The reluctance with which the sisters always left home to return to
school, was usually forgotten by them as soon as they found themselves
among their companions, and busy with their lessons again. But this
time it was not so with Frederica. She was restless and unhappy,
finding it quite impossible to interest herself in her school-work, or
to settle quietly to anything.
It was all the more difficult for her to do so, that she was in few
regular classes in the school. It was quite true as she had told her
father, she had gone through and through all the books generally used by
Mrs Glencairn's pupils. This was not saying much, for few of the girls
stayed in school so long as they ought to have done--none had been so
long as Frederica. Under the guidance of Miss Robina Glencairn, a
clever and cultivated woman, she had gone far beyond the usual routine
of school lessons, and had taken much pleasure in her reading, though
she had read alone, but she could not interest herself in it now. It
seemed foolish and wrong for her to be at school, learning things that
she could very well do without, when her mother and Selina needed her so
much at home. They _did_ need her, she was sure; and she grew irritable
and impatient under the restraint that kept her from them, till she was
in danger, her sister told her, of losing the reputation for politeness
and amiability, which she had been all those years acquiring.
"And where is the good of fretting? If you can end it at the summer
holidays, you may be very glad. You may be sure that Prickly Polly will
not hear of your coming home just now. If I were you, I would learn the
dictionary from the beginning to the end, or do something else to pass
the time. Or you might ask Miss Robina for a story-book. She will give
you one--you are such a pet of hers, I'm sure."
"It wouldn't be a bad idea," said Frederica.
There was to be no walking that day, because of the rain, and her book
would have been little pleasure to her in the large schoolroom, where
the girls usually passed the recreation hour on rainy days. But she
knew where to find a refuge, to which, without special permission, even
Tessie could not follow her. Frederica, because of Miss Robina's
favour, and for some other reasons, was permitted to go to it if she
chose, provided her presence was not required elsewhere. So she was
soon knocking at the door of a room at the head of a dim staircase that
led to no other room in the house.
"May I come in, Mistress Campbell?" said she, pausing on the threshold.
"Is it you, missy?" said a voice from behind a great basket of clothes
that was standing on the floor. "Who would have expected to see you at
this hour? Have you no' got the play? It canna be that you have a
lesson to get over again!"
"No," said Frederica. "This is not a lesson book. But I have got a
headache, and I am cross, and I can't be bothered with the girls; but I
shall be very quiet and good, and not be in the way, if you will let me
stay."
"Well, if you'll promise no' to fash me with your foolish talk while I
am busy, you may stay."
"Shall I fash you here?" said Frederica, laughing, and springing up into
the wide seat of one of the large dormer windows by which the room was
lighted.
"Whisht now, and no' put me out of my count," said Mistress Campbell.
She was sitting on a low stool, sorting and laying out on large trays at
her side the clothes of pupils and teachers that had just come up from
the laundress, a work which needed both patience and care, and Frederica
knew that she must not be disturbed. Instead of opening her book, she
sat for a moment watching her. She was a small, bowed woman, crippled
by rheumatism, with a thin brown face, and deep-set, sharp, grey eyes.
She wore a dark linsey gown, with a shawl of Campbell tartan over her
shoulders, and she had a "mutch" with two or three rows of stiff borders
on her head. She sung at her work, or rather chanted an old ballad
which Frederica had heard before; but every now and then, as she counted
and folded, and laid the different garments aside, she put their numbers
and the names of their owners, and her thoughts about them, into the
tune, without a pause; and Frederica knew by this that she had quite
forgotten her presence in the room.
"A droll little person," she called her to herself, and then she thought
how strange a being "old Eppie" would seem to her mama and Selina, and
wondered how it was that she had never told them about her. She had
mentioned her to them, but now she looked at her, and around the low,
wide room, with eyes that meant to see everything for their benefit. It
was a large room, which yet did not seem very large, because of the many
things crowded into it, and because of the sloping roof which on three
sides came almost to the floor. It was the attic of the wing in which
the large classroom and dining-room were. The walls were roughly
plastered and whitewashed, and underneath were arranged old bureaux and
boxes and chests of drawers, filled with such clothing as was not often
needed, and under Eppie's particular care. Besides these, there were
articles of furniture, broken or out of use, such as will accumulate in
a house where many people live--chairs and tables, pictures, and faded
ornaments of all kinds.
There was a bed at that side of the room where the roof did not slope,
but at this moment it was almost hidden by the great piles of linen
arranged upon it. There was a small open stove, in which a coal fire
smouldered, and over that part of the floor which was unencumbered by
furniture a faded carpet was spread. There was not one beautiful thing
in the room, Frederica thought, except a rose tree covered with buds and
blossoms, that stood in the window opposite.
The windows were pleasant, but from them Eppie could only see the sky,
they were so high above her. From the one on the high seat of which she
sat, Frederica could see thousands and thousands of city roofs, with
bits of open space here and there, and the river beyond. But it was not
a fair sight under drizzling rain and a leaden sky, and so she turned
her eyes into the room again. Order was gradually coming out of the
confusion of the innumerable white garments by which the little old
woman had been surrounded. One after another the great trays were
carried and emptied, into the many drawers beneath the eaves; and then
coming back to place her empty baskets in a recess made beneath the high
window, Eppie saw Frederica.
"Preserve us a' lassie! I had no mind o' your being here. It is time
for playing yourself now. Why should you be here at this hour?"
"I don't care to play with children any more," said Frederica gravely.
"Eh, sirs! You'll be growing ower-womanly for the like of that, I
suppose. Weel, weel! But you shouldna sit so quiet as to make me
forget that you are here. I might be saying things that it wouldna be
wise to say in your hearing. Are you no coming down out of that?"
"Yes, I am coming, Mrs Campbell. Don't you ever get tired of this
place? Is it not awfully dull?"
"Dull!" repeated Eppie, "and tired of it! Is it this chamber you mean?
Where could I go if I tired of it? I am very thankful to bide in it, I
can tell you."
"Yes, I suppose so. But don't you get tired of it all the same? What
do you look forward to? There is nothing in your life but mending, and
keeping count, and--"
"Hear the disrespectful lassie! Folding and keeping count, said she.
That's but for one day in the week. The mending whiles takes two or
three, and there's many a thing besides that I canna be speaking to the
likes of you about."
"Yes; but not pleasant things, Eppie."
"Pleasant things, quo' she! They're my duty. What other would I hae?"
"But, Mistress Campbell, dear, if I thought I had to live all my life
here, even in this house, I should be miserable."
"But then it's no your duty to live here all your life, and that makes
the difference. If I were to make myself miserable as you call it, it
would be for fear that I mightna get leave to bide here all my life, but
I daresay it will be time enough to fret when I'm bidden go."
"That will never be. What would Mrs Glencairn and Miss Robina do
without you?"
"There's no telling," said Eppie, nodding her head many times; "but
we'll say no more about it. Are you no coming down from that cold
window when I bid you?"
"Yes, I'm coming. But, Eppie, how can you be content? Are your father
and mother dead? Have you any brothers and sisters? Will it be just
the same all your life till you die?"
"Now, missy, come down this moment when I bid you. That's an
unwholesome book you've been reading, to put thoughts like that into
your mind. It's no me that's like to grow discontented, it's you. And
I was just thinking of inviting you to tea."
Frederica sprang down from the window so suddenly as to make the old
woman start.
"Oh, do, Eppie dear," cried she eagerly, "that is just the thing I
should like. I want to speak to you, and I don't want to go down to
that rubbishing history; and I'll read to you. I have not read a page
yet, and it's a very nice book they say."
"Is it a story book? But I would far rather hear about the wee beasties
out of your lesson book. And I'm no just sure that Miss Robina would be
pleased that you should take tea with me so soon again, and I'm no sure
that I hae scones enew."
"Oh! Miss Robina will be sure to let me; and never mind the scones.
I'll go down for whatever we need, and I'll ask Miss Robina. Let me
stir the fire."
Frederica had forgotten the gloomy day, and the nun, and all imaginable
subjects of discontent. She urged her petition eagerly; for she knew
that Eppie liked to be entreated.
"Let be the fire, missy. You'll do mischief, and spoil your hands. You
may bide if you get leave. But I doubt your sister will no be well
pleased. It is `making fish o' the one and flesh o' the other,' I
doubt."
But Frederica did not stay to listen. It was a great honour and an
exceptional one, to be asked to tea by Mrs Campbell. No other girl now
in school, except Tessie and one or two of the elder pupils, had ever
been asked to drink tea in the garret. Except for the fun of the thing,
or for the sake of a change from the dreary school routine, few of them
would have cared to do so. For Eppie was only a little old woman, bowed
and lame, who even in her best days had only been a sort of upper
servant in Mrs Glencairn's house. The present race of girls did not
often see her. Some of them had never seen her; for her daily journey
to the lower part of the house to get what she needed was accomplished
with much labour and effort at time when the girls were sure to be in
school.
Frederica was often in the garret. Miss Robina, whose pet, as Tessie
had said, she was, seldom refused her permission when she wished to
escape from the other girls, few of whose lessons she shared, either for
work or amusement. But taking tea there was another matter; and
Frederica, rather tired of being dismal, entered eagerly into the
preparations. Miss Robina did not object; on the contrary, she was very
glad to let her have the pleasure, heartily wishing that she might share
it. She did share it for a little while, and added to it. For she came
upstairs, carrying in her own hands a tray, on which were some fresh
"scones" and a bit of "paddie," each wrapped up in a snowy napkin, as
was absolutely necessary to their perfection. She could not stay long--
only long enough to be thanked and petted, and called "bonny bird" and
"good bairn" by Mistress Campbell. She had a beautiful and good face,
though it was rather pale and tired-looking, Frederica thought, as she
sat for a moment smiling in the flickering firelight; and the first
thing she said, when she and Eppie were left alone, was,--
"How pretty and nice Miss Robina is! What a pity it is that she has to
keep a school?"
To this no reply was given.
"It must be so tiresome to do the same thing over and over again every
day of the year," added she.
"There are worse things than that in Miss Robina's life, I'm thinking,"
said Eppie gravely.
"Are there? Tell me about them," said Frederica, eager for a story.
"I doubt you are no speaking with your usual discretion," said Mistress
Campbell gravely. "We'll take our tea, and not meddle with what doesna
concern us. There are few lives in which there are no troubles. Let us
be thankful for our mercies."
It was a very nice tea. Scones and fresh butter and honey, to say
nothing of "paddies" and other nice things. And such delicious tea made
in a funny little black teapot with a broken spout. Everything was
charming, Frederica thought and declared. The novelty would have made
it charming to her, though there had been nothing else to do so. They
did not fall out of talk. Eppie asked questions about the holidays they
had enjoyed; and entered with great interest into all the details
Frederica gave her about her mother and Selina, and the drives they had
had, and all they had enjoyed together. She grew grave as she went on
to tell that her mother was not strong, but easily tired and troubled,
and to wish that she could leave school, and stay at home with her
always. Eppie was grave too, and occupied with her own thoughts for a
little while; and as Frederica sat looking into the fire in silence, the
unhappy feeling that had passed away in the interest of tea-drinking in
such pleasant circumstances came back again.
"Are you no going to wash the cups?" asked Eppie in a little.
This was always in the evening's entertainment, and to-night it was
happily accomplished, inasmuch as it dispelled the cloud which had hung
for a moment over them.
"It must be nice to have things to do--useful things I mean," said
Frederica.
"I doubt it is a liberty in me to let you wash my cups, or even to ask
you to your tea," said Eppie. "For you are no longer the wee missy that
came creeping up the stairs the first day you came to the school. You
are growing a young lady now."
"That is just what I was telling mama," said Frederica eagerly. "I
ought to have done with school now, and stay at home, ought I not? I
don't suppose I should wash cups; but there are a great many things I
could do for mama and Lina. Do you really think I am growing a young
lady, Eppie? I am such a little thing, you know," said Frederica; "but
I am nearly fifteen."
An odd smile flickered for a moment on Eppie's small wrinkled face.
"You needna be in any great hurry about being a young leddy. I doubt
you're but a bairn to the most o' folk yet," said she.
"Not for myself--I am in no hurry to be grown up for myself; but for
mama's sake."
"But there must be a heap o' things for you to learn yet," said Eppie
gravely. "There's time enough."
"But I don't see the good of learning so many things, and I have gone
through all the books the girls learn here. And mama does need me, I am
sure of that."
Then Eppie went on to say how important the season of youth is, and how
she had no doubt but Mrs Vane would rather deny herself the happiness
of her little daughters' company for the sake of having them become wise
and accomplished women, and so on. But Frederica did not seem to be
noticing what she was saying; for she asked suddenly,--
"Eppie, do you know where Miss Baines is now? Will she ever come back
again, do you think?"
Eppie shook her head.
"Have you not heard? She is dead, my dear."
"Dead!" repeated Frederica.
"Yes. She has gone to a better world, I have little doubt."
"To heaven!"
"Ay, I am sure of it, as far as a body can be sure of such a thing. She
was a good woman. She had some curious notions about things, but she
was a good woman."
"She was very religious," said Frederica.
"Yes, she was religious. She was a good woman."
"But then there are so many kinds of religion," said Frederica.
"But there is but one right kind I doubt," said Mistress Campbell
gravely.
"And Miss Baines' was the right kind? It made her patient and gentle
with us girls, even when we were naughty. And after her fall, when she
suffered so much, it made her patient to bear her pain. And once she
told me that she was not afraid to die. I wish I had asked her more
about it. I don't know, but I am almost sure mama would be afraid to
die."
Eppie gave her a startled glance; but Frederica did not look as though
she had said anything to excite surprise.
"But your mama is a good woman. I have always heard you say that."
"Yes. She is very good and dear. But then we have no religion in our
house--except Mrs Ascot; and I am afraid hers is not the right kind.
It is _not_ at all like Miss Baines', at any rate. But then how is one
to know?"
"But I hope there are good people among all kinds," said Eppie, not
knowing very well what to say.
"Yes. Mr St. Cyr is good, though Mrs Ascot is not. That is true.
And it does not matter so much, so that we have a religion of some kind.
Though, of course, one would wish to have the best."
"You are wrong there, missy. It matters much. And you should be
thankful that you were sent here to the school, where the Bible is read,
and where you may learn your duty to God and man. That is the best
religion."
"But I have not learned it very well," I fear.
"Maybe that is your own fault. I have heard you say that you are not
very fond of going to the kirk and reading your Bible."
"That is quite true. And that is the right way, is it? Were you fond
of going to the kirk when you were young? We go to the church, you
know."
"I would be very thankful to be able to go to the kirk," said Eppie
evasively:
"And is your religion just like Miss Baines'? Hers must have been
right, because it made her happy when she was in great trouble, and it
made her not afraid to die. Is yours the same, Mistress Campbell?"
Eppie looked at her, wondering a little at her persistency, and then she
said, "Ay is it--the very same. The same in kind, though not in degree.
Miss Baines was a good woman, a far better woman than the like of me."
"Tell me about it," said Frederica.
Mistress Campbell looked sadly at a loss.
"How did they teach you to be religious when you were young?"
"We were taught to read our Bibles and to say the catechism, and to go
to the kirk. And my father had worship morning and evening, and we were
bidden do our duty, and be content with our lot."
Eppie hesitated, by no means satisfied with her attempt to make the
matter clear, and then she said,--
"To be religious is to be good, and to do our duty to God and our
fellow-creatures. Don't you mind what the Bible says? `Thou shalt love
the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and thy neighbour as thyself.' And
in another place it says, `Pure religion and undefiled is this, to visit
the fatherless and the widow in their affliction.' That is religion,"
said Eppie, with a pleased sense of having got well out of a difficulty.
Frederica nodded.
"Yes, I have read that. That is the way is it? Do good people all do
that? But then they must begin at the very beginning of their lives."
Eppie shook her head.
"We are poor imperfect creatures at the best," said she. "But God's
ways are not our ways, nor His thoughts our thoughts. We are
unprofitable servants. If we got what we deserve, it would go ill with
us. But He is merciful and gracious, and full of compassion, and of
tender mercy."
Frederica considered gravely for a little while.
"And is that all? I think I could manage to do all that, except perhaps
to love my neighbour as myself," said she, thinking of Prickly Polly.
"But you would need to do that too, I doubt," said Eppie, not wishing to
make religion seem a thing too easy. "And you would need to say your
prayers, for the best of us need to be forgiven, and the strongest and
wisest need to be helped and guided, and the Lord is good."
"And if I don't know very well at first. He will help me. But, Eppie
dear, I think Miss Baines must have had something more than this. I
wish I had asked her about it," said Frederica, regarding the old woman
with wistful eyes.
"Dear me, lassie," said Eppie, at a loss what to say to her; "what has
putten such like thoughts into your head? you are not an ill bairn, and
you will learn as you grow older. You have no call to vex yourself with
such thoughts more than usual."
"But, Eppie, it is for mama. She is ill, and suffers a great deal, and
she has only Selina with her; and if I only knew what made Miss Baines
so happy, I could tell mama. But mama could not begin at the beginning,
and go to church, and visit poor and sick people. There must be some
other away for her. For, Eppie, I am almost sure that mama would be
afraid to die."
There were no tears in the great wistful eyes turned towards her, but
there was something which the old woman found it quite as hard to meet.
"Poor body," murmured she; "the Lord help her!"
"And, Eppie, Miss Baines said something about the Lord Jesus caring for
her. And He died, you know. It is in the service, `Crucified, dead,
and buried,' and in the Bible there is something about it."
"Surely," said Eppie, eagerly, "that is just it. We are sinners, both
by Adam's fall and by actual transgression. And God sent His Son to die
in our room and stead. And we must lippen to Him. He will save us."
"And it would not make any difference because mama is a Jewess, would
it?"
"Preserve us a'! What will the lassie say next?" muttered the
bewildered Eppie. "No difference but what would be in her favour, I
would think. In Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek, the Word says,
and the apostles were bidden begin at Jerusalem," said she, the
long-forgotten words coming back to her in the exigency of the moment.
"And they are all to be gathered in, Paul says. I mind weel my father
and our minister ay used to pray for the ingathering of the Jews. No,
I'm sure it would be in her favour rather than the contrary," repeated
Eppie confidently, growing more assured as she went on. "They were a
grand people, the Jews--God's own chosen people. They did ill things.
They killed our Lord, and I canna just reconcile it all, but I'm sure
the Lord loves them yet."
Frederica did not reply, but sat gazing in among the dying embers in the
grate. As she sat watching her abashed but anxious face, a great
longing to help and counsel her came over the poor old woman's kind
heart, but there came also sharply a sense of her utter inability to do
so, a vague but painful doubt whether she had ever seen clearly the way
of safety herself.
"I'm but a poor ignorant sinfu' woman, my dear bairn," said she humbly;
"I havna lived up to the little light I have, and it's no for me to
teach you. But one thing I can tell you: read your Bible, and ask the
Lord Himself to teach you, and you'll need no other teaching, or if you
do He'll provide it. But see, the fire's near out, and it's more than
time you were down the stair, and I must go to my bed. So good night to
you, and mind your prayers."
"Good night," said Frederica, and she went downstairs pondering many
things.