HOW THE LIGHT CAME TO HER
ALL this was before the child came. With the coming of that little
creature the world changed once more for Grandmother. It was in the
early autumn; the cardinal flowers were past, but the St.-John’s-wort
was in its bloom of tarnished gold, and the fringed gentian, too, was
beginning to open its blue eyes. Anne Peace remembered this, because
she had just been out gathering gentians, and was coming home with her
hands full of the lovely things, when she saw her mother come to the
door of Merion House and wave a white apron. Anne dropped the flowers.
“Oh! Rachel!” she said; and came running over. The white apron meant
that it was a girl; if it were a boy the blue tablecloth was to be
waved.
“Doing well!” said Mother Peace. “Grandmother has the baby in the back
chamber; you can see it, if you like, Anne, only go quiet.”
As if Anne were ever anything but quiet! Noiselessly she sped up the
back stairs, and opened the door of the little bedchamber. There she
saw—Madonna!
Grandmother was sitting in a low rocking-chair, with the baby in her
arms, bending over it with eyes of worship.
“Hush, Annie!” she said softly. “Come and see a piece of heaven!”
Anne thought the heaven was in Grandmother’s face; she never saw, she
said, such an angel look. She came nearer, and looked at the tiny
creature nestling in its blankets. One little pink fist was waving
feebly. Grandmother lifted it and laid it against her cheek.
“Little velvet rose-leaf!” she murmured. “Look, Anne! see the
perfectness of this! The little pink pearls of nails, the tiny precious
thumbkin. Oh, wonderful, wonderful! How good God is, to let us begin in
this heavenly way. How can we ever be anything but good and lovely,
when we begin like this?”
“Some of us can’t,” said little Anne shyly. “She is a darling,
Grandmother. Has Rachel seen her?”
A shade passed over Grandmother’s rapt face. “Not yet!” she said. “She
ought to. If you see your mother, Anne, you might tell her that baby
is washed and dressed. Darling, your gown should be made of white
rose-leaves, shouldn’t it? and you the little blush-rose heart? Oh,
little piece of heaven, how could they let you go?”
Anne stole away; looking back at the door, she saw that Grandmother had
forgotten her and all the world except the child; again it seemed Mary
that she was looking at; Mary in adoration, as she had seen her in an
old engraving.
[Illustration: “GRANDMOTHER HAD FORGOTTEN ALL THE WORLD EXCEPT THE
CHILD.”]
With the awe and wonder of this still on her, she crept along the
passage, past the door of Rachel’s room, which stood ajar. A fretful
voice was speaking. “No, I don’t want to see it. I never wanted any
at all, but if I had to have one I wanted a boy; I don’t want a girl.
I won’t bother with it. It’s hard enough to have to be one, and go
through what I’ve been through—and then to have a girl! it ain’t fair;
it’s real mean!” An angry sob followed, and Mother Peace’s calm voice
was heard.
“You want to be quiet now, Rachel, and try to get a nap. You’ll feel
different when you’ve seen your baby. Shut your eyes now and mebbe
you’ll drop off, while I go and get you some gruel.”
“I hate gruel!” said Rachel; “I won’t touch it, Mis’ Peace, I tell you!”
Mother Peace came out quietly and drew the door to. Seeing Anne she
nodded, and beckoned her to follow down-stairs, but did not speak till
she had gained the kitchen.
“Anne,” she said. “You needn’t tell me. There’s mistakes made up yonder
sometimes same as other places; maybe some of the angels is young and
careless. But that baby’ll soon find out who its real mother is, you
see if it don’t.”
“Why, Mother Peace,” said Anne, “how you talk!”
“Some one has to talk!” said her mother kindly. “You are little better
than a dumb image, Anne, when a person wants to free her mind. You
might stir this gruel if you’ve a mind to, while I go up and take a
look at those two lambs, and I don’t mean Rachel Merion by neither one
of ‘em.”
Strange and terrible as it seems, Rachel did not grow fond of her baby.
She had made up her mouth, she said, for a boy; she had never liked
girl babies, and she wasn’t going to pretend that she did.
“You needn’t look like that, Grandmother, as if you expected the sky to
fall on me. I’m one that isn’t afraid to say what I think, and I think
it’s real mean, so now, and I never shall think anything else.”
Manuel too was greatly disappointed. Rachel had been so absolutely
sure, that he too had counted on the promised boy, feeling somehow
that she must know. They had named the child—Orlando Harold was to be
his name. He was to have Manuel’s eyes and Rachel’s hair, and was to
be President or Major-General; this was the only point that was not
settled. And now—still Manuel felt a stirring at his heart, when he
saw the little fair creature in Grandmother’s arms. “After all, there
have to be girls!” he said.
“I didn’t have to have one,” said Rachel, flouncing away from him.
Mother Peace, while she nursed Rachel faithfully and sturdily, grew
more and more rigid with indignation.
“Take this broth!” she would say. “Yes, you will; take every sup of it;
there! If ’twasn’t for my living duty I’d put whole peppercorns into
it, Rachel Merion. Such actions! what the Lord was thinking of I don’t
know.” For Rachel was not nursing the baby; said she could not, she
should die.
“I want a free foot,” she said; “and they do just as well on a bottle,
Mis’ Peace.”
“They do not!” said Mrs. Peace. “I’ll trouble you not to teach me to
suck eggs, Rachel. Now you are going to take a nap, and much good may
it do you!”
“I’m not!” said Rachel.
“You are!” said Mrs. Peace, and drew down the shades and went out
closing the door after her.
Mrs. Peace’s indignation even extended to Grandmother. “I believe she
don’t care, either!” she said. “Grandmother, I really believe you don’t
care that Rachel is a heathen and a publican, and had ought to be
slapped instead of fed and cockered up.”
Grandmother looked up with a face so radiant, it seemed to startle the
whole room into sudden light.
“Oh, but she will!” she said. “She will care, dear Mrs. Peace. She
can’t possibly help it, you know, when she comes to get about and hold
the little darling angel, and feel its little blessedness all warm in
her arms. She can’t help it then, my Precious Precious, can she? Oh,
Mrs. Peace, she is smiling. Anne, Anne, come quick, she is smiling.”
“Wind!” said Mrs. Peace calmly.
Grandmother flushed and looked almost angry. “How can you, Mrs. Peace?”
she said. “But I know better, I know! I almost heard them whisper; I
almost heard the rustle—”
“What rustle?” asked Anne under her breath.
But Grandmother only smiled down at baby. “Rachel says I may name her!”
she said. “Isn’t that kind of her?”
Mrs. Peace sniffed.
“What shall you call her?” asked Anne.
“Faith!” said Grandmother. “Sweet little Faith, God bless her! and God
bless us, and give us wisdom to rear His heavenly flower fit for His
garden.”
Anne and I always said that the most beautiful sight we had ever seen
was Baby Faith’s christening. It was in October, a bright glorious
day. Grandmother hung great branches of maple everywhere, making the
sitting-room a royal chamber with scarlet and gold. Rachel had come
down for the first time and was on the sofa in a scarlet wrapper, and
Grandmother had crowned her with golden leaves, and told her she was
the queen, and had come to the christening feast of the princess.
Rachel was all ready to be crowned and petted. She kept Manuel close
by her side, or sent him now and then on some little errand across the
room, never further—and snatched him back again jealously. She did not
want him even to look at the baby, though she liked well enough now to
look at it herself, had even grown a little vain of it because people
admired it so.
“I think it’s real good of me to let you name her, Grandmother!” she
said jealously. “And giving her such a mean, poor-sounding name too:
so old-fashioned. Ruby Emerald is the name I should have picked out,
and after all she’s my baby and not yours; but I’m not going back on
what I said. I never would do that, though if I was in your place I
shouldn’t want she should have a name her own mother despised.”
I don’t think Grandmother always listened to Rachel; she certainly did
not seem to hear her now, for now the minister came in, dear old Parson
Truegood. He stopped a moment in the doorway, looking at Grandmother,
standing there in her white dress with the baby in her arms. I think
the same thought was in his mind that had come to Anne—the thought of
Mary and the Child—for he bowed his head as if in prayer, just for a
minute. Then he came in, with his cheery smile, and had just the right
word for Rachel and Manuel, and all the time it was at the other two he
looked.
Little Faith was one of those babies that are beautiful from the very
first. Some people will tell you there are none such, but do not
believe them. Even the first day there was no mottled depth of redness,
only a kind of velvet rose color. That soon faded away and left the
white rose instead that Grandmother always called her. She was not
pasty white, nor waxen white; it was a clear rosy whiteness; you see, I
have only the same word to say over again. White Rose; that is what she
was. And every little feature perfect, as if carved with a fairy-fine
tool; and her eyes like stars in blue water. Except Grandmother
herself, she was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.
She was asleep when the service began; but when the water touched her
forehead she woke, and looked up and smiled, a heavenly smile.
Grandmother looked up too, as if she saw some one, or thought to see;
and I saw a listening look come over her face, as if she heard some
sound, or hoped to hear. And when, a moment later, she knelt down to
pray, she moved her dress a little aside, as if making room for some
one. Anne knew what it meant. Grandmother had told her. “I believe,”
she said, “that a baby’s angel stays by till after it is christened. I
can’t tell you just how I know, but I hear—sometimes—I hear sounds
that aren’t this-world sounds. And some one speaks to me—without
words, yet I understand—oh, yes, I understand.”
It was a pretty fancy; she was full of pretty fancies, many of them
coming, I suppose, from her lonely childhood.
And so Baby Faith was christened, and became the light of Grandmother’s
life.