GRACE SUFFICIENT.
MRS. MORGAN, senior, with her long check apron, reaching to within an
inch of the hem of her dress, her sleeves rolled to her elbow, her arms
akimbo, stood in the kitchen door, and regarded Dorothy with an air of
mute astonishment for about two minutes, then her thoughts found vent
in words:—
"And did she invite him to tea her own self?"
"Yes," said Dorothy, a curious mixture of satisfaction and glumness in
her tones; "she did, with her own lips. I didn't say a word, and Lewis
wasn't there; he was talking with Deacon Spalding, just behind us; and
John didn't speak, of course, till he spoke to him."
"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Morgan; then, after a somewhat lengthy
pause, "Seems to me she is taking things into her own hands most
amazing fast: nothing but a stranger herself, and gone to inviting
company! Without even waiting to see if it would be convenient, either!
There's extra work, too. I suppose, though, she thinks she can sit in
the front room and entertain him, and we can do the work."
"I s'pose she is so used to company that she don't think anything about
it, and doesn't know that other folks do. It isn't a dreadful thing to
have the minister come to tea; for my part, I'm glad he is coming."
After this sudden marvellous outburst from Dorothy, her mother turned
and surveyed her again, in bewildered fashion. Who had ever before
heard Dorothy express an outright opinion contrary to her mother's?
While she was meditating how to treat this strange development, the
hall door opened, and Louise, broom and dust-pan in hand, a quaint
little sweeping-cap set on her head, appeared on the scene. She dashed
into the subject in mind at once:—
"Mother, has Dorothy mentioned that Mr. Butler is coming to tea? We
didn't think about the extra ironing or we might have chosen some other
night.—Why didn't you remind me, Dorrie?—You must let me do all the
extra work, to pay for my carelessness. I have come down now to put the
front room in order; or shall I help in the kitchen first?"
What was a woman to do who had managed her own household with a high
hand for more than thirty years, thus unceremoniously taken by storm?
She turned her gaze from Dorothy to Louise, and stood regarding her for
a second, as if in no doubt what to say; then, with a bitterness of
tone that Louise did not in the least understand, said—
"Do just exactly what you please; which I guess is what you are in the
habit of doing, without asking permission."
Then she dashed into the outer kitchen, and set up such a clatter with
the pots and kettles there that she surely could not have overheard a
word had many been said.
Louise, with honest heart, desiring to do what was right, was by no
means infallible, and yet was quick-witted she discovered that she had
blundered. It flashed before her that Mother Morgan thought she was
trying to rule the household and reorganize the home society—trying,
indeed, to put her, the mother, aside. Nothing had been further from
her thoughts. She stood transfixed for a moment, the rich blood rolling
in waves over her fair face at thought of this rude repulse of her
cheery effort to play that she was at home and act accordingly. It was
as Dorothy said: she was so accustomed to the familiar sentence, "Come
in and take tea," that it fell from her lips as a matter of course;
especially had she been one of those trained to a cordial heartiness
as regarded her pastor. Her invitation to Mr. Butler had been
unpremeditated, and, she now believed, unwise. Yet how strange a sense
of loneliness and actual homesickness swept over her as she realized
this. How difficult it was to step at all! How she must guard her words
and her ways; how sure she might be of giving offence when nothing
in her past experience could foreshadow such an idea to her! Was it
possible that in her husband's home she was not to feel free to extend
hospitalities when and where she chose? Could she ever hope to grow
accustomed to such a trammelled life? She stood still in the spot where
her mother-in-law had transfixed her—the dust-pan balanced nicely, that
none of its contents might escape; the broom being swayed back and
forth slowly by a hand that trembled a little; the fair, pink-trimmed
cambric sweeping-cap, that was so becoming to her, and so useful in
shielding her hair from dust, heightening now the flush on her face. If
she had but known it, in the new mother's eyes that sweeping-cap was
one of her many sins.
"The idea of prinking up in a frilled cap to sweep!" had that lady
exclaimed, the first time she saw it, and she drove the coarse comb
through her thin gray hair as she spoke, regardless of the fact that
much dust had settled in it from that very morning's sweeping.
"It keeps her hair clean, I'm sure," had Dorothy interposed; "and you
are always for keeping things most dreadfully clean."
"Clean!" had the mother exclaimed, vexed again, at she hardly knew
what; "so will a good washing in soap and water, and look less
ridiculous besides. What do you catch me up in that way for whenever I
say anything? Attend to the dishes, and don't waste your time talking
about hair; and if you ever stick such a prinked-up thing on your head
as that, I'll box your ears."
What could there have been in the little pink cap to have driven the
mother into such a state? She rarely indulged in loud-voiced sentences.
It was unfortunate for Louise that this episode had occurred but a
short time before; and it was fortunate for her that she did not and
could not guess what the innocent cap, made by Estelle's deft fingers,
had to do with Mrs. Morgan's state of mind. Had she known that such
a very trifle had power over the new mother's nerves, it might have
appalled her. We grieve sometimes that we cannot know other people's
hearts, and foresee what would please and what would irritate.
Sometimes in our blindness we feel as if that certainly would have been
the wiser way; yet I doubt if Louise's courage would not have utterly
forsaken her could she have seen the heart of her husband's mother as
she rattled the pots and kettles in the outer kitchen. Hearts calm
down wonderfully sometimes; what need then to know of their depths
while at boiling-point? But what sights must the all-seeing God look
down upon—sights, in tenderness, shut away from the gaze of his weak
children.
Poor Louise! It was such a little thing, and she felt so ashamed for
allowing herself to be ruffled. Several states of feeling seemed
knocking for admittance. She almost wished that she could go to that
outer kitchen and slam the door after her, and set the dust-pan down
hard before the cross lady, and say to her,—
"There! take your broom and your dust-pan, and do your own sweeping up
in John's room after this, and let Lewis and me go home to mother. You
are not a mother at all; the name does not fit you. I know what the
word means; I have had a mother all my life, and I begin to think Lewis
has never had."
What if she should say something like that? What a commotion she could
make! It was not that she had the least idea of saying it; it was
simply that she felt, "What if I should?"—Satan's earliest and most
specious form, oftentimes, of presenting a temptation. Also, there was
that unaccountable tendency to a burst of tears; she felt as though
she could hardly keep them back, even with Dorothy's gray eyes looking
keenly at her. Just a little minute served for all these states of
feeling to surge by; then Dorothy broke the silence, roused out of her
timidity by a struggling sense of injustice.
"You mustn't mind what mother says; she speaks out sometimes sharp.
Anybody who didn't know her would think she was angry, but she isn't;
it is just her way. She isn't used to company either, and it kind of
flurries her; but she will be real glad to have had Mr. Butler here
after it is all over."
Such a sudden rush of feeling as came to Louise, borne on the current
of these words—words which she knew cost Dorothy an effort, for she
had been with her long enough, and watched her closely enough, to
realize what a painful hold timidity had gotten on her. But these
eager, swiftly-spoken words, so unlike her usual hesitation, evinced a
kindly tenderness of feeling for Louise herself that the lonely young
wife reached after and treasured gratefully. The tears rolled down her
cheeks, it is true—they had gotten too near the surface to control, and
were determined for once to have their way; but she looked through them
with a smile at Dorothy, nay, she set down her dust-pan suddenly and
dropped her broom, and went over to the astonished girl and kissed her
heartily.
"Thank you," she said brightly, "you good sister Dorrie; you have
helped me ever so much. Of course mother doesn't mean to scold me;
and if she did, mothers are privileged, and should be loved so much
that little scoldings can be taken gratefully, especially when they
are deserved, as mine is. I ought to have asked her whether it would
be convenient to have company. But never mind; we'll make the best of
it, and have a good time all round. And, Dorothy, let us be real true
sisters, and help each other, and lore each other. I miss my sister
Estelle."
It was the last word she dared trust herself to speak; those
treacherous tears desired again to choke her. She turned abruptly from
Dorothy and ran upstairs, leaving the dust-pan a central ornament of
the kitchen floor. Hidden in the privacy of her own room, the door
locked on the world below, Louise sat down in the little home-rocker
and did what would have thoroughly alarmed her own mother because of
its unusualness—buried her head in her hands and let the tears have
their way.
She had managed to control herself before Dorothy, to smile brightly on
her, and to feel a thrill of joy over the thought that she had touched
that young person's heart. But all this did not keep her from being
thoroughly roused and indignant toward her mother-in-law. What right
had she to treat her as though she were an interloper? Was not she the
wife of the eldest son, who toiled early and late, bearing burdens
at least equal to, if not greater than, his father? "What that woman
needs," said a strong, decided voice in her ear, "is to realize that
there are other people in this world beside herself. She has been a
tyrant all her life. She manages everybody; she thinks she can manage
you. It is for her good as well as your own that you undeceive her. You
owe it to your self-respect to go directly down to that outer kitchen,
where she is banging the kettles around, and say to her that you must
have an understanding. Are you one of the family, with rights, as a
married daughter, to invite and receive guests as suits your pleasure,
or are you a boarder simply?—in which case you are entirely willing to
pay for the trouble which your guests may make."
Every nerve in Louise's body seemed to be throbbing with the desire
to help her carry out this advice. It was not merely the sting of
the morning, but an accumulation of stings which she felt had been
gathering ever since she came into the house. But who was the bold
adviser? It startled this young woman not a little to realize that her
heart was wonderfully in accord with his suggestions. As usual, there
was war between him and another unseen force. Said that other,—
"It is a trying position, to be sure. You have many little things to
bear, and it is quite probable, your life having been so shielded
heretofore, that they seem to you great trials. But, you will remember,
I never promised you should not be tried; I only pledged myself that
your strength should be equal to your day. And, really, there has no
temptation taken you but such as is common to men. And I am faithful: I
will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able."
Surely she knew this voice, and recognized this message sent to her so
long ago, and proved true to her experience so many times.
"But," said that other one, "you really are not called upon to endure
insults. It is a perfectly absurd position. If you had gone out
as a home missionary, or were among uncouth people who had had no
advantages, and to whom you were not in any sense related, it would
do to talk of bearing trials; but in this case what right have your
husband's family to put trials of this sort upon you? You have a
perfect right to please yourself, and they ought to know it."
"Yes," said that other voice, "there are undoubtedly some things that
they ought to know; but then 'even Christ pleased not himself.'"
"But it is so absurd! She is evidently vexed because you have invited
her own pastor to take tea with her—the most natural and reasonable
thing in the world. She ought to want him to come. The idea of having
trouble over such a trifle as that!"
"Yes; but, after all, are there not two sides to even that? How did you
know but it would be extremely inconvenient for your new mother to see
her pastor just at the time you set?"
"I never thought of such a thing. In our house it was always convenient
to see people."
"Why not tell her that you didn't think of it, omitting the reference
to the different conditions of your own home? Because, you know, you
never like to have people suggest uncomplimentary comparisons to you;
therefore, by the rule which you profess to have accepted, you must not
hint them to others."
"But," said that other one, "it is an unnecessary humiliation for you
to go to her and apologize, as though you had done something wrong.
The idea! You should certainly have some regard to your position.
Because you came here full of schemes for usefulness, eager to do her
good, is no reason why you should tamely submit to such treatment as
this—least of all, offer an apology for what you had no idea would be
disagreeable; besides, you almost apologized, and how did she receive
it?"
Then that other voice,—
"Remember the word that I said unto you—'The servant is not greater
than his lord.'"
And straightway there surged over Louise Morgan's soul such a sense of
"remembrance" of that other's patience, and meekness, and forgiveness,
and humiliation, such a remembrance of his thirty years of sorrowful
cross-bearing for her, that there surely was verified to her another
of the promises: "He shall bring all things to your remembrance."
Moreover, her eyes being opened by the searching Spirit, she saw who
that counsellor was, with his suggestion of self-respect and wounded
dignity and position—always at variance with that other one, always
directly contradicting, always eagerly putting "self" between Christ
and his work. The tears came down in showers; but they were shed in a
lowly attitude, for this troubled young soul sank on her knees.
"O Christ," she said, "thou didst conquer him years ago. He desires to
have me; but, thou mighty One, bid him leave me, for thou art pledged
that thou wilt with the temptation provide a way of escape. And now,
dear Christ, help me to show such a spirit of meekness and unfaltering
cheerfulness of spirit before Lewis's mother that she shall be led, not
to me, but to thyself."
It was a very peaceful face which presented itself in the kitchen not
many moments thereafter, and the voice that spoke seemed to Dorothy,
who looked on and listened, the very essence of the morning sunshine.
"Mother, it was certainly very careless in me to invite anybody to tea
without first learning whether it would be convenient for you. If you
will forgive me this time I won't do it a 'bit more.' That is what my
little sister says when she gets into trouble. Now, I want to know if
you will let me hang some of my pictures in the parlour; I've been
unpacking them, and I don't know what to do with half of them."
"Of course," said Mother Morgan. "Fix the parlour as you want it. It
never was called a parlour before in its life; but I daresay that is
as good a name as any. The extra ironing is no consequence anyhow; we
always have enough to eat. He might as well come to-day as any time,
for all I know."
Then she dashed out at that end door again, and set the outer kitchen
door open, and stood in it looking off toward the snowy hills. Nobody
over apologized to her before; it gave her a queer feeling.
"Well," said Dorothy, addressing the dust-pan after Louise had vanished
again, "I never could have said that in the world. After what mother
said to her too. I don't care; I like her first-rate. There now."