_GRANDMAMMA'S STORY._
"I was a good deal older than either of you," said Mrs. Stanton,
"when the things happened of which I am going to tell you, for I was
nearly fourteen years of age; but still the story may interest and be
of use to you.
"Up to that time, I had always been taught at home, partly by a
governess, who also taught my younger sisters, Emily and Bertha,
partly by my father, who was a man fond of study, and who took great
pleasure in teaching what he knew to others, especially his own
children. I was a scholar after his own heart, for I learned easily
and with little trouble to myself or my instructors; and I had a
wonderful memory, which seldom let anything slip which I had once
heard or studied. I was very proud of my ready memory, forgetting
that it was quite as much a gift from God as beauty, riches, or any
other good thing which He gives to His creatures. I may say, now,
that I was really very forward for my age; and my father and mother
also took great pride in me, particularly the former, who was anxious
to show off my learning on every occasion.
"A great many gentlemen used to visit at our house, friends of my
father, and men who, like himself, were fond of books and study; and
they used to have long talks on these things. Sometimes they would
differ about a name, a date, or some fact; and often, at such times,
my father would call me, and tell me to settle the disputed point. I
could generally answer correctly, and then our friends would go on
asking question after question, perhaps to find out how much I really
knew, perhaps only to amuse themselves with my vanity; while I,
encouraged by my father, who did not know the harm he was doing me,
and with my silly little head quite turned by the praise and notice I
received, was only too glad to show off all I knew. Indeed, I was
quite disappointed whenever any of these friends left the house, and
I had not been called upon for any such display.
"When I was nearly fourteen years of age, my dear mother had a long
illness; and, as soon as she was able to travel, the doctors said
that she must go away for a year at least. Emily had not been well
for some time, and it was decided that she was to go too; while
Bertie and I were to be sent to boarding-school during their absence.
That was a far worse trial than going to school for two or three
hours each day, knowing that your own dear mamma is here for you to
come back to; was it not, Maggie?"
"Yes'm," said Maggie, with a loving glance through the open door at
her sleeping mother; "but then, grandmamma, you know you were such a
big girl; and I suppose you were not shy either, if you had so much
courage to talk to the grown gentlemen. Grandmamma, I don't think
you can know how uncomfortable it is for a child to be shy. Oh, I do
wish I could come over it."
"Overcome it, you mean," said grandmamma. "Well, dear Maggie, do you
know that I think this very thing which you dread so much--going to
school--may help you to do so. And it would be a good thing if it
were so, for this troublesome shyness not only interferes with one's
own pleasure and comfort, but often with one's usefulness to others.
But to go on with my story. Great girl though I was, and bolder,
perhaps, than became my years, the parting from my father and mother
was a terrible trial to me, and I shed many bitter tears over it.
The thing which gave me most comfort was the thought of all I would
do while they were gone, and how I would astonish them with my
improvement on their return. I not only meant to study so hard that
I should put myself at the head of all my classes, and take most, if
not all, of the prizes; but I also begged my father to write out a
list of books of history and travels which I might read during my
play-hours, and asked to be allowed to take up one or two extra
studies. He readily agreed; but my mother shook her head, and said,
if my time and thoughts were to be so taken up with my books, she
feared I would not give much attention to little Bertie.
"Bertie was mother's great anxiety in leaving home. She was only
seven years old--a timid, clinging child, shrinking from strangers,
and always wanting to be petted and cuddled by those she loved. She
had never been really sick, but she was not strong; and mother gave
her into my special care with so many charges to be kind and tender
to her, that I felt impatient and half-vexed that she should think
they were needed. Alas, she knew me better than I knew myself.
"Our parents had secured some little favours at the school for us,
among others that of a room to ourselves; and this they had furnished
comfortably and prettily, so that we might have been very contented
and happy there together, if it bad not been for my vanity and
selfishness; or, perhaps I should say, the strange mistakes I made as
to my duty.
"For the first day or two we were both heartbroken, and I petted
Bertie and sorrowed with her; but, after that, I turned to my books,
and had no time or thought for anything else. True, I did not
neglect my little sister's bodily comfort. Every morning I washed
and dressed her with my own hands, and curled her long, fair
ringlets; each night I undressed her and tucked her in her bed--nor
was it done hastily or impatiently, but with care and patience. But
while I was at my task--for so I thought it--of tending her, my book
lay open on my lap, and I learned long poems or lists of names and
dates, and poor Bertie was never suffered to speak to me. I always
had an hour to myself at the time when I put her to bed, and I might
have spent it with her, had I chosen to do so. But no; although the
little homesick child used to beg me to stay with her and talk of
mother, I was always in haste to go to the books which father had
marked for me. Many a time when I went up to bed I found her awake,
restless and nervous; or, if she was sleeping, her pillow and face
were wet with tears. During play-hours she used to hang about me,
longing for love and comfort; but, although I never sent her from me,
I had no time to give her the petting and sympathy she needed.
"Saturdays, when we had a holiday, and Sundays were no better,
perhaps rather worse; for then Bertie was more lonely and homesick
than when she was in school, and I was just as busy as on other days.
"On Sunday mornings we were obliged to go to church and
Sunday-school; but in the afternoon we were allowed to do as we
pleased, provided there was no loud laughing or talking. It was my
pleasure to attend a Bible-class held by the clergyman of the
village, about a mile off; and much of my time on Saturday was taken
up with studying the lesson for the next day. I knew a good deal of
the history and geography of the Bible, and could repeat many a
chapter and verse; but to its lessons of humility, unselfishness, and
true love to my God and my neighbour, I fear I paid little heed.
"My governess rather objected to my attending this class, which was
intended for those who were much older than myself; for she thought I
was doing too much, and not taking time enough for rest and play.
But, since she did not forbid it, I shut my ears to her advice and
took my own way. I believe I honestly thought I was doing right,
too; that I was making the most of the opportunities God had given
me, trying to please my parents and to do my duty. And these things
were all right in themselves; but the trouble was, I did not take up
the duty which lay nearest to my hand. I neglected the simple, easy
work which God had put in my way, because I thought it was a trifle.
You see, my darlings, I would not stoop to pick up the tiny jewel
which lay at my feet, but reached out for that which was more showy
and glittering, but less precious in His sight."
"We had been at school about four months, when one Saturday I noticed
that Bertie seemed more dull and languid than usual I did not wish to
see this, but I could not shut my eyes to it. She would not go out
to play with the other children, nor would she amuse herself in the
house, but sat listlessly about, looking pale and miserable.
"'What ails you, Bertie?' I asked at last; 'are you sick?'
"'I want mother,' she answered, with a quivering lip and eyes filling
up with tears.
"'Well, four months have gone by,' I said, speaking cheerfully, but
carelessly.
"'Four months,' the child repeated sadly, 'and that leaves,'--she
counted up on her fingers,--'that leaves eight more, Margy, before
they come home. Oh, it is so long!'
"'If you love father and mother so much,' I said, 'I should think you
would try to do what would please them.'
"'So I do,' said my little sister, with the great tears now rolling
down her cheeks; 'mother told me to be good and mind you and my
teachers, and I have. Mrs. Horton told me yesterday I was the best
little girl in the school, and gave her no trouble, and that she
would write and tell mother so.'
"'Oh yes!' I said; 'you are certainly a very good child; but you
might improve more if you chose, Bertie.'
"'I don't want to improve,' said Bertie: 'people are not half so nice
when they improve.'
"'You do not understand what you are talking about," said I,
half-laughing, half-vexed; 'people must be nicer when they improve,
because it means to become wiser and better.'
"'Oh!' said Bertie, with a disapproving look at my pile of books; 'I
thought it meant to study a great deal.'
"'You foolish child!' I answered rather sharply; 'there are a great
many ways in which people may improve themselves. God gives one kind
of work to one, and another kind to another; and the way to please
Him, and to improve ourselves, is to do what He gives us with all our
might.'
"'And has not God given you any work to do but studying all the
time?' asked Bertie.
"'Of course not,' I answered, 'or I should do it. When our parents
placed us in this expensive school, they meant us to make the most of
our time and the advantages they had given us; so that is our duty
both to them and to God.'
"I thought myself very wise and important while making these grand
speeches to my little sister, but they did not seem to satisfy her.
"'But don't we have a duty to each other, Margy?' she said.
"'Certainly,' I answered; 'but I would like to know what you would be
at. I suppose it is I you mean, when you say people are not nice who
study a good deal; and I do not see where I have not done my duty to
you. Don't I take all the care of you?'
"'Yes,' said Bertie slowly; 'but, Margy, you never pet me, or tell me
stories, or sing to me, as you used to, and I would like it now more
than I did then.'
"'So would I like it,' I said, 'but that would be play, not work, and
I have not time for such nonsense. You must not think I do not love
you just as much; and don't talk any more, I have wasted too much
time already.'
"Bertie obeyed and was silent, leaning her head against the
window-frame with a sad, weary air, while I turned over the leaves of
my Bible in search of a verse I wanted; but I could not fix my
attention. Bertie's words had made me feel very uncomfortable, and
brought back my mother's last charge to me: 'Margaret, dear, take
care of my baby, and do not let her want for any comfort or
tenderness that you can give her.'
"Had I given Bertie all the love and tenderness in my power? Had I
done the work which my mother--aye, and my God, too--had put into my
hands; the work that should have been done before I took up any other?
"These thoughts now troubled me so, that I could scarcely study; but
I tried to put them from me, saying to myself that I would give
Bertie a good petting and tell her a long story on the next
afternoon, after my return from Bible-class.
"But the next morning I thought I had found a new piece of work which
it was my duty to perform. My Sabbath-school teacher told the class
of a poor family, living some distance beyond the village, who were
in the greatest need, and asked if some among us could not spare a
little to help them. I at once took it up, saying that I would go
round among the girls in our school, and see what I could collect.
This I did, as soon as I reached home; and, each of the teachers and
scholars giving more or less, I soon had a nice sum in my hands. I
asked, and obtained permission, to go with one of my schoolmates and
take this to the suffering family, after the dismissal of the
afternoon Bible class; and as I sat upon the piazza, counting over
the money, I said that I intended to do so.
"Bertie sat at my feet, leaning her head against my knees. She had
not been to church or Sunday-school that morning, for she seemed so
languid that Mrs. Horton had proposed she should stay at home.
"'O Margy!' she said, looking up at me with pleading eyes; 'then you
will be away all the afternoon. It is such a long walk over to
Cuddy's Hollow! and if you go there after Bible-class, you will not
be home till tea-time. I do want you so! Couldn't some one else
take it, and wouldn't you stay with me just this one Sunday?'
"'Impossible, Bertie,' I said; 'I have not missed one Bible-class
since we came to school, and hope not to during the year; and you
surely would not have these poor people suffering another twenty-four
hours, when here is the money ready for them?'
"'No,' said Bertie; 'but I thought some one else could go. I believe
I don't feel very well, Margy; and I want you to talk about mother.
O Margy, do stay!'
"'Miss Ruthven," said one of my schoolmates, a new scholar, who stood
by, 'I intended to join the Bible-class this afternoon; and if you
would like to stay with your little sister, I will gladly go with
Miss Oliver to carry the money.'
"Now, my conscience not being quite at rest for refusing Bertie's
request, I immediately imagined that this young lady meant to reprove
or dictate to me; and I answered stiffly,--
"Thank you, Miss Hart, but I prefer to attend to it myself. When one
has undertaken a plain duty, one should not give it up for one's own
pleasure.'
"'Yes,' said Miss Hart quietly; 'but should we not be very sure that
we see clearly what is our duty, and what our pleasure?'
"I took no notice of this, but turned to Bertie, with,--
"'You said a little while ago, Bertie, that you were so sorry for
these poor people. If we really care for others, and want to help
them, we must sometimes give up our own comfort and convenience.'
"'_You_ don't care for _me_, or want to help me a bit,' said Bertie
passionately; 'and I am going to write and ask mother if I can't come
to her, even if I do have to sail off in a ship all alone by myself;'
and then she broke out in tears and sobs.
"'You know that is not true, and you are wrong and selfish, Bertie,'
I said. 'I must go now, but be a good girl and stop crying, and I
will talk to you about mother, and tell you a nice story when I come
home;' and, giving her a hasty kiss, I ran down the steps and joined
the group who were about starting for the church.
"'Are you not going with us, Miss Hart?' said the teacher who was to
accompany us.
"'I think not,' she answered.
"'You had better come,' I said, not wishing she should think me
unamiable; 'you have no idea how interesting these classes are, and
how much one may learn."
"'Another afternoon,' she said, with a pleasant smile; 'to-day I will
remain at home.'
"We started on our way, but I was very uneasy. The words, 'You do
not care for me, or want to help me,' mingling with 'Do not let my
baby want for any care or tenderness you can give her,' kept ringing
in my ears; and my mother's eyes--how like Bertie's were to
them!--seemed looking into mine, as she pleaded for her little pet
lamb. I came on slowly after the others, trying to make up my mind
that it was _not_ my duty to go back and stay with Bertie. Once I
turned and looked behind, to see Mary Hart in the seat I had left,
Bertie upon her lap, the child's arms about her neck, while she
tenderly smoothed her lovely hair. A stranger was giving to my
sister the petting and soothing for which she had longed, and which I
had denied to her.
"Then came the voice of the teacher,--
"'Margaret Ruthven, why do you not come? If you want to stay with
your sister, go back: if not, do not keep us waiting.'
"I followed the rest, but my thoughts were all in confusion that
afternoon. I was angry with Bertie, with Mary Hart, with the
teacher, with every one but myself, who alone was to blame. I could
not fix my attention on the lesson, or put the questions and give the
answers with which I was generally so ready; and I was glad when we
were dismissed. Still, this did not prevent me from joining Miss
Oliver and our Sunday-school teacher when they went to Cuddy's
Hollow. It was a long walk; and so much time was taken up in making
arrangements for the comfort of the poor family, that it was late
before we started for home,--so late that, on our way through the
village, Miss Henry stopped at her own house for her father, and both
saw us safely home.
"We had been gone five or six hours, and as I entered the hall-door,
some of the younger children met me.
"'O Miss Ruthven, Bertie is so sick! She went to sleep in Miss
Hart's lap this afternoon, and when she woke up, she did not know any
one; and the doctor is here, and she is so sick.'
"In an instant I had flown up the stairs, and was on my knees beside
Bertie's bed. There she lay, her head rolling from side to side, her
little hot hands tossing restlessly to and fro. She did not know me;
and she moaned, and called for mother, saying that 'she was all
alone, all alone.'
"Ah! my neglected work rose up plainly before me then,--the simple,
easy work of love which God had put ready to my hands, but from which
I had coldly turned away in search of something which I thought
nobler and better. Would my parents care though I gained every prize
in the school, if they came home to find their darling gone, and
learned that her last days had been made unhappy by want of love and
care? Bessie, do not look so distressed, love. Bertie did not die,
though for three weeks all thought that it must end so. Probably all
the care and tenderness in the world would not have kept off that
terrible illness, but my remorse and misery were as great as though
it had all been my doing. I would not leave her day or night, and it
was only by the command of my governess that I took any rest. At
last a change came, and Bertie was out of danger; but she was fretful
and nervous, and could not bear me out of her sight; while I felt
that I could not do enough to make up for the past, and devoted my
whole time to her.
"'Margy,' she said one day, as I sat beside her, telling stories for
her pleasure, 'I am glad you don't improve any more. You are just
like my old Margy.'
"So the long summer days passed away, and the exhibition, where I had
so hoped to excel all my schoolmates, was drawing near; and I stood,
for absence, at the very foot of all my classes. Still I hoped to
make up for lost time. Whenever Bertie slept, I took my books, and
did my best to keep up with my class. A night-lamp was burned in our
room; and, after the rest of the house was safely in bed, I used to
rise and study by its faint light, then take a few hours of sleep,
and be up with the first streak of day, spending many an hour over my
lessons when I should have been at rest. In this way I hoped to
recover what I had lost, and be able to take my old place by the time
Bertie was well. But again I found that God had other work for me
than that which I had laid out for myself.
"For some days I had felt a great deal of pain in my head, and a
burning and throbbing in my eyes, which might have told me that I was
doing myself harm; but I would not yet heed the warning, or speak of
it to any one, lest I should be forbidden to pore over my books. But
now it could no longer be hidden. I woke one morning in such agony,
and with such a dimness over my sight, that, though Bertie was still
weak, I was obliged to call her, and send for help. My governess
came, and then the doctor; and, though I could not see his face, the
grave tones of the latter and the directions he gave told me that it
was a very serious matter.
"And so, indeed, it proved. Day after day and week after week I lay
in a darkened room, suffering terribly, and in danger of losing my
sight for ever. The exhibition was over, the long vacation gone by,
before I was about again, and the poor eyes, which had been so sorely
tried, were able to bear the light. And there was worse, or what I
thought was worse, still to come. My own sense, as well as the
doctor's orders, told me plainly that all use of my eyes must be
forbidden for some time. 'How long?' I asked the doctor.
"'For months, perhaps years,' he answered bluntly.
"You may think what a blow this was to me; but, after my first sorrow
had passed away, I amused myself by forming new plans. If I could
not distinguish myself in one way, I would in another. I would do so
much for other people, that every one would love and honour me. I
had plenty of money, for my father gave me a large allowance; and I
would look after the wants, not only of the poor family of whom I
have before spoken, but of many more down in the village. They were
a miserable, neglected set there; but I would alter all that. I
would spend my savings for them, and show them how to be neat and
comfortable; with my governess's leave, I would gather the children
together and teach them all I could without the use of my eyes; and I
did not doubt that, in a short time, I should work a change that
would surprise and delight all who saw it, and be greatly to my own
credit and glory.
"Ah, there was the trouble! I thought I would serve my Master, and
let my good works be 'seen of men;' but I fear it was to glorify
myself, not Him, and so He did not will that my little light should
fall upon the path which I had chosen for myself.
"All these plans and purposes came to nothing, as my former ones had
done. I was not only forbidden to read, write, or study, but also to
fatigue or exert myself in any way; and, indeed, I soon found that
this was necessary. Walking to the village was not to be thought of.
One quarter of the distance brought on the old, terrible pain, and I
was forced into quiet by the dread of blindness.
"So I was to be laid aside as useless, I thought; and I fretted
myself, and others, till those about me had good reason to think that
the work I had now chosen was to make myself as disagreeable as
possible. It was in vain that my governess told me how wrong and
sinful I was; I could listen to nothing but the murmurings of my own
discontent and disappointment, and refused to look at the blessings
which God had left me, or to learn the lesson He was trying to teach
me.
"Thus the rest of the year passed away, and my parents came home, to
find me, not the proud, triumphant scholar I had hoped to be, nor yet
the beloved and useful benefactor who had gained praise and gratitude
from all who knew her; but a restless, moping, fretful invalid--a
burden to herself and all around her."
"But, grandmamma," said Maggie, as Mrs. Stanton paused for a moment,
"you did not tell us what work it was God had left for you."
"To learn a lesson of patience, humility, and submission to His will,
Maggie; lessons which I was long in taking to heart, and which I had
sadly needed. It was long years before my health and the use of my
eyes came back to me; not till I had learned to be contented with the
simple every-day duties which God had meant should be my lot in life.
What I wished was to do great things, and serve my God and my
fellow-creatures in a way that should be 'seen and known of men;' but
our Father knew that this would not be good for me--that the pride
and vainglory, which were my chief faults, would only be strengthened
and made worse if He allowed me to go on in the paths I had chosen.
I can see this now for myself, and bless Him that He put out His hand
and led me by the quiet ways where I have learned to find all my
duties and my happiness. But, look! There is dear mamma awake, and
the duty I see plainly before us now is to go and give her some
beef-tea and jelly, which I think she needs."