the best damasks, saying to herself, "It's just as it ought to be! Just
as it ought to be! And things do happen so once in a while in this
crooked world."
XXV.
THE WILL OF GOD.
"To see in all things good and fair,
Thy love attested is my prayer."--_Alice Cary._
"Linnet is happy enough," said their mother; "but there's Marjorie!"
Yes; there was Marjorie! She was not happy enough. She was twenty-one
this summer, and not many events had stirred her uneventful life since we
left her the night of Miss Prudence's marriage. She came home the next
day bringing Mrs. Kemlo with her, and the same day she began to take the
old household steps. She had been away but a year, and had not fallen out
of the old ways as Linnet had in her three years of study; and she had
not come home to be married as Linnet had; she came home to do the next
thing, and the next thing had even been something for her father and
mother, or Morris' mother.
Annie Grey went immediately, upon the homecoming of the daughter of the
house, to Middlefield to learn dressmaking, boarding with Linnet and
"working her board." Linnet was lonely at night; she began to feel lonely
as dusk came on; and the arrangement of board for one and pleasant
companionship for the other, was satisfactory to both. Not that there was
very much for Annie to do, beside staying at home Monday mornings to help
with the washing, and ironing Monday evening or early Tuesday. Linnet
loved her housekeeping too well to let any other fingers intermeddle.
Will decided that she must stay, for company, especially through the
winter nights, if he had to pay her board.
Therefore Marjorie took the place that she left vacant in the farmhouse,
and more than filled it, but she did not love housekeeping for its own
comfortable sake, as Linnet did; she did it as "by God's law."
Her father's health failed signally this first summer. He was weakened by
several hemorrhages, and became nervous and unfitted even to superintend
the work of the "hired man." That general superintendence fell to Mrs.
West, and she took no little pride in the flourishing state of the few
acres. Now she could farm as she wanted to; Graham had not always
listened to her. The next summer he died. That was the summer Marjorie
was twenty. The chief business of the nursing fell to Marjorie; her
mother was rather too energetic for the comfort of the sickroom, and
there was always so much to be attended to outside that quiet chamber.
"Marjorie knows her father's way," Mrs. West apologized to Mrs. Kemlo.
"He never has to tell her what he wants; but I have to make him explain.
There are born nurses, and I'm not one of them. I'll keep things running
outside, and that's for his comfort. He is as satisfied as though he were
about himself. If one of us must be down, he knows that he'd better be
the one."
During their last talk--how many talks Marjorie and her father had!--he
made one remark that she had not forgotten, and would never forget:--
"My life has been of little account, as the world goes; but I have sought
to do God's will, and that is success to a man on his death-bed."
Would not her life be a success, then? For what else did she desire but
the will of God.
The minister told Marjorie that there was no man in the church whose life
had had such a resistless influence as her father's.
The same hired man was retained; the farm work was done to Mrs. West's
satisfaction. The farm was her own as long as she lived; and then it was
to belong equally to the daughters. There were no debts.
The gentle, patient life was missed with sore hearts; but there was no
outward difference within doors or without. Marjorie took his seat at
table; Mrs. Kemlo sat in his armchair at the fireside; his wife read his
_Agriculturist_; and his daughter read his special devotional books. His
wife admitted to herself that Graham lacked force of character. She
herself was a _pusher_. She did not understand his favorite quotation:
"He that believeth shall not make haste."
Marjorie had her piano--this piano was a graduating present from Miss
Prudence; more books than she could read, from the libraries of Mr. and
Mrs. Holmes; her busy work in the household; an occasional visit to the
farmhouse on the sea shore, to read to the old people and sing to them,
and even to cut and string apples and laugh over her childish abhorrence
of the work. She never opened the door of the chamber they still called
"Miss Prudence's," without feeling that it held a history. How different
her life would have been but for Miss Prudence. And Linnet's. And
Morris's! And how many other lives, who knew? There were, beside, her
class in Sunday school; and her visits to Linnet, and exchanging visits
with the school-girls,--not with the girls at Master McCosh's; she had
made no intimate friendships among them. And then there were letters from
Aunt Prue, and childish, affectionate notes from dear little Prue.
Marjorie's life was not meagre; still she was not "happy enough." She
wrote to Aunt Prue that she was not "satisfied."
"That's a girl's old story," Mrs. Holmes said to her husband. "She must
_evolve_, John. There's enough in her for something to come out of her."
"What do girls want to _do_?" he asked, looking up from his writing.
"Be satisfied," laughed his wife.
"Did you go through that delusive period?"
"Was I not a girl?"
"And here's Prue growing up, to say some day that she isn't satisfied."
"No; to say some day that she is."
"_When_ were you satisfied?"
"At what age? You will not believe that I was thirty-five, before I was
satisfied with my life. And then I was satisfied, because I was willing
for God to have his way with me. If it were not for that willingness, I
shouldn't be satisfied yet."
"Then you can tell Marjorie not to wait until she is half of three score
and ten before she gives herself up."
"Her will is more yielding than mine; she doesn't seek great things for
herself."
The letter from Switzerland about being "satisfied" Marjorie read again
and again. There was only one way for childhood, girlhood, or womanhood
to be satisfied; and that one way was to acknowledge God in every thing,
and let him direct every step. Then if one were not satisfied, it was
dissatisfaction with God's will; God's will was not enough.
Hollis had made short visits at home twice since she had left school. The
first time, she had been at her grandfather's and saw him but half an
hour; the second time, they met not at all, as she was attending to some
business for Mrs. Holmes, and spending a day and night with Mrs.
Harrowgate.
This twenty-first summer she was not happy; she had not been happy for
months. It was a new experience, not to be happy. She had been born
happy. I do not think any trial, excepting the one she was suffering,
would have so utterly unsettled her. It was a strange thing--but, no, I
do not know that it was a strange thing; but it may be that you are
surprised that she could have this kind of trial; as she expressed it,
she was not sure that she was a Christian! All her life she had thought
about God; now, when she thought about herself, she began to fear and
doubt and tremble.
No wonder that she slept fitfully, that she awoke in the night to weep,
that she ate little and grew pale and thin. It was a strange thing to
befall my happy Marjorie. Her mother could not understand it. She tempted
her appetite in various ways, sent her to her grandfather's for a change,
and to Linnet's; but she came home as pale and dispirited as she went.
"She works too hard," thought the anxious mother; and sent for a woman to
wash and iron, that the child might be spared. Marjorie protested, saying
that she was not ill; but as the summer days came, she did not grow
stronger. Then a physician was called; who pronounced the malady nervous
exhaustion, prescribed a tonic--cheerful society, sea bathing, horseback
riding--and said he would be in again.
Marjorie smiled and knew it would do no good. If Aunt Prue were near her
she would open her heart to her; she could have told her father all
about it; but she shrank from making known to her mother that she was not
ill, but grieving because she was not a Christian. Her mother would
give her energetic advice, and bid her wrestle in prayer until peace
came. Could her mother understand, when she had lived in the very
sunshine of faith for thirty years?
She had prayed--she prayed for hours at a time; but peace came not. She
had fasted and prayed, and still peace did not come.
Her mother was as blithe and cheery as the day was long. Linnet was as
full of song as a bird, because Will was on the passage home. In Mrs.
Kemlo's face and voice and words and manner, was perfect peace. Aunt
Prue's letters were overflowing with joy in her husband and child, and
joy in God. Only Marjorie was left outside. Mrs. Rheid had become zealous
in good works. She read extracts from Hollis' letters to her, where he
wrote of his enjoyment in church work, his Bible class, the Young Men's
Christian Association, the prayer-meeting. But Marjorie had no heart for
work. She had attempted to resign as teacher in Sunday school; but the
superintendent and her class of bright little girls persuaded her to
remain. She had sighed and yielded. How could she help them to be what
she was not herself? No one understood and no one helped her. For the
first time in her life she was tempted to be cross. She was weary at
night with the effort all day to keep in good humor.
And she was a member of the church? Had she a right to go to the
communion? Was she not living a lie? She stayed at home the Sabbath of
the summer communion, and spent the morning in tears in her own chamber.
Her mother prayed for her, but she did not question her.
"Marjorie, dear," Morris' mother said, "can you not feel that God loves
you?"
"I _know_ he does," she replied, bursting into tears; "but I don't love
him."
In August of this summer Captain Will was loading in Portland for Havana.
She was ready for sea, but the wind was ahead. After two days of
persistent head wind Saturday night came, and it was ahead still. Captain
Will rushed ashore and hurried out to Linnet. He would have one Sunday
more at home.
Annie was spending a week in Middlefield, and Linnet was alone. She had
decided not to go home, but to send for Marjorie; and was standing at the
gate watching for some one to pass, by whom she might send her message,
when Will himself appeared, having walked from the train.
Linnet shouted; he caught her in his arms and ran around the house with
her, depositing her at last in the middle of the grass plat in front of
the house.
"One more Sunday with you, sweetheart! Have you been praying for a head
wind?"
"Suppose I should pray for it to be ahead as long as we live!"
"Poor little girl! It's hard for you to be a sailor's wife, isn't it?"
"It isn't hard to be your wife. It would be hard not to be," said
demonstrative Linnet.
"You are going with me next voyage, you have promised."
"Your father has not said I might."
"He won't grumble; the _Linnet_ is making money for him."
"You haven't had any supper, Will! And I am forgetting it."
"Have you?"
"I didn't feel like eating, but I did eat a bowl of bread and milk."
"Do you intend to feed me on that?"
"No; come in and help, and I'll get you the nicest supper you ever had."
"I suppose I ought to go over and see father."
"Wait till afterward, and I'll go with you. O, Will! suppose it is fair
to-morrow, will he make you sail on Sunday?"
"I never _have_ sailed on Sunday."
"But he has! He says it is all nonsense not to take advantage of the
wind."
"I have been in ships that did do it. But I prefer not to. The _Linnet_
is ready as far as she can be, and not be in motion; there will not be as
much to do as there is often in a storm at sea; but this is not an
emergency, and I won't do it if I can help it."
"But your father is so determined."
"So am I," said Will in a determined voice.
"But you do not own a plank in her," said Linnet anxiously. "Oh, I hope
it _won't_ be fair to-morrow."
"It isn't fair to-night, at any rate. I believe you were to give a hungry
traveller some supper."
Linnet ran in to kindle the fire and make a cup of tea; Will cut the cold
boiled ham and the bread, while Linnet brought the cake and sugared the
blueberries.
"Linnet, we have a precious little home."
"Thanks to your good father."
"Yes, thanks to my father. I ought not to displease him," Will returned
seriously.
"You do please him; you satisfy him in everything. He told Hollis so."
"Why, I didn't tell you that Hollis came in the train with me. See how
you make me forget everything. He is to stay here a day or so, and then
go on a fishing excursion with some friends, and then come back here for
another day or so. What a fine fellow he is. He is the gentleman among us
boys."
"I would like to know what you are," said Linnet indignantly.
"A rough old tar," laughed Will, for the sake of the flash in his wife's
eyes.
"Then I'm a rough old tar too," said Linnet decidedly.
How short the evening was! They went across the fields to see Hollis, and
to talk over affairs with the largest owner of the _Linnet_. Linnet
wondered when she knelt beside Will that night if it would be wrong to
ask God to keep the wind ahead until Monday morning. Marjorie moaned in
her sleep in real trouble. Linnet dreamed that she awoke Sunday morning
and the wind had not changed.
But she did not awake until she heard a heavy rap on the window pane. It
was scarcely light, and Will had sprung out of bed and had raised the
window and was talking to his father.
"I'll be here in an hour or less time to drive you into Portland. Hollis
won't drive you; but I'll be here on time."
"But, father," expostulated Will. He had never resisted his father's will
as the others had done. He inherited his mother's peace-loving
disposition; he could only expostulate and yield.
"The Linnet must sail, or I'll find another master," said his father in
his harshest voice.
Linnet kept the tears back bravely for Will's sake; but she clung to him
sobbing at the last, and he wept with her; he had never wept on leaving
her before; but this time it was so hard, so hard.
"Will, how _can_ I let you go?"
"Keep up, sweetheart. It isn't a long trip--I'll soon be home. Let us
have a prayer together before I go."
It was a simple prayer, interrupted by Linnet's sobbing. He asked only
that God would keep his wife safe, and bring him home safe to her, for
Jesus' sake. And then his father's voice was shouting, and he was gone;
and Linnet threw herself across the foot of the bed, sobbing like a
little child, with quick short breaths, and hopeless tears.
"It isn't _right_" she cried vehemently; "and Will oughtn't to have gone;
but he never will withstand his father."
All day she lived on the hope that something might happen to bring him
back at night; but before sundown Captain Rheid drove triumphantly into
his own yard, shouting out to his wife in the kitchen doorway that the
_Linnet_ was well on her way.
At dusk, Linnet's lonely time, Marjorie stepped softly through the entry
and stood beside her.
"O, Marjorie! I'm _so_ glad," she exclaimed, between laughing and crying.
"I've had a miserable day."
"Didn't you know I would come?"
"How bright you look!" said Linnet, looking up into the changed face; for
Marjorie's trouble was all gone, there was a happy tremor about the lips,
and peace was shining in her eyes.
"I _am_ bright."
"What has happened to you?"
"I can tell you about it now. I have been troubled--more than troubled,
almost in despair--because I could not feel that I was a Christian. I
thought I was all the more wicked because I professed to be one. And
to-day it is all gone--the trouble. And in such a simple way. As I was
coming out of Sunday school I overheard somebody say to Mrs. Rich, 'I
know I'm not a Christian.' 'Then,' said Mrs. Rich, 'I'd begin this very
hour to be one, if I were you.' And it flashed over me why need I bemoan
myself any longer; why not begin this very hour; _and I did._"
"I'm very glad," said Linnet, in her simple, hearty way. "I never had
anything like that on my mind, and I know it must be dreadful."
"Dreadful?" repeated Marjorie. "It is being lost away from Christ."
"Mrs. Rheid told Hollis that you were going into a decline, that mother
said so, and Will and I were planning what we could do for you."
"Nobody need plan now," smiled Marjorie. "Shall we have some music? We'll
sing Will's hymns."
"How your voice sounds!"
"That's why I want to sing. I want to pour it all out."
The next evening Hollis accompanied Linnet on her way to Marjorie's to
spend the evening. Marjorie's pale face and mourning dress had touched
him deeply. He had taught a class of boys near her class in Sunday
school, and had been struck with the dull, mechanical tone in which she
had questioned the attentive little girls who crowded around her.
It was not Marjorie; but it was the Marjorie who had lost Morris and her
father. Was she so weak that she sank under grief? In his thought she was
always strong. But it was another Marjorie who met him at the gate the
next evening; the cheeks were still thin, but they were tinted and there
was not a trace of yesterday's dullness in face or voice; it was a joyful
face, and her voice was as light-hearted as a child's. Something had
wrought a change since yesterday.
Such a quiet, unobtrusive little figure in a black and white gingham,
with a knot of black ribbon at her throat and a cluster of white roses in
her belt. Miss Prudence had done her best with the little country girl,
and she was become only a sweet and girlish-looking woman; she had not
marked out for herself a "career"; she had done nothing that no other
girl might do. But she was the lady that some other girls had not become,
he argued.
The three, Hollis, Linnet, and Marjorie, sat in the moon lighted parlor
and talked over old times. Hollis had begun it by saying that his father
had shown him "Flyaway" stowed away in the granary chamber.
He was sitting beside Linnet in a good position to study Marjorie's face
unobserved. The girl's face bore the marks of having gone through
something; there was a flutter about her lips, and her soft laugh and the
joy about the lips was almost contradicted by the mistiness that now and
then veiled the eyes. She had planned to go up to her chamber early, and
have this evening alone by herself,--alone on her knees at the open
window, with the stars above her and the rustle of the leaves and the
breath of the sea about her. It had been a long sorrow; all she wanted
was to rest, as Mary did, at the feet of the Lord; to look up into his
face, and feel his eyes upon her face; to shed sweetest tears over the
peace of forgiven sin.
She had written to Aunt Prue all about it that afternoon. She was tempted
to show the letter to her mother, but was restrained by her usual shyness
and timidity.
"Marjorie, why don't you talk?" questioned Linnet.
Marjorie was on the music stool, and had turned from them to play the air
of one of the songs they used to sing in school.
"I thought I had been talking a great deal. I am thinking of so many
things and I thought I had spoken of them all."
"I wish you would," said Hollis.
"I was thinking of Morris just then. But he was not in your school days,
nor in Linnet's. He belongs to mine."
"What else? Go on please," said Hollis.
"And then I was thinking that his life was a success, as father's was.
They both did the will of the Lord."
"I've been trying all day to submit to that will," said Linnet, in a
thick voice.
"Is that all we have to do with it--submit to it?" asked Hollis with a
grave smile. "Why do we always groan over 'Thy will be done,' as though
there never was anything pleasant in it?"
"That's true," returned Linnet emphatically. "When Will came Saturday, I
didn't rejoice and say 'It is the Lord's will,' but Sunday morning I
thought it was, because it was so hard! All the lovely things that happen
to us _are_ his will of course."
"Suppose we study up every time where the Lord speaks of his father's
will, and learn what that will is. Shall we, Marjorie?" proposed Hollis.
"Oh, yes; it will be delightful!" she assented.
"And when I come back from my fishing excursion we will compare notes,
and give each other our thoughts. I must give that topic in our
prayer-meeting and take it in my Bible class."
"We know the will of God is our sanctification," said Marjorie slowly. "I
don't want to sigh, 'Thy will be done,' about that."
"Hollis, I mean to hold on to that--every happy thing is God's will as
well as the hard ones," said Linnet.
"And here come the mothers for some music," exclaimed Marjorie. "They
cannot go to sleep without it."
And Marjorie's mother did not go to sleep with it. Hollis had invited
himself to remain all night, saying that he was responsible for Linnet
and could not go home unless she went home.
XXVI.
MARJORIE'S MOTHER.
"Leave to Heaven the measure and the choice."--_Johnson_.
Marjorie fell asleep as happy as she wanted to be; but her mother did not
close her eyes in sleep all that night. She closed them in prayer,
however, and told Miss Prudence afterward that she "did not catch one
wink of sleep." All night long she was asking the Lord if she might
intermeddle between Marjorie and Hollis. As we look at them there was
nothing to intermeddle with. Marjorie herself did not know of anything.
Perhaps, more than anything, she laid before the Lord what she wanted him
to do. She told him how Marjorie looked, and how depressed she had been,
and her own fear that it was disappointment that was breaking her heart.
The prayer was characteristic.
"Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest the hearts of both, and what
is in thy will for both; but thou dost choose means, thou hast chosen
means since the world began; and if thou hast chosen me, make me ready to
speak. Soften the heart of the young man; show him how ill he has done;
and knit their hearts to each other as thou didst the hearts of David and
Jonathan. Make her willing as thou didst make Rebekah willing to go with
the servant of Abraham. Give her favor in his eyes, as thou gavest favor
to Abigail in the eyes of David. Bring her into favor and tender love, as
thou broughtest Daniel. Let it not be beneath thy notice; the sparrows
are not, and she is more than many sparrows to thee. Give me words to
speak, and prepare his heart to listen. The king's heart is in thine
hand, and so is his heart. If we acknowledge thee in all our ways, thou
wilt direct our steps. I do acknowledge thee. Oh, direct my steps and
my words."
With variety of phrasing, she poured out this prayer all through the
hours of the night; she spread the matter before the Lord as Hezekiah
did the letter that troubled him. Something must be _done_. She forgot
all the commands to _wait_, to _sit still_ and see the salvation of the
Lord; she forgot, or put away from her, the description of one who
believeth: "He that believeth shall not make haste." And she was making
haste with all her might.
In the earliest dawn she arose, feeling assured that the Lord had heard
her cry and had answered her; he had given her permission to speak to
Hollis.
That he permitted her to speak to Hollis, I know; that it was his will, I
do not know; but she was assured that she knew, and she never changed
her mind. It may be that it was his will for her to make a mistake and
bring sorrow upon Marjorie; the Lord does not shrink from mistakes; he
knows what to do with them.
Before the house was astir, Hollis found her in the kitchen; she had
kindled the fire, and was filling the tea-kettle at the pump in the sink.
"Good morning, Mrs. West. Excuse my early leave; but I must meet my
friends to-day."
"Hollis!"
She set the tea-kettle on the stove, and turned and looked at him. The
solemn weight of her eye rooted him to the spot.
"Hollis, I've known you ever since you were born."
"And now you are going to find fault with me!" he returned, with an easy
laugh.
"No, not to find fault, but to speak with great plainness. Do you see how
changed Marjorie is!"
"Yes. I could not fail to notice it. Has she been ill?"
"Yes, very ill. You see the effect of something."
"But she is better. She was so bright last night."
"Yes, last night," she returned impressively, setting the lid of the
tea-kettle firmly in its place. "Did you ever think that you did wrong in
writing to her so many years and then stopping short all of a sudden,
giving her no reason at all?"
"Do you mean _that_ has changed her, and hurt her?" he asked, in extreme
surprise.