FRENCH DRESSES.
My new friend had given me free permission to come and see her whenever I
found myself able. Saturday afternoon we always had to ourselves in the
school; and the next Saturday found me at Miss Cardigan's door again as
soon as my friends and room-mates were well out of my way. Miss Cardigan
was not at home, the servant said, but she would be in presently. I was
just as well pleased. I took off my cap, and carrying it in my hand I
went back through the rooms to the greenhouse. All still and fresh and
sweet, it seemed more delightful than ever, because I knew there was
nobody near. Some new flowers were out. An azalea was in splendid beauty,
and a white French rose, very large and fair, was just blossoming, and
with the red roses and the hyacinths and the violets and the daphne and
the geraniums, made a wonderful sweet place of the little greenhouse. I
lost myself in delight again; but this time the delight did not issue in
homesickness. The flowers had another message for me to-day. I did not
heed it at first, busy with examining and drinking in the fragrance and
the loveliness about me; but even as I looked and drank, the flowers
began to whisper to me. With their wealth of perfume, with all their
various, glorious beauty, one and another leaned towards me or bent over
me with the question--"Daisy, are you afraid?--Daisy, are you
afraid?--The good God who has made us so rich, do you think he will leave
you poor? He loves you, Daisy. You needn't be a bit afraid but that HE is
enough, even if the world does not know you. He is rich enough for you as
well as for us."
I heard no voice, but surely I heard that whisper, plain enough. The
roses seemed to kiss me with it. The sweet azalea repeated it. The
hyacinths stood witnesses of it. The gay tulips and amaryllis held up
a banner before me on which it was blazoned.
I was so ashamed, and sorry, and glad, all at once, that I fell down
on my knees there, on the stone matted floor, and gave up the world
from my heart and for ever, and stretched out my hands for the wealth
that 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 eyes
dry again, I was so glad and so sorry. I remember I was wiping a tear
or 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 blue
hyacinth 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 thank
Him for it. Look at these violets--they're bonny; and this sweet red
rose." She broke it off the tree and gave it to me. "It's bad that it
shames your cheeks so. What's the matter wi' 'em, my bairn?"
Miss Cardigan's soft finger touched my cheek as she spoke; and the
voice and tone of the question were so gently, tenderly kind that it
was 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 to
you 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 of
trouble; 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 and
kissed me with earnest good will.
"But they told me something else," I said, struggling to command
myself;--"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, that
I had a great deal of trouble to control myself. I felt unspeakably
happy too, that I had found a friend that could understand. I was
silent, 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 with
the thick clouds--that's like our sins: but, 'I have blotted out as a
thick cloud thy transgressions, and as a cloud thy sins.' You know how
it is when the wind comes and clears the clouds all off, and you can
look up through the blue, till it seems as if your eye would win into
heaven itself. Keep the sky clear, my darling, so that you can always
see up straight to God, with never the fleck of a cloud between. But
do you ken what will clear the clouds away?"
And I looked up now with a smile and answered, "'The precious blood of
Christ'"--for the two texts had been close together in one of the
pages of my little book not long before.
Miss Cardigan clapped her hands together softly and laughed. "Ye've
got it!" she said. "Ye have gotten the pearl of great price. And where
did 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 Miss
Cardigan. "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 rough
road, my bairn?"
"It is my own fault," I said, looking at her gratefully. The tender
voice went right into my heart.
"Well, noo, ye'll just stop and have tea with me here; and whenever
the way is rough, ye'll come over to my flowers and rest yourself. And
rest me too; it does me a world o' good to see a young face. So take
off 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 absent
at tea-time. But Miss Cardigan assured me I should be home in good
season; the school tea was at seven, and her own was always served at
six. So very gladly, with an inexpressible sense of freedom and
peace, I took off my coat and gloves, and followed my kind friend back
to the parlour where her fire was burning. For although it was late in
April, the day was cool and raw; and the fire one saw nowhere else was
delightful in Miss Cardigan's parlour.
Every minute of that afternoon was as bright as the fire glow. I sat
in the midst of that, on an ottoman, and Miss Cardigan, busy between
her two tables, made me very much interested in her story of some
distressed families for whom she was working. She asked me very little
about my own affairs; nothing that the most delicate good breeding did
not warrant; but she found out that my father and mother were at a
great distance from me, and I almost alone, and she gave me the
freedom 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 might
spend as much of every Sunday with her as I could get leave for. And
she made this first afternoon so pleasant to me with her gentle
beguiling talk, that the permission to come often was like the
entrance into a whole world of comfort. She had plenty to talk about;
plenty to tell, of the poor people to whom she and others were
ministering; of plans and methods to do them good; all which somehow
she made exceedingly interesting. There was just a little accent to
her words, which made them, in their peculiarity, all the more sweet
to me; but she spoke good English; the "noo" which slipped out now and
then, with one or two other like words, came only, I found, at times
when the fountain of feeling was more full than ordinary, and so
flowed over into the disused old channel. And her face was so fresh,
rosy, round and sweet, withal strong and sound, that it was a
perpetual pleasure to me.
As she told her stories of New York needy and suffering, I mentally
added my poor people at Magnolia, and began to wonder with myself, was
all the world so? Were these two spots but samples of the whole? I got
into a brown study, and was waked out of it by Miss Cardigan's "What
is it, my dear?"
"Ma'am?" I said.
"Ye are studying some deep question," she said, smiling. "Maybe it's
too 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 will
ye may do them good.'"
"But that is what I don't understand about," I said. "_How much_ ought
one to do, Miss Cardigan?"
There came a ray of infinite brightness over her features; I can
hardly 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 I
want to know is, how much one _can_. How much ought one to spend, for
such things?"
"It's a great question," Miss Cardigan repeated, more gravely than
before. "For when the King comes, to take account of His servants, He
will want to know what we have done with every penny. Be sure, He
will."
"Then how can one tell?" said I, hoping earnestly that now I was going
to get some help in my troubles. "How can one know? It is very
difficult."
"I'll no say it's not difficult," said Miss Cardigan, whose thoughts
seemed to have gone into the recesses of her own mind. "Dear, its nigh
our tea-time. Let us go in."
I followed her, much disappointed, and feeling that if she passed the
subject by so, I could not bring it up again. We went through to the
inner 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 hardly
seen it before. Low bookcases lined it on every side; and above the
bookcases hung maps; maps of the city and of various parts of the
world where missionary stations were established. Along with the maps,
a few engravings and fine photographs. I remember one of the
Colosseum, which I used to study; and a very beautiful engraving of
Jerusalem. But the one that fixed my eyes this first evening, perhaps
because Miss Cardigan placed me in front of it, was a picture of
another sort. It was a good photograph, and had beauty enough besides
to hold my eyes. It showed a group of three or four. A boy and girl in
front, handsome, careless, and well-to-do, passing along, with
wandering eyes. Behind them and disconnected from them by her dress
and 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 was
about dropping into an iron-bound coffer which stood at the side of
the 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 into
the 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 than
anybody else gave that day. Don't you recollect? It was _all her
living_."
I looked at Miss Cardigan, and she looked at me. Then my eyes went
back to the picture, and to the sad yet sweet and most loving face of
the poor woman there.
"Ma'am," said I, "do you think people that are _rich_ ought to give
all they have?"
"I only know, my Lord was pleased with her," said Miss Cardigan
softly; "and I always think I should like to have Him pleased with me
too."
I was silent, looking at the picture and thinking.
"You know what made that poor widow give her two mites?" Miss Cardigan
asked presently.
"I suppose she wanted to give them," I said.
"Ay," said my hostess, turning away,--"she loved the Lord's glory
beyond her own comfort. Come, my love, and let us have some tea. She
gave all she had, Miss Daisy, and the Lord liked it; do ye think you
and me can do less?"
"But that is what I do not understand," I said, following Miss
Cardigan to the little tea-table, and watching with great comfort the
bright unruffled face which promised to be such a help to me.
"Now you'll sit down there," said my hostess, "where you can see my
flowers while I can see you. It's poor work eating, if we cannot look
at something or hear something at the same time; and maybe we'll do
the two things. And ye'll have a bit of honey--here it is. And Lotty
will 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 me
whenever you can run away from over there. I'll have Lotty set a place
for you. And then, when ye think of the empty place, you will know you
had better come over and fill it. See--you could bring your study book
and 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 tea
was half over. "How was it, my dear?"
"I have been puzzled," I said, "about giving--how much one ought to
give, and how much one ought to spend--I mean for oneself."
"Well," said Miss Cardigan brightly, "we have fixed that. The poor
woman gave _all her living_."
"But one must spend _some_ money for oneself," I said. "One must have
bonnets and cloaks and dresses."
"And houses, and books, and pictures," said Miss Cardigan, looking
around 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 of
God.' So I suppose we must buy cloaks and bonnets on the same
principle."
I turned this over in my mind. Had I done this, when I was choosing my
chinchilla cap and grey cloak? A little ray of infinite brightness
began 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't
say--mind you--that they are to give it all to the hungry, or all to
the destitute; but only, they are to give it all _to Christ_. Then, He
will 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 wise
and clear grey eye it was.
"But isn't it difficult to know sometimes what to do?" I said. "I have
been so puzzled to know about dresses. Mamma is away, and I had to
decide."
"It's no very difficult," said Miss Cardigan,--"if once ye set your
face in the right _airth_--as we speak. My dear, there's a great many
sorts of dresses and bonnets and things; and I'd always buy just that
bonnet and that gown, in which I thought I could do most work for my
Master; and that wouldn't be the same sort of bonnet for you and for
me," 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 want
of water, suddenly set in a spring shower. Refreshment was all around
me, without and within. The faces of the flowers looked at me through
the glass, and the sweet breath of them came from the open door. The
room where I was sitting pleased me mightily, in its comfortable and
pretty simplicity; and I had found a friend, even better than my old
Maria and Darry at Magnolia. It was not very long before I told all
about these to my new counsellor.
For the friendship between us ripened and grew. I often found a
chance to fill my place at the dear little tea-table. Sundays I could
always be there; and I went there straight from afternoon church, and
rested among Miss Cardigan's books and in her sweet society and in the
happy freedom and rest of her house, with an intensity of enjoyment
which words can but feebly tell. So in time I came to tell her all my
troubles and the perplexities which had filled me; I was willing to
talk to Miss Cardigan about things that I would have breathed to no
other ear upon earth. She was so removed from all the sphere of my
past or present life, so utterly disconnected from all the persons and
things with which I had had to do, it was like telling about them to a
being of another planet. Yet she was not so removed but that her
sympathies and her judgment could be living and full grown for my
help; all ready to take hold of the facts and to enter into the
circumstances, and to give me precious comfort and counsel. Miss
Cardigan and I came to be very dear to each other.
All this took time. Nobody noticed at first, or seemed to notice, my
visits to the "house with the flowers," as the girls called it. I
believe, in my plain dress, I was not thought of importance enough to
be watched. I went and came very comfortably; and the weeks that
remained before the summer vacation slipped away in quiet order.
Just before the vacation, my aunt came home from Europe. With her came
the end of my obscurity. She brought me, from my mother, a great
supply of all sorts of pretty French dresses hats, gloves, and
varieties--chosen by my mother--as pretty and elegant, and simple too,
as they could be; but once putting them on, I could never be unnoticed
by my schoolmates any more. I knew it, with a certain feeling that was
not displeasure. Was it pride? Was it anything more than my pleasure
in all pretty things? I thought it was something more. And I
determined that I would not put on any of them till school was broken
up. If it _was_ pride, I was ashamed of it. But besides French
dresses, 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 a
good 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 as
a '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 look
like your mother. You'll be very handsome if you do. And yet, you look
different----"
"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 what
your father said, Daisy. He said--you know it takes a long while to
get to China and back, and if it does him good he will stay a little
while there; and then there's the return voyage, and there may be
delays; so altogether it was impossible to say exactly how long he and
your mother will be gone. I mean, it was impossible to know certainly
that they would be able to come home by next summer; indeed I doubt if
your 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 to
tell Daisy, that if she will make herself contented--that is,
supposing they cannot come home next year, you know--if she will make
herself happy and be patient and bear one or two years more, and stay
at school and do the best she can, _then_, the year after next or the
next year he will send for you, your father says, _unless_ they come
home 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 you
can 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 his
kingdom,' but I suppose he meant that. And meanwhile, you know you
have a guardian now, Daisy, and there is no use for me in your
affairs; and having conveyed to you your mother's gifts and your
father's promises, I suppose there is nothing further for me to do to
you."
I was silent yet, thinking. Two years more would be a dear purchase of
any pleasure that might come after. Two years! And four were gone
already. It seemed impossible to wait or to bear it. I heard no more
of 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 sister
still, so that I could not go to Melbourne.
"Well, if your new guardian thinks well of it--you can consult him if
it is necessary--and if he does not object, you can be with me if you
like. Preston has leave of absence this summer, I believe; and he will
be with us."
It was in effect arranged so. My aunt took me about the country from
one watering place to another; from Saratoga to the White Mountains;
and Preston's being with us made it a gay time. Preston had been for
two years at West Point; he was grown and improved everybody said; but
to me he was just the same. If anything, _not_ improved; the old grace
and graciousness of his manner was edged with an occasional hardness
or abruptness which did not use to belong to him, and which I did not
understand. There seemed to be a latent cause of irritation somewhere.
However, my summer went off smoothly enough. September brought me back
to Mme. Ricard's, and in view of Miss Cardigan's late roses and
budding chrysanthemums. I was not sorry. I had set my heart on doing
as 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 all
came pouring in; the two older and the two younger girls. "Here's
somebody already," exclaimed Miss Macy as she saw me. "Why, Daisy
Randolph! is it possible that's you? Is it Daisy Randolph? What have
you 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 bright
eyes dancing as good-humouredly as ever. "Daisy, now when your hair
gets 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 quite
make 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 had
this dress made," I said; "and I ordered the other one; that is all
the 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 Paris
things are than American!" Lansing went on. "I wish I could have all
my 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 I
felt that this little lady was not in a good mood awards me. I boded
mischief; for being nearly of an age, we were together in most of our
classes, studied the same things, and recited at the same times. There
was an opportunity for clashing.
They soon ran off, all four, to see their friends and acquaintances
and learn the news of the school. I was left alone, making my
arrangement of clothes and things in my drawer and my corner of the
closet; and I found that some disturbance, in those few moments, had
quite disarranged the thoughts of my heart. They were peaceful enough
before. There was some confusion now. I could not at first tell what
was uppermost; only that St. Clair's words were those that most
returned to me. "She has changed." _Had_ I changed? or was I going to
change? was I going to enter the lists of fashion with my young
companions, and try who would win the race? No doubt my mother could
dress 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 and
notoriety that became and befitted a servant of Jesus? I could not
help my dresses being pretty; no, but I could help making much display
of them. I could wear my own school plaid when the weather grew
cooler; 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 style
and a face too? Was I wishing to confound St. Clair? Was I escaping
already from that bond and a mark of a Christian--"The world knoweth
us not?" I was startled and afraid. I fell down on my knees by the
side 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 no
race for worldly supremacy. I resolved she should not. The praise of
God, I thought, was far better than the praise of men.
My mind was quite made up when I rose from my knees; but I looked
forward to a less quiet school term than the last had been. Something
told me that the rest of the girls would take me up now, for good and
for evil. My Paris dress set me in a new position, no longer beneath
their notice. I was an object of attention. Even that first evening I
felt 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 queer
things, won't she?"--"What a sweet dress!"--"_That_ didn't come from
China?"--"Daisy, who's head in mathematics, you or St. Clair? I hope
you will get before her!"
"Why?" I ventured to ask.
"Oh, you're the best of the two; everybody knows that. But St. Clair
is smart, isn't she?"
"She thinks she is," answered another speaker; "she believes she's at
the tip-top of creation; but she never had such a pretty dress on as
that in her days; and she knows it and she don't like it. It's real
fun to see St. Clair beat; she thinks she is so much better than other
girls, and she has such a way of twisting that upper lip of hers. Do
you know how St. Clair twists her upper lip? Look!--she's doing it
now."
"She's handsome though, ain't she?" said Miss Macy. "She'll be
beautiful."
"No," said Mlle. Genevieve; "not that. Never that. She will be
handsome; but beauty is a thing of the soul. _She_ will not be
beautiful. Daisy, are you going to work hard this year?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"I believe you," she said, taking my face between her two hands and
kissing it.
"Whoever saw Mlle. Genevieve do that before!" said Miss Macy, as the
other left us. "She is not apt to like the scholars."
I knew she had always liked me. But everybody had always liked me, I
reflected; this time at school was the first of my knowing anything
different. And in this there now came a change. Since my wearing and
using the Paris things sent to me by my mother, which I dared not fail
to use and wear, I noticed that my company was more sought in the
school. Also my words were deferred to, in a way they had not been
before. I found, and it was not an unpleasant thing, that I had grown
to be a person of consequence. Even with the French and English
teachers; I observed that they treated me with more consideration. And
so I reflected within myself again over Dr. Sandford's observation,
"_L'habit, c'est l'homme._" Of course it was a consideration given to
my clothes, a consideration also to be given up if I did not wear such
clothes. 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 a
time.
My little room-mate and classmate St. Clair was perhaps the only
exception 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 to
call 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 me
permission to roam in thoughts and imaginations that I liked. I went
back to my old Egyptian studies at Magnolia, and wrote my composition
about "Karnak." The subject was full in my memory; I had gone over and
over and all through it; I had measured the enormous pillars and great
gateways, and studied the sculpture on the walls, and paced up and
down the great avenue of sphinxes. Sethos, and Amunoph and Rameses,
the second and third, were all known and familiar to me; and I knew
just where Shishak had recorded his triumphs over the land of Judea. I
wrote my composition with the greatest delight. The only danger was
that I might make it too long.
One evening I was using the last of the light, writing in the window
recess 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 the
school 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 and
turnings, till she brought me into a pretty room lined with books from
floor to ceiling. Nobody was there. Mademoiselle lit the gas with
great 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 is
Laborde; here are two or three more. Do you like that? Ah! I see by
the 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 hour
before tea."
Mademoiselle scarce stayed for my thanks, and left me alone. I had not
seen either Laborde or Denon in my grandfather's library at Magnolia;
they were after his time. The engravings and illustrations also had
not 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 in
Mme. Ricard's library, that I had read and dreamed about so long in my
head. It was adding eyesight to hearsay. I found a good deal too that
I wanted to read, in these later authorities. Evening after evening I
was in madame's library, lost among the halls of the old Egyptian
conquerors.
The interest and delight of my work quite filled me, so that the fate of
my composition hardly came into my thoughts, or the fact that other
people were writing compositions too. And when it was done, I was simply
very 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 remember
I was anything but satisfied with it myself, as I was reading it aloud
for the benefit of my judges. For it was a day of prize compositions; and
before the whole school and even some visitors, the writings of the girls
were given aloud, each by its author. I thought, as I read mine, how poor
it was, and how magnificent my subject demanded that it should be. Under
the shade of the great columns, before those fine old sphinxes, my words
and myself seemed very small. I sat down in my place again, glad that the
reading 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 with
the rest, to hear the award that she would speak; and was at first
very much confounded to hear my own name called. "Miss Randolph--" It
did not occur to me what it was spoken for; I sat still a moment in a
maze. Mme. Ricard stood waiting; all the room was in a hush.
"Don't you hear yourself called?" said a voice behind me. "Why don't
you go?"
I looked round at Miss Macy, who was my adviser, then doubtfully I
looked away from her and caught the eyes of Mlle. Genevieve. She
nodded and beckoned me to come forward. I did it hastily then, and
found myself curtseying in front of the platform where stood madame.
"The prize is yours, Miss Randolph," she said graciously. "Your paper
is 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 deserve
this, my dear."
I was confounded; and a low curtsey was only a natural relief to my
feelings. But madame unhappily took it otherwise.
"This is yours," she said, putting into my hands an elegant little
bronze standish;--"and if I had another prize to bestow for grace of
good manners, I am sure I would have the pleasure of giving you that
too."
I bent again before madame, and got back to my seat as I could. The
great business of the day was over, and we soon scattered to our
rooms. And I had not been in mine five minutes before the penalties of
being distinguished began to come upon me.
"Well, Daisy!" said Miss Lansing,--"you've got it. How pretty! isn't
it, Macy?"
"It isn't a bit prettier than it ought to be, for a prize in such a
school," 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 we
all 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 lip
taking 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, who
was 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 always
has the prize for compositions. What made you go and write that long
stuff about Rameses? the people didn't understand it, and so they
thought it was fine."
"I am sure there was a great deal finer writing in Faustina's
composition," said Miss Bentley.
I knew very well that Miss St. Clair had been accustomed to win this
half-yearly prize for good writing. I had expected nothing but that
she would win it this time. I had counted neither on my own success
nor on the displeasure it would raise. I took my hat and went over to
my dear Miss Cardigan; hoping that ill-humour would have worked itself
out by bed-time. But I was mistaken.
St Clair and I had been pretty near each other in our classes, though
once or twice lately I had got an advantage over her; but we had kept
on terms of cool social distance until now. Now the spirit of rivalry
was 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 the
utter want of privacy to go to bed without prayer; waiting till the
rest were all laid down and asleep and the lights out, and then
slipping out of bed with great care not to make a noise, and watching
that no whisper of my lips should be loud enough to disturb anybody's
slumbers. But I was sure after a while, that this was a cowardly way
of doing; and I could not bear the words, "Whosoever shall be ashamed
of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed, when He
cometh in the glory of His Father." I determined in the vacation that
I would do so no more, cost what it might the contrary. It cost a
tremendous struggle. I think, in all my life I have done few harder
things, than it was to me then to kneel down by the side of my bed in
full blaze of the gaslights and with four curious pairs of eyes around
to look on; to say nothing of the four busy tongues wagging about
nothing all the time. I remember what a hush fell upon them the first
night; while beyond the posture of prayer I could do little. Only
unformed or half formed thoughts and petitions struggled in my mind,
through a crowd of jostling regrets and wishes and confusions, in
which I could hardly distinguish anything. But no explosion followed,
of either ridicule or amusement, and I had been suffered from that
night to do as I would, not certainly always in silence, but quite
unmolested.
I had carried over my standish to Miss Cardigan to ask her to take
care of it for me; I had no place to keep it. But Miss Cardigan was
not satisfied to see the prize; she wanted to hear the essay read; and
was altogether so elated that a little undue elation perhaps crept
into 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 seized
upon me; she had several things to say, and before I got up stairs to
my room all the rest of its inmates were in bed. I hoped they were
asleep. I heard no sound while I was undressing, nor while I knelt, as
usual now, by my bedside. But as I rose from my knees I was startled
by a sort of grunt that came from St. Clair's corner.
"Humph!--Dear me! we're so good,--Grace and Devotion,--Christian
grace, too!"
"Hold your tongue, St. Clair," said Miss Macy, but not in a way, I
thought, to check her; if she could have been checked.
"But it's too bad, Macy," said the girl. "We're all so rough, you
know. _We_ don't know how to behave ourselves; we can't make curtseys;
our mothers never taught us anything,--and dancing masters are no
good. We ought to go to Egypt. There isn't anything so truly dignified
as 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 a
matter of opinion."
"Oh, isn't it!" cried St. Clair, half rising up in her bed. "What is
it, 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, if
you 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 bed
and came to my side, putting her hand on my shoulder and bringing her
laughing mouth down near my ear. A very angry impulse moved me before
she 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. But
a 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 we
only want to find out whether she does. Make her tell, Lansing--prick
a little pin into her--that will bring it out."
I was struggling between anger and sorrow, feeling very hurt, and at the
same time determined not to cry. I kept absolutely still, fighting the
fight of silence with myself. Then Lansing, in a fit of thoughtless
mischief, finding her shakes and questions vain, actually put in practice
St. Clair's suggestion, and attacked me with a pin from the dressing
table. 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's
hear--we'll have an exposition now. Theme, Christian grace."
Ah, there rushed through my heart with her words a remembrance of
other words--a fluttering vision of something "gentle and easy to be
entreated"--"first pure, then peaceable"--"gentleness, goodness,
meekness."--But the grip of passion held them all down or kept them
all back. After St. Clair's first burst, the girls were still and
waited for what I would say. I was facing Miss Lansing, who had taken
her hand from my shoulder.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" I said; and I remember I thought
how my mother would have spoken to them. "Miss Lansing's good
nature"--I went on slowly,--"Miss Macy's kindness--Miss Bentley's
independence--and Miss St. Clair's good breeding!"--
"_And_ Miss Randolph's religion!" echoed the last-named, with a quiet
distinctness 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 Miss
Macy. "There's quite enough of this. There was too much before we
began. Stop where you are."
They did not stop, however, without a good deal of noisy chaffing and
arguing, none of which I heard. Only the words, "Miss Randolph's
religion," rung in my ears. I lay down with them lying like lead on my
heart. I went to sleep under them. I woke up early, while all the rest
were asleep, and began to study them.
"Miss Randolph's religion!" If it had been only that, only mine. But the
religion I professed was the religion of Christ; the name I was called by
was _His_ name, the thing I had brought into discredit was His truth. I
hope in all my life I may never know again the heart-pangs that this
thought cost me. I studied how to undo the mischief I had done. I could
find no way. I had seemed to prove my religion an unsteady, superficial
thing; the evidence I had given I could not withdraw; it must stand. I
lay thinking, with the heartache, until the rousing bell rang, and the
sleepers began to stir from their slumbers. I got up and began to dress
with 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 any
Christians 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 went
on. "Everybody considers Miss Randolph a sample of what that article
ought to be."
"You don't use the word right," remarked Miss Macy. "A _sample_ is
taken 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 to
say. "I was impatient."
"Like an impatient Christian then, I suppose," said St Clair.
I felt myself getting impatient again, with all my sorrow and
humiliation of heart. And yet more humbled at the consciousness, I
hastened to get out of the room. It was a miserable day, that day of
my first school triumphs, and so were several more that followed. I
was very busy; I had no time for recollection and prayer; I was in the
midst of gratulations and plaudits from my companions and the
teachers; and I missed, O how I missed the praise of God. I felt like
a traitor. In the heat of the fight I had let my colours come to the
ground. I had dishonoured my Captain. Some would say it was a little
thing; but I felt then and I know now, there are no little things; I
knew 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. I
found her among her flowers, nipping off here a leaf and there a
flower that had passed its time; so busy, that for a few moments she
did not see that I was different from usual. Then came the question
which 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 not
expected; she took my head between her two hands and kissed me. Not
loosing 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 shame
and the sorrow more fresh to the surface. The tears came. Miss
Cardigan pulled me into the next room and sat down, drawing me into
her arms; and I wept there with her arms about me.
"What then, Daisy?" she asked at length, as if the suspense pained
her.
"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. "You
must guard it well, Daisy."
"How can I?"
"How can you? Keep your shield before it, my bairn. What is your
shield for? The Lord has given you a great strong shield, big enough
to 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 be
it unto you."
"Believe what?" I asked, lifting my head at last.
"Believe that if you are a weak little soldier, your Captain knows all
about it; and any fight that you go into for His sake, He will bear
you 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 got
the 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 puffed
up 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 which
my 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 is
able to make him stand'--may be said of every one of the Lord's
people."
"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?' And
when He has written 'Whatsoever,' are you going to write it over and
put '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 we
ask in faith, nothing doubting. 'For he that wavereth is like a wave
of the sea, driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that man
think 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 us
to be holy as He is holy."
"But--other things?" I said. "How can one ask for everything 'in
faith, nothing wavering?' How can one be sure?"
"Only just this one way, Daisy, my dear," Miss Cardigan answered; and
I remember to this day the accent of her native land which touched
every word. "If ye're wholly the Lord's--wholly, mind,--ye'll not like
aught but what the Lord likes; ye'll know what to ask for, and ye'll
know 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 prayers
can't hit the mark, no more than a gun that's twisted when it's going
off."
"Then,"--I began and stopped, looking at her with my eyes full of
tears.
"Ay," she said,--"just so. There's no need that you nor me should be
under the power of the evil one, for we're _free_. The Lord's words
arn't too good to be true: every one of 'em is as high as heaven; and
there isn't a sin nor an enemy but you and I may be safe from, if we
trust the Lord."
I do not remember any more of the conversation. I only know that the sun
rose on my difficulties, and the shadows melted away. I had a happy
evening with my dear old friend, and went home quite heart-whole.