FRENCH DRESSES.
My new friend had given me free permission to come and see her
whenever I found myself able. Saturday afternoon we always had
to ourselves in the school; and the next Saturday found me at
Miss Cardigan's door again as soon as my friends and room-
mates were well out of my way. Miss Cardigan was not at home,
the servant said, but she would be in presently. I was just as
well pleased. I took off my cap, and carrying it in my hand I
went back through the rooms to the greenhouse. All still and
fresh and sweet, it seemed more delightful than ever, because
I knew there was nobody near. Some new flowers were out. An
azalea was in splendid beauty, and a white French rose, very
large and fair, was just blossoming, and with the red roses
and the hyacinths and the violets and the daphne and the
geraniums, made a wonderful sweet place of the little
greenhouse. I lost myself in delight again; but this time the
delight did not issue in homesickness. The flowers had another
message for me to-day. I did not heed it at first, busy with
examining and drinking in the fragrance and the loveliness
about me; but even as I looked and drank, the flowers began to
whisper to me. With their wealth of perfume, with all their
various, glorious beauty, one and another leaned towards me or
bent over me with the question "Daisy are you afraid?
Daisy, are you afraid? The good God who has made us so rich,
do you think He will leave you poor? He loves you, Daisy. You
needn't be a bit afraid but that HE is enough, even if the
world does not know you. He is rich enough for you as well as
for us."
I heard no voice, but surely I heard that whisper, plain
enough. The roses seemed to kiss me with it. The sweet azalea
repeated it. The hyacinths stood witnesses of it. The gay
tulips and amaryllis held up a banner before me on which it
was blazoned.
I was so ashamed, and sorry, and glad, all at once, that I
fell down on my knees there, on the stone matted floor, and
gave up the world from my heart and for ever, and stretched
out my hands for the wealth that does not perish and the
blessing that has no sorrow with it.
I was afraid to stay long on my knees; but I could hardly get
my eyes dry again, I was so glad and so sorry. I remember I
was wiping a tear or two away when Miss Cardigan came in. She
greeted me kindly.
"There's a new rose out, did ye see it?" she said; "and this
blue hyacinth has opened its flowers. Isn't that bonny?"
"What is _bonny_, ma'am?" I asked.
Miss Cardigan laughed, the heartiest, sonsiest low laugh.
"There's a many things the Lord has made bonny," she said; "I
thank Him for it. Look at these violets they're bonny; and
this sweet red rose." She broke it off the tree and gave it to
me. "It's bad that it shames your cheeks so. What's the matter
wi' em, my bairn?"
Miss Cardigan's soft finger touched my cheek as she spoke; and
the voice and tone of the question were so gently, tenderly
kind that it was pleasant to answer. I said I had not been
very strong.
"Nor just well in your mind. No, no. Well, what did the
flowers say to you to-day, my dear? Eh? They told you
something?"
"Oh, yes!" I said.
"Did they tell you that 'the Lord is good; a stronghold in the
day of trouble; and He knoweth them that trust in Him'?"
"Oh, yes," I said, looking up at her in surprise. "How did you
know?"
For all answer, Miss Cardigan folded her two arms tight about
me and kissed me with earnest good will.
"But they told me something else," I said, struggling to
command myself; "they told me that I had _not_ 'trusted in
Him.' "
"Ah, my bairn!" she said. "But the Lord is good."
There was so much both of understanding and sympathy in her
tones, that I had a great deal of trouble to control myself. I
felt unspeakably happy too, that I had found a friend that
could understand. I was silent, and Miss Cardigan looked at
me.
"Is it all right, noo?" she asked.
"Except _me_, " I said, with my eyes swimming.
"Ah, well!" she said. "You've seen the sky all black and
covered with the thick clouds that's like our sins; but, 'I
have blotted out as a thick cloud thy transgressions, and as a
cloud thy sins.' You know how it is when the wind comes and
clears the clouds off, and you can look up through the blue,
till it seems as if your eye would win into heaven itself.
Keep the sky clear, my darling, so that you can always see up
straight to God, with never the fleck of a cloud between. But
do you ken what will clear the clouds away?"
And I looked up now with a smile and answered, " 'The precious
blood of Christ' " for the two texts had been close together
in one of the pages of my little book not long before.
Miss Cardigan clapped her hands together softly and laughed.
"Ye've got it!" she said. "Ye have gotten the pearl of great
price. And where did ye find it, my dear?"
"I had a friend, that taught me in a Sunday school, four years
ago, " I said.
"Ah, there weren't so many Sunday schools in my day," said
Miss Cardigan. "And ye have found, maybe, that this other sort
of a school, that ye have gotten to now, isn't helpful
altogether? Is it a rough road, my bairn?"
"It is my own fault," I said, looking at her gratefully. The
tender voice went right into my heart.
"Well, noo, ye'll just stop and have tea with me here; and
whenever the way is rough, ye'll come over to my flowers and
rest yourself. And rest me too; it does me a world o' good to
see a young face. So take off your coat, my dear, and let us
sit down and be comfortable."
I was afraid at first that I could not; I had no liberty to be
absent at tea-time. But Miss Cardigan assured me I should be
home in good season; the school tea was at seven, and her own
was always served at six. So very gladly, with an
inexpressible sense of freedom and peace, I took off my coat,
and gloves, and followed my kind friend back to the parlour
where her fire was burning. For although it was late in April,
the day was cool and raw; and the fire one saw nowhere else
was delightful in Miss Cardigan's parlour.
Every minute of that afternoon was as bright as the fire glow.
I sat in the midst of that, on an ottoman, and Miss Cardigan,
busy between her two tables, made me very much interested in
her story of some distressed families for whom she was
working. She asked me very little about my own affairs;
nothing that the most delicate good breeding did not warrant;
but she found out that my father and mother were at a great
distance from me and I almost alone, and she gave me the
freedom of her house. I was to come there whenever I could and
liked; whenever I wanted to "rest my feet", as she said;
especially I might spend as much of every Sunday with her as I
could get leave for. And she made this first afternoon so
pleasant to me with her gentle beguiling talk, that the
permission to come often was like the entrance into a whole
world of comfort. She had plenty to talk about; plenty to
tell, of the poor people to whom she and others were
ministering; of plans and methods to do them good; all which
somehow she made exceedingly interesting. There was just a
little accent to her words, which made them, in their
peculiarity, all the more sweet to me; but she spoke good
English; the "noo" which slipped out now and then, with one or
two other like words, came only, I found, at times when the
fountain of feeling was more full than ordinary, and so flowed
over into the disused old channel. And her face was so fresh,
rosy, round and sweet, withal strong and sound, that it was a
perpetual pleasure to me.
As she told her stories of New York needy and suffering, I
mentally added my poor people at Magnolia, and began to wonder
with myself, was all the world so? Were these two spots but
samples of the whole? I got into a brown study, and was waked
out of it by Miss Cardigan's "What is it, my dear?"
"Ma'am?" I said.
"Ye are studying some deep question," she said, smiling.
"Maybe it's too big for you."
"So it is," said I, sighing. "Is it so everywhere, Miss
Cardigan?"
"So how, my bairn?"
"Is there so much trouble everywhere in the world?"
Her face clouded over.
"Jesus said, 'The poor ye have always with you, and whensoever
ye will ye may do them good.' "
"But that is what I don't understand about," I said. "_How much_
ought one to do, Miss Cardigan?"
There came a ray of infinite brightness over her features; I
can hardly describe it; it was warm with love, and bright with
pleasure, and I thought sparkled with a little amusement.
"Have you thought upon that?" she said.
"Yes," I said, "very much."
"It is a great question!" she said, her face becoming grave
again.
"I know," I said, "of course one ought to do all one can. But
what I want to know is, how much one _can_. How much ought one
to spend for such things?"
"It's a great question," Miss Cardigan repeated, more gravely
than before. "For when the King comes, to take account of His
servants, He will want to know what we have done with every
penny. Be sure, He will."
"Then how can one tell?" said I, hoping earnestly that now I
was going to get some help in my troubles. "How can one know?
It is very difficult."
"I'll no say it's not difficult," said Miss Cardigan, whose
thoughts seemed to have gone into the recesses of her own
mind. "Dear, it's nigh our tea-time. Let us go in."
I followed her, much disappointed, and feeling that if she
passed the subject by so, I could not bring it up again. We
went through to the inner room; the same from which the glass
door opened to the flowers. Here a small table was now spread.
This room was cosy. I had hardly seen it before. Low bookcases
lined it on every side; and above the bookcases hung maps;
maps of the city and of various parts of the world where
missionary stations were established. Along with the maps, a
few engravings and fine photographs. I remember one of the
Colosseum, which I used to study; and a very beautiful
engraving of Jerusalem. But the one that fixed my eyes this
first evening, perhaps because Miss Cardigan placed me in
front of it, was a picture of another sort. It was a good
photograph, and had beauty enough besides to hold my eyes. It
showed a group of three or four. A boy and girl in front,
handsome, careless, and well-to-do, passing along, with
wandering eyes. Behind them and disconnected from them by her
dress and expression, a tall woman in black robes with a baby
on her breast. The hand of the woman was stretched out with a
coin which she was about dropping into an iron-bound coffer
which stood at the side of the picture. It was "the widow's
mite;" and her face, wan, sad, sweet, yet loving and longing,
told the story. The two coin were going into the box with all
her heart.
"You know what it is?" said my hostess.
"I see, ma'am," I replied; "it is written under."
"That box is the Lord's treasury."
"Yes, ma'am," I said, "I know."
"Do you remember how much that woman gave?"
"Two mites," I said.
"It was something more than that," said my hostess. "It was
more than anybody else gave that day. Don't you recollect? It
was _all her living_."
I looked at Miss Cardigan, and she looked at me. Then my eyes
went back to the picture, and to the sad yet sweet and most
loving face of the poor woman there.
"Ma'am," said I, "do you think people that are _rich_ ought to
give all they have?"
"I only know, my Lord was pleased with her," said Miss
Cardigan softly; "and I always think I should like to have Him
pleased with me too."
I was silent, looking at the picture and thinking.
"You know what made that poor widow give her two mites?" Miss
Cardigan asked presently.
"I suppose she wanted to give them," I said.
"Ay," said my hostess, turning away, "she loved the Lord's
glory beyond her own comfort. Come, my love, and let us have
some tea. She gave all she had, Miss Daisy, and the Lord liked
it; do ye think you and me can do less?"
"But that is what I do not understand," I said, following Miss
Cardigan to the little tea-table, and watching with great
comfort the bright unruffled face which promised to be such a
help to me.
"Now you'll sit down there," said my hostess, "where you can
see my flowers while I can see you. It's poor work eating, if
we cannot look at something or hear something at the same
time; and maybe we'll do the two things. And ye'll have a bit
of honey here it is. And Lotty will bring us up a bit of hot
toast or is the bread better, my dear? Now ye're at home;
and maybe you'll come over and drink tea with me whenever you
can run away from over there. I'll have Lotty set a place for
you. And then, when ye think of the empty place, you will know
you had better come over and fill it. See you could bring
your study book and study here in this quiet little corner by
the flowers."
I gave my very glad thanks. I knew I could often do this.
"And now for the 'not understanding,' " said Miss Cardigan,
when tea was half over. "How was it, my dear?"
"I have been puzzled," I said, "about giving how much one
ought to give, and how much one ought to spend I mean, for
oneself."
"Well," said Miss Cardigan brightly, "we have fixed that. The
poor woman gave _all her living_."
"But one must spend some money for oneself," I said. "One must
have bonnets and cloaks and dresses."
"And houses, and books, and pictures," said Miss Cardigan,
looking around her. "My lamb, let us go to the Bible again.
That says, 'whether ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do
all to the glory of God.' So I suppose we must buy cloaks and
bonnets on the same principle."
I turned this over in mind. Had I done this, when I was
choosing my chinchilla cap and grey cloak? A little ray of
infinite brightness began to steal in upon their quiet colours
and despised forms.
"If the rich are to give their all, as well as the poor, it
doesn't say mind you that they are to give it all to the
hungry, or all to the destitute; but only, they are to give it
all _to Christ_. Then, he will tell them what to do with it; do
ye understand, my dear?"
Miss Cardigan's eye was watching me, not more kindly than
keen. A wise and clear grey eye it was.
"But isn't it difficult to know sometimes what to do?" I said.
"I have been so puzzled to know about dresses. Mamma is away,
and I had to decide."
"It's no very difficult," said Miss Cardigan, "if once ye
set your face in the right _airth_ as we speak. My dear,
there's a great many sorts of dresses and bonnets and things;
and I'd always buy just that bonnet and that gown, in which I
thought I could do most work for my Master; and that wouldn't
be the same sort of bonnet for you and for me," she said with
a merry smile. "Now ye'll have another cup of tea, and ye'll
tell me if my tea's good."
It was wonderfully good to me. I felt like a plant dried up
for want of water, suddenly set in a spring shower.
Refreshment was all around me, without and within. The faces
of the flowers looked at me through the glass, and the sweet
breath of them came from the open door. The room where I was
sitting pleased me mightily, in its comfortable and pretty
simplicity; and I had found a friend, even better than my old
Maria and Darry at Magnolia. It was not very long before I
told all about these to my new counsellor.
For the friendship between us ripened and grew. I often found
a chance to fill my place at the dear little tea-table.
Sundays I could always be there; and I went there straight
from afternoon church, and rested among Miss Cardigan's books
and in her sweet society and in the happy freedom and rest of
her house, with an intensity of enjoyment which words can but
feebly tell. So in time I came to tell her all my troubles and
the perplexities which had filled me; I was willing to talk to
Miss Cardigan about things that I would have breathed to no
other ear upon earth. She was so removed from all the sphere
of my past or present life, so utterly disconnected from all
the persons and things with which I had had to do, it was like
telling about them to a being of another planet. Yet she was
not so removed but that her sympathies and her judgment could
be living and full grown for my help; all ready to take hold
of the facts and to enter into the circumstances, and to give
me precious comfort and counsel. Miss Cardigan and I came to
be very dear to each other.
All this took time. Nobody noticed at first, or seemed to
notice, my visits to the "house with the flowers," as the
girls called it. I believe, in my plain dress, I was not
thought of importance enough to be watched. I went and came
very comfortably; and the weeks that remained before the
summer vacation slipped away ill quiet order.
Just before the vacation, my aunt came home from Europe. With
her came the end of my obscurity. She brought me, from my
mother, a great supply of all sorts of pretty French dresses,
hats, gloves, and varieties. Chosen by my mother; as
pretty and elegant, and simple too, as they could be; but once
putting them on, I could never be unnoticed by my schoolmates
any more. I knew it, with a certain feeling that was not
displeasure. Was it pride? Was it anything more than my
pleasure in all pretty things? I thought it was something
more. And I determined that I would not put on any of them
till school was broken up. If it _was_ pride, I was ashamed of
it. But besides French dresses, my aunt brought me a better
thing; a promise from my father.
"He said I was to tell you, Daisy my dear, and I hope you
will be a good child and take it as you ought, but dear me!
how she is growing," said Mrs. Gary, turning to Mme. Ricard;
"I cannot talk about Daisy as a 'child' much longer. She's
tall."
"Not too tall," said Madame.
"No, but she is going to be tall. She has a right; her mother
is tall, and her father. Daisy, my dear, I do believe you are
going to look like your mother. You'll be very handsome if you
do. And yet, you look different "
"Miss Randolph will not shame anybody belonging to her," said
Mme. Ricard, graciously.
"Well, I suppose not," said my aunt. "I was going to tell you
what your father said, Daisy. He said you know it takes a
long while to get to China and back, and if it does him good
he will stay a little while there; and then there's the return
voyage, and there may be delays; so altogether it was
impossible to say exactly how long he and your mother will be
gone. I mean, it was impossible to know certainly that they
would be able to come home by next summer; indeed I doubt if
your father ever does come home."
I waited, in silence.
"So altogether," my aunt went on, turning for a moment to Mme.
Ricard, "there was a doubt about it; and your father said, he
charged me to tell Daisy, that if she will make herself
contented that is, supposing they cannot come home next
year, you know, if she will make herself happy and be
patient and bear one or two years more, and stay at school and
do the best she can, then, the year after next or the next
year, he will send for you, your father says, unless they come
home themselves, they will send, for you; and then, your
father says, he will give you any request you like to make of
him. Ask anything you can think of, that you would like best,
and he will do it or get it, whatever it is. He didn't say
like king Herod, 'to the half of his kingdom,' but I suppose
he meant that. And meanwhile, you know you have a guardian
now, Daisy, and there is no use for me in your affairs; and
having conveyed to you your mother's gifts and your father's
promises, I suppose there is nothing further for me to do."
I was silent yet, thinking. Two years more would be a dear
purchase of any pleasure that might come after. Two years! And
four were gone already. It seemed impossible to wait or to
bear it. I heard no more of what my aunt was saying, till she
turned to me again and asked,
"Where are you going to pass the vacation?"
I did not know, for Mrs. Sandford was obliged to be with her
sister still, so that I could not go to Melbourne.
"Well, if your new guardian thinks well of it you can
consult him if it is necessary and if he does not object,
you can be with me if you like. Preston has leave of absence
this summer, I believe; and he will be with us."
It was in effect arranged so. My aunt took me about the
country from one watering place to another; from Saratoga to
the White Mountains; and Preston's being with us made it a gay
time. Preston had been for two years at West Point; he was
grown and improved everybody said; but to me he was just the
same. If anything, _not_ improved; the old grace and
graciousness of his manner was edged with an occasional
hardness or abruptness which did not use to belong to him; and
which I did not understand. There seemed to be a latent cause
of irritation somewhere.
However, my summer went off smoothly enough. September brought
me back to Mme. Ricard's, and in view of Miss Cardigan's late
roses and budding chrysanthemums. I was not sorry. I had set
my heart on doing as much as could be done in these next two
years, if two they must be.
I was the first in my room; but before the end of the day they
all came pouring in; the two older and the two younger girls.
"Here's somebody already," exclaimed Miss Macy as she saw me.
"Why, Daisy Randolph! is it possible that's you? Is it Daisy
Randolph? what have you done to yourself? How you _have_
improved!"
"She is very much improved," said Miss Bentley more soberly.
"She has been learning the fashions," said Miss Lansing, her
bright eyes dancing as good-humouredly as ever. "Daisy, now
when your hair gets long you'll look quite nice. That frock is
made very well."
"She is changed " said Miss St. Clair, with a look I could
not quite make out.
"No," I said, "I hope I am not changed."
"Your dress is," said St. Clair.
I thought of Dr. Sandford's "_L'habit c'est l'homme_." "My
mother had this dress made," I said; "and I ordered the other
one; that is all the difference."
"You're on the right side of the difference, then," said Miss
St. Clair.
"Has your mother come back, Daisy?" Miss Lansing asked.
"Not yet. She sent me this from Paris."
"It's very pretty!" she said; with, I saw, an increase of
admiration; but St. Clair gave me another strange look. "How
much prettier Paris things are than American!" Lansing went
on. "I wish I could have all my dresses from Paris. Why,
Daisy, you've grown handsome."
"Nonsense!" said Miss Macy; "she always was, only you didn't
see it."
"Style is more than a face," remarked Miss St. Clair
cavalierly. Somehow I felt that this little lady was not in a
good mood towards me. I boded mischief; for being nearly of an
age, we were together in most of our classes, studied the same
things and recited at the same times. There was an opportunity
for clashing.
They soon ran off, all four, to see their friends and
acquaintances and learn the news of the school. I was left
alone, making my arrangement of clothes and things in my
drawer and my corner of the closet; and I found that some
disturbance, in those few moments, had quite disarranged the
thoughts in my heart. They were peaceful enough before. There
was some confusion now. I could not at first tell what was
uppermost; only that St. Clair's words were those that most
returned to me. "She has changed. "_Had_ I changed? or was I
going to change? was I going to enter the lists of fashion
with my young companions, and try who would win the race? No
doubt my mother could dress me better than almost any of their
mothers could dress them; what then? would this be a triumph?
or was this the sort of name and notoriety that became and
befitted a servant of Jesus? I could not help my dresses being
pretty; no, but I could help making much display of them. I
could wear my own school plaid when the weather grew cooler;
and one or two others of my wardrobe were all I need show.
"Style is more than a face." No doubt. What _then?_ Did I want
style and a face too? Was I wishing to confound St. Clair? Was
I escaping already from that bond and mark of a Christian,
"The world knoweth us not"? I was startled and afraid. I fell
down on my knees by the side of my bed, and tried to look at
the matter as God looked at it. And the Daisy I thought He
would be pleased with, was one who ran no race for worldly
supremacy. I resolved she should not. The praise of God, I
thought, was far better than the praise of men.
My mind was quite made up when I rose from my knees; but I
looked forward to a less quiet school term than the last had
been. Something told me that the rest of the girls would take
me up now, for good and for evil. My Paris dress set me in a
new position, no longer beneath their notice. I was an object
of attention. Even that first evening I felt the difference.
"Daisy, when is your mother coming home?" "Oh, she is gone
to China; Daisy's mother is gone to China!" "She'll bring
you lots of queer things, won't she?" "What a sweet dress!"
"_That_ didn't come from China?" "Daisy, who's head in
mathematics, you or St. Clair? I hope you will get before
her!"
"Why?" I ventured to ask.
"Oh, you're the best of the two; everybody knows that. But St.
Clair is smart, isn't she?"
"She thinks she is," answered another speaker; "she believes
she's at the tip top of creation; but she never had such a
pretty dress on as that in her days; and she knows it and she
don't like it. It's real fun to see St. Clair beat! she thinks
she is so much better than other girls, and she has such a way
of twisting that upper lip of hers. Do you know how St. Clair
twists her upper lip? Look! she's doing it now."
"She's handsome though, aint she?" said Miss Macy. "She'll be
beautiful."
"No," said Mlle. Genevieve; "not that. Never that. She will be
handsome; but beauty is a thing of the soul. She will not be
beautiful. Daisy, are you going to work hard this year?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"I believe you," she said, taking my face between her two
hands and kissing it.
"Who ever saw Mlle. Genevieve do that before!" said Miss Macy,
as the other left us. "She is not apt to like the scholars."
I knew she had always liked me. But everybody had always liked
me, I reflected; this time at school was the first of my
knowing anything different. And in this there now came a
change. Since my wearing and using the Paris things sent me by
my mother, which I dared not fail to use and wear, I noticed
that my company was more sought in the school. Also my words
were deferred to, in a way they had not been before. I found,
and it was lot an unpleasant thing, that I had grown to be a
person of consequence. Even with the French and English
teachers; I observed that they treated me with more
consideration. And so, I reflected within myself again over
Dr. Sandford's observation, "_L'habit, c'est l'homme_." Of
course, it was a consideration given to my clothes, a
consideration also to be given up if I did not wear such
clothes. I saw all that. The world _knew me_, just for the
moment.
Well, the smooth way was very pleasant. I had it with
everybody for a time.
My little room-mate and classmate St. Clair was perhaps the
only exception to the general rule. I never felt that she
liked me much. She let me alone, however; until one unlucky
day I do not mean to call it unlucky, either when we had,
as usual, compositions to write, and the theme given out was
"Ruins." It was a delightful theme to me. I did not always
enjoy writing compositions; this one gave me permission to
roam in thoughts and imaginations that I liked. I went back to
my old Egyptian studies at Magnolia, and wrote my composition
about "Karnak." The subject was full in my memory; I had gone
over and over and all through it; I had measured the enormous
pillars and great gateways, and studied the sculptures on the
walls, and paced up and down the great avenue of sphinxes.
Sethos, and Amunoph and Rameses, the second and third, were
all known and familiar to me; and I knew just where Shishak
had recorded his triumphs over the land of Judea. I wrote my
composition with the greatest delight. The only danger was
that I might make it too long.
One evening I was using the last of the light, writing in the
window recess of the school parlour, when I felt a hand laid
on my shoulders.
"You are so hard at work!" said the voice of Mlle. Genevieve.
"Yes, mademoiselle, I like it."
"Have you got all the books and all that you want?"
"Books, mademoiselle?" I said, wondering.
"Yes; have you got all you want?"
"I have not got any books," I said; "there are none that I
want in the school library."
"Have you never been in Madame's library?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"Come!"
I jumped up and followed her, up and down stairs and through
halls and turnings, till she brought me into a pretty room
lined with books from floor to ceiling. Nobody was there.
Mademoiselle lit the gas with great energy, and then turned to
me, her great black eyes shining.
"Now what do you want, _mon enfant?_ here is everything."
"Is there anything about Egypt?"
"Egypt! Are you in Egypt? See here look, here is Denon
here is Laborde; here is two or three more. Do you like that?
Ah! I see by the way your grey eyes grow big. Now sit down,
and do what you like. Nobody will disturb you. You can come
here every evening for the hour before tea."
Mademoiselle scarce staid for my thanks, and left me alone. I
had not seen either Laborde or Denon in my grandfather's
library at Magnolia; they were after his time. The engravings
and illustrations also had not been very many or very fine in
his collection of travellers' books. It was the greatest joy
to me to see some of those things in Mme. Ricard's library,
that I had read and dreamed about so long in my head. It was
adding eyesight to hearsay. I found a good deal too that I
wanted to read, in these later authorities. Evening after
evening I was in Madame's library, lost among the halls of the
old Egyptian conquerors.
The interest and delight of my work quite filled me, so that
the fate of my composition hardly came into my thoughts, or
the fact that other people were writing compositions too. And
when it was done, I was simply very sorry that it was done. I
had not written it for honour or for duty, but for love. I
suppose that was the reason why it succeeded. I remember I was
anything but satisfied with it myself, as I was reading it
aloud for the benefit of my judges. For it was a day of prize
compositions; and before the whole school and even some
visitors, the writings of the girls were given aloud, each by
its author. I thought, as I read mine, how poor it was, and
how magnificent my subject demanded that it should be. Under
the shade of the great columns, before those fine old
sphinxes, my words and myself seemed very small. I sat down in
my place again, glad that the reading was over.
But there was a little buzz; then a dead expectant silence;
then Mme. Ricard arose. My composition had been the last one.
I looked up, with the rest, to hear the award that she would
speak; and was at first very much confounded to hear my own
name called. "Miss Randolph " It did not occur to me what it
was spoken for; I sat still a moment in a maze. Mme. Ricard
stood waiting; all the room was in a hush.
"Don't you hear yourself called?" said a voice behind me. "Why
don't you go?"
I looked round at Miss Macy, who was my adviser, then
doubtfully I looked away from her and caught the eyes of Mlle.
Genevieve. She nodded and beckoned me to come forward. I did
it hastily then, and found myself curtseying in front of the
platform where stood Madame.
"The prize is yours, Miss Randolph," she said graciously.
"Your paper is approved by all the judges."
"Quite artistic," I heard a gentleman say at her elbow. "And
it shows an amount of thorough study and perfect preparation,
which I can but hold up as a model to all my young ladies. You
deserve this, my dear."
I was confounded; and a low curtsey was only a natural relief
to my feelings. But Madame unhappily took it otherwise.
"This is yours," she said, putting into my hands an elegant
little bronze standish; "and if I had another prize to
bestow for grace of good manners, I am sure I would have the
pleasure of giving you that too."
I bent again before Madame, and got back to my seat as I
could. The great business of the day was over, and we soon
scattered to our rooms. And I had not been in mine five
minutes before the penalties of being distinguished began to
come upon me.
"Well, Daisy! " said Miss Lansing "you've got it. How
pretty! Isn't it, Macy?"
"It isn't a bit prettier than it ought to be, for a prize in
such a school," said Miss Macy. "It will do."
"I've seen handsomer prizes," said Miss Bentley.
"But you've got it, more ways than one, Daisy," Miss Lansing
went on. "I declare! Aren't you a distinguished young lady!
Madame, too! Why, we all used to think we behaved pretty well
_before company_, didn't we, St. Clair?"
"I hate favour and favouritism!" said that young lady, her
upper lip taking the peculiar turn to which my attention had
once been called. "Madame likes whatever is French."
"But Randolph is not French, are you, Randolph ?" said Black-
eyes, who was good-natured through everything.
"Madame is not French herself," said Miss Bentley.
"I hate everything at school!" St. Clair went on.
"It is too bad," said her friend. "Do you know, Daisy, St.
Clair always has the prize for compositions. What made you go
and write that long stuff about Rameses? the people didn't
understand it, and so they thought it was fine."
"I am sure there was a great deal finer writing in Faustina's
composition," said Miss Bentley.
I knew very well that Miss St. Clair had been accustomed to
win this half yearly prize for good writing. I had expected
nothing but that she would win it this time. I had counted
neither o n my own success nor on the displeasure it would
raise. I took my hat and went over to my dear Miss Cardigan;
hoping that ill-humour would have worked itself out by
bedtime. But I was mistaken.
St. Clair and I had been pretty near each other in our
classes, though once or twice lately I had got an advantage
over her; but we had kept on terms of cool social distance
until now. Now the spirit of rivalry was awake. I think it
began to stir at my Paris dresses and things; Karnak and Mme.
Ricard finished the mischief.
On my first coming to school I had been tempted, in my horror
at the utter want of privacy, to go to bed without prayer;
waiting till the rest were all laid down and asleep and the
lights out, and then slipping out of bed with great care not
to make a noise, and watching that no whisper of my lips
should be loud enough to disturb anybody's slumbers. But I was
sure, after a while, that this was a cowardly way of doing;
and I could not bear the words, "Whosoever shall be ashamed of
Me, and of My words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed,
when He cometh in the glory of His Father." I determined in
the vacation that I would do so no more, cost what it might
the contrary. It cost a tremendous struggle. I think, in all
my life I have done few harder things, than it was to me then
to kneel down by the side of my bed in full blaze of the
gaslights and with four curious pairs of eyes around to look
on; to say nothing of the four busy tongues wagging about
nothing all the time. I remember what a hush fell upon them
the first night; while beyond the posture of prayer I could do
little. Only unformed or half formed thoughts and petitions
struggled in my mind, through a crowd of jostling regrets and
wishes and confusions, in which I could hardly distinguish
anything. But no explosion followed, of either ridicule or
amusement, and I had been suffered from that night to do as I
would, not certainly always in silence, but quite unmolested.
I had carried over my standish to Miss Cardigan to ask her to
take care of it for me; I had no place to keep it. But Miss
Cardigan was not satisfied to see the prize; she wanted to
hear the essay read; and was altogether so elated that a
little undue elation perhaps crept into my own heart. It was
not a good preparation for what was coming.
I went home in good time. In the hall, however, Mlle.
Genevieve seized upon me; she had several things to say, and
before I got up stairs to my room all the rest of its inmates
were in bed. I hoped they were asleep. I heard no sound while
I was undressing, nor while I knelt, as usual now, by my
bedside. But as I rose from my knees I was startled by a sort
of grunt that came from St. Clair's corner.
"Humph! Dear me! We're so good, Grace and Devotion,
Christian grace, too!"
"Hold your tongue, St. Clair," said Miss Macy, but not in a
way, I thought, to check her; if she could have been checked.
"But it's too bad, Macy," said the girl. "We're all so rough,
you know. We don't know how to behave ourselves; we can't make
curtsies; our mothers never taught us anything, and dancing
masters are no good. We ought to go to Egypt. There isn't
anything so truly dignified as a pyramid. There is a great
deal of _à plomb_ there!"
"Who talked about _à plomb_?" said Miss Bentley.
"You have enough of that, at any rate, Faustina," said
Lansing.
"Mrs. St. Clair's child ought to have that," said Miss Macy.
"Ah, but it isn't Christian grace, after all," persisted
Faustina. "You want a cross at the top of a pyramid to make it
perfect."
"Hush, Faustina!" said Miss Macy.
"It's fair," said Miss Bentley.
"You had better not talk about Christian grace, girls. That
isn't a matter of opinion."
"Oh, isn't it!" cried St. Clair, half rising up in her bed.
"What is it, then?"
Nobody answered.
"I say! Macy, what _is_ Christian grace if you know? If you
_don't_ know, I'll put you in the way to find out."
"How shall I find out?"
"Will you do it, if I show it to you?"
"Yes."
"Ask Randolph. That's the first step. Ask her, yes! just ask
her, if you want to know. I wish Mme. Ricard was here to hear
the answer."
"Nonsense!" said Macy.
"Ask her! You said you would. Now ask her."
"What _is_ Christian grace, Daisy?" said Miss Bentley.
I heard, but I would not answer. I hoped the storm would blow
over, after a puff or two. But Black-eyes, without any ill-
nature, I think, which was not in her, had got into the gale.
She slipped out of bed and came to my side, putting her hand
on my shoulder and bringing her laughing mouth down near my
ear. A very angry impulse moved me before she spoke.
"Daisy!" she said, laughing, in a loud whisper, "come,
wake up! You're not asleep, you know. Wake up and tell us;
everybody knows _you_ know; what _is_ Christian grace? Daisy! "
She shook me a little.
"If you knew, you would not ask me," I said in great
displeasure. But a delighted shout from all my room-mates
answered this unlucky speech, which I had been too excited to
make logical.
"Capital!" cried St. Clair. "That's just it we _don't_ know;
and we only want to find out whether she a does. Make her
tell, Lansing prick a little pin into her that will bring
it out."
I was struggling between anger and sorrow, feeling very hurt,
and at the same time determined not to cry. I kept absolutely
still, fighting the fight of silence with myself. Then
Lansing, in a fit of thoughtless mischief, finding her shakes
and questions vain, actually put in practice St. Clair's
suggestion and attacked me with a pin from the dressing table.
The first prick of it overthrew the last remnant of my
patience.
"Miss Lansing!" I exclaimed, rousing up in bed and
confronting her. They all shouted again.
"Now we'll have it!" cried St. Clair. "Keep cool, Black-eyes;
let's hear we'll have an exposition now. Theme, Christian
grace."
Ah, there rushed through my heart with her words a remembrance
of other words a fluttering vision of something "gentle and
easy to be entreated" "first pure, then peaceable"
"gentleness, goodness, meekness." But the grip of passion
held them all down or kept them all back. After St. Clair's
first burst, the girls were still and waited for what I would
say. I was facing Miss Lansing, who had taken her hand from my
shoulder.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" I said; and I remember I
thought how my mother would have spoken to them. "Miss
Lansing's good nature" I went on slowly, "Miss Macy's
kindness Miss Bentley's independence and Miss St. Clair's
good breeding!"
"_And_ Miss Randolph's religion!" echoed the last-named, with a
quiet distinctness which went into my heart.
"What about my independence?" said Miss Bentley.
"Now we've got enough, girls, lie down and go to sleep,"
said Miss Macy. "There's quite enough of this. There was too
much before we began. Stop where you are."
They did not stop, however, without a good deal of noisy
chaffing and arguing, none of which I heard. Only the words,
"Miss Randolph's religion," rung in my ears. I lay down with
them lying like lead on my heart. I went to sleep under them.
I woke up early, while all the rest were asleep, and began to
study them.
"Miss Randolph's religion!" If it had been only that, only
mine. But the religion I professed was the religion of Christ;
the name I was called by was His name; the thing I had brought
into discredit was His truth. I hope in all my life I may
never know again the heart-pangs that this thought cost me. I
studied how to undo the mischief I had done. I could find no
way. I had seemed to prove my religion an unsteady,
superficial thing; the evidence I had given I could not
withdraw; it must stand. I lay thinking, with the heartache,
until the rousing bell rang, and the sleepers began to stir
from their slumbers. I got up and began, to dress with the
rest.
"What was it all that happened last night?" said Miss Lansing.
"Advancement in knowledge," said. Miss St. Clair.
"Now, girls don't begin again," said Miss Macy.
"Knowledge is a good thing," said the other, with pins in her
mouth. "I intend to take every opportunity that offers of
increasing mine; especially I mean to study Egyptians and
Christians. I haven't any Christians among my own family or
acquaintance so you see, naturally, Macy, I am curious; and
when a good specimen offers "
"I am not a good specimen," I said.
"People are not good judges of themselves, it is said," the
girl went on. "Everybody considers Miss Randolph a sample of
what that article ought to be."
"You don't use the word right," remarked Miss Macy. "A _sample_
is taken from what is, not from what ought to be."
"I don't care," was St. Clair's reply.
"I did not behave like a Christian last night," I forced
myself to say. "I was impatient."
"Like an impatient Christian then, I suppose," said St. Clair.
I felt myself getting impatient again, with all my sorrow and
humiliation of heart. And yet more humbled at the
consciousness, I hastened to get out of the room. It was a
miserable day, that day of my first school triumphs, and so
were several more that followed. I was very busy; I had no
time for recollection and prayer; I was in the midst of
gratulations and plaudits from my companions and the teachers;
and I missed, Oh how I missed, the praise of God. I felt like
a traitor. In the heat of the fight, I had let my colours come
to the ground. I had dishonoured my Captain. Some would say it
was a little thing; but I felt then and I know now, there are
no little things; I knew I had done harm; how much, it was
utterly beyond my reach to know.
As soon as I could I seized an opportunity to get to Miss
Cardigan. I found her among her flowers, nipping off here a
leaf and there a flower that had passed its time; so busy,
that for a few moments she did not see that I was different
from usual. Then came the question which I had been looking
for.
"Daisy, you are not right to-day?"
"I haven't been right since I got that standish," I burst
forth.
Miss Cardigan looked at me again, and then did what I had not
expected; she took my head between her two hands and kissed
me. Not loosing her hold, she looked into my face.
"What is it, my pet?"
"Miss Cardigan," I said, "can any one be a Christian and yet
yet "
"Do something unworthy a Christian?" she said. "I wot well,
they can! But then, they are weak Christians."
I knew that before. But somehow, hearing her say it brought
the shame and the sorrow more fresh to the surface. The tears
came. Miss Cardigan pulled me into the next room and sat down,
drawing me into her arms; and I wept there with her arms about
me.
"What then, Daisy?" she asked at length, as if the suspense
pained her.
"I acted so, Miss Cardigan," I said; and I told her about it.
"So the devil has found a weak spot in your armour," she said.
"You must guard it well, Daisy."
"How can I?"
"How can you? Keep your shield before it, my bairn. What is
your shield for? The Lord has given you a great strong shield,
big enough to cover you from head to foot, if your hands know
how to manage it."
"What is that, Miss Cardigan?"
"The shield of _faith_, dear. Only believe. According to your
faith be it unto you."
"Believe what?" I asked, lifting my head at last.
"Believe that if you are a weak little soldier, your Captain
knows all about it; and any fight that you go into for his
sake, he will bear you through. I don't care what. Any fight,
Daisy."
"But I got impatient," I said, "at the girls' way of talking."
"And perhaps you were a wee bit set up in your heart because
you had got the prize of the day."
"_Proud?_" said I.
"Don't it look like it? Even proud of being a Christian,
mayhap."
"Could I!" I said. "Was I?"
"It wouldn't be the first time one with as little cause had
got puffed up a bit. But heavenly charity 'is not puffed up.' "
"I know that," I said; and my tears started afresh.
"How shall I help it in future?" I asked after a while, during
which my friend had been silent.
"Help it?" she said cheerfully. "You can't help it, but
Jesus can."
"But my impatience, and my pride," I said, very downcast.
" 'Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy; when I fall I shall
arise.' But there is no need you should fall, Daisy. Remember,
'The Lord is able to make him stand' may be said of every
one of the Lord's people."
"But will He keep me from impatience, and take pride out of my
heart? Why, I did not know it was there, Miss Cardigan."
"Did He say, 'Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, I will do
it?' And when He has written 'Whatsoever,' are you going to
write it over and put 'anything not too hard'? Neither you nor
me, Daisy!"
" '_Whatsoever_' Miss Cardigan?" I said slowly.
"He said so. Are you going to write it over again?"
"No," I said. "But then, may one have _anything_ one asks for?"
"Anything in the world if it is not contrary to His will
provided we ask in faith, nothing doubting. 'For he that
wavereth is like a wave of the sea, driven with the wind and
tossed. For let not that man think that he shall receive
anything of the Lord.' "
"But how can we _know_ what is according to His will?"
"_This_ is, at any rate," said Miss Cardigan; "for He has
commanded us to be holy as He is holy."
"But other things?" I said. "How can one for everything 'in
faith, nothing wavering'? How can one be sure?"
"Only just this one way, Daisy my dear," Miss Cardigan
answered; and I remember to this day the accent of her
native land which touched every word. "If ye're wholly the
Lord's wholly, mind, ye'll not like aught but what the
Lord likes; ye'll know what to ask for, and ye'll know the
Lord will give it to you; that is, if ye want it _enough_. But
a 'double-minded man is unstable in all his ways;' and his
prayers can't hit the mark, no more than a gun that's twisted
when it's going off."
"Then," I began and stopped, looking at her with my eyes
full of tears.
"Ay!" she said, "just so. There's no need that you nor me
should be under the power of the evil one, for we're _free_. The
Lord's words aren't too good to be true; every one of 'em is
as high as heaven; and there isn't a sin nor an enemy but you
and I may be safe from, if we trust the Lord."
I do not remember any more of the conversation. I only know
that the sun rose on my difficulties, and the shadows melted
away. I had a happy evening with my dear old friend, and went
home quite heart-whole.