BURDENS.
UNDER the influence of the sermon, and the prayers, and the glorious
music, life grew to be rose-color to Marion before she reached home that
Sabbath evening. She came home with springing step, and with her heart
full of plans and possibilities for the future. Not even the dismalness
of her unattractive room and desolate surroundings had power to drive
the song from her heart. She went about humming the grand tune with
which the evening service had closed:
"In the cross of Christ I glory,
Towering o'er the wrecks of time."
As she sang, her whole soul thrilled with the joy of glorying in such a
theme, and her last thought, as she closed her eyes for the night, was
about a plan of work that she meant to carry out.
What could have happened in the night to so change the face of the world
for her! It looked so utterly different in the morning. School was to
open, and she shrank from it, dreaded it. The work looked all drudgery,
and the plans she had formed the night before seemed impossibilities.
The face of nature had changed wonderfully. In place of radiant sunshine
there was falling a steady, dismal rain; the clouds bent low, and looked
like lead; the wind was moaning in a dismal way, that felt like a wail;
and nothing but umbrellas, and water-proofs, and rubber over-coats, and
dreariness, were abroad.
The pretty, summery school dress that Marion had laid out to wear was
hung sadly back in her wardrobe, and the inevitable black alpaca came to
the surface. It seemed to her the symbol of her old life of dreariness,
which she imagined had gone from her. It was not that she felt utterly
dismal and desolate; it was not that she had forgotten her late
experiences; it was not that she did not know that she had the Friend
who is "the same yesterday, to-day, and forever;" it was simply that she
could not feel it, and joy in it as she had done only yesterday; and her
religious life was too recent not to be swayed by feeling and impulse.
The fact that there was a clear sun shining above the clouds, and a
strong and firm mountain up in the sunshine, on which it was her
privilege to stand, despite what was going on below, she did not
understand. She did not know what effect the weather and the sense of
fatigue were having on her, and she felt not only mortified, but
alarmed, that her joy had so soon gone out in cloud and gloom.
If she could only just run around the corner to see Eurie a minute, or
up the hill to Flossy's home, how much it would help her; and the
thought that she was actually looking to Flossy Shipley and Eurie
Mitchell for help of any sort brought the first smile that she had
indulged in that morning; she was certainly changed when she could look
to them for comfort or sympathy.
Is there anyone reading this account of an every day life who does not
understand, by past experience, just how trying a first day at school
is, when teachers and scholars have come out from the influence of a
long summer vacation? Next week, or even to-morrow, they will have
battled with, and, in a measure, choked the spirit of disgust, or
homesickness, or weariness, with which they come back from play to work;
but to-day nothing seems quite so hard in all the world as to turn from
the hundred things that have interested and delighted them, and settle
down to grammar, and philosophy, and algebra.
Teachers and scholars alike are apt to feel the depression of such
circumstances; and when you add to the other discomforts, that of a
steady, pouring rain, with a sound of fall in every whiff of wind, you
will understand that Marion was to have comparatively little help from
outside influences. She felt the gloom in her heart deepen as the day
went on. She was astonished and mortified at herself to find that the
old feelings of irritability and sharpness still held her in grasp; she
was not free from _them_, at least.
Her tongue was as strongly tempted to be sarcastic, and her tone to be
stern, as ever they had been. None of the scholars helped her. Those of
them who were neither gloomy, nor listless, nor inclined to be cross,
were simply _silly_; they laughed on every possible occasion, with or
without an excuse; they devised ways and means to draw off the attention
of these who made faint efforts to be studious; and, in short, were
decidedly the most provoking of all the elements of the day. Marion
found herself more than once curling her lip in the old sarcastic way at
the inconsistencies and improprieties of those among her pupils who bore
the name of Christian.
During the long recess she tried to go away by herself, in the hope that
her heart might quiet down, and rest itself on some of the new and solid
ground on which she had so lately learned to tread. But they followed
her: several of the teachers, in a gayety of mood, that was half
affected to hide the homesickness of their hearts, and therefore
infected no one else with a cheerful spirit. They were armed with a
package of examination papers, given in by those scholars who aspired
to a higher grade. They loudly called on Marion for assistance.
"You haven't had a single examination class yet; then it is clearly your
duty to help the afflicted. 'Bear ye one another's burdens,' you know."
It was Miss Banks who said this, and she had barely escaped being
Marion's intimate friend; as it was, she came nearer being familiar with
her than with any other. She wondered now how it could have been that
she had liked her! Her voice sounded so shrill and unwinning, and the
quotation that she so glibly uttered was such a jar. However, she turned
back with a wan attempt at a smile, and said:
"I shall have enough examination papers of my own before night. How do
yours range?" And she took half a dozen that were reached out to her.
"They range precisely as if we had a parcel of idiots in our care. The
blunders that these aspiring young ladies and gentlemen make in
orthography are enough to set one's teeth on edge."
"Orthography!" said Marion, with a curling lip. "They are years too old
for any such common-place as that; it must be history, at least. Here is
Allie March struggling for the advanced history class, and I venture to
say she doesn't know who was President four years ago."
And then Marion suddenly remembered that Allie March was the one whom,
in her glorified moments of only the day before she had aspired to help
forward in her Christian life. If she had seen that sneer and heard
those sharp words would it have helped her, or inclined her ever to look
that way for help? Then Marion and the rest gave themselves to silence
and to work.
"What is the prospect for promotion?" Prof. Easton said, as he came and
leaned over the desk before which they worked.
Miss Banks looked up with a laugh.
"It reminds one of one's childhood and Scripture learning days: 'Many
are called, but few are chosen.' There will be exceedingly few chosen
from this class."
Why did those Bible quotations so jar Marion? It had been one of her
weak points to quote them aptly, and with stinging sarcasm. Perhaps
that was one reason why she so keenly felt their impropriety now; she
had been so long among the "called," and so very recently among the
"chosen."
The possibility of having spent a lifetime without ever becoming one of
those "chosen" ones, seemed so fearful to her, and she felt that she had
so narrowly escaped that end, that she shivered and drew her little
shawl around her as she glanced up quickly at Prof. Easton.
He was a Christian man, a member of the First Church--would he have any
reply to make to this irreverent application of solemn truth? No, he had
only a laugh for reply; it might have been at Miss Banks' rueful face
that he laughed; but Marion would have liked him better if he had looked
_grave_. Miss Banks at that moment caught a glimpse of Marion's grave
face.
"Miss Wilbur," she said, quickly, "what on earth can have happened to
you during vacation? I never in my life saw you look so solemn. Didn't I
hear something about your going to the woods to camp-meeting? How was
that? I verily believe you spent your time on the anxious-seat, and have
caught the expression. Did you find anyone to say to you, 'Come unto
me?' I'm sure you 'labor' hard enough, and look 'heavy laden,' doesn't
she, Prof. Easton? I really think we shall have to start a
prayer-meeting over her."
Marion threw down the paper she was correcting with a nervous start, and
her voice sounded sharper than she meant.
"How is it possible, Miss Banks, that you can repeat those words in such
a shockingly irreverent way? Surely you profess to have at least a
_nominal_ respect for the One who first uttered them!"
"Really!" said Miss Banks, with an embarrassed laugh, astonishment and
confusion struggling for the mastery on her flushed face. "'Is Saul also
among the prophets?' There! I declare, I am quoting again. Is that
wicked, too? Prof. Easton, how is that? Miss Wilbur has been to
camp-meeting, and is not responsible for her words, but you ought to be
good authority. Is it wicked for me to quote Scripture? Haven't I as
good a right to Bible verses as any of you? Here has Miss Wilbur been
giving us lessons in that art for the last two years, and she suddenly
deserts and takes to preaching at us. Is that fair, now? If it were not
wicked I might say to her, 'Physician, heal thyself.'"
Marion bestowed a quick, searching, almost pleading glance on Prof.
Easton, and then looked down with a flushed and disappointed face. He
was not equal to a bold spreading of his professed colors. He laughed,
not easily, or as if he enjoyed the sharp words veiled so thinly by
pleasantry, but as if he were in an awkward position, and did not see
his way out.
"You were just a little hard on Miss Wilbur in your selections, you must
remember," he said at last. "People can always be excused for more or
less sombreness on the first day of the term."
And then he went away hurriedly, as if he desired to avoid anything
further in that strain.
Hard on Miss Wilbur? Did he suppose she cared for such vapid nonsense?
What surprised and hurt her was that he so utterly ignored the question
at issue. Did he, a professed Christian of many years' standing, see no
impropriety in this manner of quoting the very words of the Lord
himself! or hadn't he sufficient moral courage to rebuke it? Either
conclusion was distasteful; especially distasteful to her, Marion found,
because the one in question was Prof. Easton. Hitherto she had held him
a little above the ordinary. Was he then so _very_ common after all?
This little occurrence did not serve to sweeten her day. The more so,
that after she had quieted down a little, at noon, she tried to join the
other teachers as usual, and felt an air of stiffness, or embarrassment,
or unnaturalness, of some sort, in their manner to her. Twice, as she
came toward them, Miss Banks, who was talking volubly, hushed into
sudden and utter silence.
After that, Marion went into the upper hall and ate her lunch by
herself. Matters grew worse, rather than better, as the afternoon
session dragged its slow hours along. The air of the school-room seemed
close and unbearable, and the moment a window was raised the driving
rain rushed in and tormented the victim who sat nearest to it.
Poor Marion, who was as susceptible to the temperature of rooms as a
thermometer, tried each window in succession during the afternoon, and
came to the desperate conclusion that the rain came from all quarters of
the leaden sky at once.
The spirit of unrest that pervaded the room grew into positive
lawlessness as the day waned, and Marion's tone had taken even unusual
sharpness; her self-command was giving way. Instead of helping, she had
been positively an injury to Allie March; first by the sharpness of her
reprimands, and then by sarcastic comments on her extreme dullness.
But the girl who had tried her the most during the entire day was the
most brilliant, and, as a rule, the most studious scholar in her room.
Every teacher knows that the good scholar who occasionally makes a
failure is the one who exasperates the most; you are so utterly
unprepared for anything but perfection on that one's part.
Not that Gracie Dennis was perfect; she was by far too noisy and decided
for that; but she was, as a rule, lady-like in her manners and words,
showing her careful teaching and her own sense of self-respect.
There had been little sympathy, however, between Marion and herself. She
was too much like Marion in a haughty independence of manner to ever
become that lady's favorite. Why, as to that, I am not sure that she
_had_ a favorite; there were many who liked her, and all respected her,
but no one thought of expressing outright affection for Miss Wilbur.
As for Grace Dennis, she had come nearer to outwitting her teacher than
had any other young lady in the room, and she stood less in awe of her.
On this particular day the spirit of disquiet seemed to have gotten
entire possession of the girl; she had not given fifteen minutes to
downright work, but had dawdled and lounged in a most exasperating
manner, and at times exhibited a dullness that was very hard to bear
patiently, because Marion felt so certain that it was either feigned or
the result of willful inattention. Several times had Marion to speak
decidedly to the young ladies in her seat, once or twice directly to
Grace herself, and at last, losing all patience with her, she took
decided measures.
"Miss Dennis, I really have something to do besides watch you all the
time. If you please you may bring your book to the desk and take the
seat beside me; then if you _must_ whisper, I can afford you a special
audience."
What an unheard of thing! Grace Dennis actually called to the platform,
to the post of disgrace! The leading young lady in the school! and Rev.
Dr. Dennis' only daughter! Some of the scholars looked aghast; some of
the class who had long envied her were rude and cruel enough to indulge
in an audible giggle.
As for Grace herself, hardly any one could have been more amazed. It was
many a day since, with all her love of fun, and her dangerous position
as a leader, she had been obliged to receive a public reprimand; she had
never in her life been called to that public seat, which was but one
remove from being sent to Prof. Easton's private office!
Her great handsome eyes dilated and flashed, and her cheeks glowed like
fire. She half arose, then sat down again, and the school waited
breathlessly, being about equally divided as to whether she would obey
or rebel. Marion herself was somewhat in doubt, and in her excitement
over the unwonted scene, concluded to make obedience a necessity.
"On the second thought, you may have your choice, Miss Dennis; you may
come to the desk or repair at once to Prof. Easton's room, and state the
cause of your appearance."
Again the hateful giggle! There were those who knew why being sent to
Prof. Easton was the worst thing that Gracie Dennis thought could happen
to her. She arose again, and now she had the advantage of her teacher,
for there were dignity and composure in her voice as she said:
"I believe I have never disobeyed your orders, Miss Wilbur; I certainly
do not propose to do so now."
Then she came with composed step and took her seat beside Marion: but
her eyes still glittered, and, as the business of the hour went on more
quietly than any hour that had preceded it, Marion, as she caught
glimpses now and then of the face bent over her Latin Grammar, saw that
it was flushed almost to a purple hue, and that the intense look in
those handsome eyes did not quiet. She had roused a dangerous spirit.
To add to the embarrassment and the keenness of her rebuke, the door
leading from the recitation room, behind the platform, suddenly opened,
and Prof. Easton himself came around to speak to Marion. He paused in
astonishment as he caught sight of the culprit beside her, and for an
instant was visibly embarrassed; then he rallied, and, bowing slightly
and very gravely, passed her by, and addressed Marion in a low voice.
As for Gracie, she did not once lift her eyes after the first swift
glance had assured her who the caller was.
"I have made an enemy," thought Marion to herself, as, her own
excitement beginning to subside, she had time to reflect on whether she
had done wisely. "She will never forgive me this public insult, as she
will choose to call it. I see it in her handsome, dangerous eyes. And,
yet, I can hardly see how I could have done otherwise? If almost any of
the others had given me half the provocation that she has to-day, I
should have sent them to Prof. Easton, without question. Why should I
hesitate in her favor? Oh, me, what a miserable day it has been! and I
meant it to be such a good one! I wonder if my Christian life must be
marked by such weary and ignominious failures as this? Gracie Dennis is
one of the _Christian (?)_ young ladies. A lovely Christian she has
shown, and, if I am not mistaken, will continue to show to me! I wonder
if it amounts to nothing but a name, after all, with the most of them?"
And here Marion stopped this train of thought, because she suddenly
remembered that she was now numbered among those on whom others were
looking and wondering if their religion meant anything but name. Suppose
that some had been looking at her in that light this day? How would they
have decided?
She found that she was not willing to be judged by the same rule that
she was almost unconsciously applying to Gracie Dennis. Then she went
back over the day, and tried to discover wherein she had failed, and how
she might have done what would have been better. Could she not, after
all, have gotten along without so severe and public a rebuke to this
young girl at her side?
She knew her temperament well. Indeed it was--she confessed it to
herself--a good deal like her own. What would be a trifle to half the
girls in the school, what would be forgotten by the best of them in a
day or two, would burn in this girl's memory, and affect her after life
and manner, almost in spite of herself--the more so, because of that
unfortunate call from Prof. Easton.
Marion knew by the swift glance which he gave at this strange situation
that it meant something to him. Then it was doubly hard for Gracie. She
began to feel sorry for her; to wish that she might in some way smooth
over the chasm that she had builded between them.
"She is very young," she said to herself, with a little sigh. "I ought
not to have expected such wonderful things of her. I wish I had managed
differently; it is too late now; I wonder how I shall get out of it all?
Shall I just let her go home without saying anything?"
All these troubled thoughts wandered through Marion's brain during the
intervals of quiet, when nothing was heard save the scratch of pens, for
the entire room was engaged in a dictation exercise, which was to
determine their standing in the writing class. At last there was quiet.
The demon of inattention had seemingly been exorcised or subdued, for
all were industriously at work, and Marion had a chance to rest from the
alert watchfulness which had characterized the day.
All at work but Gracie. She still bent over her Latin grammar. She had
not asked permission to join the dictation class, and Marion had not
volunteered it. Truth to tell, she hardly dared venture to address her
at all. The eyes had lost none of their keen flash, and the color seemed
to be deepening, instead of subsiding on her pretty soft cheeks.
Marion, as her eyes roved over the exercise book in her hand, felt her
heart arrested by these words among the selections for dictation:
"Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ."
They smote her like a blow from an unseen hand. What burdens of
homesickness and _ennui_ and weariness might not all these girls have
had to bear to-day! Had she helped them? Had her manner been winning and
hopeful and invigorating? Had her words been gentle and well chosen, as
well as firm and decisive? Her answers to these questions stung her.
Moved by a sudden impulse, and not giving herself time to shrink from
the determination, she bent forward a little and addressed Gracie:
"Read that, Gracie. I have not obeyed its direction to-day; have you? Do
you think you have helped me to bear _my_ burdens?"
Would Gracie answer her at all? Would her answer be cold and haughty; as
nearly rude as she had dared to make it? Marion felt her heart throb
while she waited. And she _had_ to wait, for Gracie was utterly silent.
At last her teacher stole a glance at her. The great beautiful eyes were
lifted to her face. The flash was passing out of them. In its place
there was a puzzled, wondering, questioning look. And, when at last she
spoke, her voice was timid, as if she were half frightened at her own
words, and yet eager as one who must know:
"Miss Wilbur, you don't mean--oh, _do_ you mean that _you_ want to
fulfill the law of Christ; that you own him?"
"That I own him and love him," Marion said, her cheeks glowing now as
Gracie's did, "and that I want above all things, to fulfill his law, and
yet that I have miserably failed, even this first day."
Among Marion's sad thoughts that day had been:
"There is no one to know, or to care, whether I am different or not. If
I could only _tell_ some one--some Christian who would be glad--but who
is there to tell? Prof. Easton is a Christian, but he doesn't care
enough about the Lord Jesus to rebuke those who profane his name; he has
let me do it in his presence, and smiled at my wit. And these girls"
(and here Marion's lip had curled), "they don't know what they mean by
their professions."
She was unprepared for what followed. Gracie Dennis, graceful, queenly
in her dignity, and haughty, even in her mirth, said, suddenly, in a
voice which quivered with gladness:
"Oh, I am so glad; _so_ glad! Oh, Miss Wilbur, I don't know how to be
thankful enough!" And then she raised her head suddenly, and her glowing
lips just touched Marion's cheek.
It was so unusual for Marion to be kissed. Her friends at Chautauqua had
been those who rarely indulged in that sort of caress--never, at least,
with her. And, while, as I told you, many of them liked, and all of them
respected her, it was yet an unheard of thing for the scholars to caress
Miss Wilbur. And then, too, Gracie Dennis was by no means lavish of her
kisses. This made the token seem so much more. It felt almost like a
benediction.
Gracie's next words were humbling to her:
"Miss Wilbur, will you forgive me? I didn't mean to annoy you. I don't
know what has been the matter with me."
But, long before this, the last laggard had finished her line, and was
staring in undisguised astonishment at the scene enacted on the
platform.
Marion rallied her excited thoughts. "Dear child," she said, "we have
each something to forgive. I think I have been too severe with you. We
will try to help each other to-morrow."
Then she gave the next sentence as calmly as usual. But she went home
that night, through the rain, with a quick step and with joy in her
heart. It was not _all_ profession. It meant something to those girls;
to Grace Dennis it meant everything. It was enough to make her forget
her passion, and her wounded pride, and to make her face actually
radiant with joy.
It should mean more to _her_. She had failed that day. She had not been,
in any sense, what she meant to be; what she ought to have been. But
there was a blessed verse: "Who forgiveth _all_ thine iniquities."
What a salvation! Able to forgive transgression, to cover sin, to
remember it no more. It all seemed very natural to her to-night; very
like an infinite Saviour; one infinitely loving.
She began to realize that even poor _human_ love could cover a multitude
of sins. How easy it seemed to her that it would be to overlook the
mistakes and shortcomings of Gracie Dennis, after this!
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