OTHER PEOPLE’S CROSSES.
ONE could not live long in this world without realizing the
forcefulness of the sentence: “Every heart knoweth his own bitterness.”
Behind the sunniest, apparently most enviable life the bitterness
hides. It will not be supposed that Marion Dennis’ life, which, to
Ruth’s narrow vision, had blossomed into perfect coloring, was an
exception to the general rule.
As she stands in her pretty dining-room, waiting for the coming of her
husband, and gazes out of the window at the play of light and shade in
the western sky—gazes with that far-away, thoughtful, half-sad look,
which betokens that the gazer’s thoughts are not upon the picture which
her eyes behold—it is plain, to the most careless glance, that a tinge
of somber hue has already shaded the picture of her life. She had been
through an ordeal of calls, that afternoon; not calls from intimate
and congenial friends, who came because they desired the pleasure of a
visit with her, but from some of those who came, as in custom bound,
to pay a ceremonious visit to the new wife of their pastor. They had
not been helpful callers. Without offending any of the set rules which
are supposed to govern polite society, they had yet contrived to make
Marion feel that they were keen-sighted, keen-scented society spies,
with eyes all about them, and ears alert to hear, or to fancy what they
could. Also, they had been people—some of them—who delighted in what
they termed plain speaking, which is ofttimes decorous insult, if that
expression is not a misnomer. There are people not quite coarse enough
to express adverse criticism directly to a man’s face, and such are apt
to resort to the more refined coarseness of making their criticism
into the form of a joke, and aiming it at the face of his wife! With
one or two such persons had Marion come in contact.
“I hope you have Dr. Dennis in good subjection,” Mrs. Easterly had
said, with a peculiar little laugh that was meant to be merry, and that
jarred, without one’s being able to define why. “There is nothing like
beginning right, you know. I told Mr. Easterly, last evening, I was
afraid you would be too lenient with him; he is positively in danger of
keeping us in prayer-meeting until it is time to be thinking about the
next morning’s breakfast! Mr. Easterly said, when he got him a wife,
home would be more attractive to him; but my dear Mrs. Dennis, you must
have observed that there was no improvement last evening.”
“I observed that he was five minutes past the hour,” Marion said; and,
if Mrs. Easterly had been familiar with her voice, she would have
discovered that it was haughty in the extreme. “Dr. Dennis is very
particular to close promptly, and, when I questioned him, he said the
people were tardy about getting in, and so delayed the opening.”
“_Possible_ that it was only five minutes! I could have been positive
it was fifteen!” Mrs. Easterly said, ignoring the explanation, and the
statement about general punctuality. Such people always ignore remarks
that are not easy to be answered. Then the smooth voice went on: “I
think a clergyman should try to cultivate habits of punctuality about
_closing_, as well as opening meetings, so many people are over-wearied
by long drawn out exercises.”
“As, for instance, lectures by infidels, and the like,” remarks Marion,
still with the dryness of tone that those familiar to her understand,
and calling to mind the fact that she had heard of Mrs. Easterly as
a delighted listener, for an hour and three quarters, to the popular
infidel orator, two evenings before.
“Oh, _lectures_! Why, of course, they have a set time; every one knows
they must be lengthy. They have abstruse themes to handle, and many
classes of hearers to please.”
“But the mere commonplaces of a prayer-meeting can be compressed into
small compass, as well as not, the theme of personal salvation not
being supposed to be of much importance, nor very abstruse, I suppose.”
Mrs. Easterly arched her eyebrows; said nothing, because she didn’t
know what to say; made the rest of her stay brief, and remarked, when
she had gotten out of Marion’s hearing, that she had heard _that_
Miss Wilbur spoken of as peculiar—having infidel tendencies, indeed.
Perhaps there was a shade of truth in it. For her part, she wondered
that Dr. Dennis should have been so imprudent as to have selected that
sort of a wife. It was imprudent in Marion to have answered her caller
in those words, or in that spirit. Sarcasm was lost on her, for she
hadn’t the right sort of brains to understand it. It is a curious fact
that certain people, who can be very sarcastic in themselves, can not
understand or appreciate it in others.
And so trivial a matter as this troubled Marion? Well, yes, it did. She
had not been long in her position, you will remember. It was really her
first rude awakening from the dream that all Christian people regarded
their pastor with a certain reverent courtesy; not in a cringing or
servile spirit, not in a spirit in any sense at variance with true
independence of thought and action, but in the chivalrous spirit of the
olden time, reverencing the office, rather than the man, and according
all possible courtesy to the man, _because_ of the position he held,
as ambassador from the King’s court. Marion’s early childhood had
been spent among simple, earnest Christians—Christians whose reverent
spirit had been an outgrowth of Puritan New England; and, while her
later years had passed among a very different class of people, she
yet had clung to the fancy that _Christians_ everywhere cherished the
bond of relationship—the tie stronger than that of blood—and spoke
wisely and with respect of those who belonged, like themselves, to the
royal family. Mrs. Easterly’s words had jarred, not only because Dr.
Dennis was her husband, but because he was a clergyman, and because he
was Mrs. Easterly’s pastor. Much had she to learn, you will observe!
She was more than likely to meet often with people to whom the word
“pastor” meant less than any other title—meant, if they took time to
analyze their own feelings, one to whom they could be rude, or free, or
insultingly inquisitive, without fear of rousing him to resentment,
because resentment is not a becoming trait in the ministry!
Dr. Dennis would have smiled could he have known the turmoil in his
wife’s heart. He had so long ago passed beyond that—had so long ago
decided that people must be ranked in classes—so many from this strip
of humanity, who did not know the difference between frankness and
rudeness—so many in this strip, who, because of their lack of early
education, must not be expected to know certain things—so many in
this strip, to whom he could talk, freely, familiarly, as brother to
brother, and friend to friend—classified Christians, belonging to the
family, indeed, but having such different degrees of likeness to the
family name that, what was a matter of course from one, was a sting
from another. All these things Dr. Dennis knew; all these things his
wife had still to learn. She was willing to learn, and she was not so
foolish as to suppose that her road was strewn with roses; but, all the
name, the tiny thorn pricked her.
There were other and graver troubles than this. Do you remember how
she pleased her fancy, while yet she was an inhabitant of that
dingy third-story room, as to the dainty little teas she would get
for that young daughter of hers? Here it was, the very perfection
of a tea-table, exquisite and delicate and fascinating in all its
appointments; laid for three, yet, presently, when Dr. Dennis came from
his round of calls, and seated himself opposite his wife, and waited,
and then finally sent a messenger to Gracie’s room, who returned with
the message, “Miss Grace says will you please excuse her this evening,
she doesn’t care for any tea,” his face clouded, as though the answer
brought trouble to his heart.
“Have you had further talk with Grace?” he asked his wife, when the
door had closed on the servant.
“A little. There have been callers most of the time, but I talked with
her a few minutes.”
“What did she say?”
Marion would rather he had not asked the question. She hesitated a
little, then said, with an effort to speak lightly:
“She said what was natural enough—that she thought _I_ knew almost too
much about the matter, and might have been content to leave it to you.”
“I will not have her speaking in that manner to you,” he said, his face
growing graver, and his forehead settling into a frown. “She ought to
know better.”
“I know it,” answered Marion, a little dash of brightness in her
voice. “She ought to be perfect, of course, and not give way in this
undignified manner. It is only such old saints as you and I who have
any right to get out of tone, when things do not go just to suit us.”
He laughed a little, then he said:
“Now, Marion, you know she has tried you very much, and without cause.”
“As to that, I suppose if you and I could see into her heart, she
thinks she has sore cause. I would not make too much of it, if I were
you; and I would make nothing at all of the part which has to do with
me. She will feel differently before very long. She is young.”
Then Dr. Dennis’ thoughts went back to his daughter. He sighed heavily:
“I ought to have shielded her better; I was trying, I thought. I am so
astonished about that man! He has been a professor of religion ever
since he was a child.”
“To profess a thing is not always to possess it,” Marion said, and
then she sighed to think that even in religion this was so true; and
she sighed again to realize that in her hard life she had come more in
contact with people who _professed_ without possessing than her husband
had.
The trouble about Gracie was not so light as she had tried to make it
appear to the father. Neither had her attempt to reason the obstinate
young daughter into something like graceful yielding been so free from
self-pain as she would have him think. It was all about Prof. Ellis,
a man who, as Marion expressed it to her husband, was good enough for
a teacher, but not at all the sort of man for one so young and so
impressible as Gracie to ride away with to an evening entertainment.
“He is the only one I have been in the habit of allowing her to ride
with,” the father had said, aghast, and then had followed, on Marion’s
part, a startled exclamation to the effect that she would have trusted
her sooner with a dozen of “the boys” with whom she had not been
allowed to associate.
“They are better than he,” she said, earnestly, and then had followed a
long, confidential talk, which had ended in the peremptory, and by no
means wisely put, negative to Gracie’s plans; and then had followed, on
her part, questionings and surmises until at last she understood that
this new mother, who had been but a little while ago a stranger to them
both, had come between her father and herself, and then had followed,
as anyone of sense might have known there would, a scene which was by
no means complimentary to Gracie or comforting to the new mother. She
had tried to be wise.
“Gracie,” she had said, in her gentlest tone, “you know I am a good
many years older than you, and I have known Prof. Ellis very well, and
I am sure if you realized just the sort of a man he is you would not
care to be his familiar friend.”
“I don’t want to be his familiar friend,” Gracie had said, haughtily.
“I want to take a ride out to Katie’s with him when I have promised
to do so.” And then her eyes had fallen under the calm of Marion’s
searching gaze, and her tones had faltered. “At least I do not see that
riding out with him is a proof of very great friendship. It is no more
than I have done several times with my father’s permission.”
“But your father was deceived in him, Gracie; he had no means of
knowing the sort of man he is, save by his professions, which have been
nothing _but_ professions for years. Gracie, I know that of him which
should make every young girl unwilling to be seen in his society or
considered his friend.”
Whereupon Gracie’s eyes had flashed indignation for a second, then
settled into sullenness, while she answered, coldly:
“I should think my father ought to have been capable of judging
character a little; he has had something to do with men and life. I do
not know why I should not be able to trust myself to _his_ judgment.”
Marion smiled. It was hard to be patient with this girl. The haughty
way in which she retired behind her dignity and said, “_My_ father,”
seemed designed to shut Marion out from ownership in him, and impress
her with the sense of the newness of her acquaintance with and
entrance into the family.
“Gracie,” she said again, after a thoughtful pause, “it may not be
known to you that there have been recent developments about Prof. Ellis
that make him an undesirable friend for you. I know that, as your
teacher, you have learned to look up to and respect him, but he is in
some respects unworthy.”
There was for a few minutes no response from the sullen-browed girl,
with her head bent low over the slate, as if during the intervals of
this conversation she had eyes and thought only for the intricate
problem before her. Presently she said, in exactly the same tone of
repressed indignation which she had used before:
“I repeat that in my judgment _my_ father is just as capable of
deciding as to what gentlemen are suited to be my friends as a stranger
can be.”
Marion drew back quickly; she caught her breath hard; this was a trying
spot; what should she do or say? What would Ruth Erskine have done in
her place? At the same time there was a sense of relief in believing
that this young girl’s pride only was touched, not her heart. She was
simply rebellious that “a stranger,” as she chose to call her, should
presume to interfere with her friendships.
“I am not a stranger, Gracie,” she said, trying to speak in all
gentleness. “I am your father’s wife, and have at his request assumed
responsibilities concerning you, for which I am answerable, not only
to him, but to God. When I tell you, therefore, what your father has
had no means of knowing, until lately, that Prof. Ellis is the sort
of man whom a young lady should shun, you ought to believe me, and to
understand that my sole motive is your welfare.”
Then was Marion Dennis treated to a brilliant flashing of the handsome
eyes of her daughter. The slate and book slid to the floor with an
unheeded crash, as Gracie, rising and drawing up her tall form till it
equalled her mother’s, said, in tones of suppressed passion:
“Marion Wilbur, you have no _right_ to speak in that manner of Prof.
Ellis, and I will not bear it!”
Then Marion Dennis drew back grieved and frightened, not at her own
thrust—that was but the ill-temper of an angry girl—but because she
began to fear that this man—this wolf in sheep’s clothing, whose chief
entertainment hitherto had been to see how well he could play with
human hearts—had dared to try his powers on Gracie Dennis. “I hope he
will suffer for this,” she said, under her breath.
In the meantime what was to be said to the angry girl, whose passion
had culminated in this outburst, and who then had thrown herself back
into the chair, not weeping, not crushed and bleeding, but excitedly
_angry_. And yet, feeling that she had said a very unwise and dangerous
thing, and must answer for it—_and yet_ not caring just now in what way
she might be called upon to answer. Being still in the mood to be glad
that she had said it she expected severity, and waited for it.
“Gracie,” said Marion, bending toward her, and I do not know that her
voice had ever been gentler or her manner more quiet, “you do not mean
to hurt _me_; I know you do not. We are too nearly related; we are
sisters, _and the Lord Jesus Christ is our Elder Brother_. It is to him
that I ask you to listen; it is to his judgment, not mine, that I ask
you to defer. Will you lay this matter before him, and wait on your
knees for his answer, and abide by it, never minding me? If you will
the whole matter will be righted.”
Then she turned from her and went down to receive those calls, and get
those little thrusts and pin-pricks which pricked so much deeper and
left a keener sting because in general they were leveled at her husband
instead of herself. Then she went out to that pretty table laid for
three, and saw the grave-faced father, and heard his self-reproaches,
and held back that which would have made him indignant in the extreme;
and held back her own little sigh, and realized that life was not all
sweetness, even while Ruth sat at home and envied _her_ the brightness
of her lot.