CHAPTER XII.
FRENCH DRESSES.
My new friend had given me free permission to come and see her whenever Ifound myself able. Saturday afternoon we always had to ourselves in theschool; and the next Saturday found me at Miss Cardigan's door again assoon as my friends and room-mates were well out of my way. Miss Cardiganwas not at home, the servant said, but she would be in presently. I wasjust as well pleased. I took off my cap, and carrying it in my hand Iwent back through the rooms to the greenhouse. All still and fresh andsweet, it seemed more delightful than ever, because I knew there wasnobody near. Some new flowers were out. An azalea was in splendid beauty,and a white French rose, very large and fair, was just blossoming, andwith the red roses and the hyacinths and the violets and the daphne andthe geraniums, made a wonderful sweet place of the little greenhouse. Ilost myself in delight again; but this time the delight did not issue inhomesickness. The flowers had another message for me to-day. I did notheed it at first, busy with examining and drinking in the fragrance andthe loveliness about me; but even as I looked and drank, the flowersbegan to whisper to me. With their wealth of perfume, with all theirvarious, glorious beauty, one and another leaned towards me or bent overme with the question--"Daisy, are you afraid?--Daisy, are youafraid?--The good God who has made us so rich, do you think he will leaveyou poor? He loves you, Daisy. You needn't be a bit afraid but that HE isenough, even if the world does not know you. He is rich enough for you aswell as for us."
I heard no voice, but surely I heard that whisper, plain enough. Theroses seemed to kiss me with it. The sweet azalea repeated it. Thehyacinths stood witnesses of it. The gay tulips and amaryllis held upa banner before me on which it was blazoned.
I was so ashamed, and sorry, and glad, all at once, that I fell downon my knees there, on the stone matted floor, and gave up the worldfrom my heart and for ever, and stretched out my hands for the wealththat does not perish and the blessing that has no sorrow with it.
I was afraid to stay long on my knees; but I could hardly get my eyesdry again, I was so glad and so sorry. I remember I was wiping a tearor two away when Miss Cardigan came in. She greeted me kindly.
"There's a new rose out, did ye see it?" she said; "and this bluehyacinth has opened its flowers. Isn't that bonny?"
"What is _bonny_, ma'am?" I asked.
Miss Cardigan laughed, the heartiest, sonsiest low laugh.
"There's a many things the Lord has made bonny," she said. "I thankHim for it. Look at these violets--they're bonny; and this sweet redrose." She broke it off the tree and gave it to me. "It's bad that itshames your cheeks so. What's the matter wi' 'em, my bairn?"
Miss Cardigan's soft finger touched my cheek as she spoke; and thevoice and tone of the question were so gently, tenderly kind that itwas pleasant to answer. I said I had not been very strong.
"Nor just weel in your mind. No, no. Well, what did the flowers say toyou to-day, my dear? Eh? They told you something?"
"Oh yes!" I said.
"Did they tell you that 'the Lord is good; a stronghold in the day oftrouble; and he knoweth them that trust in Him?'"
"Oh yes," I said, looking up at her in surprise. "How did you know?"
For all answer, Miss Cardigan folded her two arms tight about me andkissed me with earnest good will.
"But they told me something else," I said, struggling to commandmyself;--"they told me that I had _not_ 'trusted in Him.'"
"Ah, my bairn!" she said. "But the Lord is good."
There was so much both of understanding and sympathy in her tones, thatI had a great deal of trouble to control myself. I felt unspeakablyhappy too, that I had found a friend that could understand. I wassilent, and Miss Cardigan looked at me.
"Is it all right, noo?" she asked.
"Except _me_,--" I said with my eyes swimming.
"Ah, well!" she said. "You've seen the sky all black and covered withthe thick clouds--that's like our sins: but, 'I have blotted out as athick cloud thy transgressions, and as a cloud thy sins.' You know howit is when the wind comes and clears the clouds all off, and you canlook up through the blue, till it seems as if your eye would win intoheaven itself. Keep the sky clear, my darling, so that you can alwayssee up straight to God, with never the fleck of a cloud between. Butdo you ken what will clear the clouds away?"
And I looked up now with a smile and answered, "'The precious blood ofChrist'"--for the two texts had been close together in one of thepages of my little book not long before.
Miss Cardigan clapped her hands together softly and laughed. "Ye'vegot it!" she said. "Ye have gotten the pearl of great price. And wheredid ye find it, my dear?"
"I had a friend, that taught me in a Sunday-school, four years ago,--"I said.
"Ah, there weren't so many Sunday-schools in my day," said MissCardigan. "And ye have found, maybe, that this other sort of a school,that ye have gotten to now, isn't helpful altogether? Is it a roughroad, my bairn?"
"It is my own fault," I said, looking at her gratefully. The tendervoice went right into my heart.
"Well, noo, ye'll just stop and have tea with me here; and wheneverthe way is rough, ye'll come over to my flowers and rest yourself. Andrest me too; it does me a world o' good to see a young face. So takeoff your coat, my dear, and let us sit down and be comfortable."
I was afraid at first that I could not; I had no liberty to be absentat tea-time. But Miss Cardigan assured me I should be home in goodseason; the school tea was at seven, and her own was always served atsix. So very gladly, with an inexpressible sense of freedom andpeace, I took off my coat and gloves, and followed my kind friend backto the parlour where her fire was burning. For although it was late inApril, the day was cool and raw; and the fire one saw nowhere else wasdelightful in Miss Cardigan's parlour.
Every minute of that afternoon was as bright as the fire glow. I satin the midst of that, on an ottoman, and Miss Cardigan, busy betweenher two tables, made me very much interested in her story of somedistressed families for whom she was working. She asked me very littleabout my own affairs; nothing that the most delicate good breeding didnot warrant; but she found out that my father and mother were at agreat distance from me, and I almost alone, and she gave me thefreedom of her house. I was to come there whenever I could and liked;whenever I wanted to "rest my feet," as she said; especially I mightspend as much of every Sunday with her as I could get leave for. Andshe made this first afternoon so pleasant to me with her gentlebeguiling talk, that the permission to come often was like theentrance into a whole world of comfort. She had plenty to talk about;plenty to tell, of the poor people to whom she and others wereministering; of plans and methods to do them good; all which somehowshe made exceedingly interesting. There was just a little accent toher words, which made them, in their peculiarity, all the more sweetto me; but she spoke good English; the "noo" which slipped out now andthen, with one or two other like words, came only, I found, at timeswhen the fountain of feeling was more full than ordinary, and soflowed over into the disused old channel. And her face was so fresh,rosy, round and sweet, withal strong and sound, that it was aperpetual pleasure to me.
As she told her stories of New York needy and suffering, I mentallyadded my poor people at Magnolia, and began to wonder with myself, wasall the world so? Were these two spots but samples of the whole? I gotinto a brown study, and was waked out of it by Miss Cardigan's "Whatis it, my dear?"
"Ma'am?" I said.
"Ye are studying some deep question," she said, smiling. "Maybe it'stoo big for you."
"So it is," said I, sighing. "Is it so everywhere, Miss Cardigan?"
"So how, my bairn?"
"Is there so much trouble everywhere in the world?"
Her face clouded over.
"Jesus said, 'The poor ye have always with you, and whensoever ye willye may do them good.'"
"But that is what I don't understand about," I said. "_How much_ oughtone to do, Miss Cardigan?"
There came a ray of infinite brightness over
her features; I canhardly describe it; it was warm with love, and bright with pleasure,and I thought sparkled with a little amusement.
"Have you thought upon that?" she said.
"Yes," I said,--"very much."
"It is a great question!" she said, her face becoming grave again.
"I know," I said, "of course one ought to do all one can. But what Iwant to know is, how much one _can_. How much ought one to spend, forsuch things?"
"It's a great question," Miss Cardigan repeated, more gravely thanbefore. "For when the King comes, to take account of His servants, Hewill want to know what we have done with every penny. Be sure, Hewill."
"Then how can one tell?" said I, hoping earnestly that now I was goingto get some help in my troubles. "How can one know? It is verydifficult."
"I'll no say it's not difficult," said Miss Cardigan, whose thoughtsseemed to have gone into the recesses of her own mind. "Dear, its nighour tea-time. Let us go in."
I followed her, much disappointed, and feeling that if she passed thesubject by so, I could not bring it up again. We went through to theinner room; the same from which the glass door opened to the flowers.Here a small table was now spread. This room was cosy. I had hardlyseen it before. Low bookcases lined it on every side; and above thebookcases hung maps; maps of the city and of various parts of theworld where missionary stations were established. Along with the maps,a few engravings and fine photographs. I remember one of theColosseum, which I used to study; and a very beautiful engraving ofJerusalem. But the one that fixed my eyes this first evening, perhapsbecause Miss Cardigan placed me in front of it, was a picture ofanother sort. It was a good photograph, and had beauty enough besidesto hold my eyes. It showed a group of three or four. A boy and girl infront, handsome, careless, and well-to-do, passing along, withwandering eyes. Behind them and disconnected from them by her dressand expression, a tall woman in black robes with a baby on her breast.The hand of the woman was stretched out with a coin which she wasabout dropping into an iron-bound coffer which stood at the side ofthe picture. It was "the widow's mite;" and her face, wan, sad, sweet,yet loving and longing, told the story. The two coins were going intothe box with all her heart.
"You know what it is?" said my hostess.
"I see, ma'am," I replied; "it is written under."
"That box is the Lord's treasury."
"Yes, ma'am," I said,--"I know."
"Do you remember how much that woman gave?"
"Two mites,"--I said.
"It was something more than that," said my hostess. "It was more thananybody else gave that day. Don't you recollect? It was _all herliving_."
I looked at Miss Cardigan, and she looked at me. Then my eyes wentback to the picture, and to the sad yet sweet and most loving face ofthe poor woman there.
"Ma'am," said I, "do you think people that are _rich_ ought to giveall they have?"
"I only know, my Lord was pleased with her," said Miss Cardigansoftly; "and I always think I should like to have Him pleased with metoo."
I was silent, looking at the picture and thinking.
"You know what made that poor widow give her two mites?" Miss Cardiganasked presently.
"I suppose she wanted to give them," I said.
"Ay," said my hostess, turning away,--"she loved the Lord's glorybeyond her own comfort. Come, my love, and let us have some tea. Shegave all she had, Miss Daisy, and the Lord liked it; do ye think youand me can do less?"
"But that is what I do not understand," I said, following MissCardigan to the little tea-table, and watching with great comfort thebright unruffled face which promised to be such a help to me.
"Now you'll sit down there," said my hostess, "where you can see myflowers while I can see you. It's poor work eating, if we cannot lookat something or hear something at the same time; and maybe we'll dothe two things. And ye'll have a bit of honey--here it is. And Lottywill bring us up a bit of hot toast--or is bread the better, my dear?Now ye're at home; and maybe you'll come over and drink tea with mewhenever you can run away from over there. I'll have Lotty set a placefor you. And then, when ye think of the empty place, you will know youhad better come over and fill it. See--you could bring your study bookand study here in this quiet little corner by the flowers."
I gave my very glad thanks. I knew that I could often do this.
"And now for the 'not understanding,'" said Miss Cardigan, when teawas half over. "How was it, my dear?"
"I have been puzzled," I said, "about giving--how much one ought togive, and how much one ought to spend--I mean for oneself."
"Well," said Miss Cardigan brightly, "we have fixed that. The poorwoman gave _all her living_."
"But one must spend _some_ money for oneself," I said. "One must havebonnets and cloaks and dresses."
"And houses, and books, and pictures," said Miss Cardigan, lookingaround her. "My lamb, let us go to the Bible again. That says,'whether ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory ofGod.' So I suppose we must buy cloaks and bonnets on the sameprinciple."
I turned this over in my mind. Had I done this, when I was choosing mychinchilla cap and grey cloak? A little ray of infinite brightnessbegan to steal in upon their quiet colours and despised forms.
"If the rich are to give their all, as well as the poor, it doesn'tsay--mind you--that they are to give it all to the hungry, or all tothe destitute; but only, they are to give it all _to Christ_. Then, Hewill tell them what to do with it; do ye understand, my dear?"
Miss Cardigan's eye was watching me, not more kindly than keen. A wiseand clear grey eye it was.
"But isn't it difficult to know sometimes what to do?" I said. "I havebeen so puzzled to know about dresses. Mamma is away, and I had todecide."
"It's no very difficult," said Miss Cardigan,--"if once ye set yourface in the right _airth_--as we speak. My dear, there's a great manysorts of dresses and bonnets and things; and I'd always buy just thatbonnet and that gown, in which I thought I could do most work for myMaster; and that wouldn't be the same sort of bonnet for you and forme," she said with a merry smile. "Now ye'll have another cup of tea,and ye'll tell me if my tea's good."
It was wonderfully good to me. I felt like a plant dried up for wantof water, suddenly set in a spring shower. Refreshment was all aroundme, without and within. The faces of the flowers looked at me throughthe glass, and the sweet breath of them came from the open door. Theroom where I was sitting pleased me mightily, in its comfortable andpretty simplicity; and I had found a friend, even better than my oldMaria and Darry at Magnolia. It was not very long before I told allabout these to my new counsellor.
For the friendship between us ripened and grew. I often found achance to fill my place at the dear little tea-table. Sundays I couldalways be there; and I went there straight from afternoon church, andrested among Miss Cardigan's books and in her sweet society and in thehappy freedom and rest of her house, with an intensity of enjoymentwhich words can but feebly tell. So in time I came to tell her all mytroubles and the perplexities which had filled me; I was willing totalk to Miss Cardigan about things that I would have breathed to noother ear upon earth. She was so removed from all the sphere of mypast or present life, so utterly disconnected from all the persons andthings with which I had had to do, it was like telling about them to abeing of another planet. Yet she was not so removed but that hersympathies and her judgment could be living and full grown for myhelp; all ready to take hold of the facts and to enter into thecircumstances, and to give me precious comfort and counsel. MissCardigan and I came to be very dear to each other.
All this took time. Nobody noticed at first, or seemed to notice, myvisits to the "house with the flowers," as the girls called it. Ibelieve, in my plain dress, I was not thought of importance enough tobe watched. I went and came very comfortably; and the weeks thatremained before the summer vacation slipped away in quiet order.
Just before the vacation, my aunt came home from Europe. With her camethe end of my obscurity. She brought me,
from my mother, a greatsupply of all sorts of pretty French dresses hats, gloves, andvarieties--chosen by my mother--as pretty and elegant, and simple too,as they could be; but once putting them on, I could never be unnoticedby my schoolmates any more. I knew it, with a certain feeling that wasnot displeasure. Was it pride? Was it anything more than my pleasurein all pretty things? I thought it was something more. And Idetermined that I would not put on any of them till school was brokenup. If it _was_ pride, I was ashamed of it. But besides Frenchdresses, my aunt brought me a better thing; a promise from my father.
"He said I was to tell you, Daisy my dear,--and I hope you will be agood child and take it as you ought--but dear me! how she is growing,"said Mrs. Gary, turning to Mme. Ricard; "I cannot talk about Daisy asa 'child' much longer. She's tall."
"Not too tall," said madame.
"No, but she is going to be tall. She has a right; her mother is tall,and her father. Daisy, my dear, I do believe you are going to looklike your mother. You'll be very handsome if you do. And yet, you lookdifferent----"
"Miss Randolph will not shame anybody belonging to her," said Mme.Ricard, graciously.
"Well, I suppose not," said my aunt. "I was going to tell you whatyour father said, Daisy. He said--you know it takes a long while toget to China and back, and if it does him good he will stay a littlewhile there; and then there's the return voyage, and there may bedelays; so altogether it was impossible to say exactly how long he andyour mother will be gone. I mean, it was impossible to know certainlythat they would be able to come home by next summer; indeed I doubt ifyour father ever does come home."
I waited in silence.
"So altogether," my aunt went on, turning for a moment to Mme. Ricard,"there was a doubt about it; and your father said, he charged me totell Daisy, that if she will make herself contented--that is,supposing they cannot come home next year, you know--if she will makeherself happy and be patient and bear one or two years more, and stayat school and do the best she can, _then_, the year after next or thenext year he will send for you, your father says, _unless_ they comehome themselves--they will send for you; and then, your father says,he will give you any request you like to make of him. Ask anything youcan think of, that you would like best, and he will do it or get it,whatever it is. He didn't say like King Herod, 'to the half of hiskingdom,' but I suppose he meant that. And meanwhile, you know youhave a guardian now, Daisy, and there is no use for me in youraffairs; and having conveyed to you your mother's gifts and yourfather's promises, I suppose there is nothing further for me to do toyou."
I was silent yet, thinking. Two years more would be a dear purchase ofany pleasure that might come after. Two years! And four were gonealready. It seemed impossible to wait or to bear it. I heard no moreof what my aunt was saying, till she turned to me again and asked,"Where are you going to pass the vacation?"
I did not know, for Mrs. Sandford was obliged to be with her sisterstill, so that I could not go to Melbourne.
"Well, if your new guardian thinks well of it--you can consult him ifit is necessary--and if he does not object, you can be with me if youlike. Preston has leave of absence this summer, I believe; and he willbe with us."
It was in effect arranged so. My aunt took me about the country fromone watering place to another; from Saratoga to the White Mountains;and Preston's being with us made it a gay time. Preston had been fortwo years at West Point; he was grown and improved everybody said; butto me he was just the same. If anything, _not_ improved; the old graceand graciousness of his manner was edged with an occasional hardnessor abruptness which did not use to belong to him, and which I did notunderstand. There seemed to be a latent cause of irritation somewhere.
However, my summer went off smoothly enough. September brought me backto Mme. Ricard's, and in view of Miss Cardigan's late roses andbudding chrysanthemums. I was not sorry. I had set my heart on doingas much as could be done in these next two years, if two they must be.
I was the first in my room; but before the end of the day they allcame pouring in; the two older and the two younger girls. "Here'ssomebody already," exclaimed Miss Macy as she saw me. "Why, DaisyRandolph! is it possible that's you? Is it Daisy Randolph? What haveyou done to yourself? How you _have_ improved!"
"She is very much improved," said Miss Bentley more soberly.
"She has been learning the fashions," said Miss Lansing, her brighteyes dancing as good-humouredly as ever. "Daisy, now when your hairgets long you'll look quite nice. That frock is made very well."
"She is changed," said Miss St. Clair, with a look I could not quitemake out.
"No," I said; "I hope I am not changed."
"Your dress is," said St. Clair.
I thought of Dr. Sandford's "_L'habit, c'est l'homme_". "My mother hadthis dress made," I said; "and I ordered the other one; that is allthe difference."
"You're on the right side of the difference, then," said Miss St.Clair.
"Has your mother come back, Daisy?" Miss Lansing asked.
"Not yet. She sent me this from Paris."
"It's very pretty!" she said, with, I saw, an increase of admiration;but St. Clair gave me another strange look. "How much prettier Paristhings are than American!" Lansing went on. "I wish I could have allmy dresses from Paris. Why, Daisy, you've grown handsome."
"Nonsense!" said Miss Macy; "she always was, only you didn't see it."
"Style is more than a face," said Miss St. Clair cavalierly. Somehow Ifelt that this little lady was not in a good mood awards me. I bodedmischief; for being nearly of an age, we were together in most of ourclasses, studied the same things, and recited at the same times. Therewas an opportunity for clashing.
They soon ran off, all four, to see their friends and acquaintancesand learn the news of the school. I was left alone, making myarrangement of clothes and things in my drawer and my corner of thecloset; and I found that some disturbance, in those few moments, hadquite disarranged the thoughts of my heart. They were peaceful enoughbefore. There was some confusion now. I could not at first tell whatwas uppermost; only that St. Clair's words were those that mostreturned to me. "She has changed." _Had_ I changed? or was I going tochange? was I going to enter the lists of fashion with my youngcompanions, and try who would win the race? No doubt my mother coulddress me better than almost any of their mothers could dress them;what then? would this be a triumph? or was this the sort of name andnotoriety that became and befitted a servant of Jesus? I could nothelp my dresses being pretty; no, but I could help making much displayof them. I could wear my own school plaid when the weather grewcooler; and one or two others of my wardrobe were all I need show."Style is more than a face." No doubt. What _then?_ Did I want styleand a face too? Was I wishing to confound St. Clair? Was I escapingalready from that bond and a mark of a Christian--"The world knowethus not?" I was startled and afraid. I fell down on my knees by theside of my bed, and tried to look at the matter as God looked at it.And the Daisy I thought he would be pleased with, was one who ran norace for worldly supremacy. I resolved she should not. The praise ofGod, I thought, was far better than the praise of men.
My mind was quite made up when I rose from my knees; but I lookedforward to a less quiet school term than the last had been. Somethingtold me that the rest of the girls would take me up now, for good andfor evil. My Paris dress set me in a new position, no longer beneaththeir notice. I was an object of attention. Even that first evening Ifelt the difference.
"Daisy, when is your mother coming home?" "Oh, she is gone to China;Daisy's mother is gone to China!"--"She'll bring you lots of queerthings, won't she?"--"What a sweet dress!"--"_That_ didn't come fromChina?"--"Daisy, who's head in mathematics, you or St. Clair? I hopeyou will get before her!"
"Why?" I ventured to ask.
"Oh, you're the best of the two; everybody knows that. But St. Clairis smart, isn't she?"
"She thinks she is," answered another speaker; "she believes she's atthe tip-top of creation; but she never had such a pretty dress on asthat i
n her days; and she knows it and she don't like it. It's realfun to see St. Clair beat; she thinks she is so much better than othergirls, and she has such a way of twisting that upper lip of hers. Doyou know how St. Clair twists her upper lip? Look!--she's doing itnow."
"She's handsome though, ain't she?" said Miss Macy. "She'll bebeautiful."
"No," said Mlle. Genevieve; "not that. Never that. She will behandsome; but beauty is a thing of the soul. _She_ will not bebeautiful. Daisy, are you going to work hard this year?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"I believe you," she said, taking my face between her two hands andkissing it.
"Whoever saw Mlle. Genevieve do that before!" said Miss Macy, as theother left us. "She is not apt to like the scholars."
I knew she had always liked me. But everybody had always liked me, Ireflected; this time at school was the first of my knowing anythingdifferent. And in this there now came a change. Since my wearing andusing the Paris things sent to me by my mother, which I dared not failto use and wear, I noticed that my company was more sought in theschool. Also my words were deferred to, in a way they had not beenbefore. I found, and it was not an unpleasant thing, that I had grownto be a person of consequence. Even with the French and Englishteachers; I observed that they treated me with more consideration. Andso I reflected within myself again over Dr. Sandford's observation,"_L'habit, c'est l'homme._" Of course it was a consideration given tomy clothes, a consideration also to be given up if I did not wear suchclothes. I saw all that. The world _knew me_, just for the moment.
Well, the smooth way was very pleasant. I had it with everybody for atime.
My little room-mate and classmate St. Clair was perhaps the onlyexception to the general rule. I never felt that she liked me much.She let me alone, however; until one unlucky day--I do not mean tocall it unlucky, either--when we had, as usual, compositions to write,and the theme given out was "Ruins." It was a delightful theme to me.I did not always enjoy writing compositions; this one gave mepermission to roam in thoughts and imaginations that I liked. I wentback to my old Egyptian studies at Magnolia, and wrote my compositionabout "Karnak." The subject was full in my memory; I had gone over andover and all through it; I had measured the enormous pillars and greatgateways, and studied the sculpture on the walls, and paced up anddown the great avenue of sphinxes. Sethos, and Amunoph and Rameses,the second and third, were all known and familiar to me; and I knewjust where Shishak had recorded his triumphs over the land of Judea. Iwrote my composition with the greatest delight. The only danger wasthat I might make it too long.
One evening I was using the last of the light, writing in the windowrecess of the school parlour, when I felt a hand laid on my shoulders.
"You are so hard at work!" said the voice of Mlle. Genevieve.
"Yes, mademoiselle, I like it."
"Have you got all the books and all that you want?"
"Books, mademoiselle?"--I said wondering.
"Yes; have you got all you want?"
"I have not got any books," I said; "there are none that I want in theschool library."
"Have you never been in madame's library?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"Come!"
I jumped up and followed her, up and down stairs and through halls andturnings, till she brought me into a pretty room lined with books fromfloor to ceiling. Nobody was there. Mademoiselle lit the gas withgreat energy, and then turned to me, her great black eyes shining.
"Now what do you want, _mon enfant_? here is everything."
"Is there anything about Egypt?"
"Egypt! Are you in Egypt? See here--look, here is Denon--here isLaborde; here are two or three more. Do you like that? Ah! I see bythe way your grey eyes grow big--Now sit down, and do what you like.Nobody will disturb you. You can come here every evening for the hourbefore tea."
Mademoiselle scarce stayed for my thanks, and left me alone. I had notseen either Laborde or Denon in my grandfather's library at Magnolia;they were after his time. The engravings and illustrations also hadnot been very many or very fine in his collection of travellers'books. It was the greatest joy to me to see some of those things inMme. Ricard's library, that I had read and dreamed about so long in myhead. It was adding eyesight to hearsay. I found a good deal too thatI wanted to read, in these later authorities. Evening after evening Iwas in madame's library, lost among the halls of the old Egyptianconquerors.
The interest and delight of my work quite filled me, so that the fate ofmy composition hardly came into my thoughts, or the fact that otherpeople were writing compositions too. And when it was done, I was simplyvery sorry that it was done. I had not written it for honour or for duty,but for love. I suppose that was the reason why it succeeded. I rememberI was anything but satisfied with it myself, as I was reading it aloudfor the benefit of my judges. For it was a day of prize compositions; andbefore the whole school and even some visitors, the writings of the girlswere given aloud, each by its author. I thought, as I read mine, how poorit was, and how magnificent my subject demanded that it should be. Underthe shade of the great columns, before those fine old sphinxes, my wordsand myself seemed very small. I sat down in my place again, glad that thereading was over.
But there was a little buzz; then a dead expectant silence; then Mme.Ricard arose. My composition had been the last one. I looked up withthe rest, to hear the award that she would speak; and was at firstvery much confounded to hear my own name called. "Miss Randolph--" Itdid not occur to me what it was spoken for; I sat still a moment in amaze. Mme. Ricard stood waiting; all the room was in a hush.
"Don't you hear yourself called?" said a voice behind me. "Why don'tyou go?"
I looked round at Miss Macy, who was my adviser, then doubtfully Ilooked away from her and caught the eyes of Mlle. Genevieve. Shenodded and beckoned me to come forward. I did it hastily then, andfound myself curtseying in front of the platform where stood madame.
"The prize is yours, Miss Randolph," she said graciously. "Your paperis approved by all the judges."
"Quite artistic,"--I heard a gentleman say at her elbow.
"And it shows an amount of thorough study and perfect preparation,which I can but hold up as a model to all my young ladies. You deservethis, my dear."
I was confounded; and a low curtsey was only a natural relief to myfeelings. But madame unhappily took it otherwise.
"This is yours," she said, putting into my hands an elegant littlebronze standish;--"and if I had another prize to bestow for grace ofgood manners, I am sure I would have the pleasure of giving you thattoo."
I bent again before madame, and got back to my seat as I could. Thegreat business of the day was over, and we soon scattered to ourrooms. And I had not been in mine five minutes before the penalties ofbeing distinguished began to come upon me.
"Well, Daisy!" said Miss Lansing,--"you've got it. How pretty! isn'tit, Macy?"
"It isn't a bit prettier than it ought to be, for a prize in such aschool," said Miss Macy. "It will do."
"I've seen handsomer prizes," said Miss Bentley.
"But you've got it, more ways than one, Daisy," Miss Lansing went on."I declare! Aren't you a distinguished young lady! Madame, too! why weall used to think we behaved pretty well _before company_,--didn't we,St. Clair?"
"I hate favour and favouritism!" said that young lady, her upper liptaking the peculiar turn to which my attention had once been called."Madame likes whatever is French."
"But Randolph is not French, are you, Randolph?" said Blackeyes, whowas good-natured through everything.
"Madame is not French herself," said Miss Bentley.
"I hate everything at school!" St. Clair went on.
"It's too bad," said her friend. "Do you know, Daisy, St. Clair alwayshas the prize for compositions. What made you go and write that longstuff about Rameses? the people didn't understand it, and so theythought it was fine."
"I am sure there was a great deal finer writing in Faustina'scomposition," said Miss Bentley.<
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I knew very well that Miss St. Clair had been accustomed to win thishalf-yearly prize for good writing. I had expected nothing but thatshe would win it this time. I had counted neither on my own successnor on the displeasure it would raise. I took my hat and went over tomy dear Miss Cardigan; hoping that ill-humour would have worked itselfout by bed-time. But I was mistaken.
St Clair and I had been pretty near each other in our classes, thoughonce or twice lately I had got an advantage over her; but we had kepton terms of cool social distance until now. Now the spirit of rivalrywas awake. I think it began to stir at my Paris dresses and things;Karnak and Mme. Ricard finished the mischief.
On my first coming to school I had been tempted in my horror at theutter want of privacy to go to bed without prayer; waiting till therest were all laid down and asleep and the lights out, and thenslipping out of bed with great care not to make a noise, and watchingthat no whisper of my lips should be loud enough to disturb anybody'sslumbers. But I was sure after a while, that this was a cowardly wayof doing; and I could not bear the words, "Whosoever shall be ashamedof me and of my words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed, when Hecometh in the glory of His Father." I determined in the vacation thatI would do so no more, cost what it might the contrary. It cost atremendous struggle. I think, in all my life I have done few harderthings, than it was to me then to kneel down by the side of my bed infull blaze of the gaslights and with four curious pairs of eyes aroundto look on; to say nothing of the four busy tongues wagging aboutnothing all the time. I remember what a hush fell upon them the firstnight; while beyond the posture of prayer I could do little. Onlyunformed or half formed thoughts and petitions struggled in my mind,through a crowd of jostling regrets and wishes and confusions, inwhich I could hardly distinguish anything. But no explosion followed,of either ridicule or amusement, and I had been suffered from thatnight to do as I would, not certainly always in silence, but quiteunmolested.
I had carried over my standish to Miss Cardigan to ask her to takecare of it for me; I had no place to keep it. But Miss Cardigan wasnot satisfied to see the prize; she wanted to hear the essay read; andwas altogether so elated that a little undue elation perhaps creptinto my own heart. It was not a good preparation for what was coming.
I went home in good time. In the hall, however, Mlle. Genevieve seizedupon me; she had several things to say, and before I got up stairs tomy room all the rest of its inmates were in bed. I hoped they wereasleep. I heard no sound while I was undressing, nor while I knelt, asusual now, by my bedside. But as I rose from my knees I was startledby a sort of grunt that came from St. Clair's corner.
"Humph!--Dear me! we're so good,--Grace and Devotion,--Christiangrace, too!"
"Hold your tongue, St. Clair," said Miss Macy, but not in a way, Ithought, to check her; if she could have been checked.
"But it's too bad, Macy," said the girl. "We're all so rough, youknow. _We_ don't know how to behave ourselves; we can't make curtseys;our mothers never taught us anything,--and dancing masters are nogood. We ought to go to Egypt. There isn't anything so truly dignifiedas a pyramid. There is a great deal of _a plomb_ there!"
"Who talked about _a plomb_?" said Miss Bentley.
"You have enough of that, at any rate, Faustina," said Lansing.
"Mrs. St. Clair's child ought to have that," said Miss Macy.
"Ah, but it isn't Christian grace, after all," persisted Faustina."You want a cross at the top of a pyramid to make it perfect."
"Hush, Faustina!" said Miss Macy.
"It's fair,"--said Miss Bentley.
"You had better not talk about Christian grace, girls. That isn't amatter of opinion."
"Oh, isn't it!" cried St. Clair, half rising up in her bed. "What isit, then?"
Nobody answered.
"I say!--Macy, what _is_ Christian grace--if you know! If you _don't_know, I'll put you in the way to find out."
"How shall I find out?"
"Will you do it, if I show it you?"
"Yes."
"Ask Randolph. That's the first step. Ask her,--yes! just ask her, ifyou want to know. I wish Mme. Ricard was here to hear the answer."
"Nonsense!" said Macy.
"Ask her! You said you would. Now ask her."
"What is Christian grace, Daisy?" said Miss Bentley.
I heard, but I would not answer. I hoped the storm would blow over,after a puff or two. But Blackeyes, without any ill-nature, I think,which was not in her, had got into the gale. She slipped out of bedand came to my side, putting her hand on my shoulder and bringing herlaughing mouth down near my ear. A very angry impulse moved me beforeshe spoke.
"Daisy!"--she said, laughing, in a loud whisper,--"come, wake up!you're not asleep, you know. Wake up and tell us;--everybody knows_you_ know;--what _is_ Christian grace? Daisy!--"
She shook me a little.
"If you knew, you would not ask me,"--I said in great displeasure. Buta delighted shout from all my room-mates answered this unlucky speech,which I had been too excited to make logical.
"Capital!" cried St. Clair. "That's just it--we _don't_ know; and weonly want to find out whether she does. Make her tell, Lansing--pricka little pin into her--that will bring it out."
I was struggling between anger and sorrow, feeling very hurt, and at thesame time determined not to cry. I kept absolutely still, fighting thefight of silence with myself. Then Lansing, in a fit of thoughtlessmischief, finding her shakes and questions vain, actually put in practiceSt. Clair's suggestion, and attacked me with a pin from the dressingtable. The first prick of it overthrew the last remnant of my patience.
"Miss Lansing!"--I exclaimed, rousing up in bed and confronting her.They all shouted again.
"Now we'll have it!" cried St. Clair. "Keep cool, Blackeyes; let'shear--we'll have an exposition now. Theme, Christian grace."
Ah, there rushed through my heart with her words a remembrance ofother words--a fluttering vision of something "gentle and easy to beentreated"--"first pure, then peaceable"--"gentleness, goodness,meekness."--But the grip of passion held them all down or kept themall back. After St. Clair's first burst, the girls were still andwaited for what I would say. I was facing Miss Lansing, who had takenher hand from my shoulder.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" I said; and I remember I thoughthow my mother would have spoken to them. "Miss Lansing's goodnature"--I went on slowly,--"Miss Macy's kindness--Miss Bentley'sindependence--and Miss St. Clair's good breeding!"--
"_And_ Miss Randolph's religion!" echoed the last-named, with a quietdistinctness which went into my heart.
"What about my independence?" said Miss Bentley.
"Now we've got enough, girls,--lie down and go to sleep," said MissMacy. "There's quite enough of this. There was too much before webegan. Stop where you are."
They did not stop, however, without a good deal of noisy chaffing andarguing, none of which I heard. Only the words, "Miss Randolph'sreligion," rung in my ears. I lay down with them lying like lead on myheart. I went to sleep under them. I woke up early, while all the restwere asleep, and began to study them.
"Miss Randolph's religion!" If it had been only that, only mine. But thereligion I professed was the religion of Christ; the name I was called bywas _His_ name, the thing I had brought into discredit was His truth. Ihope in all my life I may never know again the heart-pangs that thisthought cost me. I studied how to undo the mischief I had done. I couldfind no way. I had seemed to prove my religion an unsteady, superficialthing; the evidence I had given I could not withdraw; it must stand. Ilay thinking, with the heartache, until the rousing bell rang, and thesleepers began to stir from their slumbers. I got up and began to dresswith the rest.
"What was it all that happened last night?" said Miss Lansing.
"Advancement in knowledge,"--said Miss St. Clair.
"Now, girls--don't begin again," said Miss Macy.
"Knowledge is a good thing," said the other, with pins in her mouth."I intend to take every opportunity that
offers of increasing mine;especially I mean to study Egyptians and Christians. I haven't anyChristians among my own family or acquaintance--so you see, naturally,Macy, I am curious; and when a good specimen offers--"
"I am not a good specimen," I said.
"People are not good judges of themselves, it is said," the girl wenton. "Everybody considers Miss Randolph a sample of what that articleought to be."
"You don't use the word right," remarked Miss Macy. "A _sample_ istaken from what is,--not from what ought to be."
"I don't care," was St. Clair's reply.
"I did not behave like a Christian last night," I forced myself tosay. "I was impatient."
"Like an impatient Christian then, I suppose," said St Clair.
I felt myself getting impatient again, with all my sorrow andhumiliation of heart. And yet more humbled at the consciousness, Ihastened to get out of the room. It was a miserable day, that day ofmy first school triumphs, and so were several more that followed. Iwas very busy; I had no time for recollection and prayer; I was in themidst of gratulations and plaudits from my companions and theteachers; and I missed, O how I missed the praise of God. I felt likea traitor. In the heat of the fight I had let my colours come to theground. I had dishonoured my Captain. Some would say it was a littlething; but I felt then and I know now, there are no little things; Iknew I had done harm; how much it was utterly beyond my reach to know.
As soon as I could I seized an opportunity to get to Miss Cardigan. Ifound her among her flowers, nipping off here a leaf and there aflower that had passed its time; so busy, that for a few moments shedid not see that I was different from usual. Then came the questionwhich I had been looking for.
"Daisy, you are not right to-day?"
"I haven't been right since I got that standish," I burst forth.
Miss Cardigan looked at me again, and then did what I had notexpected; she took my head between her two hands and kissed me. Notloosing her hold, she looked into my face.
"What is it, my pet?"
"Miss Cardigan," I said, "can any one be a Christian and yet--yet--"
"Do something unworthy a Christian?" she said. "I wot well they can!But then, they are weak Christians."
I knew that before. But somehow, hearing her say it brought the shameand the sorrow more fresh to the surface. The tears came. MissCardigan pulled me into the next room and sat down, drawing me intoher arms; and I wept there with her arms about me.
"What then, Daisy?" she asked at length, as if the suspense painedher.
"I acted so, Miss Cardigan," I said; and I told her all about it.
"So the devil has found a weak spot in your armour," she said. "Youmust guard it well, Daisy."
"How can I?"
"How can you? Keep your shield before it, my bairn. What is yourshield for? The Lord has given you a great strong shield, big enoughto cover you from head to foot, if your hands know how to manage it."
"What is that, Miss Cardigan?"
"The shield of _faith_, dear. Only believe. According to your faith beit unto you."
"Believe what?" I asked, lifting my head at last.
"Believe that if you are a weak little soldier, your Captain knows allabout it; and any fight that you go into for His sake, He will bearyou through. I don't care what. Any fight, Daisy."
"But I got impatient," I said, "at the girls' way of talking."
"And perhaps you were a wee bit set up in your heart because you gotthe prize of the day."
"_Proud!_" said I.
"Don't it look like it? Even proud of being a Christian, mayhap."
"Could I!" I said. "Was I?"
"It wouldn't be the first time one with as little cause had got puffedup a bit. But heavenly charity 'is not puffed up.'"
"I know that," I said and my tears started afresh.
"How shall I help it in future?" I asked after a while, during whichmy friend had been silent.
"Help it?" she said cheerfully. "You can't help it--but Jesus can."
"But my impatience, and--my pride," I said, very downcast.
"'Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy; when I fall I shall arise.'But there is no need you should fall, Daisy. Remember 'the Lord isable to make him stand'--may be said of every one of the Lord'speople."
"But will He keep me from impatience, and take pride out of my heart?Why, I did not know it was there, Miss Cardigan."
"Did He say 'Whatsoever you shall ask in my name, I will do it?' Andwhen He has written 'Whatsoever,' are you going to write it over andput 'anything not too hard'? Neither you nor me, Daisy?"
"_Whatsoever_, Miss Cardigan," I said slowly.
"He said so. Are you going to write it over again?"
"No," I said. "But then, may one have _anything_ one asks for."
"Anything in the world--if it is not contrary to His will--provided weask in faith, nothing doubting. 'For he that wavereth is like a waveof the sea, driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that manthink that he shall receive anything of the Lord.'"
"But how can we _know_ what is according to His will?"
"_This_ is, at any rate," said Miss Cardigan; "for He has commanded usto be holy as He is holy."
"But--other things?" I said. "How can one ask for everything 'infaith, nothing wavering?' How can one be sure?"
"Only just this one way, Daisy, my dear," Miss Cardigan answered; andI remember to this day the accent of her native land which touchedevery word. "If ye're wholly the Lord's--wholly, mind,--ye'll not likeaught but what the Lord likes; ye'll know what to ask for, and ye'llknow the Lord will give it to you:--that is, if ye want it _enough_.But a 'double-minded man is unstable in all his ways;' and his prayerscan't hit the mark, no more than a gun that's twisted when it's goingoff."
"Then,"--I began and stopped, looking at her with my eyes full oftears.
"Ay," she said,--"just so. There's no need that you nor me should beunder the power of the evil one, for we're _free_. The Lord's wordsarn't too good to be true: every one of 'em is as high as heaven; andthere isn't a sin nor an enemy but you and I may be safe from, if wetrust the Lord."
I do not remember any more of the conversation. I only know that the sunrose on my difficulties, and the shadows melted away. I had a happyevening with my dear old friend, and went home quite heart-whole.