IN THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY.
"Haste not! rest not! calmly wait;
Meekly bear the storms of fate;
Duty be thy polar guide—
Do the right, whate'er betide!
Haste not! rest not! conflict past,
God shall crown thy work at last!"
_Translated from_ GOETHE.
BUT for one circumstance, Mina would have missed her brother
dreadfully. She was so much at Alice Grandpont's now, that the void
left by his departure was pretty well filled up.
At first, Mr. Adams made grave objections to her being there so
frequently. He liked her at home sometimes in the evening, he said; and
it was not well that Horace should so constantly escort her home. But
his wife, who had gradually come over to Mina's way of looking at the
question, pooh-poohed his strict notions of propriety, until at length,
he yielded.
If "Mina was to make her way in society," the foolish mother urged,
"she could not do better than cultivate the Grandponts; and as to
Horace seeing her home at night, it often happened that his sister or
Annie Cleveland was with them, and if not—it was hard if a young man
was not to be allowed any opportunity of paying attention to a girl."
So Mina was allowed to go on idling away her time over her frivolities,
and growing less amiable every time that anything happened to interfere
with her plans for amusement.
Books she rarely touched now, except the latest fashionable literature
from the circulating library, to which she had persuaded her mother to
subscribe, in order that she might keep pace with Alice in devouring
all the latest novels. Her mornings were mostly spent in sewing frills
on her dresses or fastening fresh flowers in her hats, in making
alterations in the set of a pannier, or in consulting the fashion-books
for the most recent style of bow and neckerchief. Her music was
entirely neglected, with the exception of such superficial attention
as enabled her to accompany a ballad or dash through a drawing-room
fantasia; and painting, for which she had manifested considerable
talent at school, was altogether thrown on one side, as being too
decidedly quiet an occupation for one whose life was rapidly becoming
all show.
Being less at home than formerly, she saw far less of Cicely Anderson.
She could ask her to her own "evenings," but she could not make others
invite her to theirs. And as she found that Cicely's modest home
prevented her finding favour in their sight, she became more shy of
thrusting her upon them.
Meanwhile Cicely, on her side, could not but feel that Mina was casting
her off. If she tried to make an appointment for a walk, Mina more
often than not had a prior engagement, or a headache which must be
nursed up, in order that she might be fit for the evening. If Cicely
begged her to come and have one of their old quiet evenings at home,
ten chances to one Mina would urge that her papa complained of her
being out so often; and she herself never asked Cicely now, except
when she was going to be quite alone, and either had no other means of
passing a dull evening, or wanted the gratification of exhibiting the
latest additions to her wardrobe.
Poor Cicely felt it keenly.
"I never thought she would serve me so," she said to her mother one
evening, as they sat at work in the little sitting-room.
It was a very cosy little snuggery, when the crimson curtains were
drawn and the work-table brought close up to the fire. But it was not
large enough to hold Mina and her friends; and in proportion as this
conviction settled in Cicely's mind, she was becoming discontented
with it—forgetting all the old associations, which had once made it so
much dearer than any other place on earth. She looked round it with a
dissatisfied air as she spoke.
"It's the fruits of living in a little pokey place like this," she
continued, in an injured tone. "I wish we could move into a larger
house, mother. You would see the change at once. What a difference it
made to Mina!"
"Perhaps some day we shall," returned Mrs. Anderson; "though I do not
know that we shall be any happier for it. 'A man's life consisteth not
in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.'"
"But position does, mother."
"That is not always happiness, my child. Position depends upon the
judgment which the world forms from external appearances. Happiness
depends upon what we are in our own selves, and in God's sight."
Cicely was silent for a minute or two.
"Mina is happy," she said presently. "See what a jolly time she has of
it!—Always out, spending the evening where there are half-a-dozen or
more nice people."
"And see what a 'jolly' time I should have of it, if you adopted the
same course," said Mrs. Anderson, looking up with a laugh. "I can
hardly fancy my Cicely feeling easy about leaving her mother always by
herself."
Cicely looked ashamed. "Not always, mother!" she cried. "I shouldn't
want to do that. Then sometimes it would be our turn to entertain, and
you would share the fun."
"After all," Mrs. Anderson went on, by and by, "I wonder if Mina's
happiness is more than skin deep. I was thinking just now, when
you spoke of her father's altered circumstances having made such a
difference to her, I noticed a change last time she was here, and it
struck me as an unfavourable one. I should not think she is nearly so
amiable as she used to be;—certainly not one half so amiable as her
little cousin Ruth—whom, by the bye, you have not asked to tea for a
long while. I have been wondering whether we could not put a little
sunshine into two lives, which must sometimes be very sad and dreary
now Joseph is away, by asking her and her mother to spend a quiet
evening with us now and then. Perhaps we might find out in that way
that there is some good in not being able to entertain large parties;
for we could not ask them to join us in merry-making so soon after
their heavy trial."
This was a hard thrust home, for Cicely had acted in very much the same
manner by Joseph and Ruth as Mina had done by her. The still small
voice of conscience did not fail to remind her of it, and she sat for
some time without speaking.
Her mother was the first to break the silence.
"Mina's happiness is not worth much if it will not bear the test of
adversity," she said. "Do you suppose it is deeply rooted enough to
survive misfortune? If her father's health gave way, or he lost his
money, so that they had to move back into a smaller house, would her
friends follow her? And could she ever be content to give up her
gaieties and pleasures?"
"But such a thing is so unlikely, mother," Cicely objected.
"Yet not impossible. Her father's riches cannot protect him against
the hand that laid his brother low; and he is as liable as any one to
the casualties that have wrecked other fortunes. However, some day we
may be able to take a larger house; meanwhile, let us be careful to
use every opportunity God has given us of laying the foundations of a
building which no caprice of fortune can overthrow."
Nothing further was said on the subject just then, but as Cicely
glanced round the room again from time to time, she began to feel
heartily ashamed of having allowed such discontent to creep into her
heart.
Presently, her father came in. He was unusually late, and appeared
tired and dejected. All Cicely's efforts to distract him failed, and
she went to bed wondering what could be the matter.
After breakfast next morning, as soon as he had started to business,
her mother called to her.
"Cicely, my child," she said. "You remember what we were talking about
yesterday evening?"
"Yes, mother; and I am a wee bit ashamed, too. I think, if you are
willing, I will run over this afternoon and fetch Mrs. Adams and Ruth
in to tea."
"Not to-day, dear. Papa has had some trouble. Do you recollect what you
said about Mina—how unlikely it was any reverse should come near her?"
"Yes, mother; you do not mean—"
"We are not so rich," continued her mother, "and cannot bear losses so
well even as they."
"And papa has lost some money? Is that what made him so weary last
night? Never mind, mother. Forget all I said last night. We are very
happy as we are."
"As we are, dear; but—"
Cicely looked questioningly in her mother's face. She was just
beginning to realize the possibility of a great trouble at hand.
"But what, mother?" she asked. "Don't be afraid to tell me, and you
shall see how strong I can be. I am not so silly as my words implied
last night."
"Your father is almost ruined, my child. He hardly knows the extent
of his loss yet; but we must at once give up all needless expense and
economize in every possible way."
For a moment, Cicely was silent. Then she threw her arms around her
mother's neck. "Never mind, mother dearest," she cried. "We will give
up our servant to begin with. I promise you a better maid-of-all-work
than ever swept your carpets yet. I am going to disgrace myself utterly
in Mina's eyes," she added, with her old bright laugh; "and she shall
have just cause for 'cutting me.'"
Cicely's words were braver than her heart. She foresaw how much
privation their change of fortunes meant, and her fears were more than
realized when at length her father ascertained the full extent of his
loss. The Building Society, in which the whole of his capital was
invested, had become insolvent, and every penny was gone.
She saw at once that all intercourse with Mina—whose father had
prudently withdrawn his money on the very eve of the disaster—was now
at an end. But her mind was perfectly free from any feeling of envy at
the knowledge that the former had escaped the blow which had brought
such trouble to her own home, whilst the conviction that her presence
and help were so much needed there proved a very wholesome antidote for
the annoyance caused by Mina's neglect.
Gradually her every thought and interest clustered about her home, and
her happiness came to be in exerting herself to the utmost to smooth
the trial to her parents, and to lessen its bitterness to Walter—who,
as one of Neville's parasites, felt it keenly.
Such are often the blessings of worldly loss, which calls us away from
the pursuit of self-centred pleasures to those unselfish duties, the
faithful discharge of which alone can build up and enrich the character.
Still there were many disagreeables to be endured, and not least among
these was that of encountering any of the girls whose acquaintance
she had made at Mina's parties. So much did she dread this, that but
for one fact, she would scarcely have had courage to venture outside
the door. The maidservant having been dismissed immediately with
the payment of her month's wages, there was no one to run errands.
So Cicely must needs put her natural shrinking on one side, and go
herself. It was not long, however, before this trial assumed a less
terrible aspect; and she determined simply to do the right, regardless
of what any self-constituted censor might do or say.
On returning from the butcher's one morning, she descried Mina coming
along on the opposite side of the way. Cicely involuntarily glanced
down at her own dress, which, though neat, was unquestionably shabby.
She had started early, thinking thus to escape annoyance; but there
was no help for it, and consoling herself with the recollection that
Mina was not long-sighted, she took refuge in the hope that the latter
would not trouble herself to cross over and speak to her. But Mina
had a motive for not passing by on the other side. She wanted to
let Cicely feel that things must be different between them for the
future; and although she intended to hint it as kindly as the nature
of circumstances would permit, she intended that there should be no
mistaking her words.
She crossed the road as soon as she perceived Cicely, and approached
her with the most elaborate, expressions of sympathy. "I am so sorry
for you," she exclaimed. "It is indeed the heaviest trial that could
have befallen you."
Cicely smiled cheerfully. "I cannot agree with you there," she replied.
"I have been strengthening mamma with the thought that it is by no
means the worst that might have happened. After all, what is the loss
of a little money, to make oneself so miserable about?"
"But, from what I understand, it is by no means a slight loss,"
returned Mina. "I heard that your father was utterly ruined; and that
you had given up your servant, and were going to live in very poor
style."
Cicely coloured slightly, not only at the words which Mina in her
selfish thoughtlessness had used, but also because she herself had
spoken in a manner which would bear a double construction. She did not
wish Mina to imagine that she was trying to disguise the extent of
their downfall. She was too proud to desire to purchase her esteem by
means of dissimulation.
"It is quite true," she said. "We dismissed Jane the day after we
learnt papa's misfortune, and I am getting my hand in at housework,
whilst mamma attends to the cooking. We intend, if possible, to obtain
pupils or take in needlework to help. I meant that the loss of money is
a comparatively small disaster when we still have what is so much more
precious to us—the love of our dearest friends."
"Well! I am glad you can look at it in that light," Mina returned. "But
it will be bad for you. It will be in everybody's mouth, and you will
not be able to go into society at all. You couldn't possibly. No one
would recognise you, and—"
"Oh! I shall not mind that," replied Cicely, with an inkling of what
was in her late friend's mind. "I have not been into society much, you
know, since you have left off asking me. After all, the heaviest burden
will fall on papa and mamma; and my happiness will consist in trying to
prevent them from feeling it."
Mina again expressed her "true sympathy" and "sincere sorrow," and
passed on her way, exulting in the certainty that her stratagem had
been successful.
"At any rate," she said to herself, "she will not come unless I ask
her."
Meanwhile Cicely hurried back to her morning's duties with a sense of
relief that the dreaded encounter with Mina was over. She felt that
having thus made full confession of their poverty, she did not care
whom she met, and that it mattered little who talked of it, since
she herself had not been ashamed to own it. Her face was so full of
brightness when she went in, that her mother observed it and wondered.
But Cicely soon enlightened her.
"Mina evidently intends to seize the excuse," she said, "and give me up
entirely."
"'Seize the excuse,' Cicely?"
"I mean that having told her exactly how things stand, and enlightened
her as to my present humble position in the household," (with an
expressive glance at the large apron she was tying on), "she has
given me to understand that I shall not be wanted henceforth in her
aristocratic circle."
Mrs. Anderson looked surprised. "You are not wise to make the most of
our poverty," she said. "It is likely to damage your prospects."
"These are my 'prospects' for the present, mamma," replied the girl,
waving her hands over carpets and furniture, as if to denote her
domestic capacity; "and 'honesty is always the best policy.' I am quite
relieved now that Mina has given me my formal dismissal."
"You ought not to be glad she has acted so unworthily," objected Mrs.
Anderson.
"Oh it is perfectly natural from her point of view," returned Cicely
indulgently. "She will be wiser some day, perhaps; poor Mina!"