I WAS NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS.
I had no idea Miss Ruth could talk as she did that night. She seemed to
open her heart to me with the simplicity of a child, giving me a deeper
insight into a very lovely nature. Carrie had hitherto been my ideal,
but on this night I caught myself wondering once or twice whether
Carrie would ever exercise such patience and uncomplaining endurance
under so many crossed purposes, such broken work.
"I was never quite like other people," she said to me when I had closed
the book; "you know I was a mere infant in my nurse's arms, when that
accident happened." I nodded, for I had heard the sad details from
Uncle Geoffrey; how an unbroken pair of young horses had shied across
the road just as the nurse who was carrying Miss Ruth was attempting to
cross it; the nurse had been knocked down and dreadfully injured, and
her little charge had been violently thrown against the curb, and it
had been thought by the doctor that one of the horses must have kicked
her. For a long time she lay in a state of great suffering, and it was
soon known that her health had sustained permanent injury.
"I was always a crooked, stunted little thing," she went on, with a
lovely smile. "My childhood was a sad ordeal; it was just battling with
pain, and making believe that I did not mind. I used to try and bear it
as cheerfully as I could, because mother fretted so over me; but in
secret I was terribly rebellious, often I cried myself to sleep with
angry passionate tears, because I was not like other girls.
"Do you care to hear all this?" interrupting herself to look at my
attentive face. It must have been a sufficient answer, for she went on
talking without waiting for me to speak.
"Giles was very good to me, but it was hard on him for his only sister
to be such a useless invalid. He was active and strong, and I could not
expect to keep him chained to my couch--I was always on a couch
then--he had his friends and his cricket and football, and I could not
expect to see much of him, I had to let him go with the rest.
"Things went on like this--outward submission and inward revolt--much
affection, but little of the grace of patience, until the eve of my
confirmation, when a stranger came to preach at the parish church. I
never heard his name before, and I never have heard it since. People
said he came from a distance; but I shall never forget that sermon to
my dying day, or the silvery penetrating voice that delivered it.
"It was as though a message from heaven was brought straight to me, to
the poor discontented child who sat so heart weary and desponding in
the corner of the pew. I cannot oven remember the text; it was
something about the suffering of Christ, but I knew that it was
addressed to the suffering members of His church, and that he touched
upon all physical and mental pain. And what struck me most was that he
spoke of pain as a privilege, a high privilege and special training;
something that called us into a fuller and inner fellowship with our
suffering head.
"He told us the heathen might dread pain, but not the Christian; that
one really worthy of the name must be content to be the cross bearer,
to tread really and literally in the steps of the Master.
"What if He unfolded to us the mystery of pain? Would He not unfold the
mystery of love too? What generous souls need fear that dread ordeal,
that was to remove them from the outer to the inner court? Ought they
not to rejoice that they were found worthy to share His reproach? He
said much more than this, Esther, but memory is so weak and betrays
one. But he had flung a torch into the darkest recesses of my soul, and
the sudden light seemed to scorch and shrivel up all the discontent and
bitterness; and, oh, the peace that succeeded; it was as though a
drowning mariner left off struggling and buffeting with the waves that
were carrying him to the shore, but just lay still and let himself be
floated in."
"And you were happier," I faltered, as she suddenly broke off, as
though exhausted.
"Yes, indeed," she returned softly. "Pain was not any more my enemy,
but the stern life companion He had sent to accompany me--the cross
that I must carry out of love to Him; oh, how different, how far more
endurable! I took myself in hand by-and-by when I grew older and had a
better judgment of things. I knew mine was a life apart, a separated
life; by that I mean that I should never know the joy of wifehood or
motherhood, that I must create my own little world, my own joys and
interests."
"And you have done so."
"Yes, I have done so; I am a believer in happiness; I am quite sure in
my mind that our beneficent Creator meant all His creatures to be
happy, that whatever He gives them to bear, that He intends them to
abide in the sunshine of His peace, and I determined to be happy. I
surrounded my-self with pretty things, with pictures that were pleasant
to the eye and recalled bright thoughts. I made my books my friends,
and held sweet satisfying communion with minds of all ages. I
cultivated music, and found intense enjoyment in the study of Handel
and Beethoven.
"When I got a little stronger I determined to be a worker too, and
glean a little sheaf or two after the reapers, if it were only a
dropped ear now and then.
"I took up the Senana Mission. You have no idea how important I have
grown, or what a vast correspondence I have kept up--the society begin
to find me quite useful to them--and I have dear unknown correspondents
whom I love as old friends, and whose faces I shall only see, perhaps,
when we meet in heaven.
"When dear Florence died--that was my sister-in-law, you know--I came
to live with Giles, and to look after Flurry. I am quite a responsible
woman, having charge of the household, and trying to be a companion to
Giles; confess now, Esther, it is not such a useless life after all?"
I do not know what I answered her. I have a dim recollection that I
burst into some extravagant eulogium or other, for she colored to her
temples and called me a foolish child, and begged me seriously never to
say such things to her again.
"I do not deserve all that, Esther, but you are too young to judge
dispassionately; you must recollect that I have fewer temptations than
other people. If I were strong and well I might be worldly too."
"No, never," I answered indignantly; "you would always be better than
other people, Miss Ruth--you and Carrie--oh, why are you both so good?"
with a despairing inflection in my voice. "How you must both look down
on me."
"I know some one who is good, too," returned Miss Ruth, stroking my
hair. "I know a brave girl who works hard and wears herself out in
loving service, who is often tired and never complains, who thinks
little of herself, and yet who does much to brighten other lives, and I
think you know her too, Esther?" But I would not let her go on; it was
scant goodness to love her, and Allan, and Dot. How could any one do
otherwise? And what merit could there be in that?
But though I disclaimed her praise, I was inwardly rejoiced that she
should think such things of me, and should judge me worthy of her
confidence. She was treating me as though I were her equal and friend,
and, to do her justice the idea of my being a governess never seemed to
enter into hers or Mr. Lucas' head.
They always treated me from this time as a young friend, who conferred
a favor on them by coming. My salary seemed to pass into my hand with
the freedom of a gift. Perhaps it was that Uncle Geoffrey was such an
old and valued friend, and that Miss Ruth knew that in point of birth
the Camerons were far above the Lucases, for we were an old family whom
misfortune had robbed of our honors.
However this may be, my privileges were many, and the yoke of service
lay lightly on my shoulders. Poor Carrie, indeed, had to eat the bitter
bread of dependence, and to take many a severe rebuke from her
employer. Mrs. Thorne was essentially a vulgar-minded woman. She was
affected by the adventitious adjuncts of life; dress, mere station and
wealth weighed largely in her view of things. Because we were poor, she
denied our claim to equality; because Carrie taught her children, she
snubbed and repressed her, to keep her in her place, as though Carrie
were a sort of Jack-in-the-box to be jerked back with every movement.
When Miss Ruth called on mother, Mrs. Thorne shrugged her shoulders,
and wondered at the liberality of some people's views. When we were
asked to dinner at the Cedars (I suppose Mrs. Smedley told her, for
Carrie never gossiped), Mrs. Thorne's eye brows were uplifted in a
surprised way. Her scorn knew no bounds when she called one afternoon,
and saw Carrie seated at Miss Ruth's little tea-table; she completely
ignored her through the visit, except to ask once after her children's
lessons. Carrie took her snubbing meekly, and seemed perfectly
indifferent. Her quiet lady-like bearing seemed to impress Miss Ruth
most favorably, for when Carrie took her leave she kissed her, a thing
she had never done before. I looked across at Mrs. Thorne, and saw her
tea-cup poised half-way to her lips. She was transfixed with
astonishment.
"I envy you your sister, Esther," said Miss Ruth, busying herself with
the silver kettle. "She is a dear girl--a very dear girl."
"Humph!" ejaculated Mrs. Thorne. She was past words, and soon after she
took her departure in a high state of indignation and dudgeon.
I did not go home the next day. Allan came to say good-by to me, Uncle
Geoffrey followed him, and he and Mr. Lucas both decided that I could
not be spared. Nurse was somewhat ailing, and Uncle Geoffrey had to
prescribe for her too; and as Miss Ruth recovered slowly from these
attacks, she would be very lonely, shut up in her room.
Miss Ruth was overjoyed when I promised to stay with her as long as
they wanted me. Allan had satisfied my scruples about Jack and Dot.
"They all think you ought to stay," he said. "Mother was the first to
decide that. Martha has promised to attend to Dot in your absence. She
grumbled a little, and so did he; but that will not matter. Jack must
look after herself," finished this very decided young man, who was apt
to settle feminine details in rather a summary fashion.
If mother said it was my duty to remain, I need not trouble my head
about minor worries; the duty in hand, they all thought, was with Miss
Ruth, and with Miss Ruth I would stay.
"It will be such a luxury to have you, Esther," she said, in her old
bright way. "My head is generally bad after these attacks, and I cannot
read much to myself, and with all my boasted resolution the hours do
seem very long. Flurry must spare you to me after the morning, and we
will have nice quiet times together."
So I took possession of the little room next hers, and put away the few
necessaries that mother had sent me, with a little picture of Dot, that
he had drawn for me; but I little thought that afternoon that it would
be a whole month before I left it.
I am afraid that long visit spoiled me a little; it was so pleasant
resuming some of the old luxuries. Instead of the cold bare room where
Jack and I slept, for, in spite of all our efforts, it did look bare in
the winter, I found a bright fire burning in my cozy little chamber,
and casting warm ruddy gleams over the white china tiles; the wax
candles stood ready for lighting on the toilet table; my dressing gown
was aging in company with my slippers; everything so snug and essential
to comfort, to the very eider-down quilt that looked so tempting.
Then in the morning, just to dress myself and go down to the pleasant
dining-room, with the great logs spluttering out a bright welcome, and
the breakfast table loaded with many a dainty. No shivering Dot to
coerce into good humor; no feckless Jack to frown into order; no grim
Deborah to coax and help. Was it very wicked that I felt all this a
relief? Then how deliciously the days passed; the few lessons with
Flurry, more play than work; the inspiriting ramble ending generally
with a peep at mother and Dot!
The cozy luncheons, at which Flurry and I made our dinners, where
Flurry sat in state at the bottom of the table and carved the pudding,
and gave herself small airs of consequence, and then the long quiet
afternoons with Miss Ruth.
I used to write letters at her dictation, and read to her, not
altogether dry reading, for she dearly loved an amusing book. It was
the "Chronicles of Carlingford" we read, I remember; and how she
praised the whole series, calling them pleasant wholesome pictures of
life. We used to be quite sorry when Rhoda, the rosy-cheeked housemaid,
brought up the little brass kettle, and I had to leave off to make Miss
Ruth's tea. Mr. Lucas always came up when that was over, to sit with
his sister a little and tell her all the news of the day, while I went
down to Flurry, whom I always found seated on the library sofa, with
her white frock spreading out like wings, waiting to sit with father
while he ate his dinner.
I always had supper in Miss Ruth's room, and never left her again till
nurse came in to put her comfortable for the night. Flurry used to run
in on her way to bed to hug us both and tell us what father had said.
"You are father's treasure, his one ewe lamb, are you not?" said Miss
Ruth once, as she drew the child fondly toward her; and when she had
gone, running off with her merry laugh, she spoke almost with a sigh of
her brother's love for the child.
"Giles's love for her almost resembles idolatry. The child is like him,
but she has poor Florence's eyes and her bright happy nature. I tremble
sometimes to think what would become of him if he lost her. I have
lived long enough to know that God sometimes takes away 'the desire of
a man's eyes, all that he holds most dear.'"
"But not often," I whispered, kissing her troubled brow, for a look of
great sadness came over her face at the idea; but her words recurred to
me by-and-by when I heard a short conversation between Flurry and her
father.
After the first fortnight Miss Ruth regained strength a little, and
though still an invalid was enabled to spend some hours downstairs.
Before I left the Cedars she had resumed all her old habits, and was
able to preside at her brother's dinner-table.
I joined them on these occasions, both by hers and Mr. Lucas' request,
and so became better acquainted with Flurry's father.
One Sunday afternoon I was reading in the drawing-room window, and
trying to finish my book by the failing wintry light, when Flurry's
voice caught my attention; she was sitting on a stool at her father's
feet turning over the pages of her large picture Bible. Mr. Lucas had
been dozing, I think, for there had been no conversation. Miss Ruth had
gone upstairs.
"Father," said the little one, suddenly, in her eager voice, "I do love
that story of Isaac. Abraham was such a good man to offer up his only
son, only God stopped him, you know. I wonder what his mother would
have done if he had come home, and told her he had killed her boy.
Would she have believed him, do you think? Would she have ever liked
him again?"
"My little Florence, what a strange idea to come into your small head."
I could tell from Mr. Lucas' tone that such an idea had never occurred
to him. What would Sarah have said as she looked upon her son's
destroyer? Would she have acquiesced in that dread obedience, that
sacrificial rite?
"But, father dear," still persisted Flurry, "I can't help thinking
about it; it would have been so dreadful for poor Sarah. Do you think
you would have been like Abraham, father; would you have taken the
knife to slay your only child?"
"Hush, Florence," cried her father, hoarsely, and he suddenly caught
her to him and kissed her, and bade her run away to her Aunt Ruth with
some trifling message or other. I could see her childish question
tortured him, by the strained look of his face, as he approached the
window. He had not known I was there, but when he saw me he said almost
irritably, only it was the irritability of suppressed pain:
"What can put such thoughts in the child's head? I hope you do not let
her think too much, Miss Cameron?"
"Most children have strange fancies," I returned, quietly. "Flurry has
a vivid imagination; she thinks more deeply than you could credit at
her age; she often surprises me by the questions she asks. They show an
amount of reasoning power that is very remarkable."
"Let her play more," he replied, in a still more annoyed voice. "I hate
prodigies; I would not have Flurry an infant phenomenon for the world.
She has too much brain-power; she is too excitable; you must keep her
back Miss Cameron."
"I will do what I can," I returned humbly; and then, as he still looked
anxious and ill at ease, I went on, "I do not think you need trouble
about Flurry's precocity; children often say these things. Dot, my
little brother--Frankie, I mean--would astonish you with some of his
remarks. And then there was Jack," warming up with my subject; "Jack
used to talk about harps and angels in the most heavenly way, till
mother cried and thought she would die young; and look at Jack now--a
strong healthy girl, without an ounce of imagination." I could see Mr.
Lucas smile quietly to himself in the dusk, for he knew Jack, and had
made more than one quizzical remark on her; but I think my observation
comforted him a little, for he said no more, only when Flurry returned
he took her on his knees and told her about a wonderful performing
poodle he had seen, as a sort of pleasant interlude after her severe
Biblical studies.