_LIFE-TRAINING._
THREE months had passed, and Pearl was still absent.
Winter drew on apace, and days grew short and nights grew long. The
little mountain village no more sheltered Millicent and Escott. They
had travelled to the south of France, accompanied not only by Pearl,
but also by Mr. Crosbie and Marian. Mr. Crosbie, in delight at escaping
his enemy, the damp cold of an English winter, talked of remaining
there until the spring, and it seemed to be taken for granted that
Pearl was to do the same.
"She hasn't even the grace to ask leave," Diana said bitterly. "But it
doesn't matter. If she does not wish to come back, I am sure I don't
want her. So much for gratitude!"
Diana was sinking into a state of thorough invalidism. Her pretty and
youthful looks were rapidly forsaking her, and she grew, week by week,
more feeble, haggard, and fretful. She had not been again to London to
see the oculist. The necessity for so doing was frequently discussed
between herself and Beryl; but she seemed never to be or never to count
herself equal to the fatigue of the journey.
Morbid dislike to the truth becoming known continued unabated. Mrs.
Fenwick preferred that friends should ascribe her ill-health to nerves,
fancies, or anything they pleased, sooner than that they should hear
the real explanation. Miss Carmichael was often in and out, but Miss
Carmichael asked no questions. She seemed to know by instinct that
Beryl was not free to answer; and neither she nor Hester ever put Beryl
into a corner, or forced her to take refuge in uncomfortable evasions.
Beryl's life was no easy one, those weeks. She was in attendance on
Diana day and night, and rarely had five minutes to herself. Soon after
Pearl's departure, Diana had begged Beryl to sleep in her room, "just
for a week or so;" and the plan once begun was continued. Diana was an
exacting invalid, and her nervous depression, yielded to unresistingly
from the first, steadily increased. It became gradually a settled
matter that, if Diana could not walk out, Beryl might not walk out
either; if Diana could not go to Church, Beryl must sit at home to bear
her company.
Beryl chafed somewhat under the restraint. The incessant companionship
of a querulous invalid, whom she pitied but scarcely loved, could
not but be trying, even to one of Beryl's steady nerves and strong
constitution. She had longed for work, and here it was. Now she found
herself longing for freedom.
"I don't want to grumble," she said one day, when snatching a five
minutes' chat with Miss Carmichael at the garden-gate. "But it is a
little tiresome sometimes. Aunt Di doesn't seem to think I can ever
want any time at all away from her. And I 'should' like a good sharp
walk now and then. Aunt Di only creeps, and I never go out except with
her. I think I am getting restless."
"You are young and healthy, and exercise is a necessity for you," said
Miss Carmichael. "Cannot you take your own way in this matter, Beryl?"
Beryl shook her head. "Aunt Di can't bear to be crossed," she said.
"My dear, invalids must be crossed sometimes, for their own good as
well as for the good of others."
"Yes, only she would not like it from me. I don't want to make her
dislike me again. And it is so bad for her to cry."
"Why?"
Beryl began forgetfully to say,—"The occu—" and stopped short.
A light seemed to flash on Miss Carmichael.
"Ah, I see," she said.
"I hope I have not told you anything," said Beryl, distressed. "I ought
not."
"No; but I understand. I have fancied once or twice that all was not
right there. We will not discuss it now, however, or I may get you into
trouble. Good-bye."
On the afternoon of the next day, Miss Carmichael appeared again.
And when shown into the drawing-room, she said in a matter-of-fact
manner—"I have come to ask leave to sit with you for an hour, Mrs.
Fenwick, while Beryl takes a walk. It is a lovely afternoon, and I
don't suppose you can walk so far yourself as you would wish her to go."
To Beryl's utter astonishment, Diana offered no objections.
Miss Carmichael's manner of taking consent for granted possibly made
them difficult; also this was one of Diana's better days.
Beryl dressed with all speed, and was soon hurrying along the road,
into the nearest country lane. "If you go in the direction of
Barrowfield, you may possibly meet Hester," Miss Carmichael said to her
at the last moment.
And Beryl obeyed, but soon forgot to expect Hester's appearance.
She had perhaps never in her life more enjoyed herself than during
this brief and well-earned respite. The sun shone brightly; and a keen
wind, which would have troubled some people, only gave zest to Beryl's
pleasure. Her quick walk broke at length into almost a run, nobody
being within range of sight; but presently, to her surprise, she found
herself growing quite tired with the exercise, of late so rare, and she
was glad to take a seat on a fallen log.
There she sank into a muse on her little world of interests,—not nearly
so wide a world as many gals of her age can boast. She only had Pearl,
whom she dearly loved, but in whose return-love she felt no confidence;
and Diana Fenwick, whom she pitied greatly, but for whom she scarcely
could be said to feel affection; and Miss Carmichael, who was to her
the embodiment of all that is good and tender and beautiful; and Hester
Wyatt, whom she regarded as a fainter shadow of Miss Carmichael. In
a quiet corner of her mind—perhaps of her heart—lay also an image of
Escott Cumming, as of one true and trustworthy and kind; and a more dim
image of Millicent, statuesque and fair. These comprised the whole of
Beryl's heart-belongings, except that into the outer circle crept also
a gentle remembrance of Suzette Bise, and of good Mr. Bishop. There
was nobody else. Mr. Crosbie disliked Beryl, and made no secret of the
fact. Her life touched—consciously to herself—no other human beings.
Unconsciously to ourselves, the ripples resulting from our motions
spread often farther than we imagine.
These were her human interests, her heart-possessions of this world.
And had they been all that she had to turn to, Beryl would have been
poor indeed.
But heavenly light had broken of late into the twilight of her being.
The little circumscribing wall which closed her in had of late been
shattered, and a rush of deeper and wider interests had come to her.
She had sprung from a lower to a higher life. For God, not for self;
for eternity, not for time; this was the change. It was as if she had
stepped out from a small underground cellar, and had suddenly found
herself free beneath the wide blue sky.
People are not all alike, and Beryl did not go through precisely the
same order of experiences that some others pass through. There is one
pathway to heaven, but there is no one stereotyped mode of treading
that pathway. And there are many who stumble into and along it, and
reach their goal in safety, who are all the while very vague indeed in
their ideas and definitions as to the nature of the pathway.
Beryl had little to say as to her own feelings, even to Miss
Carmichael, and nothing at all to anybody else; and she would have
come off badly in a set examination on forms of doctrine. Yet on some
points she was clear. She had come first to the sense of need, and the
knowledge of evil in self to be put down; and then she had reached
suddenly the great reality of God's love for her, had seen the dying of
Christ upon the Cross, had learnt something of His wondrous power to
save. Accepting all in easy trustfulness, like a child, she knew Him as
her living Lord, and knew herself as His servant. Afterwards, sprang
up the longing to do something for Him, followed by disappointment at
finding herself ready to murmur at the work when it was given her to
do, just because she found it a little burdensome.
"I suppose I don't like it because it isn't exactly the kind I had
fancied to myself," Beryl murmured, as she sat on the log. She
had little power of definite thought except in spoken words, and
consequently she often uttered her thoughts aloud, when alone. "I am
sure, though, that one oughtn't to want to choose for one's self. It
would not be a good thing if one could. This sort of life isn't really
a bit harder than the hospital work, which I wanted,—only that sounded
grander. But this is best for me, or I shouldn't have it, of course. I
wonder if I am to go on so for years—waiting on Aunt Di. When she is
quite blind, she will need me more than ever. And she is so young,—she
might live thirty, or forty, or fifty years. It would be rather hard
to keep on all that time, never changing. I am afraid I should get
impatient. It isn't as if I really loved her from my heart. It seems
as if I never could or should do that. But of course, in a hospital I
shouldn't love all the patients either, only there would be more bustle
and change. Now it is always the same, hour after hour,—never the least
change. Well, I must be brave, and try not to mind, that's all."
The last few words were spoken more clearly than any before, and, as if
in response, a soft voice said,—
"'Why should I hold my ease so dear?
The work of training "must" be done!'"
Beryl started, and sprang to her feet. She looked behind and around,
but could see no human being. The lane in which she sat was straight
and narrow, with a thick hedge on one side and a grassy bank on the
other.
"Who is it?" she asked, almost trembling, though not at all given to
nervousness.
Silence answered. Beryl stood still, waiting. The words came home to
her strangely. But by whom had they been uttered? A feeling of awe
crept over Beryl.
"Who is it?" she repeated gravely. "Please answer me. Please speak
again."
And the voice recommenced, in soft distinct accents,—
"'Why should I hold my ease so dear?
The work of training must be done.
I must be taught what I would know;
I must be led where I would go,—
And all the rest ordained for me,
Till that which is not seen I see
Is to be found in trusting Thee.'"
"Hettie!" exclaimed Beryl, in astonishment.—"Where are you?"
She recognised the voice this time, yet still the feeling of awe was
upon her, as if she had received a message from another world. The
intonation of the last few words was unmistakable, and it was half in
relief, half in disappointment, that Beryl called—"Hettie! Where are
you?"
"I am here," Hettie replied.
"Where? I can't see you!"
"The other side of the hedge. I can just see you, through a little
peep-hole. The field is nicer than the lane. There is a stile farther
on, and we can meet there. No, not that way,—the other."
Beryl sped along at a pace which brought her first to the stile, and
she was quickly across. Hester came up more slowly.
"What made you say all that?" Beryl asked, with an odd flushed look.
"I don't know; it came into my mind. I didn't know you were near till
I heard you muttering something, and then I found my peep-hole and saw
you. I caught a few words that you said, and I answered them. Miss
Carmichael is very fond of those lines, and she repeated them to me a
few days ago, and said they made her think of you. So I learnt them by
heart, meaning to say them to you some time or other, but I did not
know it would be so soon. Were you startled?"
"I don't know," said Beryl gruffly. "I thought—almost—just for a
moment—it was an angel. At least,—I think I thought of mother."
Beryl choked, and was very nearly crying.
Hester threw an arm round her, and drew her down on the grassy slope.
"Poor Beryl! You don't remember your mother, do you?"
"Just a little; not much."
"I shouldn't have thought mine was at all an angelic voice," said
Hester, softly smiling.
"I wish you would write out that piece of poetry for me," said Beryl
shyly. "I liked it very much. And I think it would be a help."
"I'll get you a copy of Miss Waring's 'Hymns and Meditations,' and you
will find it there, Beryl."
Beryl's "Oh, thank you," spoke of unmitigated pleasure. She had had so
few presents in her lifetime that the coming of one unexpectedly was a
real delight.
"I suppose the teaching and the leading are a little hard just now,"
said Hester suddenly. "I mean you must find it a little hard to be
patient."
"Yes," said Beryl, "I think I do. I should not mind it for a time—a
good long while—but I have been wondering whether it will go on always
just the same."
"Nothing ever does go on always just the same," said Hester
confidently. "Fresh things are always happening."
"I don't see anything likely to happen now," remarked Beryl.
"No; you can't see round the corner," said Hester, smiling. "But God
can. And it is so nice to think that He is arranging all for us. You
needn't be afraid, Beryl. It will all come right somehow, if you just
leave it to Him."
"But suppose it were the right thing for me to go on for years—forty or
fifty years—doing nothing but wait on Aunt Di?" said Beryl soberly.
"Well—if it were," said Hester,—"if it were—God could make it easy
to you. He could make her quite different, so sweet and loving that
it would be a real delight to wait on her. Or He could give you such
great joy in Himself, Beryl, that nothing else would seem of any great
importance. I don't know how it will be, of course; only I am 'quite'
sure that you may be happy and restful, and may leave it all with Him."
"I'll try," said Beryl. "I suppose it is best not to look forward."
"Why, you can't," said Hester. "You can't possibly look forward. It is
all grey mist ahead. God can see through it, but we can't. And what we
call looking forward is only fancying all sorts of things, which most
likely will never happen at all. I wouldn't, dear. It is of no use."
"I suppose you and Miss Carmichael never get into a worry," said Beryl.
"I dare say Miss Carmichael would say she did sometimes, but she
doesn't let it appear. I am trying to trust more, and not to be so
easily fretted. It isn't always easy—when one is tempted to try the
'looking forward' plan."
"But you have nothing to look forward to that isn't delightful,"
exclaimed Beryl.
Hester's smile was sad this time. "Do you think so?" she asked. "It is
all utter perplexity, Beryl."
Beryl was amazed, and her face said so.
Bright tears were shining in Hester's eyes.
"I can't see my way in the least. But I know it will all come clear by
and by. I can't tell how yet. There must be great pain either way."
"Either way!" repeated Beryl, bewildered.
"There are two paths, and I shall have to go down one. And both look
wrong, and yet right; and both mean sorrow, and yet joy. Beryl, you
must not say a word of this to anybody,—not to Miss Carmichael, mind.
I only say it to you, because I want you to see that other people have
their troubles too. But I am trying to leave it all alone for the
present, and by and by I shall see my way plainly. You will see yours
too, if you wait quietly. 'It is good that a man should both hope and
quietly wait,' you know."
"I don't think I am puzzled," said Beryl: "I only feel rather inclined
to grumble at what I have to do."
"Don't," said Hester briefly. "One loses so much by grumbling."
"No, I don't mean to," responded Beryl sincerely, though not quite
grammatically; and she added,—
"I suppose I can't do anything at all to help you, Hettie."
Hester shook her head, and the two sat on, till Beryl suddenly
recollected the time, and sprang up. Her hour of absence was already
over.