GOING OUT OF THE OLD LIFE
Lilian had seen very little of her friend, Miss Trenham, through the
week, though every day she had been the recipient of a note of sympathy
and affection. She came in on Saturday afternoon.
"My dear girl," she began, "so many unusual events have happened to you
that one must needs use both congratulations and condolences. I saw the
newspaper account and it seems like the finger of Providence that you
should have been directed hither and to the arms of your real parents.
Mrs. Boyd looked very poorly the last time I saw her, a month or so ago.
I suppose there is a great deal back of the account----"
"I have wanted to see you so," returned Lilian. "I thought I would come
to the Chapel tomorrow morning. You are the only friend I have made
outside of the school, but Mrs. Barrington has been so sweet and
generous. She had planned to keep me here after mother was gone and
educate me."
The tears stood in Lilian's eyes and her voice broke with emotion.
"There is so much to talk over, and we have gone to our own home now.
Mother and I have been very busy the last four days cleaning and putting
things in order. We spent our Christmas at Mrs. Lane's and had a really
delightful time. We had planned some time ago to have you share it with
us, and now can you not spare us Sunday, if you are not going----"
"The change is to be made on Monday. Oh, Miss Trenham--I can hardly
describe my feelings. I dread it and yet my own mother is an ideal
mother. I hardly dare think of the happiness in store for me, but I
shall go on here at school. I am glad of that. I could not give up my
dear Mrs. Barrington."
"We want to hear all the story--your side," smiling gravely. "So if you
can come and dine with us on Sunday. Oh, there are so many
explanations."
"I will see. Excuse me a few moments." Lilian came back with a heartsome
expression.
"Yes, I can come. I wanted to go to the Chapel in the morning. I suppose
some of my life, at least, will be changed----"
"Yes, but it will be--yes, lovely and advantageous. I never thought
Mrs. Boyd quite the right mother for you, if you will allow me to say
it."
Lilian flushed. "But she loved me with her whole soul. She would have
made any sacrifice to advance me. All these years she has cared for me,
worked for me and I should be an ingrate to forget it. If she had lived
and this had not come, I was planning to work for her----"
"I think you would, without a demur. You would have had an excellent
friend in Mrs. Barrington, but it will be a much wider life, I am very
glad for you. There are people for whom prosperity does very little. You
will not be one of that kind. In spite of her misfortune your mother has
always had a wide and lovely influence, and the home is said to be very
attractive. I think all of Mount Morris rejoiced truly in her
restoration to health, and you will have some of the best of her life.
You will soon learn the sweet lesson of loving her."
"My heart went out to her the Sunday I saw her in church. She looked to
me like a saint, and I did not know then, but I have felt bewildered
since. And I have been so used to planning to do something for--for the
one who has gone, that I feel kind of helpless, knowing I can do nothing
for her."
"Oh, yes, you can give her a daughter's choicest love. I am quite sure
you two will grow into finest accord, and two manly brothers and that
lovely Zaidee! Oh, it will be a most absorbing life. You will be in the
sphere just fitted for you. Perhaps God let it all happen that your
character should be the more fully shaped by the experience. We will
talk it over more, at length, tomorrow."
Miss Trenham rose and kissed the young girl tenderly, knowing that tears
were very near the surface. After she had gone Lilian gave way to them.
She had not the easily adaptive nature to go in her new home and take
the best at once, though it had been held out with such winning
tenderness. The beautiful face of Zaidee instead of adding a radiance
seemed to shadow the path. She could not explain it to herself; she
would not think her sister would grudge her anything, but she felt in
her inmost heart it would not be given generously. She must win it by
large patience.
Sunday was a perfect winter day with a gorgeous sunshine and a crisp air
that seemed to bring refreshment in every waft. The leafless trees were
penciled against the blue sky like the lines of a fine engraving. The
church bells rang out their reverent inspiration, they were harmoniously
toned and there was no jangling. Lilian wondered a little--were her
parents and the two children at home kneeling in the old church where
the Crawfords had worshiped for a hundred years or more? Did they offer
a little prayer for her?
The father and mother said it at home. He was all impatience for the day
to pass.
Oh, how delightful Mrs. Trenham's warm welcome was, and little Claire
clasped both slim arms about Lilian's neck and kissed the cool rosy
cheek over and over again. If her sister was little and fond like that!
"It's been such a long, long while since you were here. Of course you
couldn't come while we were away. It was very nice at Mrs. Lane's; there
were so many people to make merry. You can't be truly merry alone by
yourself, can you? It's like bells ringing. You can be happy thinking of
many things, but not merry."
Lilian smiled. Yes, the conceit was true.
Then she must inspect Claire's Christmas gifts. Her own had been a
pretty booklet that one of the girls had given her in a perfunctory
fashion that carried no real regard with it. She had been too full of
anxiety to look up anything.
"And that lady that came here once who wasn't your real mother went
away, didn't she? And Edith said you had a real mother now and you were
going to live with her and not stay at school all the time. I wish I
could go to school. Edith said sometime she might have a school in our
own house, and I might come and say lessons with other little girls.
That will be so nice. I think that will be merry."
Then they were summoned to dinner, and the elders took the lead in the
conversation, expressing their surprise at the strange event they had
seen in the paper, and as they lingered over the dessert Lilian told her
own story that she had believed in devoutly until Mrs. Boyd had
explained her adoption, hoping thereby Lilian might trace her
parentage--though Mrs. Boyd supposed only her father could be found.
Mrs. Barrington had supplied the other side.
"I suppose there is a certain kind of gratification in belonging to an
old and respected family. Major Crawford's family could go back even of
their first settling in America, and the madam was a proud old
Virginian with a fortune, but she wanted only one son, and she had three
and one daughter. All her love and pride was in her first born who was
indulged in every thing and led a gay life. The youngest died, Everard
went to West Point and entered the regular army. Reginald took the best
of life and became a capricious invalid, as penurious as he had been
wasteful before, and died about the time of the accident. The madam had
been dead some years. So all of Crawford House and its belongings came
to the Major, who had married one of the loveliest of girls. You have
heard that part of the story from Mrs. Barrington, doubtless. She was
one of the earlier scholars."
"Yes," replied Lilian. "She admires her, beside loving her for the
bravery with which, she bore the dreadful accident."
"I think when the word came, if prayers could have availed for the
safety of the child, the whole town would have prayed, and to think that
God should have saved you and restored you in this strange manner."
Edith glanced across the table. Lilian's eyes were suffused with tears.
"Miss Crawford had looked after the house, as the mother spent much of
the time in the city with Reginald. She was very fond of gayeties, and
her sudden death was a great surprise for she seemed vigorous enough to
round out the century. Miss Kate took charge of little Zay while her
mother was on the journey and through those years spent in hospitals and
sanitoriums. She has been most devoted, refusing several good offers of
marriage, but I suppose Mrs. Barrington has told you most of the family
history."
"She is very fond of my mother and her girl life, her early married life
as well, and she fancied at the very first that I resembled some one she
had known."
"There is something in the poise of the head and the shape of your chest
and shoulders, that is like her, and it won't hurt you if I say she was
an extremely handsome girl. Even Reginald admitted that."
"And I am not handsome," Lilian said bravely, though with a little pang.
It had never mattered to her before. Then she turned scarlet and added
with an embarrassed laugh: "That sounds like what the girls call fishing
for compliments. Zaidee will be the family beauty."
"And you have a voice, that with the proper training, may be very fine,
indeed. I noticed it this morning in the hymn."
"Oh, do you think so? I love to sing," and her face was a-light with
pleasure. "But it seems to me that it isn't, well--neither alto nor
soprano; I can't keep it to a true sound."
"It is a contralto and has some most expressive notes in it. Of course,
you will be trained in music."
"Mrs. Barrington spoke of it in the next term. Some of the girls sing
beautifully. I was to take up several new studies. Oh, there are so many
splendid things to learn."
Her face was aglow with enthusiasm and gave promise of something finer
than mere beauty. There had been a good deal of repression in her life
since she had come to understand, in a measure, her own desires. She had
held them back because she did not want to make Mrs. Boyd unhappy with
the difference between them, when she saw that the elder woman was
making any effort to indulge her fancies, and during these months at
school had settled to a grave deportment, that she might better sustain
her authority. The lack of spontaneity had puzzled Mrs. Barrington, when
in some moments she caught the ardor and glow of an inward possibility.
"I think you will be in the right place now," remarked Edith with a
smile. "One with a strong individuality at times surmounts adverse
circumstances, but when there are so many events to hamper, one does
lose courage and begins to question whether the effort and sacrifice
will pay for the late reward."
"Oh, let me have Miss Lilian awhile," besought Claire. "I want her to
inspect my playhouse, while you and mother put away the dishes and
things."
The playhouse was an old time cabinet with the doors taken off. One
shelf, the highest, was full of curiosities, the next of books, the
third left out and the dolls had it to themselves. There was a parlor in
one end, a sleeping room in the other and three pretty dolls were in
their chairs, ranged round a table, inspecting their Christmas gifts.
"I wouldn't have any new dolls this time," she began, with a touch of
weariness in her voice. "For after all you can't make them real. I play
school with them. I read them stories. I dress them and take them out
riding, but I have to do the talking for them and sometimes it gets so
dull. There's too much make-believe. I shall be glad when summer comes
and there won't be any bad boys next door. What do you suppose God did
with them? They couldn't like heaven, you know, for there they have to
be good all the time. And there are so many beautiful things in summer.
The birds and the flowers and the trees waving about and the sky so full
of mysterious things. Great islands go sailing about and I wish I was on
one of them. I get so tired, sometimes. I don't suppose I'll ever have
any strong back and legs until I do get to heaven. But I'd like to go
about in this world. I want a fairy godmother; that is it."
She gave a little laugh but there were tears in her eyes.
"And you've found a fairy godmother, haven't you? She is real, too, and
lives in a beautiful big house and has a fairy child with golden curls.
Oh, I wonder if she would have been glad to have you if you had been all
bruised and broken and could never walk----"
"Oh, don't," cried Lilian. Would they have been glad to have her?
"Now, tell me about when you were a little girl and went to the stores
to buy things for your mother and played 'Ring around a rosy,' and 'Open
the gate as high as the sky.'"
The child's voice and manner had changed like a flash. She liked
Lilian's make-believe stories in some moods; then she wanted real
children and their doings, children who wiped dishes and swept floors
while their mothers sewed or cared for a little baby in the cradle. And
the petty disputes, the spending of a penny in candy and dividing it
round.
"They couldn't all have pennies I suppose," the child commented.
"Their mothers were too poor," laughed Lilian, thinking how seldom she
had the pleasure of being a spendthrift. And if she were ever so rich
what could she do for Claire?
So they talked on and on until Edith came and said a young gentleman had
called for Lilian--her brother.
She went through to the parlor. Yes, it was Willard, bright and smiling
as if glad to see her.
"But how did you know I was here?" she asked.
"Oh, I was at Mrs. Barrington's, and we had a long talk about you. Then
she directed me. It is getting towards night and our beautiful day shows
symptoms of coming rain."
Yes, it did. She had been so interested in Claire she had not noted the
change.
"So I think you had better allow me to escort you home, at least--oh, I
wish it were to your real home. Think, what an evening we would have
together, and I've only three days more. I have to start Wednesday
evening and report on Thursday. Well, will you give me the pleasure?"
He rose then, and bending over, kissed her.
"I'd like you to meet my friends----"
"Well--for a moment."
Mrs. Trenham and Edith came in.
"Just say a quiet good-bye to Claire," Edith whispered. "She is
curiously upset about something."
The slim arms clung to Lilian.
"Oh, will they let you come again? Edith said it would all be different
and your new mother would want you, and--and--" the child ended with a
sob.
"Of course I shall come again, and again, little sweetheart," kissing
her.
"Oh, what a pretty name! I love you."
"And you will soon see me again."
Willard stood with his hat in his hand in a waiting attitude, tall and
manly, the fine face marked by a certain pride of birth, of culture, and
the inherited grace of generations. The deep, outlooking eyes spoke of
strength of character with a vein of tenderness, and the smiling mouth
of affability. Yet it struck her that he did not seem to belong to the
plain little parlor and it almost appeared as if he dwarfed the two
women, a feeling she could not help resenting inwardly.
They made their adieus in a friendly manner. Yes, the bright day had
settled to the threatening of storm. The air was heavy and murky and cut
with the promise of coming sleet. Willard drew the girl's hand through
his arm and they caught step.
"I am glad you are going to be tall," he said. "You have all the
indications, the figure and the air. It runs in mother's line as well as
that of the Crawfords."
"I am taller than--than your sister," rather hesitatingly.
"Than _your_ sister, as well. Oh, Marguerite, I hope you two will come
to love each other dearly. Then there will be Vincent. We two boys have
been such chums."
"It is strange to have a new name," she said slowly, yet it was more to
her fancy.
"Do you like the old one better?" as if in a little doubt.
"I didn't like it very much, and I remember when I rebelled against
Lily. It seemed such a sing-song king of a name. It's sweet and pretty,
too, Lilian Boyd gave it more character."
"You were named for Mother, but father did not want them quite alike.
Her name was Margaret, and father used to say to her--
'Oh, fair Margaret,
Oh, rare Margaret,
Where got you the name of strength and beauty?'"
Would she be dearer to her father on account of her name?
"And Zaidee?" she said, in a suggestive tone.
"Oh, I believe it was from a story that had been a great favorite with
my mother, and it does just suit Zay. She is so light and airy and
butterfly-like. Why, she seems about two years younger than you. I'm
glad there isn't any puzzle about telling you apart. She's sweet and gay
and loving and I suppose we've all spoiled her. Aunt Kate thinks she's
the loveliest thing in the world, and she has just devoted her life to
the child. Aunt Kate is as good as gold, a stickler for some things and
she's always been splendid to mother. But she's great on family. She
can't cry _you_ down, because you belong to us."
"But I've been on the other side all my life, and--" yes, she would say
this--"Mrs. Boyd's health was so broken that if it had not been for Mrs.
Barrington's kind offer I must have given up school and gone into a
factory; and began to repay her for her kindly care of me."
She felt the curious sort of shrinking that passed over him.
"But you didn't," he said, decisively. "And if she had let you
alone----"
"But she was sure my mother was dead. Oh, nothing can ever make me
forget her tender, devoted love. I cannot bear to have her blamed."
"But you must not dispute the matter with father. Let it all go since it
has turned out so fortunately. I love you for your courage in standing
by her, but there are many things you will learn--beliefs and usages of
society. I don't mean simply money. We Crawfords have no vulgarity with
a gold veneer; and, my dear girl, you may tell all your life with Mrs.
Boyd over to mother, indeed, I think she will want to know it all;
but--be careful about Aunt Kate--"
"And I _was_ the caretaker's daughter at Mrs. Barrington's. Oh, I have
seen some snobbishness among what you call well-born girls. I am not a
whit better or finer than I was a month ago, when I expected to work my
way up to a good salary and strive earnestly for everything I had; and
Mrs. Barrington would have helped me and been really proud of my
success."
"What a spirit you have!"
"I shall never be a snob," she flung out, proudly.
"I do not intend to be one myself. Oh, don't let us dispute these
points. We all learn a good deal as we go along life. And, my dear, love
us all as truly as you loved your foster mother. Oh, I wonder if you can
ever understand your own mother's joy at having you back--"
"Which she owes largely to Mrs. Boyd. Suppose she had died without
this--this explanation?"
"Even she understood that you did not belong in her walk of life. She
saw the difference and that made her feel she might have deprived you of
something better, that she could not give you."
That was true enough. But just now she was Lilian Boyd and angry, though
she could not satisfy herself that she had a perfect right to this
unreasonableness. So she made no reply.
"Oh, Marguerite, don't be vexed with me. We shall not see each other for
a long while, and I want to carry away with me the knowledge that you
are very happy in your new home. You will have so many pleasures,
interests; you will be loved; oh, you must be loving, as well. Let the
past go as a strange dream."
"It can never be a dream to me," she returned, decisively. "A thing you
have lived through is stamped on your brain. I would not, if I could,
dismiss it."
"Then I think that other love and care will make as deep an impression
on your mind. Good-night, my dear sister, and best wishes for a happy
tomorrow."
He kissed her fondly and turned away. She looked after him with a
swelling heart.
When the door was opened, she flew up to her room and girl fashion, went
straight to the mirror. Generally she had very little color, now her
cheeks bloomed like roses and her eyes were brilliant, something more, a
light she had never seen in them; and, yes, her scarlet lips were shut,
with dimples in the corners. Then she laughed, half in anger, half in a
mood she had never known before, it was compounded of so many varieties.
At Laconia, she had known several pretty school girls but they had
golden hair and lovely blue eyes. It was odd, but she had always liked
the word cerulean so much. And her eyes were almost black when anything
moved her deeply. She had not thought much of beauty applied to herself.
"I am glad we don't look alike," she mused. "I am willing to be plainer,
and if I had some great gift--perhaps my voice might be cultivated. But
I mean never to be ashamed of that past life. Oh, what would Willard say
if he knew I had carried bundles back and forth and done errands for the
dressmaker! Well I must keep that part locked in my own heart. Poor
mamma Boyd, I'm glad you never understood the difference. I wish I had
loved you better."
She bathed her face and took off her cloth dress, putting on one of some
light material Mrs. Barrington had given her awhile before. Then she
went down stairs just as the summons for dinner sounded. Mrs. Barrington
met her in the hall with a smile.
"Did you have a nice day? And did your brother find you?"
"Yes, I enjoyed it very much. And--we walked back together. He leaves on
Wednesday night."
"And is very sorry to go. He is so interested in you. I wish he could
remain longer, but he has the true sailor heart."
Lilian felt suddenly ashamed of her anger. Of course the whole family
must look at it from that point of view, which was not hers. And having
a brother was such a new thing to her. She had not been thrown much with
boys. Her books had been her dearest companions.
They all went to the drawing room afterward and had a pleasant talk
about the day and its duties. It softened Lilian's heart strangely.
After that some almost divine music, it seemed to her, and her thoughts
were lifted above distracting reflections.
The girls sang also. Several of them had very good voices but the best
singers were away. Lilian was not afraid tonight, but let her voice
swell out as she had in church this morning, and it surprised even
herself.
When they said good-night to each other Mr. Barrington led her to her
own pretty sitting room.
"I have hardly seen you today," she began, "and though your change will
not separate us altogether and is so immeasurably to your advantage, I
want you to know that I had some plans for your future revolving in my
mind. I meant to have matters on a different basis when we began the new
term. I did not think Mrs. Boyd would live through the winter, and as
you know, I promised to care for you. You will make a fine linguist, and
that is quite a gift for a woman. Then I have been interested in your
voice. You sang with much power and beauty tonight. It is not the
ordinary girlish voice."
"Miss Trenham said it was a contralto. I don't know the difference
between that and an alto. Of course, I sang in school at Laconia, and
took quite a part in the closing exercises. But no one seemed to
think--and I couldn't manage it always--" pausing lest she might say too
much.
"It wants cultivation, and I believe has some fine probabilities. I have
spoken to Mr. Reinhart about giving you private lessons in the new
term."
"Oh, how good you are! I could almost wish----" and she clasped the hand
nearest her.
"No, don't wish anything beyond what has happened. In spite of all the
love and tenderness lavished upon Mrs. Crawford, it was a continual
regret that she should have taken you on that ill-fated journey.
Charming as Zaidee is, she was always wondering what you would have
been like. I think you will not disappoint her. You have been in a
trying position for a girl of your ambition and temperament. I think you
might have accepted some proffers without much hurt to your pride, but
you know now you are on an equality with the best, and though many of
these distinctions are much to be regretted, we cannot change the world.
The change must be in ourselves, the grace and kindliness that shapes
the character to finer and higher issues. But if you had been Mrs.
Boyd's daughter, I think there would have been a very promising future
before you. I know you would have tried your utmost to succeed in the
two lines I have indicated; and now they will be accomplishments. Mrs.
Crawford was a fine linguist and has brightened many an hour with
intellectual pursuits. I am more than glad that you will be so
companionable, but I cannot give up my interest in you, and I want you
to feel that you will be, in part, a daughter to me."
Lilian bent her head down on Mrs. Barrington's shoulder and cried
softly, touched to the inmost heart by the affection she had hardly
dreamed she had won.
"There are no quite perfect lives even if there is a great deal of
love," the lady continued. "We learn to limit our wants and expectations
by what others have to give us, and it is by loving that we learn to
live truly, though many shrines get despoiled of ideals as we go along
in youth; but as we retrace our steps with years and experience we find
God has put something better in them. I want you to come to me with any
difficulty that can be confided outside of the family circle. But your
mother must be your best friend; and now, dear, good-night."
Lilian returned the kiss, but her heart was too full for words. Tomorrow
she would belong somewhere else, have new duties. Oh, could she take
them up in the right spirit?