A PLACE IN THE WORLD.
I was a humbler child when I got out of bed the next morning,
I think, than ever I had been in my life before. But I had
another lesson to learn.
I was not angry any more at Miss St. Clair. That was gone.
Even when she did one or two other mischievous things to me,
the rising feeling of offence was quickly got under; and I
lived in great charity with her. My new lesson was of another
sort.
Two or three days passed, and then came Sunday. It was never a
comfortable day at Mme. Ricard's. We all went to church of
course, under the care of one or other of the teachers; and we
had our choice where to go. Miss Babbitt went to a
Presbyterian church. Miss Maria to a high Episcopal. Mme.
Jupon attended a little French Protestant chapel; and Mlle.
Genevieve and Mme. Ricard went to the Catholic church. The
first Sunday I had gone with them, not knowing at all whither.
I found that would not do; and since then I had tried the
other parties. But I was in a strait; for Miss Maria's church
seemed to me a faded image of Mlle. Genevieve's; the
Presbyterian church which Miss Babbitt went to was stiff and
dull; I was not at home in either of them, and could not
understand or enjoy what was spoken. The very music had an air
of incipient petrification, if I can speak so about sounds. At
the little French chapel I could as little comprehend the
words that were uttered. But in the pulpit there was a man
with a shining face; a face full of love and truth and
earnestness. He spoke out of his heart, and no set words; and
the singing was simple and sweet and the hymns beautiful. I
could understand them, for I had the hymn-book in my hands.
Also I had the French Bible, and Mme. Jupon, delighted to have
me with her, assured me that if I listened I would very soon
begin to understand the minister's preaching just as well as
if it were English. So I went with Mme. Jupon, and thereby
lost some part of Mlle. Genevieve's favour; but that I did not
understand till afterwards.
We had all been to church as usual, this Sunday, and we were
taking off our hats and things up stairs, after the second
service. My simple toilet was soon made; and I sat upon the
side of my little bed, watching those of my companions. They
were a contrast to mine. The utmost that money could do, to
bring girls into the fashion, was done for these girls; for
the patrons of Mme. Ricard's establishment were nearly all
rich.
Costly coats and cloaks, heavy trimmed, were surmounted with
every variety of showy head gear, in every variety of
unsuitableness. To study bad taste, one would want no better
field than the heads of Mme. Ricard's seventy boarders dressed
for church. Not that the articles which were worn on the heads
were always bad; some of them came from irreproachable
workshops; but there was everywhere the bad taste of
overdressing, and nowhere the tact of appropriation. The hats
were all on the wrong heads. Everybody was a testimony of what
money can do without art. I sat on my little bed, vaguely
speculating on all this as I watched my companions' disrobing;
at intervals humming the sweet French melody to which the last
hymn had been sung; when St. Clair paused in her talk and
threw a glance in my direction. It lighted on my plain plaid
frock and undressed hair.
"Don't you come from the country, Miss Randolph?" she said,
insolently enough.
I answered yes. And I remembered what my mantua-maker had
said.
"Did you have that dress made there?"
"For shame, St. Clair!" said Miss Bentley; "let Miss Randolph
alone. I am sure her dress is very neat."
"I wonder if women don't wear long hair where she came from "
said the girl, turning away from me again. The others laughed.
I was as little pleased at that moment with the defence as
with the attack. The instant thought in my mind was, that Miss
Bentley knew no more how to conduct the one than Miss St.
Clair to make the other; if the latter had no civility, the
first had no style. Now the St. Clair was one of the best
dressed girls in school and came from one of the most
important families. I thought, if she knew where I came from,
and who my mother was, she would change her tone.
Nevertheless, I wished mamma would order me to let my hair
grow, and I began to think whether I might not do it without
order. And I thought also that the spring was advancing, and
warm weather would soon be upon us; and that these girls would
change their talk and their opinion about me when they saw my
summer frocks. There was nothing like _them_ in all the school.
I ran over in my mind their various elegance, of texture, and
lace, and fine embroidery, and graceful, simple drapery. And
also I thought, if these girls could see Magnolia, its
magnificent oaks, and its acres of timber, and its sweeps of
rich fields, and its troops of servants, their minds would be
enlightened as to me and my belongings.
These meditations were a mixture of comfort and discomfort to
me; but on the whole I was not comfortable. This process of
comparing myself with my neighbours, I was not accustomed to;
and even though its results were so favourable, I did not like
it. Neither did I quite relish living under a cloud; and my
eyes being a little sharpened now, I could see that not by my
young companions alone, but by every one of the four teachers,
I was looked upon as a harmless little girl whose mother knew
nothing about the fashionable world. I do not think that
anything in my manner showed either my pique or my disdain; I
believe I went about just as usual; but these things were
often in my thoughts, and taking by degrees more room in them.
It was not till the Sunday came round again, that I got any
more light. The afternoon service was over; we had come home
and laid off our bonnets and cloaks; for though we were in
April it was cold and windy; and my school-fellows had all
gone down stairs to the parlour, where they had the privilege
of doing what they pleased before tea. I was left alone. It
was almost my only time for being alone in the whole week. I
had an hour then; and I used to spend it in my bedroom with my
Bible. To-day I was reading the first epistle of John, which I
was very fond of, and as my custom was, not reading merely,
but pondering and praying over the words verse by verse. So I
found that I understood them better and enjoyed them a great
deal more. I came to these words,
"Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us,
that we should be called the sons of God; therefore the world
knoweth us not, because it knew Him not."
I had dwelt some time upon the first part of the verse,
forgetting all my discomforts of the week past; and came in
due course to the next words. I never shall forget how they
swept in upon me. "_The world knoweth us not_." What did that
mean? "Because it knew Him not." How did it not know Him? He
was in the midst of men; He lived no hidden life; the world
knew Him well enough as a benefactor, a teacher, a reprover;
in what sense did it _not_ know Him? And I remembered, it did
not know Him as one of its own party. He was "this fellow,"
and "the deceiver;" "the Nazarene;" "they called the Master
of the house Beelzebub." And so, the world knoweth _us_ not; and
I knew well enough why; because we must be like Him. And then,
I found an unwillingness in myself to have these words true of
me. I had been very satisfied under the slighting tones and
looks of the little world around me, thinking that they were
mistaken and would by and by know it; they would know that in
all that they held so dear, of grace and fashion and elegance
and distinguished appearance, my mother, and of course I, were
not only their match but above them. Now, must I be content to
have them never know it? But, I thought, I could not help
their seeing the fact; if I dressed as my mother's child was
accustomed to dress, they would know what sphere of life I
belonged to. And then the words bore down upon me again, with
their uncompromising distinctness, "_the world knoweth us
not_." I saw it was a mark and character of those that belonged
to Christ. I saw that, if I belonged to Him, the world must
not know me. The conclusion was very plain. And to secure the
conclusion, the way was very plain too; I must simply not be
like the world. I must not be of the world; and I must let it
be known that I was not.
Face to face with the issue, I started back. For not to be of
the world, meant, not to follow their ways. I did not want to
follow some of their ways; I had no desire to break the
Sabbath, for example; but I did like to wear pretty and
elegant and expensive things, and fashionable things. It is
very true, I had just denied myself this pleasure, and bought
a plain dress and coat that did not charm me; but that was in
favour of Margaret and to save money for her. And I had no
objection to do the same thing again and again, for the same
motive; and to deny myself to the end of the chapter, so long
as others were in need. But that was another matter from
shaking hands with the world at once, and being willing that
for all my life it should never know me as one of those whom
it honoured. Never _know_ me, in fact. I must be something out
of the world's consciousness, and of no importance to it. And
to begin with, I must never try to enlighten my school-
fellows' eyes about myself. Let them think that Daisy Randolph
came from somewhere in the country, and was accustomed to wear
no better dresses in ordinary than her school plaid. Let them
never be aware that I had ponies and servants and lands and
treasures. Nay, the force of the words I had read went further
than that. I felt it, down in my heart. Not only I must take
no measures to proclaim my title to the world's regard; but I
must be such and so unlike it in my whole way of life, dress
and all, that the world would not wish to recognise me, nor
have anything to do with me.
I counted the cost now, and it seemed heavy. There was Miss
Bentley, with her clumsy finery, put on as it were one dollar
above the other. She patronised me, as a little country-girl
who knew nothing. Must I not undeceive her? There was Faustina
St. Clair, really of a good family, and insolent on the
strength of it; must I never let her know that mine was as
good, and that my mother had as much knowledge of the
proprieties and elegancies of life as ever hers had? These
girls and plenty of the others looked down upon me as
something inferior; not belonging to their part of society;
must I be content henceforth to live so simply that these and
others who judge by the outside would never be any wiser as to
what I really was? Something in me rebelled. Yet the words I
had been reading were final and absolute. "The world knoweth
us _not_;" and "us," I knew, meant the little band in whose
hearts Christ is king. Surely I was one of them. But I was
unwilling to slip out of the world's view and be seen by it no
more. I struggled.
It was something very new in my experience. I had certainly
felt struggles of duty in other times, but they had never
lasted long. This lasted. With an eye made keen by conscience,
I looked now in my reading to see what else I might find that
would throw light on the matter and perhaps soften off the
uncompromising decision of the words of St. John. By and by I
came to these words
"If ye were of the world, the world would love his own. But
because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of
the world, _therefore the world hateth you_."
I shut the book. The issue could not be more plainly set
forth. I must choose between the one party and the other. Nay,
I had chosen; but I must agree to belong but to one.
Would anybody say that a child could not have such a struggle?
that fourteen years do not know yet what "the world" means?
Alas, it is a relative term; and a child's "world" may be as
mighty for her to face, as any other she will ever know. I
think I never found any more formidable. Moreover, it is less
unlike the big world than some would suppose.
On the corner of the street, just opposite to our windows,
stood a large handsome house which we always noticed for its
flowers. The house stood in a little green courtyard,
exquisitely kept, which at one side and behind gave room for
several patches of flower beds, at this time filled with
bulbous plants. I always lingered as much as I could in
passing the iron railings, to have a peep at the beauty
within. The grass was now of a delicious green, and the tulips
and hyacinths and crocuses were in full bloom, in their
different oval-shaped beds, framed in with the green. Besides
these, from the windows of a greenhouse that stretched back
along the street, there looked over a brilliant array of other
beauty; I could not tell what; great bunches of scarlet and
tufts of white and gleamings of yellow, that made me long to
be there.
"Who lives in that house?" Miss Bentley asked one evening. It
was the hour before tea, and we were all at our room windows
gazing down into the avenue.
"Why don't you know?" said slow Miss Macy. That's Miss
Cardigan's house."
"I wonder who she is," said Miss Lansing. "It isn't a New York
name."
"Yes, it is," said Macy. "She's lived there forever. She used
to be there, and her flowers, when I was four years old."
"I guess she isn't anybody, is she?" said Miss Bentley. "I
never see any carriages at her door. Hasn't she a carriage of
her own, I wonder, or how does she travel? Such a house ought
to have a carriage."
"I'll tell you," said the St. Clair, coolly as usual. "She
goes out in a wagon with an awning to it. _She_ don't know
anything about carriages."
"But she must have money, you know," urged Miss Bentley. "She
couldn't keep up that house, and the flowers, and the
greenhouse and all, without money."
"She's got money," said the St. Clair. "Her mother made it
selling cabbages in the market. Very likely she sold flowers
too."
There was a general exclamation and laughter at what was
supposed to be one of St. Clair's flights of mischief; but the
young lady stood her ground calmly, and insisted that it was a
thing well known. "My grandmother used to buy vegetables from
old Mrs. Cardigan when we lived in Broadway," she said. "It's
quite true. That's why she knows nothing about carriages."
"That sort of thing don't hinder other people from having
carriages," said Miss Lansing. "There's Mr. Mason, next door
to Miss Cardigan, his father was a tailor; and the Steppes,
two doors off, do you know what they were? They were millers,
a little way out of town; nothing else; had a mill and ground
flour. They made a fortune I suppose, and now here they are in
the midst of other people."
"Plenty of carriages, too," said Miss Macy; "and everything
else."
"After all," said Miss Bentley, after a pause, "I suppose
everybody's money had to be made somehow, in the first
instance. I suppose all the Millers in the world came from
real millers once; and the Wheelwrights from wheelwrights."
"And what a world of smiths there must have been, first and
last," said Miss Lansing. "The world is full of their
descendants."
"_Everybody's_ money wasn't made, though," said the St. Clair,
with an inexpressible attitude, of her short upper lip.
"I guess it was, if you go back far enough," said Miss Macy,
whom nothing disturbed. But I saw that while Miss Lansing and
Miss St. Clair were at ease in the foregoing conversation,
Miss Bentley was not.
"You _can't_ go back far enough," said the St. Clair haughtily.
"How then?" said the other. "How do you account for it? Where
did their money come from?"
"It grew," said the St. Clair ineffably. "They were lords of
the soil."
"Oh! But it had to be dug out, I suppose," said Miss Macy.
"There were others to do that."
"After all," said Miss Macy, "how is money that grew any
better than money that is made? It is all made by somebody,
too."
"If it is made by somebody else, it leaves your hands clean,"
the St. Clair answered, with an insolence worthy of maturer
years; for Miss Macy's family had grown rich by trade. She was
of a slow temper, however, and did not take fire."
"My grandfather's hands were clean," she said; "yet he made his
own money. Honest hands always are clean."
"Do you suppose Miss Cardigan's were when she was handling her
cabbages?" said St. Clair. "I have no doubt Miss Cardigan's
house smells of cabbages now."
"O St. Clair!" Miss Lansing said, laughing.
"I always smell them when I go past," said the other,
elevating her scornful little nose; it was a handsome nose
too.
"I don't think it makes any difference," said Miss Bentley,
"provided people _have_ money, how they came by it. Money buys
the same things for one that it does for another."
"Now, my good Bentley, that is just what it _don't_," said St.
Clair, drumming upon the window-pane with the tips of her
fingers.
"Why not?"
"Because! people that have always had money know how to use
it; and people that have just come into their money, _don't_
know. You can tell the one from the other as far off as the
head of the avenue."
"But what is to hinder their going to the same milliner and
mantua-maker, for instance, or the same cabinet-maker, and
buying the same things?"
"Or the same jeweller, or the same anything? So they could,
if they knew which they were."
"Which _what_ were? It is easy to tell which is a fashionable
milliner, or mantua-maker; everybody knows that."
"It don't do some people any good," said St. Clair, turning
away. "When they get in the shop, they do not know what to buy;
and if they buy it they can't put it on. People that are not
fashionable can't _be_ fashionable."
I saw the glance that fell, scarcely touching, on my plain
plaid frock. I was silly enough to feel it too. I was unused
to scorn. St. Clair returned to the window, perhaps sensible
that she had gone a little too far.
"I can tell you now," she said, "what that old Miss Cardigan
has got in her house just as well as if I saw it."
"Did you ever go in?" said Lansing eagerly.
"We don't visit," said the other. "But I can tell you, just as
well; and you can send Daisy Randolph some day to see if it is
true."
"Well, go on, St. Clair what is there?" said Miss Macy.
"There's a marble hall of course; that the mason built; it
isn't her fault. Then in the parlours there are thick carpets,
that cost a great deal of money and are as ugly as they can
be, with every colour in the world. The furniture is red
satin, or maybe blue, staring bright, against a light green
wall panelled with gold. The ceilings are gold and white, with
enormous chandeliers. On the wall there are some very big
picture frames, with nothing in them to speak of; there is a
table in the middle of the floor with a marble top, and the
piers are filled with mirrors down to the floor; and the
second room is like the first and the third is like the
second, and there is nothing else in any of the rooms but what
I have told you."
"Well, it is a very handsome house, I should think, if you
have told true," said Miss Bentley.
St. Clair left the window with a scarce perceptible but most
wicked smile at her friend Miss Lansing; and the group
scattered. Only I remained to think it over and ask myself,
could I let go my vantage ground? could I make up my mind to
do forever without the smile and regard of that portion of the
world which little St. Clair represented? It is powerful, even
in a school!
I had seen how carelessly this undoubted child of birth and
fashion wielded the lash of her tongue; and how others bowed
before it. I had seen Miss Bentley wince, and Miss Macy bite
her lip; but neither of them dared affront the daughter of
Mrs. St. Clair. Miss Lansing was herself of the favoured
class, and had listened lightly. Fashion was power, that was
plain. Was I willing to forego it? was I willing to be one of
those whom fashion passes by as St. Clair had glanced on my
dress as something not worthy a thought?
I was not happy, those days. Something within me was
struggling for self-assertion. It was new to me; for until
then I had never needed to assert my claims to anything. For
the first time, I was looked down upon, and I did not like it.
I do not quite know why I was made to know this so well. My
dress, if not showy or costly, was certainly without blame in
its neatness and niceness, and perfectly becoming my place as
a school-girl. And I had very little to do at that time with
my schoolmates, and that little was entirely friendly in its
character. I am obliged to think, looking back at it now, that
some rivalry was at work. I did not then understand it. But I
was taking a high place in all my classes. I had gone past St.
Clair in two or three things. Miss Lansing was too far behind
in her studies to feel any jealousy on that account; but
besides that, I was an unmistakeable favourite with all the
teachers. They liked to have me do anything for them or with
them; if any privilege was to be given, I was sure to be one
of the first names called to share it; if I was spoken to for
anything, the manner and tone were in contrast with those used
towards almost all my fellows. It may have been partly for
these reasons that there was a little positive element in the
slights which I felt. The effect of the whole was to make a
long struggle in my mind. "The world knoweth us not" gave
the character and condition of that party to which I belonged.
I was feeling now what those words mean, and it was not
pleasant.
This struggle had been going on for several weeks, and growing
more and more wearying, when Mrs. Sandford came one day to see
me. She said I did not look very well, and obtained leave for
me to take a walk with her. I was glad of the change. It was a
pleasant, bright afternoon; we strolled up the long avenue,
then gay and crowded with passers to and fro in every variety
and in the height of the mode; for our avenue was a favourite
and very fashionable promenade. The gay world nodded and bowed
to each other; the sun streamed on satins and laces, flowers
and embroidery; elegant toilettes passed and repassed each
other, with smiling recognition; the street was a show. I
walked by Mrs. Sandford's side in my chinchilla cap, for I had
not got a straw hat yet, though it was time; thinking, "_The
world knoweth us not_" and carrying on the struggle in my
heart all the while. By and by we turned to come down the
avenue.
"I want to stop a moment here on some business," said Mrs.
Sandford, as we came to Miss Cardigan's corner; "would you
like to go in with me, Daisy?"
I was pleased, and moreover glad that it was the hour for my
companions to be out walking. I did not wish to be seen going
in at that house and to have all the questions poured on me
that would be sure to come. Moreover I was curious to see how
far Miss St. Clair's judgment would be verified. The marble
hall was undoubted; it was large and square, with a handsome
staircase going up from it; but the parlour, into which we
were ushered the next minute, crossed all my expectations. It
was furnished with dark chintz; no satin, red or blue, was
anywhere to be seen; even the curtains were chintz. The carpet
was not rich; the engravings on the walls were in wooden
frames varnished; the long mirror between the windows, for
that was there, reflected a very simple mahogany table, on
which lay a large work basket, some rolls of muslin and
flannel, work cut and uncut, shears and spools of cotton.
Another smaller table held books and papers and writing
materials. This was shoved up to the corner of the hearth,
where a fire a real, actual fire of sticks was softly
burning. The room was full of the sweet smell of the burning
wood. Between the two tables, in a comfortable large chair,
sat the lady we had come to see. My heart warmed at the look
of her immediately. Such a face of genial gentle benevolence;
such a healthy sweet colour in the old cheeks; such a hearty,
kind, and withal shrewd and sound, expression of eye and lip.
She was stout and dumpy in figure, rather fat; with a little
plain cap on her head and a shawl pinned round her shoulders.
Somebody who had never been known to the world of fashion. But
oh, how homely and comfortable she and her room looked! she
and her room and her cat; for a great white cat sat with her
paws doubled under her in front of the fire.
"My sister begged that I would call and see you, Miss
Cardigan," Mrs. Sandford began, "about a poor family named
Whittaker, that live somewhere in Ellen Street."
"I know them. Be seated," said our hostess. "I know them well.
But I don't know this little lady."
"A little friend of mine, Miss Cardigan; she is at school with
your neighbour opposite, Miss Daisy Randolph."
"If nearness made neighbourhood," said Miss Cardigan,
laughing, "Mme. Ricard and I would be neighbours; but I am
afraid the rule of the Good Samaritan would put us far apart.
Miss Daisy do you like my cat; or would you like maybe to go
in and look at my flowers? yes? Step in that way, dear;
just go through that room, and on, straight through; you'll
smell them before you come to them."
I gladly obeyed her, stepping in through the darkened middle
room where already the greeting of the distant flowers met me;
then through a third smaller room, light and bright and full
of fragrance, and to my surprise, lined with books. From this
an open glass door let me into the greenhouse, and into the
presence of the beauties I had so often looked up to from the
street. I lost myself then. Geraniums breathed over me; roses
smiled at me; a daphne at one end of the room filled the whole
place with its fragrance. Amaryllis bulbs were magnificent;
fuchsias dropped with elegance; jonquils were shy and dainty;
violets were good; hyacinths were delicious; tulips were
splendid. Over and behind all these and others, were wonderful
ferns, and heaths most delicate in their simplicity, and
myrtles most beautiful with their shining dark foliage and
starry white blossoms. I lost myself at first, and wandered
past all these new and old friends in a dream; then I waked up
to an intense feeling of homesickness. I had not been in such
a greenhouse in a long time; the geraniums and roses and
myrtles summoned me back to the years when I was a little
happy thing at Melbourne House or summoned the images of
that time back to me. Father and mother and home the
delights and the freedoms of those days the carelessness,
and the care the blessed joys of that time before I knew
Miss Pinshon, or school, and before I was perplexed with the
sorrows and the wants of the world, and before I was alone
above all, when papa and mamma and I were _at home_. The
geraniums and the roses set me back there so sharply that I
felt it all. I had lost myself at first going into the
greenhouse; and now I had quite lost sight of everything else,
and stood gazing at the faces of the flowers with some tears
on my own, and, I suppose, a good deal of revelation of my
feeling; for I was unutterably startled by the touch of two
hands upon my shoulders and a soft whisper in my ear. "What is
it, my bairn?"
It was Miss Cardigan's soft Scotch accent, and it was,
besides, a question of the tenderest sympathy. I looked at
her, saw the kind and strong grey eyes which were fixed on me
wistfully; and hiding my face in her bosom I sobbed aloud.
I don't know how I came to be there, in her arms, nor how I
did anything so unlike my habit; but there I was, and it was
done, and Miss Cardigan and I were in each other's confidence.
It was only for one moment that my tears came; then I
recovered myself.
"What sort of discourse did the flowers hold to you, little
one?" said Miss Cardigan's kind voice; while her stout person
hid all view of me that could have been had through the glass
door.
"Papa is away," I said, forcing myself to speak, "and mamma;
and we used to have these flowers "
"Yes, yes; I know. I know very well," said my friend. "The
flowers didn't know but you were there yet. They hadn't
discretion. Mrs. Sandford wants to go, clear. Will you come
again and see them? They will say something else next time."
"Oh, may I?" I said.
"Just whenever you like, and as often as you like. So I'll
expect you."
I went home, very glad at having escaped notice from my
schoolmates, and firmly bent on accepting Miss Cardigan's
invitation at the first chance I had. I asked about her of
Mrs. Sandford in the first place; and learned that she was "a
very good sort of person; a little queer, but very kind; a
person that did a great deal of good and had plenty of money.
Not in society, of course," Mrs. Sandford added; "but I dare
say she don't miss that; and she is just as useful as if she
were."
"Not in society." That meant, I supposed, that Miss Cardigan
would not be asked to companies where Mrs. Randolph would be
found, or Mrs. Sandford; that such people would not "know"
her, in fact. That would certainly be a loss to Miss Cardigan;
but I wondered how much? "The world knoweth us not," the lot
of all Christ's people, could it involve anything in itself
very bad? My old Juanita, for example, who held herself the
heir to a princely inheritance, was it any harm to her that
earthly palaces knew her only as a servant? But then, what did
not matter to Juanita or Miss Cardigan, might matter to
somebody who had been used to different things. I knew how it
had been with myself for a time past. I was puzzled. I
determined to wait and see, if I could, how much it mattered
to Miss Cardigan.