_DISAPPOINTMENT._
"SLEPT well?" asked Miss Carmichael next morning, as Beryl came,
glowing and fresh, out of the garden.
She did not look pretty; nothing could make Beryl's plain face
pretty; but her open and honest enjoyment was pleasant to behold. The
constraint of her school-days seemed to have vanished.
"I always sleep well," Beryl answered. "I have been out of doors half
an hour and more. Only think; it is a week to-day since I came."
"Does it seem longer or shorter?" asked Hester.
"I don't know. Longer and shorter too, I think," said Beryl. "I am so
happy that the time goes fast, and yet I feel as much at home here as
if I had been months and months in the house. To think of weeks more
still,—it seems like a dream."
"You will quite belong to us by the time they are over," said Hester.
"It 'feels' like belonging to you now," said Beryl.
Prayers at an end, they drew round the table, and Miss Carmichael's own
hands supplied Beryl's plate with toast-and-butter. "Eggs and ham will
come soon," she said. "But you are hungry with the fresh air, and you
need not wait. Post come?—And another letter for Beryl! From Pearl,
perhaps."
"No, it is Aunt Di's handwriting," said Beryl. "I didn't expect her to
write to me."
She opened the letter, and, as she read, her happy face clouded over
heavily.
"Bad news, my dear?" asked Miss Carmichael.
"They are not going abroad at all," said Beryl, in a thick and
half-choked voice.
She crumpled the sheet together, and thrust it into her pocket,
beginning to eat dry toast as fast as possible, under an evident
impression that it was buttered. Hester handed her a cup of tea, and
Beryl gulped some down hastily.
"Take care,—you will choke yourself," said Miss Carmichael.
She sat watching solicitously the girl's perturbed face, crimson with
the struggle to keep down tears. It was plainly an almost hopeless
struggle.
"Will she leave you with us a little longer, Beryl?" asked Miss
Carmichael.
Beryl shook her head.
"What is the reason of the change?"
"I—don't know. I didn't—didn't read it all." She pulled out the
crumpled sheet, and thrust it into her friend's hands, tears still
gathering in hot rushes, and all but overflowing.
The letter ran as follows:
"DEAR BERYL,—Will you please to go back to our house early on
Wednesday,—some time in the morning. I have decided to give up the
Engadine entirely for this autumn, and Pearl and I will return from
London to early dinner on Wednesday. I have sent word to the servants
to go home the first thing on Tuesday, and they will get everything
ready. I am dreadfully tired, and can't write more; and Pearl has cried
herself ill about not going abroad, but it can't be helped. I dare say
Miss Carmichael will be glad enough not to have you on her hands for a
month or six weeks; anyhow, I must have you at home to help. It is time
you should learn to be useful. Yours affectionately,—DIANE FENWICK."
"Mrs. Fenwick's surmise is wrong," said Miss Carmichael. "I am sorry,
not glad." And seeing that Beryl did not understand, she read the
letter aloud. "No reasons given, you see."
"It is terribly disappointing," said Hester.
Beryl was reaching a point beyond self-command.
Miss Carmichael saw this, and said quietly, "Come here."
Beryl obeyed, choking with sobs, and knelt down to hide her face on her
friend's shoulder.
Miss Carmichael's arm, placed tenderly round her, spoke of comfort,
yet the very tenderness made composure the more difficult, and Beryl's
crying had about it something of the passionate emotion seen often in
her childish days, though of late years commonly suppressed.
"My child, it isn't worth all this distress," said Miss Carmichael.
"You are only going across the road. Come, dry your eyes and be brave.
I didn't know there was such a reservoir of tears beneath. You and I
shall meet often."
"It won't be the same," gasped Beryl. "She always tries to hinder me
from coming. And I 'did' so want to be here next Sunday, the first time
I go to—"
"Yes, I understand," said Miss Carmichael. "But that will be the same,
child, wherever you are. The Master's Presence at the feast is its joy."
"Ah, but she will very likely make me feel so that I shall not think it
right to go at all," murmured Beryl.
"I hope not. Something must be wrong if you can only come to the
Master's Table when nothing has happened beforehand which could ruffle
you. The things may happen—only don't be ruffled. Make it your aim to
keep—or rather to be kept—in calmness."
"I'll try," Beryl said, rather despondingly. "But one doesn't always
feel quiet when one looks quiet."
"Beryl Fordyce does not, certainly. My dear, there lies the difference
between keeping calm and being kept calm by God. Our quietness is an
outside affair very often. The peace of Christ, poured into our hearts,
reaches to the very depths."
And then, as Beryl remained kneeling beside her, flushed and troubled,
she added, "The tea is getting cold. Come, child, we are going to make
a good breakfast, all of us. Emmie, give Beryl some eggs and ham."
Beryl had not seen them brought in, but there they were. She went back
to her seat, and cried no more, but the heavy look of disappointment
continued, a touch of sullenness being mingled with it.
Miss Carmichael took no notice of this. Breakfast at an end, she
attended to household matters as usual, and was busy for an hour or
more. Then she came to the drawing-room, and found Beryl seated idly
in the window, gazing with a forlorn air into vacancy. Miss Carmichael
realised suddenly the cause of Beryl's general unpopularity. In her
present mood, she certainly did wear an exceedingly uninteresting
appearance.
"What have you been doing since breakfast?" she asked cheerfully,
taking a seat and pulling some work out of a drawer.
"Nothing," said Beryl.
"Hardly possible that, my dear. Some part of you must have been
employed, whether hands or head."
"I have been thinking," said Beryl, with an effort.
"With what result?"
"I don't know. I don't feel as if anything was of much use," replied
Beryl. "I feel as if I were just going back to the old way of things."
"Ah!" said Miss Carmichael quietly. "Then the vows of yesterday were
hardly more than a form, after all. You are willing to be a soldier and
servant of Christ just so long as you may do what 'you' wish. But if
He gives an order which you don't quite like, away goes all thought of
faithful service."
Beryl was silent, but her face grew softer, and Miss Carmichael left
the words to work.
"I don't think I ought to have been confirmed," Beryl broke out
suddenly. "I thought I had forgiven Mrs. Fenwick, and I haven't."
"Forgiven her for what?"
"For—everything," said Beryl. "If I had forgiven her, I shouldn't be so
angry with her for this."
"You were able to forgive her last week for anything of seeming
unkindness in the past. If you are tempted again to an unforgiving
spirit, you must fight the battle over again, and conquer in your
Master's strength. But as for 'this'—my dear, you are not so childish
as to blame her, without knowing her reasons."
Beryl looked ashamed. "I will not," she said. "But I 'did' feel so
vexed—"
"Then don't be vexed any more, for you have no cause. You cannot tell
what moves her. Better to take the disappointment straight from God's
hand, Beryl. That will save much needless worrying. It is His will for
you; what matters anything else?"
"It did seem such happiness to be here, and I meant to learn so much,"
murmured Beryl. "And nobody cares for me there."
"Well," said Miss Carmichael slowly—
"'If loving hearts were never lonely,
If all they wish might always be,
Accepting what they wish for only,
They might be glad, BUT NOT IN THEE.'"
"I didn't think of that," said Beryl, understanding more quickly than
Miss Carmichael had expected, for she was not usually quick to grasp
another's thought. "Please say it again."
Miss Carmichael obeyed, adding no remarks.
"But I thought—'you' would teach me," whispered Beryl.
"A child at school doesn't have the choosing of her own class and
teacher," said Miss Carmichael somewhat quaintly.
"There is nobody to teach me anything at home."
"There is your Master Himself, Beryl."
"I suppose I would rather learn from you than in any other way," said
Beryl, tears threatening again. But the sullen look was gone.
"I dare say you would, dear. Most of us would rather turn to the right,
when God tells us to turn to the left."
Beryl sighed audibly.
"Aunt Di means to make use of me now," she said. "It doesn't look much
like getting away to be a hospital nurse."
"If you are wanted in Hurst, you are not wanted for hospital work,"
said Miss Carmichael. "Patience, Beryl, and don't be too eager to
shape life for yourself. You do not know what God may have for you to
do first, over the way. Only remember it is work of His setting, not
merely of Mrs. Fenwick's."
And Beryl said at length, meekly, "I am afraid I have been very wrong
this morning."