricard went to the Catholicchurch. The first Sunday I had gone with them, not knowing at allwhither. I found that would not do; and since then I had tried theother parties. But I was in a strait; for Miss Maria's church seemedto me a faded image of Mlle. Genevieve's; the Presbyterian churchwhich Miss Babbitt went to was stiff and dull; I was not at home ineither of them, and could not understand or enjoy what was spoken. Thevery music had an air of incipient petrification, if I can speak soabout sounds. At the little French chapel I could as little comprehendthe words that were uttered. But in the pulpit there was a man with ashining face; a face full of love and truth and earnestness. He spokeout of his heart, and no set words; and the singing was simple andsweet and the hymns beautiful. I could understand them, for I had thehymn-book in my hands. Also I had the French Bible, and Mme. Jupon,delighted to have me with her, assured me that if I listened I wouldvery soon begin to understand the minister's preaching just as well asif it were English. So I went with Mme. Jupon, and thereby lost somepart of Mlle. Genevieve's favour; but that I did not understand tillafterwards.
We had all been to church as usual, this Sunday, and we were takingoff our hats and things upstairs, after the second service. My simpletoilet was soon made; and I sat upon the side of my little bed,watching those of my companions. They were a contrast to mine. Theutmost that money could do, to bring girls into the fashion, was donefor these girls; for the patrons of Mme. Ricard's establishment werenearly all rich.
Costly coats and cloaks, heavily trimmed, were surmounted with everyvariety of showy head-gear, in every variety of unsuitableness. Tostudy bad taste, one would want no better field than the heads of Mme.Ricard's seventy boarders dressed for church. Not that the articleswhich were worn on the heads were always bad; some of them came fromirreproachable workshops; but there was everywhere the bad taste ofoverdressing, and nowhere the tact of appropriation. The hats wereall on the wrong heads. Everybody was a testimony of what money can dowithout art. I sat on my little bed, vaguely speculating on all thisas I watched my companions disrobing; at intervals humming the sweetFrench melody to which the last hymn had been sung; when St. Clairpaused in her talk and threw a glance in my direction. It lighted onmy plain plaid frock and undressed hair.
"Don't you come from the country, Miss Randolph?" she said, insolentlyenough.
I answered yes. And I remembered what my mantua-maker had said.
"Did you have that dress made there?"
"For shame, St. Clair!" said Miss Bentley; "let Miss Randolph alone. Iam sure her dress is very neat."
"I wonder if women don't wear long hair where she came from?" said thegirl, turning away from me again. The others laughed.
I was as little pleased at that moment with the defence as with theattack. The instant thought in my mind was, that Miss Bentley knew nomore how to conduct the one than Miss St. Clair to make the other; ifthe latter had no civility, the first had no style. Now the St. Clairwas one of the best dressed girls in school and came from one of themost important families. I thought, if she knew where I came from, andwho my mother was, she would change her tone. Nevertheless, I wishedmamma would order me to let my hair grow, and I began to think whetherI might not do it without order. And I thought also that the springwas advancing, and warm weather would soon be upon us; and that thesegirls would change their talk and their opinion about me when theysaw my summer frocks. There was nothing like _them_ in all the school.I ran over in my mind their various elegance, of texture and lace, andfine embroidery, and graceful, simple drapery. And also I thought, ifthese girls could see Magnolia, its magnificent oaks, and its acres oftimber, and its sweeps of rich fields, and its troops of servants,their minds would be enlightened as to me and my belongings.
These meditations were a mixture of comfort and discomfort to me; buton the whole I was not comfortable. This process of comparing myselfwith my neighbours, I was not accustomed to; and even though itsresults were so favourable, I did not like it. Neither did I quiterelish living under a cloud; and my eyes being a little sharpened now,I could see that not by my young companions alone, but by every one ofthe four teachers, I was looked upon as a harmless little girl whosemother knew nothing about the fashionable world. I do not think thatanything in my manner showed either my pique or my disdain; I believeI went out of doors just as usual; but these things were often in mythoughts, and taking by degrees more room in them.
It was not till the Sunday came round again, that I got any morelight. The afternoon service was over; we had come home and laid offour bonnets and cloaks; for though we were in April it was cold andwindy; and my schoolfellows had all gone downstairs to the parlour,where they had the privilege of doing what they pleased before tea. Iwas left alone. It was almost my only time for being alone in thewhole week. I had an hour then; and I used to spend it in my bedroomwith my Bible. To-day I was reading the first epistle of John, which Iwas very fond of; and as my custom was, not reading merely, butpondering and praying over the words verse by verse. So I found thatI understood them better and enjoyed them a great deal more. I came tothese words,--
"Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that weshould be called the sons of God; therefore the world knoweth us not,because it knew him not."
I had dwelt sometime upon the first part of the verse, forgetting all mydiscomforts of the week past; and came in due course to the next words. Inever shall forget how they swept in upon. "_The world knoweth usnot._"--What did that mean? "Because it knew him not." How did it notknow Him; He was in the midst of men; He lived no hidden life; the worldknew Him well enough as a benefactor, a teacher, a reprover; in whatsense did it _not_ know Him? And I remembered, it did not know Him as oneof its own party. He was "this fellow,"--and "the deceiver;"--"theNazarene;" "they called the master of the house Beelzebub." And so theworld knoweth _us_ not; and I knew well enough why; because we must belike Him. And then, I found an unwillingness in myself to have thesewords true of me. I had been very satisfied under the slighting tones andlooks of the little world around me, thinking that they were mistaken andwould by and by know it; they would know that in all that they held sodear, of grace and fashion and elegance and distinguished appearance, mymother, and of course I, were not only their match but above them. Now,must I be content to have them never know it? But, I thought, I could nothelp their seeing the fact; if I dressed as my mother's child wasaccustomed to dress, they would know what sphere of life I belonged to.And then the words bore down upon me again, with their uncompromisingdistinctness,--"_the world knoweth us not_." I saw it was a mark andcharacter of those that belonged to Christ. I saw that, if I belonged toHim, the world must not know me. The conclusion was very plain. And tosecure the conclusion, the way was very plain too; I must simply not belike the world. I must not be of the world; and I must let it be knownthat I was not.
Face to face with the issue, I started back. For not to be of theworld, meant, not to follow their ways. I did not want to follow someof their ways; I had no desire to break the Sabbath, for example; butI did like to wear pretty and elegant and expensive things, andfashionable things. It is very true, I had just denied myself thispleasure, and bought a plain dress and coat that did not charm me; butthat was in favo
ur of Margaret and to save money for her. And I had noobjection to do the same thing again and again, for the same motive;and to deny myself to the end of the chapter, so long as others werein need. But that was another matter from shaking hands with the worldat once, and being willing that for all my life it should never knowme as one of those whom it honoured. Never _know_ me, in fact. I mustbe something out of the world's consciousness, and of no importance toit. And to begin with, I must never try to enlighten my schoolfellows'eyes about myself. Let them think that Daisy Randolph came fromsomewhere in the country and was accustomed to wear no better dressesin ordinary than her school plaid. Let them never be aware that I hadponies and servants and lands and treasures. Nay, the force of thewords I had read went farther than that. I felt it, down in my heart.Not only I must take no measures to proclaim my title to the world'sregard; but I must be such and so unlike it in my whole way of life,dress and all, that the world would not wish to recognize me, nor haveanything to do with me.
I counted the cost now, and it seemed heavy. There was Miss Bentley,with her clumsy finery, put on as it were one dollar above the other.She patronized me, as a little country-girl who knew nothing. Must Inot undeceive her? There was Faustina St. Clair, really of a goodfamily, and insolent on the strength of it; must I never let her knowthat mine was as good and that my mother had as much knowledge of theproprieties and elegances of life as ever hers had? These girls andplenty of the others looked down upon me as something inferior; notbelonging to their part of society; must I be content henceforth tolive so simply that these and others who judge by the outside wouldnever be any wiser as to what I really was? Something in me rebelled.Yet the words I had been reading were final and absolute. "The worldknoweth us _not_;" and "us," I knew meant the little band in whosehearts Christ is king. Surely I was one of them. But I was unwillingto slip out of the world's view and be seen by it no more. Istruggled.
It was something very new in my experience. I had certainly feltstruggles of duty in other times, but they had never lasted long. Thislasted. With an eye made keen by conscience, I looked now in myreading to see what else I might find that would throw light on thematter and perhaps soften off the uncompromising decision of the wordsof St John. By and by I came to these words--
"If ye were of the world, the world would love his own. But because yeare not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world,_therefore the world hateth you_."
I shut the book. The issue could not be more plainly set forth. I mustchoose between the one party and the other. Nay, I had chosen;--but Imust agree to belong but to one.
Would anybody say that a child could not have such a struggle? thatfourteen years do not know yet what "the world" means? Alas, it is arelative term; and a child's "world" may be as mighty for her to face,as any other she will ever know. I think I never found any moreformidable. Moreover, it is less unlike the big world than some wouldsuppose.
On the corner of the street, just opposite to our windows, stood alarge handsome house which we always noticed for its flowers. Thehouse stood in a little green courtyard exquisitely kept, which at oneside and behind gave room for several patches of flower beds, at thistime filled with bulbous plants. I always lingered as much as I couldin passing the iron railings, to have a peep at the beauty within. Thegrass was now of a delicious green, and the tulips and hyacinths andcrocuses were in full bloom, in their different oval-shaped beds,framed in with the green. Besides these, from the windows of agreenhouse that stretched back along the street, there looked over abrilliant array of other beauty; I could not tell what; great bunchesof scarlet and tufts of white and gleamings of yellow, that made melong to be there.
"Who lives in that house?" Miss Bentley asked one evening. It was thehour before tea, and we were all at our room windows gazing down intothe avenue.
"Why, don't you know?" said slow Miss Macy. "That's Miss Cardigan'shouse."
"I wonder who she is?" said Miss Lansing. "It isn't a New York name."
"Yes, it is," said Macy. "She's lived there for ever. She used to bethere, and her flowers, when I was four years old."
"I guess she isn't anybody, is she?" said Miss Bentley. "I never seeany carriages at the door. Hasn't she a carriage of her own, I wonder,or how does she travel? Such a house ought to have a carriage."
"I'll tell you," said the St. Clair, coolly as usual. "She goes out ina wagon with an awning to it. _She_ don't know anything aboutcarriages."
"But she must have money, you know," urged Miss Bentley. "She couldn'tkeep up that house, and the flowers, and the greenhouse and all,without money."
"She's got money," said the St. Clair. "Her mother made it sellingcabbages in the market. Very likely she sold flowers too."
There was a general exclamation and laughter at what was supposed tobe one of St. Clair's flights of mischief; but the young lady stoodher ground calmly, and insisted that it was a thing well known. "Mygrandmother used to buy vegetables from old Mrs. Cardigan when welived in Broadway," she said. "It's quite true. That's why she knowsnothing about carriages."
"That sort of thing don't hinder other people from having carriages,"said Miss Lansing. "There's Mr. Mason, next door to Miss Cardigan,--hisfather was a tailor; and the Steppes, two doors off, do you know whatthey were? They were millers, a little way out of town; nothing else; hada mill and ground flour. They made a fortune I suppose, and now here theyare in the midst of other people."
"Plenty of carriages, too," said Miss Macy; "and everything else."
"After all," said Miss Bentley, after a pause, "I suppose everybody'smoney had to be made somehow, in the first instance. I suppose all theMillers in the world came from real millers once; and the Wheelrightsfrom wheelwrights."
"And what a world of smiths there must have been first and last," saidMiss Lansing. "The world is full of their descendants."
"_Everybody's_ money wasn't made, though," said the St. Clair, with aninexpressible attitude of her short upper lip.
"I guess it was,--if you go back far enough," said Miss Macy, whomnothing disturbed. But I saw that while Miss Lansing and Miss St.Clair were at ease in the foregoing conversation, Miss Bentley wasnot.
"You _can't_ go back far enough," said the St. Clair, haughtily.
"How then?" said the other. "How do you account for it? Where didtheir money come from?"
"It grew," said the St. Clair ineffably. "They were lords of thesoil."
"Oh!--But it had to be dug out, I suppose?" said Miss Macy.
"There were others to do that."
"After all," said Miss Macy, "how is money that grew any better thanmoney that is made? it is all made by somebody, too."
"If it is made by somebody else, it leaves your hands clean," the St.Clair answered, with an insolence worthy of maturer years; for MissMacy's family had grown rich by trade. She was of a slow temperhowever and did not take fire.
"My grandfather's hands were clean," she said; "yet he made his ownmoney. Honest hands always are clean."
"Do you suppose Miss Cardigan's were when she was handling hercabbages?" said St Clair. "I have no doubt Miss Cardigan's housesmells of cabbages now."
"O St. Clair!" Miss Lansing said, laughing.
"I always smell them when I go past," said the other, elevating herscornful little nose; it was a handsome nose too.
"I don't think it makes any difference," said Miss Bentley, "providedpeople _have_ money, how they came by it. Money buys the same thingfor one that it does for another."
"Now, my good Bentley, that is just what it _don't_," said St. Clair,drumming up the window-pane with the tips of her fingers.
"Why not?"
"Because!--people that have always had money know how to use it; andpeople who have just come into their money _don't_ know. You can tellthe one from the other as far off as the head of the avenue."
"But what is to hinder their going to the same milliner and mantua-maker,for instance, or the same cabinet-maker,--and buying the same things?"
"O
r the same jeweller, or the same--anything? So they could if theyknew which they were."
"Which _what_ were? It is easy to tell which is a fashionablemilliner, or mantua-maker; everybody knows that."
"It don't do some people any good," said St. Clair, turning away."When they get in the shop they do not know what to buy; and if theybuy it they can't put it on. People that are not fashionable can't_be_ fashionable."
I saw the glance that fell, scarcely touching, on my plain plaidfrock. I was silly enough to feel it too. I was unused to scorn. St.Clair returned to the window, perhaps sensible that she had gone alittle too far.
"I can tell you now," she said, "what that old Miss Cardigan has gotin her house--just as well as if I saw it."
"Did you ever go in?" said Lansing eagerly.
"We don't visit," said the other. "But I can tell you just as well;and you can send Daisy Randolph some day to see if it is true."
"Well, go on, St. Clair--what is there?" said Miss Macy.
"There's a marble hall, of course; that the mason built; it isn't herfault. Then in the parlours there are thick carpets, that cost a greatdeal of money and are as ugly as they can be, with every colour in theworld. The furniture is red satin, or may be blue, staring bright,against a light green wall panelled with gold. The ceilings are goldand white, with enormous chandeliers. On the wall there are some verybig picture frames, with nothing in them--to speak of; there is atable in the middle of the floor with a marble top, and the piers arefilled with mirrors down to the floor: and the second room is like thefirst and the third is like the second, and there is nothing else inany of the rooms but what I have told you."
"Well, it is a very handsome house, I should think, if you have toldtrue," said Miss Bentley.
St. Clair left the window with a scarce perceptible but most wicked smileat her friend Miss Lansing; and the group scattered. Only I remained tothink it over and ask myself, could I let go my vantage ground? could Imake up my mind to do for ever without the smile and regard of thatportion of the world which little St. Clair represented? It is powerfuleven in a school!
I had seen how carelessly this undoubted child of birth and fashionwielded the lash of her tongue; and how others bowed before it. I hadseen Miss Bentley wince, and Miss Macy bite her lip; but neither ofthem dared affront the daughter of Mrs. St. Clair. Miss Lansing washerself of the favoured class, and had listened lightly. Fashion waspower, that was plain. Was I willing to forego it? Was I willing tobe one of those whom fashion passes by as St. Clair had glanced on mydress--as something not worthy a thought.
I was not happy, those days. Something within me was struggling forself assertion. It was new to me; for until then I had never needed toassert my claims to anything. For the first time, I was looked downupon, and I did not like it. I do not quite know why I was made toknow this so well. My dress, if not showy or costly, was certainlywithout blame in its neatness and niceness, and perfectly becoming myplace as a schoolgirl. And I had very little to do at that time withmy schoolmates, and that little was entirely friendly in itscharacter. I am obliged to think, looking back at it now, that somerivalry was at work. I did not then understand it. But I was taking ahigh place in all my classes. I had gone past St. Clair in two orthree things. Miss Lansing was too far behind in her studies to feelany jealousy on that account; but besides that, I was an unmistakablefavourite with all the teachers. They liked to have me do anything forthem or with them; if any privilege was to be given, I was sure to beone of the first names called to share it; if I was spoken to foranything, the manner and tone were in contrast with those used towardsalmost all my fellows. It may have been partly for these reasons thatthere was a little positive element in the slight which I felt. Theeffect of the whole was to make a long struggle in my mind. "The worldknoweth us not"--gave the character and condition of that party towhich I belonged. I was feeling now what those words mean,--and it wasnot pleasant.
This struggle had been going on for several weeks, and growing moreand more wearying, when Mrs. Sandford came one day to see me. Shesaid I did not look very well, and obtained leave for me to take awalk with her. I was glad of the change. It was a pleasant brightafternoon; we strolled up the long avenue, then gay and crowded withpassers to and fro in every variety and in the height of the mode; forour avenue was a favourite and very fashionable promenade. The gayworld nodded and bowed to each other; the sun streamed on satins andlaces, flowers and embroidery; elegant toilets passed and repassedeach other, with smiling recognition; the street was a show. I walkedby Mrs. Sandford's side in my chinchilla cap, for I had not got astraw hat yet, though it was time; thinking--"The world knoweth usnot"--and carrying on the struggle in my heart all the while. By andby we turned to come down the avenue.
"I want to stop a moment here on some business," said Mrs. Sandford,as we came to Miss Cardigan's corner; "would you like to go in withme, Daisy?"
I was pleased, and moreover glad that it was the hour for mycompanions to be out walking. I did not wish to be seen going in atthat house and to have all the questions poured on me that would besure to come. Moreover, I was curious to see how far Miss St. Clair'sjudgment would be verified. The marble hall was undoubted; it waslarge and square, with a handsome staircase going up from it; but theparlour, into which we were ushered the next minute, crossed all myexpectations. It was furnished with dark chintz; no satin, red orblue, was anywhere to be seen; even the curtains were chintz. Thecarpet was not rich; the engravings on the walls were in wooden framesvarnished; the long mirror between the windows, for that was there,reflected a very simple mahogany table, on which lay a large workbasket, some rolls of muslin and flannel, work cut and uncut, shearsand spools of cotton. Another smaller table held books and papers andwriting materials. This was shoved up to the corner of the hearth,where a fire--a real, actual fire of sticks--was softly burning. Theroom was full of the sweet smell of the burning wood. Between the twotables, in a comfortable large chair, sat the lady we had come to see.My heart warmed at the look of her immediately. Such a face of genialgentle benevolence; such a healthy sweet colour in the old cheeks;such a hearty, kind, and withal shrewd and sound, expression of eyeand lip. She was stout and dumpy in figure, rather fat; with a littleplain cap on her head and a shawl pinned round her shoulders. Somebodywho had never been known to the world of fashion. But oh, how homelyand comfortable she and her room looked! she and her room and her cat;for a great white cat sat with her paws doubled under her in front ofthe fire.
"My sister begged that I would call and see you, Miss Cardigan," Mrs.Sandford began, "about a poor family named Whittaker, that livesomewhere in Ellen Street."
"I know them. Be seated," said our hostess. "I know them well. But Idon't know this little lady."
"A little friend of mine, Miss Cardigan; she is at school with yourneighbour opposite,--Miss Daisy Randolph."
"If nearness made neighbourhood," said Miss Cardigan, laughing, "Mme.Ricard and I would be neighbours; but I am afraid the rule of the GoodSamaritan would put us far apart. Miss Daisy--do you like my cat; orwould you like maybe to go in and look at my flowers?--yes?--Step inthat way, dear; just go through that room, and on, straight through;you'll smell them before you come to them."
I gladly obeyed her, stepping in through the darkened middle room,where already the greeting of the distant flowers met me; then througha third smaller room, light and bright and full of fragrance, and tomy surprise, lined with books. From this an open glass door let meinto the greenhouse and into the presence of the beauties I had sooften looked up to from the street. I lost myself then. Geraniumsbreathed over me; roses smiled at me; a daphne at one end of the roomfilled the whole place with its fragrance. Amaryllis bulbs weremagnificent; fuchsias dropped with elegance; jonquils were shy anddainty; violets were good; hyacinths were delicious; tulips weresplendid. Over and behind all these and others, were wonderful ferns,and heaths most delicate in their simplicity, and myrtles mostbeautiful with their shining dark foliage and starry white blossoms.
Ilost myself at first, and wandered past all these new and old friendsin a dream; then I waked up to an intense feeling of homesickness. Ihad not been in such a greenhouse in a long time; the geraniums androses and myrtles summoned me back to the years when I was a littlehappy thing at Melbourne House--or summoned the images of that timeback to me. Father and mother and home--the delights and freedoms ofthose days--the carelessness, and the care--the blessed joys of thattime before I knew Miss Pinshon, or school, and before I was perplexedwith the sorrows and the wants of the world, and before I wasalone--above all, when papa and mamma and I were _at home_. Thegeraniums and the roses set me back there so sharply that I felt itall. I had lost myself at first going into the greenhouse; and now Ihad quite lost sight of everything else, and stood gazing at the facesof the flowers with some tears on my own, and, I suppose, a good dealof revelation of my feeling; for I was unutterably startled by thetouch of two hands upon my shoulders and a soft whisper in my ear,"What is it, my bairn?"
It was Miss Cardigan's soft Scotch accent, and it was besides aquestion of the tenderest sympathy. I looked at her, saw the kind andstrong grey eyes which were fixed on me wistfully; and hiding my facein her bosom I sobbed aloud.
I don't know how I came to be there, in her arms, nor how I didanything so unlike my habit; but there I was, and it was done, andMiss Cardigan and I were in each other's confidence. It was only forone moment that my tears came; then I recovered myself.
"What sort of discourse did the flowers hold to you, little one?" saidMiss Cardigan's kind voice; while her stout person hid all view of methat could have been had through the glass door.
"Papa is away," I said, forcing myself to speak,--"and mamma:--and weused to have these flowers--"
"Yes, yes; I know. I know very well," said my friend. "The flowersdidn't know but you were there yet. They hadn't discretion. Mrs.Sandford wants to go, dear. Will you come again and see them? Theywill say something else next time."
"Oh, may I?" I said.
"Just whenever you like, and as often as you like. So I'll expectyou."
I went home, very glad at having escaped notice from my schoolmates,and firmly bent on accepting Miss Cardigan's invitation at the firstchance I had. I asked about her of Mrs. Sandford in the first place;and learned that she was "a very good sort of person; a little queer,but very kind; a person that did a great deal of good and had plentyof money. Not in society, of course," Mrs. Sandford added; "but I daresay she don't miss that; and she is just as useful as if she were."
"Not in society." That meant, I supposed, that Miss Cardigan would notbe asked to companies where Mrs. Randolph would be found, or Mrs.Sandford; that such people would not "know" her, in fact. That wouldcertainly be a loss to Miss Cardigan; but I wondered how much? "Theworld knoweth us not,"--the lot of all Christ's people,--could itinvolve anything in itself very bad? My old Juanita, for example, whoheld herself the heir to a princely inheritance, was it any harm toher that earthly palaces knew her only as a servant? But then, whatdid not matter to Juanita or Miss Cardigan might matter to somebodywho had been used to different things. I knew how it had been withmyself for a time past. I was puzzled. I determined to wait and see,if I could, how much it mattered to Miss Cardigan.