God who brought her into favor and tender love, as he did Daniel; and
rather more depended upon her praying and fasting than upon her beautiful
face."
"Then you mean that beauty goes for a great deal with the world and not
with God?"
"One of Jesse's sons was so tall and handsome that Samuel thought surely
the Lord had chosen him to be king over his people. Do you remember
what the Lord said about that?"
"Not quite."
"He said: 'Look not on his countenance or the height of his stature,
because I have refused him; for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man
looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart!'"
"Then it does make a difference to man."
"It seems as if it made a difference to Samuel; and the Lord declares
that man is influenced by the outward appearance. Well, now, taking it
for granted from the Lord's own words, what then?"
"Then it is rather hard not to be beautiful, isn't it?"
"Genius makes a difference; is it rather hard not to be a genius? Money
makes a difference; is it rather hard not to be rich? Position makes a
difference; is it rather hard not to be noble?"
"I never thought about those things. They give you advantage in the
world; but beauty makes people love you."
"What kind of beauty?"
"Lovable beauty," confessed Marjorie, smiling, feeling that she was being
cornered.
"What makes lovable beauty?"
"A lovable heart, I suppose."
"Then I shouldn't wonder if you might have it as well as another. Is
Clarissa Parks more loved than any one in your class?"
"Oh, no. She is not a favorite at all."
"Then, child, I don't see that you are proving your assertion."
"I know I'm not," laughed Marjorie. "Clarissa Parks is engaged; but so is
Fanny Hunting, and Fanny is the plainest little body. But I did begin by
really believing that beautiful faces had the best of it in the world,
and I was feeling rather aggrieved because somebody described me
yesterday as 'that girl in the first class who is always getting up head;
she is short and rather stout and wears her hair in a knot at the back of
her head?' Now wasn't that humiliating? Not a word about my eyes or
complexion or manner!"
Miss Prudence laughed at her comically aggrieved tone.
"It is hard to be nothing distinctive but short and stout and to wear
your hair in a knot, as your grandmother does! But the getting up head is
something."
"It doesn't add to my beauty. Miss Prudence, I'm afraid I'll be a homely
blue stocking. And if I don't teach, how shall I use my knowledge? I
cannot write a book, or even articles for the papers; and I must do
something with the things I learn."
"Every educated lady does not teach or write."
"You do not," answered Marjorie, thoughtfully; "only you teach Prue. And
I think it increases your influence, Miss Prudence. How much you have
taught Linnet and me!"
"I'm thinking about two faces I saw the other night at Mrs. Harrowgate's
tea table. Both were strangers to me. As the light fell over the face of
one I thought I never saw anything so exquisite as to coloring: the hair
was shining like threads of gold; the eyes were the azure you see in the
sky; lips and cheeks were tinted; the complexion I never saw excelled for
dazzling fairness,--we see it in a child's face, sometimes. At her side
sat a lady: older, with a quiet, grave face; complexion dark and not
noticeable; hair the brown we see every day; eyes brown and expressive,
but not finer than we often see. Something about it attracted me from her
bewitching neighbor, and I looked and compared. One face was quiet,
listening; the other was sparkling as she talked. The grave dark face
grew upon me; it was not a face, it was a soul, a human life with a
history. The lovely face was lovely still, but I do not care to see it
again; the other I shall not soon forget."
"But it was beauty you saw," persisted Marjorie.
"Not the kind you girls were talking about. A stranger passing through
the room would not have noticed her beside the other. The lovely face has
a history, I was told after supper, and she is a girl of character."
"Still--I wish--story books would not dwell so much on attitudes; and how
the head sets on the shoulders; and the pretty hands and slender figures.
It makes girls think of their hands and their figures. It makes this girl
I know not wrap up carefully for fear of losing her 'slender' figure. And
the eyelashes and the complexion! It makes us dissatisfied with
ourselves."
"The Lord knew what kind of books would be written when he said that man
looketh on the out ward appearance--"
"But don't Christian writers ever do it?"
"Christian writers fall into worldly ways. There are lovely girls and
lovely women in the world; we meet them every day. But if we think of
beauty, and write of it, and exalt it unduly, we are making a use of it
that God does not approve; a use that he does not make of it himself. How
beauty and money are scattered everywhere. God's saints are not the
richest and most beautiful. He does not lavish beauty and money upon
those he loves the best. I called last week on an Irish washerwoman and I
was struck with the beauty of her girls--four of them, the eldest
seventeen, the youngest six. The eldest had black eyes and black curls;
the second soft brown eyes and soft brown curls to match; the third curls
of gold, as pretty as Prue's, and black eyes; the youngest blue eyes and
yellow curls. I never saw such a variety of beauty in one family. The
mother was at the washtub, the oldest daughter was ironing, the second
getting supper of potatoes and indian meal bread, the third beauty was
brushing the youngest beauty's hair. As I stood and looked at them I
thought, how many girls in this city would be vain if they owned their
eyes and hair, and how God had thrown the beauty down among them who had
no thought about it. He gives beauty to those who hate him and use it to
dishonor him, just as he gives money to those who spend it in sinning. I
almost think, that he holds cheaply those two things the world prizes so
highly; money and beauty."
After a moment Marjorie said: "I do not mean to live for the world."
"And you do not sigh for beauty?" smiled Miss Prudence.
"No, not really. But I do want to be something beside short and stout,
with my hair in a knot."
The fun in her eyes did not conceal the vexation.
"Miss Prudence, it's hard to care only for the things God cares about,"
she said, earnestly.
"Yes, very hard."
"I think _you_ care only for such things. You are not worldly one single
bit."
"I do not want to be--one single bit."
"I know you do give up things. But you have so much; you have the best
things. I don't want things you have given up. I think God cares for the
things you care for."
"I hope he does," said Miss Prudence, gently. "Marjorie, if he has given
you a plain face give it back to him to glorify himself with; if a
beautiful face, give that back to him to glorify himself with. You are
not your own; your face is not yours; it is bought with a price."
Marjorie's face was radiant just then. The love, the surprise, the joy,
made it beautiful.
Miss Prudence could not forbear, she drew the beautiful face down to kiss
it.
"People will always call you plain, dear, but keep your soul in your
face, and no matter."
"Can I help Deborah now? Or isn't there something for me to do upstairs?
I can study and practice this afternoon."
"I don't believe you will. Look out in the path."
Marjorie looked, then with a shout that was almost like Linnet's she
dropped her work, and sprang towards the door.
For there stood Linnet herself, in the travelling dress Marjorie had seen
her last in; not older or graver, but with her eyes shining like stars,
ready to jump into Marjorie's arms.
How Miss Prudence enjoyed the girls' chatter. Marjorie wheeled a chair to
the grate for Linnet, and then, having taken her wraps, kneeled down
on the rug beside her and leaned both elbows on the arm of her chair.
How fast she asked questions, and how Linnet talked and laughed and
brushed a tear away now and then! Was there ever so much to tell before?
Miss Prudence had her questions to ask; and Morris' mother, who had been
coaxed to come in to the grate, steamer chair and all, had many questions
to ask about her boy.
Marjorie was searching her through and through to discover if marriage
and travel had changed her; but, no, she was the same happy, laughing
Linnet; full of bright talk and funny ways of putting things, with the
same old attitudes and the same old way of rubbing Marjorie's fingers as
she talked. Marriage had not spoiled her. But had it helped her? That
could not be decided in one hour or two.
When she was quiet there was a sweeter look about her mouth than there
had ever used to be; and there was an assurance, no, it was not so
strong as that, there was an ease of manner, that she had brought home
with her. Marjorie was more her little sister that ever.
Marjorie laughed to herself because everything began with Linnet's
husband and ended in him: the stories about Genoa seemed to consist in
what Will said and did; Will was the attraction of Naples and the summit
of Mt. Vesuvius; the run down to Sicily and the glimpse of Vesuvius were
somehow all mingled with Will's doings; the stories about the priest at
Naples were all how he and Will spent hours and hours together comparing
their two Bibles; and the tract the priest promised to translate into
Italian was "The Amiable Louisa" that Will had chosen; and, when the
priest said he would have to change the title to suit his readers, Will
had suggested "A Moral Tale." This priest was confessor to a noble family
in the suburbs; and once, when driving out to confess them, had taken
Will with him, and both had stayed to lunch. The priest had given them
his address, and Will had promised to write to him; he had brought her
what he called his "paintings," from his "studio," and she had pinned
them up in her little parlor; they were painted on paper and were not
remarkable evidences of genius. Not quite the old masters, although
painted in Italy by an Italian. His English was excellent; he was
expecting to come to America some day. A sea captain in Brooklyn had a
portrait of him in oil, and when Miss Prudence went to New York she must
call and see it; Morris and he were great friends. That naughty Will had
asked him one day if he never wished to marry, and he had colored so,
poor fellow, and said, 'It is better to live for Christ.' And Will had
said he hoped he lived for Christ, too. The priest had a smooth face and
a little round spot shaven on top of his head. She used to wish Marjorie
might see that little round spot.
And the pilot, they had such a funny pilot! When anything was passed him
at the table, or you did him a favor, he said "thank you" in Italian
and in English.
And how they used to walk the little deck! And the sunsets! She had to
confess that she did not see one sunrise till they were off Sandy Hook
coming home. But the moonlight on the water was most wonderful of all!
That golden ladder rising and falling in the sea! They used to look at it
and talk about home and plan what she would do in that little house.
She used to be sorry for Morris; but he did not seem lonesome: he was
always buried in a book at leisure times; and he said he would be sailing
over the seas with his wife some day.
"Morris is so _good_" she added. "Sometimes he has reminded me of the
angels who came down to earth as young men."
"I think he was a Christian before he was seven years old," said his
mother.
At night Marjorie said, when she conducted Linnet up to her chamber, that
they would go back to the blessed old times, and build castles, and
forget that Linnet was married and had crossed the ocean.
"I'm living in my castle now," returned Linnet. "I don't want to build
any more. And this is lovelier than any we ever built."
Marjorie looked at her, but she did not speak her thought; she almost
wished that she might "grow up," and be happy in Linnet's way.
With a serious face Linnet lay awake after Marjorie had fallen asleep,
thinking over and over Miss Prudence's words when she bade her
goodnight:--
"It is an experience to be married, Linnet; for God holds your two lives
as one, and each must share his will for the other; if joyful, it is
twice as joyful; if hard, twice as hard."
"Yes," she had replied, "Will says we are _heirs together_ of the grace
of life."
XXI.
MORRIS AGAIN.
"Overshadow me, O Lord,
With the comfort of thy wings."
Marjorie stood before the parlor grate; it was Saturday afternoon, and
she was dressed for travelling--not for a long journey, for she was only
going home to remain over Sunday and Monday, Monday being Washington's
Birthday, and a holiday. She had seen Linnet those few days that she
visited them on her return from her voyage, and her father and mother not
once since she came to Maple Street in September. She was hungry for
home; she said she was almost starving.
"I wish you a very happy time," said Miss Prudence as she opened
Marjorie's pocketbook to drop a five-dollar bill into its emptiness.
"I know it will be a happy time," Marjorie affirmed; "but I shall think
of you and Prue, and want to be here, too."
"I wish I could go, too," said Prue, dancing around her with Marjorie's
shawl strap in her hand.
There was a book for her father in the shawl strap, "The Old Bibie and
the New Science"; a pretty white cap for her mother, that Miss Prudence
had fashioned; a cherry-silk tie for Linnet; and a couple of white aprons
for Annie Grey, her mother's handmaiden, these last being also Miss
Prudence's handiwork.
"Wait till next summer, Prue. Aunt Prue wants to bring you for the sea
bathing."
"Don't be too sure, Marjorie; if Uncle John comes home he may have other
plans for her."
"Oh, _is_ he coming home?" inquired Marjorie.
"He would be here to-day if I had not threatened to lock him out and keep
him standing in a snowdrift until June. He expects to be here the first
day of summer."
"And what will happen then?" queried Prue. "Is it a secret?"
"Yes, it's a secret," said Miss Prudence, stepping behind Marjorie to
fasten her veil.
"Does Marjorie know?" asked Prue anxiously.
"I never can guess," said Marjorie. "Now, Kitten, good-bye; and sing to
Mrs. Kemlo while I am gone, and be good to Aunt Prue."
"Marjorie, dear, I shall miss you," said Miss Prudence.
"But you will be so glad that I am taking supper at home in that dear old
kitchen. And Linnet will be there; and then I am to go home with her to
stay all night. I don't see how I ever waited so long to see her keep
house. Will calls the house Linnet's Nest. I'll come back and tell you
stories about everything."
"Don't wait any longer, dear; I'm afraid you'll lose the train. I must
give you a watch like Linnet's for a graduating present."
Marjorie stopped at the gate to toss back a kiss to Prue watching at the
window. Miss Prudence remembered her face years afterward, flushed and
radiant, round and dimpled; such an innocent, girlish face, without one
trace of care or sorrow. Not a breath of real sorrow had touched her in
all her eighteen years. Her laugh that day was as light hearted as
Prue's.
"That girl lives in a happy world," Mrs. Kemlo had said to Miss Prudence
that morning.
"She always will," Miss Prudence replied; "she has the gift of living in
the sunshine."
Miss Prudence looked at the long mirror after Marjorie had gone down the
street, and wished that it might always keep that last reflection of
Marjorie. The very spirit of pure and lovely girlhood! But the same
mirror had not kept her own self there, and the self reflected now was
the woman grown out of the girlhood; would she keep Marjorie from
womanhood?
Miss Prudence thought in these days that her own youth was being restored
to her; but it had never been lost, for God cannot grow old, neither
can any of himself grow old in the human heart which is his temple.
Marjorie's quick feet hurried along the street. She found herself at the
depot with not one moment to lose. She had brought her "English
Literature" that she might read Tuesday's lesson in the train. She opened
it as the train started, and was soon so absorbed that she was startled
at a voice inquiring, "Is this seat engaged?"
"No," she replied, without raising her eyes. But there was something
familiar in the voice; or was she thinking of somebody? She moved
slightly as a gentleman seated himself beside her. Her veil was shading
her face; she pushed it back to give a quick glance at him. The voice had
been familiar; there was still something more familiar in the hair, the
contour of the cheek, and the blonde moustache.
"Hollis!" she exclaimed, as his eyes looked into hers. She caught her
breath a little, hardly knowing whether she were glad or sorry.
"Why, Marjorie!" he returned, surprise and embarrassment mingled in his
voice. He did not seem sure, either, whether to be glad or sorry.
For several moments neither spoke; both were too shy and too conscious of
something uncomfortable.
"It isn't so very remarkable to find you here, I suppose," he remarked,
after considering for some time an advertisement in a daily paper which
he held in his hand.
"No, nor so strange to encounter you."
"You have not been home for some time."
"Not since I came in September."
"And I have not since Will's wedding day. There was a shower that night,
and your mother tried to keep me; and I wished she had more than a few
times on my dark way home."
"It is almost time to hear from Will." Marjorie had no taste for
reminiscences.
"I expect to hear every day."
"So do we. Mrs. Kemlo watches up the street and down the street for the
postman."
"Oh, yes. Morris. I forgot. Does he like the life?"
"He is enthusiastic."
She turned a leaf, and read a page of extracts from Donald Grant
Mitchell; but she had not understood one word, so she began again and
read slowly, trying to understand; then she found her ticket in her
glove, and examined it with profound interest, the color burning in her
cheeks; then she gazed long out of the window at the snow and the bare
trees and the scattered farmhouses; then she turned to study the lady's
bonnet in front of her, and to pity the mother with the child in front of
_her_; she looked before and behind and out the windows; she looked
everywhere but at the face beside her; she saw his overcoat, his black
travelling bag, and wondered what he had brought his mother; she looked
at his brown kid gloves, at his black rubber watch chain, from which a
gold anchor was dangling; but it was dangerous to raise her eyes higher,
so they sought his boots and the newspaper on his knee. Had he spoken
last, or had she? What was the last remark? About Morris? It was
certainly not about Donald Grant Mitchell. Yes, she had spoken last; she
had said Morris was--
Would he speak of her long unanswered letter? Would he make an excuse for
not noticing it? A sentence in rhetoric was before her eyes: "Any letter,
not insulting, merits a reply." Perhaps he had never studied rhetoric.
Her lips were curving into a smile; wouldn't it be fun to ask him?
"I am going to London next week. I came home to say good-bye to mother."
"Will you stay long?" was all that occurred to her to remark. Her voice
was quite devoid of interest.
"Where? In London, or at home?"
"Both," she said smiling.
"I must return to New York on Monday; and I shall stay in London only
long enough to attend to business. I shall go to Manchester and to Paris.
My route is not all mapped out for me yet. Do you like school as well as
you expected to?"
"Oh, yes, indeed."
"You expect to finish this year?"
"I suppose I shall leave school."
"And go home?"
"Oh, yes. What else should I do?"
"And learn housekeeping from Linnet."
"It is not new work to me."
"How is Miss Prudence?"
"As lovely as ever."
"And the little girl?"
"Sweet and good and bright."
"And Mrs. Kemlo?"
"She is--happier."
"Hasn't she always been happy?"
"No; she was like your mother; only hers has lasted so long. I am so
sorry for such--unhappiness."
"So am I. I endured enough of it at one time."
"I cannot even think of it. She is going home with me in June. Morris
will be glad to have her with mother."
"When is Mr. Holmes coming here?"
"In June."
"June is to be a month of happenings in your calendar."
"Every month is--in my calendar."
He was bending towards her that she might listen easily, as he did not
wish to raise his voice.
"I haven't told you about my class in Sunday school."
"Oh, have you a class?"
"Yes, a class of girls--girls about fourteen. I thought I never could
interest them. I don't know how to talk to little girls; but I am full of
the lesson, and so are they, and the time is up before we know it."
"I'm very glad. It will be good for you," said Marjorie, quite in Miss
Prudence's manner.
"It is, already," he said gravely and earnestly "I imagine it is better
for me than for them."
"I don't believe that"
"Our lesson last Sunday was about the Lord's Supper; and one of them
asked me if Christ partook of the Supper with his disciples. I had not
thought of it. I do not know. Do you?"
"He ate the passover with them."
"But this was afterward. Why should he do it in remembrance of his own
death? He gave them the bread and the cup."
Marjorie was interested. She said she would ask her father and Miss
Prudence; and her mother must certainly have thought about it.
The conductor nudged Hollis twice before he noticed him and produced his
ticket; then the candy boy came along, and Hollis laid a paper of
chocolate creams in Marjorie's lap. It was almost like going back to the
times when he brought apples to school for her. If he would only explain
about the letter--
The next station would be Middlefield! What a short hour and a half! She
buttoned her glove, took her shawl strap into her lap, loosening the
strap so that she might slip her "English Literature" in, tightened it
again, ate the last cream drop, tossed aside the paper, and was ready for
Middlefield.
As the train stopped he took the shawl strap from her hand. She followed
him through the car, gave him her hand to assist her to the platform, and
then there was a welcome in her ears, and Linnet and her father seemed to
be surrounding her. Captain Rheid had brought Linnet to the train,
intending to take Hollis back. Linnet was jubilant over the news of
Will's safe arrival; they had found the letter at the office.
"Father has letters too," she said to Hollis; "he will give you his
news."
As the sleigh containing Linnet, her father, and Marjorie sped away
before them, Captain Rheid said to Hollis:--
"How shall I ever break it to them? Morris is dead."
"Dead!" repeated Hollis.
"He died on the voyage out. Will gives a long account of it for his
mother and Marjorie. It seems the poor fellow was engaged to her, and has
given Will a parting present for her."
"How did it happen?"
Will has tried to give details; but he is rather confusing. He is in
great trouble. He wanted to bring him home; but that was impossible. They
came upon a ship in distress, and laid by her a day and a night in foul
weather to take them off. Morris went to them with a part of the crew,
and got them all safely aboard the _Linnet_; but he had received some
injury, nobody seemed to know how. His head was hurt, for he was
delirious after the first night. He sent his love to his mother, and
gave Will something for Marjorie, and then did not know anything after
that. Will is heartbroken. He wants me to break it to Linnet; but I
didn't see how I can. Your mother will have to do it. The letter can go
to his mother; Miss Prudence will see to that.
"But Marjorie," said Hollis slowly.
"Yes, poor little Marjorie!" said the old man compassionately. "It will
go hard with her."
"Linnet or her mother can tell her."
The captain touched his horse, and they flew past the laughing
sleighload. Linnet waved her handkerchief, Marjorie laughed, and their
father took off his hat to them.
"Oh, _dear_," groaned the captain.
"Lord, help her; poor little thing," prayed Hollis, with motionless lips.