Margaret never knew what caused this sudden change, but it was simply
this. If it was a passion with her to love, it was also a passion
to avoid unpleasant sights. And the picture drawn by Agnes Cameron
revolted her. To have somebody share her room who kept everything in
disorder would be something intolerable. All her life long she had been
used to the beauty of perfectly-kept rooms; on the mother's part this
was mere feminine nicety, such as any woman might possess. In Margaret
it was the artistic element inherited from her father; she must have
order reign where she dwelt, not because it is meet and right to be
orderly, but because it hurt her eye to see confusion. At this stage
of her history, she would have been surprised to be told this; perhaps
have stoutly denied it. But a realizing sense of what a hardship it
would be to her to have such a room-mate as Jane Cameron had come over
her now, and, with it, confusion of face that she had behaved in so
ungrateful a way. It was not in her to ask any one's pardon, out and
out, but the kiss and the little speech from her were equivalent to
going down on her knees, had she been somebody else.
Mrs. Grey seized this gentler mood at once.
"I have been thinking," she said, without comment or ado, "what is to
be done about your education. You are too old to go to school, and
perhaps I could manage to teach you myself. But in order for that, I
shall have to find out how far your mother took you."
"She took me as far as she could, and then let me go on by myself. Now,
about algebra, for instance. She knew nothing about it, but there was
a number of old school-books in the house where we lived, and I was
allowed the use of them."
"And you studied algebra?"
"Yes, I studied it just as I should take a dose of medicine--swallowed
it down, and then helped my self to a lump of sugar, to take the taste
out."
"A metaphorical lump, I suppose?"
"Yes, I made patchwork."
"What an extraordinary idea! However, I think I understand it. Your
needle represented a brush, and those bits of bright-colored flannels,
paint. We must look into that. Now, what else did you study?"
"Mother _made_ me study English grammar. She said she owed it to my
father's family to have me understand his language."
"_English_ grammar? How is that?"
"Why, as a general rule, mother talked to me in French, but she was
very particular to have me keep up what English I had learned from my
father. She had a few French books, and taught me to read to him, and
until his death I had plenty of time for it."
"I did not know your father was an Englishman."
"But he was. He was travelling through Europe on foot, stopping to
sketch when anything took his fancy, and one day he saw my mother
standing near a _châlet_, with a child in her arms, and fell in love
with her. The child belonged to a neighbor who often lodged artists for
weeks at a time, and he contrived to spend a whole summer there."
But our readers need not hear the whole story of Margaret's fragmentary
education. She was now between seventeen and eighteen, and had managed
to pick up a wonderful amount of information; but culture she had none.
This she soon began to feel, but as the companion of a woman cultivated
to the last degree, and with her own brilliant powers, she glided,
without difficulty, into regions most girls in her position would have
had to reach through laborious toil. And as to art, Mrs. Grey had only
to provide her with materials, and give her opportunity to experiment,
and the next thing she knew, grace and beauty dropped like magic
from the tiny point of her pencil. But so many other gifts developed
themselves, that there was no danger of one-sidedness.
So she dashed on, eager, breathless, like one running a race; entering
into everything with zest and enjoyment, and undertaking work enough to
exhaust a less dauntless nature. And then another cloud began to arise.
Christmas was coming, and with it twelve human beings to criticise,
misunderstand, dislike her.
Twelve human beings for her to criticise, be jealous of, and, as like
as not, hate. At least that was the way she chose to put it, but this
is Mrs. Grey's version:
"They'll all come, this year; my darling boys and girls, and their
little folks. Will they find it somewhat awkward, before they get
acquainted with Margaret? It will be trying for her, poor child, to see
a mother and children together."
However, she had tact--the kind of tact that comes from Christian
instincts. She talked to Margaret about the home-comers, exactly as if
they were her brothers and sisters, got her interested, asked her to
manage a Christmas-tree, and consulted her about everything.
"Do the children have a tree every year?" asked Margaret.
"Oh, yes--every year."
"Then I should like to get up something different; I don't know what,
but I can think out a plan."
The next morning she came down as radiant as the sun.
"I have a plan," she announced, "and now I must have a carpenter."
The carpenter was forthcoming, the plan shown him; he had little
folks of his own, and entered into the fun of the thing, gleefully.
Christmas Eve arrived, and the house was full. As lively greetings
were exchanged, Margaret began to shrink into herself, and to wish she
could hide in some cranny till all was over. Is this natural? Is this
picture true to life? It is. _Reality_ never tries to shine, to display
its plumage or clap its wings. It is Unreality that comes strutting
forward, crying, "Go to, and admire my gifts!"
The Christmas breakfast was a failure. In vain Mrs. Grey tried to
persuade herself that her children had taken Margaret into their
hearts, and loved her like a sister; in vain they reproached themselves
for not being able to do it; in vain Margaret tried to appear at her
ease with all those eyes upon her; a cold silence fell upon every sally
made by some bold adventurer, and all were thankful when the meal was
over.
"And now," said Mrs. Grey, "you older boys must come immediately to
help Margaret through with her Christmas surprise, whatever it may be:
for what it is I know no more than the rest of you."
Two or three stout fellows volunteered, and were led off by Margaret,
who unfolded her plan to them, and was at once placed on a pedestal as
an object of admiration.
"It's just capital!" they all agreed, and in a few minutes the ice
between them melted, and they were laughing, working, joking together,
like fellows well-met. The entertainment was to come directly after the
children's dinner, as many of them were too young to bear excitement
at night, and while Margaret and her allies were pushing on their
preparations, the mother and her children sat together in one of those
family councils in which the more there are the merrier. One does not
often see so many happy faces together, for while no one forgot how
Maud used to enjoy those festivities, they would not allow themselves
to spoil the day by sad retrospections. After a time most of the party
went to church; then came the bountiful lunch Mrs. Grey was so fond
of getting up, and the children's dinner, followed by the expectant
procession headed by Margaret silent and shy. Instantly a great hue
and cry arose, as they came into view of a real house at the end of
the large parlors, rooms rarely used now, from whose tall red chimney
Santa Claus was emerging, with his arms full of snow-balls, with which
he began pelting the crowd with might and main.
Margaret's house appeared to be covered with snow, as was the ground
on which it stood; and she had contrived to produce the effect of
moonlight, the illusion being perfect. Some of the very little children
fell back in affright at the weird scene, the strange figure of Santa
Claus and the shower of snow-balls. But that was all set right when
they found that the balls were made of cotton, not snow, and each
contained a gift. Such a scrambling as followed this disclosure!
Little Sam Grey was knocked off his legs, and lay prostrate on his
back, holding a large snow-ball in each hand, and a well-aimed blow
at delicate, blue-eyed Mabel Heath, sent her spinning over the fleecy
floor, to her great amazement, and that of the "baby" she held in her
arms.
The whole scene was as picturesque as possible; and Margaret was in her
element now, and forgot to be either proud or shy, as she moved about
among the children, enjoying their enjoyment. She did not know she was
fond of girls and boys and babies, for she had never come in contact
with them, though she had heard plenty of screaming and quarreling
among those who lived in the house with her in times past. But here
were sweet, well-bred, daintily-dressed little mortals, the very ideal
of babyhood and childhood; and with the quick instinct of their age
they speedily elected her as the beloved of their hearts. And as the
road to a mother's heart lies through that of her children, before the
day closed Margaret had won, without trying to do it, the admiration
and the love of the six young mothers whose coming she had so dreaded.
They, too, were relieved. They had not known exactly how they were to
take this new inmate of the family, and had some misgivings, which
they frankly confessed the next morning as they gathered around the
library-fire to have a family confab. Margaret had established herself
in what used to be the day-nursery, and which was still used as such
when the grandchildren came home, and could have been seen with a baby
on her lap, a little darling, blue-eyed Mabel standing behind her on
the chair she occupied, with her arms around her neck, and two or three
others clustered at her knee.
"Well, girls," said Mrs. Grey, "what do you think of my Margaret?"
"Oh, mamma!" cried Belle Heath, "it is _such_ a relief to find her what
she is! Cyril and I were afraid some designing creature had taken you
in. You know you are so easily taken in."
"I know no such thing," said Mrs. Grey, greatly amused. "I know of no
one so hard to impose on as I am."
"'O wad some power the giftie gie us,'" quoted Frank Grey, who had just
entered the room, after a late breakfast, and was bending his six-feet
frame to kiss his mother.
"I wish it _wad_," said his sister Laura, "for then you would be up in
season for breakfast. It isn't nice to come down after everything has
grown as cold as a stone. Does Lily let you do so at home?"
"Lily set me the example," he said, laughing. "Besides, mamma grows
indulgent in her declining years."
"Perhaps I am a little indulgent," said Mrs. Grey. "Parents who are
severe with their children when they are young, are apt to relax as
they grow older."
A shout of laughter followed this remark. Mrs. Grey looked around,
surprised.
"Now, what have I said that should make you so merry?" she asked,
innocently.
"That little word 'severe' lies at the bottom of the joke," said Frank.
"The idea of our beautiful lady-mother insinuating that she was ever
hard upon her offspring!"
"At all events, if I could live my life over again, I would deal very
differently with my children from what I did--especially with you two
older ones."
"O, we were more depraved than those that came after," said Belle.
"And if you hadn't taken us in hand, in a summary way, I do not know
what would have become of us. Papa never would do anything but spoil
us, he was so indulgent."
"It's not a man's business to manage his children," said Cyril Heath.
"It's the mother's."
"I don't agree with you," said Frank Grey. "It's the man's."
"Of _course_ it is," said his wife.
"Well, why?" pursued Cyril.
"He is supposed to have more weight of character than she."
"And suppose he hasn't?"
"I can't suppose any such thing. Men are born to rule, and do rule;
women are born to yield, and do yield."
"They are born to rule in their own sphere, it is true," interposed
Mrs. Grey, who, as the reader ought to know, had written a book on the
subject of education. "But home is not their sphere. It is woman's
kingdom, and there she should reign."
"But I always took the ground that a modest woman would doubt her own
judgment in regard to the children, and defer to the father," objected
Frank's wife. She was a little, delicate creature, who admired her
husband above all things, though she could pretend to be ashamed of him
now and then.
"A man ought to be master in his own house," said one.
"That applies to the kitchen as well as to the nursery," said another.
"A woman who makes her husband manage the children will make him manage
the servants."
"Well, some do."
"The more shame to them."
"It's rather hard upon a man when he comes home at night, hoping for
a smile from his wife, and a romp with his boys, to see an anxious
wrinkle on her brow, and hear her say:
"'O, John, I am so thankful you have come! There's Tom won't take his
powders, and I can do nothing with him! And Sue has stolen and eaten
four slices of cake. Four slices! Just think of it! And Hatty struck
her nurse twice, and nurse says she'll leave.'"
Everybody laughed, and everybody had something to say.
"Why, of course such a woman as that has no force of character," said
Cyril Heath. "Really sensible women do not behave in that way."
"And really good ones do not have children who are disobedient, who
steal cake, and strike their nurses," said Mrs. Grey.
At this there was a great clamor, some denying, some affirming the
point.
"I think, mother, you forget some of our childish misdeeds," said
Frank. "I know a very good mother who had some very wayward children."
"Being wayward is one thing; being low, and vulgar, and rude is
another," she replied. "I suppose all spirited children like to have
their own way, and will get it if they can; but it is inconsistent
with my idea of a Christian home that its inmates should be wanting
in refinement, have the habit of giving way to passionate temper, to
duplicity, to dishonesty, to meanness--"
"We all know you can't stand meanness," interrupted Frank. "But go on,
please. We young fathers and mothers are ready for any number of hints."
"But children are born totally depraved," said one of the
daughters-in-law. "We have to take them as they come."
"That depends; my dear, if you and that boy of mine there are living
self-controlled lives, are at peace with God and at peace with each
other, your children will enter the world at great advantage. They will
be different, at their very birth, from the children of undisciplined
parents, who pamper their bodies, indulge in unholy passions, and
reproduce offspring like unto themselves. You may depend upon it that
your duty to your child begins before it sees the light. But lunch is
ready, so I'll stop preaching in order to feed you."
Lunch was a lively meal, because so many children were there. Margaret
came in with her face fairly shining. A score of little feet came
pattering in with her. Their quaint ways of eating their dinner amused
her so that her own plate remained untouched. She watched, with great
amusement, the tiny, infantine hands that held spoons they had not
skill to manage; how they picked up their food with their fingers,
placed it in the spoons, and then manfully and laboriously conveyed it
to their mouths. But not one who could wield a spoon would allow itself
to be fed.
"After we get through with lunch," Mrs. Grey said to her, "I want the
children to see some of your pictures."
"Do you suppose they would care for them, auntie?" asked Margaret, in
some surprise. "I should think they would enjoy 'Old Mother Hubbard'
more."
Consternation, then laughter.
"Mother means us," explained Frank. "To her we are as much boys and
girls as ever."
"Oh! But I have done nothing fit to show," said Margaret. "And I don't
see how any one who can look at these lovely little children, can even
want to look at anything else. Just see these tiny, dimpled hands!"
The young mother who had most interest in the dimpled hands, left her
seat, and came to Margaret's side of the table on hearing this, and
said:
"Before I came home I wondered what I should call you. But I know now.
I shall call you Mag., and you must call me Oney."
"Well, Oney, I will," said Margaret, and then both laughed a gleeful,
girlish laugh of good-fellowship.
"If you were a boy, you would be a wag," said Laura.
"And if you were a horse, you would be a nag," retorted Margaret; upon
which the girl-mother took her into her confidence; told her how she
felt the first time baby cried, after the nurse left; how many dresses
she made for it, and how many things mother knit; and how she nearly
died with laughing when it began to walk. She also communicated that
she kept four servants, was fond of housekeeping, and "oh, what do you
think of mamma? Isn't she splendid? So straight and tall, such white,
wavy hair, such bright eyes, and _so_ full of talent!"
Margaret would call her Oney, and listen to her; but whether she should
ever confide in her she wasn't sure; still, she was very nice, and her
baby's hands were so pretty!