THE LITTLE MAID.
“Good-bye, Isa dearest, we shall often—very often meet,” were the parting
words of Edith that night.
Wrapped up warmly for protection from the cold air, Isa descended the
steps beneath the lofty portico of the Castle, and entered the luxurious
carriage which her uncle had placed at her command. As she sank on the
soft cushions, a dreary, aching sensation came over her heart; she felt
as if she were leaving brightness, happiness, beauty behind her, and
going to an abode of trial—almost privation—which she could hardly regard
as a home.
“It is wrong, very wrong in me to feel thus,” Isa murmured to herself.
“If visits to the Castle make me discontented, the fewer they are the
better; but it seems to me that my only happy time now will be the time
spent with Edith. I have nothing at the Castle to wear my spirits, or
chafe my temper, my cousin is so sweet, my uncle so kind,—when under
their roof I seem to be able to shut out disappointment and care. Ah!
that word disappointment, it reminds me of the cottage-lecture which I
heard this evening. Are the Midianites in possession of my heart? Are
my crosses—what I have deemed crosses—rather burdens laid upon me by
enemies, under whose yoke I should never have stooped?”
As the carriage rolled on through the darkness, Isa pursued the train
of her reflections. Disappointment, Discontent, Dissension, Distrust,
the Midianites in the soul—was she now harbouring them in her own? Isa
could not bear to let her mind dwell long upon the first; even now, after
the lapse of years, when she had had too good cause to believe that
the idol which she had raised in her heart had been of clay, Isa dare
hardly own to herself that Lionel had been unworthy of her love, and
that his love had not been enduring, because it had contained no element
of immortality. Shrinking from close self-examination on a subject so
tender, Isa passed on to that of Discontent; painfully aware as she was
that that spirit was struggling within her breast, that she was tempted
to regard her present lot with emotions of bitterness amounting almost to
rebellion.
“Saints have been content in poverty, serene in suffering, joyful in
tribulation,—they have made even dungeon-walls echo to their hymns of
praise,” thought Isa, “and here am I, with youth, health, competence,
kind friends, blessings unnumbered and undeserved,—here am I, cast down,
irritable, murmuring, and depressed, because I dwell in a house which
does not suit my taste, but which is a thousand times more comfortable
than those inhabited by most of my poor fellow-creatures. I am annoyed
at a little petulance from an invalid brother, while many, better
than myself, have to endure harshness amounting to cruelty, hatred,
persecution, and scorn. How have I merited that my trials should be so
much lighter than theirs? Have I any cause to murmur? have I any right
to complain? Is it well that I should compare my lot with that of the
few, instead of that of the many, and give place to ungrateful discontent
instead of thanking God that He has bestowed upon me so much more than
my due? Why should my thoughts dwell on Edith’s happiness instead of on
the misery that I see yet nearer to me in the squalid homes of Wildwaste?
I must go more amongst the poor; yes, in so doing I shall not only
obey God’s command, but find weapons against the intrusion of sinful
discontent.
“Dissension! I can scarcely say that there is that in my home, though
there is, I fear, but little of true affection; and words of impatience
and looks of coldness make life’s road seem very rough!” The simile
was probably suggested to Isa’s mind by the jolting motion of the
carriage, for the smooth gravel drive through the baronet’s grounds was
now exchanged for the rough road across the common, which was seldom
traversed except by the carts, which had left deep ruts in the boggy
soil. “But what was the cause of that intensely bitter feeling which
arose to-day—which always arises in my mind at the bare mention of Cora
Madden? Why should the remembrance of her be sufficient to drive away
the holiest and happiest thoughts? Surely the Midianites are within,
hatred, malice—nay, I almost fear the spirit of revenge! I sometimes
feel such an intense—such an unholy longing for retribution to come upon
that woman, that she should taste some of the bitterness of the cup of
misery which she has caused me to drink! And are such longings consistent
with Christianity? do they not arise from the influence of the spirit of
evil? While such emotions are harboured in my heart, can there ever be
peace within? God help me, for my strength is as weakness against such a
Midianite as this!
“And Distrust”—here Isa’s meditations were suddenly brought to a close by
her arrival at Wildwaste Lodge. The loud, authoritative knock which broke
in such an unusual manner the stillness which had pervaded that dull
tenement brought Lottie Stone running in haste to the door. She was a
shy, black-eyed little maiden, who looked up in timid awe at Sir Digby’s
tall footman in his splendid livery, but greeted her young mistress with
a smile of rustic simplicity.
“Has your master gone to rest yet?” asked Isa.
“Not yet; he’s a-waiting for you in the study.”
Isa entered her brother’s almost unfurnished apartment. One dull candle
threw faint light on bare walls, and a table and chairs that would
have looked shabby in a farm-house. On one of the latter (there were
but three) was seated Gaspar Gritton. He was a man still in the prime
of life, but the sallow complexion and stoop consequent on protracted
ill health, made him look several years older than he in reality was.
Gaspar had been rather handsome in youth, and still his features, though
contracted, were good; but his eye was dull, and the whole expression of
his face unpleasing: it was marked by dissatisfaction and peevishness,
and more so than usual as Isa entered his study.
“I wish that you would tell those fellows not to startle one by such
thundering raps,” said the invalid brother.
“I am sorry that the knock disturbed you; its loudness was certainly
disproportioned to the occasion,” replied Isa, good-humouredly, as she
seated herself by her brother; “I will tell John to announce my return in
a more modest manner next time.”
“I don’t know why you should come in a carriage at all. You might have
walked home with Lottie and Mrs. Bolder after the meeting was over; the
night is perfectly fine. I expected you before half-past eight, and
now it is almost eleven.” Gaspar took a pinch of snuff to soothe his
aggrieved feelings, this being the sole luxury in which he habitually
indulged; his doing so happened unfortunately to be particularly
disagreeable to Isa.
“My uncle kindly wished me to stay the evening with himself and Edith,
and to pass every day on which lectures are given with them at the
Castle,” said Isa.
“Gadding—always gadding; girls are never satisfied at home,” observed
Gaspar with a sneer.
Isa felt irritated and inclined to make a retort, but she suppressed the
words on her tongue, and replied as cheerfully as she could,—
“You cannot wonder at my liking to meet with some of my nearest
relations; and were I to see absolutely nothing beyond our Wildwaste
domain, I might grow as antiquated and whimsical as Robinson Crusoe
himself. But I fear that you have passed but a dull evening without Isa
to sing or read to you, Gaspar.”
The ungracious brother made no reply; he only applied again to his little
brown box.
“Sir Digby asked me if you would not join his circle,” continued Isa;
“but I told him that you did not yet venture to expose yourself to the
night air. Was I right? You will, of course, call upon him some morning;
you will find him a pleasant acquaintance.”
“I am not hunting after acquaintances; I’ve neither health nor spirits
for society,” replied Gaspar, rising languidly from his chair; “and as
for these grandees of the Castle, I should not find them much in _my_
line, however much they may be in yours.”
The brother and sister, after a cold “Good-night,” retired to their
several apartments, Isa asking herself as she ascended the chilly
staircase whether it were his fault or her own that she was disappointed
in Gaspar.
She found her little servant Lottie awaiting her in her room, ready to
perform the offices of lady’s-maid, in which the young rustic took great
pride and pleasure. Lottie Stone was a source of amusement as well as
of interest to Isa; in her simplicity and ignorance she was so utterly
unlike any of her class whom the lady had met with before. The girl,
painfully shy before strangers, had a naive frankness with her young
mistress, which was almost like the confidence of a child. Isa by no
means discouraged this confidence, which gave her much influence over the
young being placed under her care. The rustic knew little of manners, and
was once detected in the act of snuffing the candle with her fingers. Isa
in vain tried to teach her to understand the thermometer by which the
valetudinarian regulated the heat of his room, and seemed to have no idea
of the difference between hot weather and cold. Gaspar used angrily to
declare that Lottie was certain to leave the window open whenever a sharp
east wind was blowing. In defiance of etiquette, if anything playful
were said at table, Lottie Stone was certain to laugh; and she would
stand, dish in hand, to listen to a lively anecdote related by Isa to her
brother, quite oblivious of the fact that the viands were growing cold.
Gently and smilingly Isa corrected the mistakes of the inexperienced
Lottie, and tried to soften down the displeasure of Mr. Gritton, who was
far less disposed to show indulgence. Much might be excused, she would
observe, in a girl so perfectly honest and truthful: the grain of the
wood was so good, that it was worth taking the trouble to work it, and
the polish would be added in time. Isa encouraged Lottie to open her
heart to her without reserve: but for this kindly intercourse between
mistress and maid, the life of the young girl would have had little of
brightness, as Hannah, the only other servant, was both ill-tempered
and deaf. “Miss Isa” was all in all to Lottie, looked up to, beloved
and obeyed with affectionate devotion. Lottie’s happiest time was the
half-hour spent at night with her mistress; for while she brushed Isa’s
long silky tresses, the lady entered into conversation with her. When
Miss Gritton first trusted her beautiful hair into Lottie’s inexperienced
hands, she had something to suffer as well as to teach; but pains and
patience had their usual effect, and it was only when the little maid was
speaking of something of special interest that she tried the philosophy
of her kind young mistress.
[Illustration: ISA AND LOTTIE STONE.]
“So you were at the lecture to-night, Lottie. I hope that you were
attentive to all that the clergyman said.”
“I did try to be so, Miss Isa; there were things as I couldn’t make out;
but Mrs. Bolder and me, we was talking it over all the way home, and was
looking for the Midianites in the heart.”
“And did you find any?” asked Isa.
“Mrs. Bolder, she was a-saying that it’s very hard to keep out distrust
when things go so contrary in life. She has a deal of trouble, has Mrs.
Bolder, now that her husband’s laid up and crippled with rheumatics, and
she’s all the work of the shop upon her; it’s a’most too much for her,
she says. She can’t help wondering why God should send such sickness
and pain to her husband, who was al’ays a good, steady-going man, and a
tea-totaller,”—Lottie uttered the word almost with reverence; “if he’d
been given to drink it would have been different, you know.”
The saddened tone of Lottie as she uttered the last sentence reminded
Isa of what Mr. Eardley had told her of the early trials of this more
than orphan girl. A brutal father, addicted to intemperance, had made the
hovel in which Lottie had passed the first years of her life, a den of
poverty and woe. Then this father, unworthy of the name, had absconded,
deserting an unhappy wife and two children, the elder of whom, a boy,
from physical infirmities and dulness of mind, was yet more helpless
than the poor little girl. Mr. Eardley had been for years the earthly
protector of the family; he had procured employment for Deborah Stone,
had had her children taught in his school, had, as we know, found a place
for Lottie as soon as she was able to take one, and had often put such
work in the way of her brother as the poor lad was not incapacitated from
performing.
“And did you find the Midianite Distrust in your own soul also?” asked
Isa.
The mournful tone of Lottie changed to a cheerful one as she made reply,
“Oh! as mother says, who’s to trust God if we don’t, when He has
helped us through such a many troubles, and given us such kind friends?
Only—just—sometimes,” she added more slowly, “when I thinks of poor
father, then a feeling will come; but I s’pose it’s wrong—God is so
good!” and she sighed.
Isa perceived that the shadow of the poor girl’s great trial lay on her
young heart still.
“You can always pray for your father, Lottie.”
“I do, Miss Isa, I do, morning and evening, and so does mother; and
surely God will hear!” cried the girl, brightening up at the thought. “He
knows where bees father, though we don’t; and maybe He will bring him
back to us at last.”
There was something touching to Isa in the clinging affection of the
young creature towards a parent whom she could not honour, and whom she
had so little cause to love.
“And did you find any Discontent lurking within?” inquired the lady,
returning to the point of conversation from which she had diverged.
“Discontent!” repeated Lottie, opening her black eyes wide at the
question; “O Miss Isa, how could I—with meat every day, and a whole
sovereign every quarter? That would be ungrateful indeed! Ah! if you
knew how we lived here at Wildwaste when I was little, in the cottage
that’s been pulled down—close by the ‘Jolly Gardener’ it was, where the
school is a-standing now! We’ve been half the day—mother, brother, and
I—without breaking a bit of bread; and we might have been the other half
too,” added Lottie, naively, “had not Mrs. Holdich been so kind, and the
tall gentleman from the Castle, bless him! he brought us nice things from
his own table under his cloak.”
“Do you speak of Mr. Madden?” asked Isa, with a little tremulousness in
her tone.
“Yes; the best, the kindest gentleman as ever lived—barring Mr. Eardley,”
said Lottie, warmly. “He was al’ays teaching the children good, and
looking arter the poor.”
“Lionel Madden,” murmured Isa, dreamily; it was the first time for years
that that name had passed her lips.
“Oh no, not he!” exclaimed Lottie, in a tone more emphatic than her
hearer liked, for it conveyed more distinctly than words that Lionel was
one of the last persons likely to play the philanthropist in the manner
described. “It was not he, but his brother. Mr. Lionel! he never gave to
nobody, nor did nothing for nobody as ever I heard of; only,” added the
girl, with a little laugh, “he switched my brother over the head with his
riding-whip once, to make him stand out of his way.”
Isa did not care to keep up the conversation; she took up an
elegantly-bound book which lay on her toilette-table, to convey a hint
of silence to her little maid-servant. The volume was a collection of
sacred poetry, and the lady’s eyes rested long and thoughtfully upon the
well-known verse on which their gaze first fell as she opened the book.
It appeared like a comment on what she had heard that evening on the
subject of Disappointment.
“Good when He gives, supremely good,
_Nor less when He denies_;
E’en trials from His sovereign hand
Are _blessings in disguise_.”
So, whether she acknowledged the fact or not, had it been in God’s
dealings with Isa Gritton.
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