ONE OF GOD'S HEROINES
No. I was quite right when I told poor Phoebe that her sad case was not
without alleviation. I was still more sure of the truth of my words when
I saw with what care Miss Locke had prepared the invalid's meal, and how
gently she helped to place her in a proper position. There was evidently
no want of love between the sisters; only on one side the love was more
self-sacrificing and unselfish than the other. It needed only a look at
Susan Locke's spare form and thin, careworn face to tell me that she was
wearing herself out in her sister's service. Phoebe looked in her face
and broke into a harsh laugh, to poor Susan's great alarm.
'What do you think Miss Garston has been saying, Susan? That we must be a
comfort to each other. Fancy my being a comfort to you! You poor thing,
when I am the plague and burden of your life,' And she laughed again, in
a way that was scarcely mirthful.
'Nay, Phoebe, you have no need to say such things,' returned her sister
sadly; but she was probably used to this sort of speeches. 'I am bound to
take care of you and Kitty, who are all I have left in the world. It is
not that I find it hard, but that you might make it easier by looking a
little cheered sometimes.'
Phoebe took this gentle rebuke somewhat scornfully.
'Cheered! The woman actually says cheered, when I am already on the
border-land of the place of torment. Was I not as good as dead and buried
three years ago? And did not father always tell us that hell begins in
this world for the wicked?'
'Ay, that was father's notion; and I was never clever enough to argue
with him. But you are not wicked, my woman, only a bit tiresome and
perverse and wanting in faith.' And Miss Locke, who was used to these
wild moods, patted her sister's shoulder, and bade her drink her tea
before it got cold, in a sensible matter-of-fact way, that was not
without its influence on the wayward creature; for she did not refuse
the comforting draught.
I took my leave soon after this, after promising to repeat my visit on
the next evening. Phoebe bade me good-bye rather coldly, but I took no
notice of her contrary mood. Miss Locke followed me out of the room, and
asked me anxiously what I thought of her sister.
'It is difficult to judge,' I returned, hesitating a little. 'You must
remember this is only my second visit, and I have not made much way with
her. She is in a state of bodily and mental discomfort very painful to
witness. If I am not mistaken, she is driving herself half-crazy with
introspection and self-will. You must not give way to this morbid desire
to increase her own wretchedness. She needs firmness as well as
kindness.'
Miss Locke looked at me wistfully a moment.
'What am I to do? She would fret herself into a fever if I crossed her
whims. Directly you have left the house she will be asking for that wire
blind again, though it would do her poor eyes good to see the thrushes
feeding on the lawn, and there is the little robin that comes to us every
winter and taps at the window for crumbs; but she would shut them all
out,--birds, and sunshine, and flowers.'
'Just as she would shut out her Father's love, if she could; but it is
all round her, and no inward or outward darkness can hinder that. Miss
Locke, you must be very firm. You must not move the flowers or replace
the blind on any pretext whatever. She must be comforted in spite of
herself. She reminds me of some passionate child who breaks all its
toys because some wish has been denied. We are sorry for the child's
disappointment, but a wise parent would inflict punishment for the fit
of passion.'
Miss Locke sighed; her mouth twitched with repressed emotion. She was
evidently an affectionate, reticent woman, who found it difficult to
express her feelings.
'I am keeping you standing all this time,' she said apologetically, 'and
I might have asked you to sit down a minute in our little kitchen. Let me
pour you out a cup of tea, Miss Garston. Kitty and I were just going to
begin.'
I accepted this offer, as I thought Miss Locke evidently wanted to speak
to me. She seemed pleased at my acquiescence, and told Kitty to stay with
her aunt Phoebe a few minutes.
'I have baked a nice hot cake with currants in it, Kitty,' she said
persuasively, 'and you shall have your share, hot and buttered, if you
will be patient and wait a little.'
'She is a good little thing,' I observed, as the child reluctantly
withdrew to her dreary post, after a longing look at the table, while
Miss Locke placed a rocking-chair with a faded green cushion by the fire,
and opened the oven door to inspect the cake. 'It is dull work for the
little creature to be so much in the sick-room. It is hardly a wholesome
atmosphere for a child.'
Miss Locke shook her head as though she endorsed this opinion.
'What am I to do?' she returned sorrowfully. 'Kitty is young, but she
has to bear our burdens. I spare her all I can; but when I am at my
dressmaking Phoebe cannot be left alone, and she has learned to be quiet
and handy, and can do all sorts of things for Phoebe. I know it is not
good for her living alone with us, but the Lord has ordered the child's
life as well as ours,' she finished reverently.
'We must see what can be done for Kitty,' was my answer. 'She can be
free to play while I am with your sister. I sent her out with her new
skipping-rope this evening. What brought her back so soon?'
'It was the singing,' returned Miss Locke, smiling. 'The street door
was just ajar, and Kitty crept in and curled herself up on the mat. It
sounded so beautiful, you see; for Kitty and I only hear singing at
church, and it is not often I can get there, with Phoebe wanting me;
so it did us both good, you may be sure of that.'
I could not but be pleased at this simple tribute of praise, but
something else struck me more, the unobtrusive goodness and self-denial
of Susan Locke. What a life hers must be! I hinted at this as gently as
I could.
'Ay, Phoebe has always been a care to me,' she sighed. 'She was never as
strong and hearty as other girls, and she wanted her own way, and fretted
when she could not get it. Father spoiled her, and mother gave in to her
more than she did to me; and when trouble came all along of Robert Owen,
and he used her cruel, just flinging her aside when he saw some one he
fancied more than Phoebe, and driving her mad with spite and jealousy,
then she let herself go, as it were. She was never religious, not to
speak of, all the time she kept company with Robert, so when her hopes
of him came to an end she had nothing to support her. It needs plenty of
faith to make us bear our troubles patiently.'
'And then her health failed.'
'Yes; and mother died, and father followed her within six months, and
Phoebe could not be with them, and she took on about that; she has had a
deal of trouble, and that is why I cannot find it in my heart to be hard
on her; she was that fond of Robert, though he was a worthless sort of
fellow, that, as the saying is, she worshipped the ground he walked on.
Ah, Phoebe was bonnie-looking then, though she was never over-strong,
and had not much colour; but he need not have called her a sickly
ill-tempered wench when he threw her over and married Nancy. It was
a cruel way to serve a woman that loved him as Phoebe did.'
'She has certainly had her share of trouble. How long ago did this happen
to your sister?'
'It must be five years since Robert and Nancy were married. Phoebe was
never the same woman since then, though her health did not fail for a
year or more afterwards; Mr. Hamilton always says she has had a good
riddance of Robert. He never thought much of him, and he has told me that
it is far better that Phoebe never had a chance of marrying him, for she
would have been a sad burden to any man; and she would not have had you
to nurse her.' And Miss Locke's careworn face brightened. 'That is just
what I tell myself, when I am out of heart about her; the Lord knew
Robert would have been a cruel husband to her,--for he is not too kind
to Nancy,--and so He kept Phoebe away from him. Phoebe is not one to bear
unkindness,--it just maddens her,--and we have all spoilt her.'
'Just so, and she knows her power over you. I am afraid she gives you a
great deal to bear, Miss Locke.'
'I never mind it from her,' she answered simply. 'She is all I have in
the world except Kitty, and I am thinking what I can do for her from
morning to night; that is the best and the worst of my work, one need
never stop thinking for it. Sometimes, when I am tired, or things have
gone wrong with my customers, or I am a bit behindhand with the rent,
I wish I could talk it over with her; it would ease me somehow; but I
never do give way to the feeling, for it would only fret and worry her.'
'You are wrong,' I returned warmly. 'Mr. Hamilton would tell you so if
you asked him. Any worry, any outside trouble, would be better for Phoebe
than this unhealthy feeding on herself. Take my advice, Miss Locke, talk
about yourself and your own troubles. Phoebe is fond of you, it will
rouse her to enter more into your life.'
Miss Locke shook her head, and the tears came into her mild hazel eyes.
'There is One who knows it all. I'll not be troubling my poor Phoebe,'
she said, and her hands trembled a little. Kitty came in at this moment
and said her aunt Phoebe wanted her, so we were obliged to break off the
conversation.
I thought about it all rather sadly as I sat by my solitary fire that
evening with Tinker's head on my lap. He had taken to me, and I always
found him waiting for my return; but it was less of Phoebe than of Susan
I was thinking. I was so absorbed in my reflections that Uncle Max's
voice outside quite startled me.
'May I come in, Ursula?' he said, thrusting in his head. 'I have been
at the choir-practice, so I thought I would call as I passed.'
Of course I gave him a warm welcome, and he drew his chair to the
opposite side of the fire, and declared he felt very comfortable: then
he asked me why I was looking grave, and if I were tired of my solitude.
I disclaimed this indignantly, and gave him a sketch of my day's work,
ending with my talk to Susan Locke.
He seemed interested, and listened attentively.
'It is such a sad case, Max,--poor Phoebe's, I mean,--but I am almost
as sorry for her sister. Susan Locke is such a good woman.'
'You would say so if you knew all, Ursula, but Miss Locke would never
tell you herself. When Phoebe's illness came on, and Hamilton told them
that she might not get well for a year or two, or perhaps longer, Susan
broke off her own engagement to stay with her sister. Her father was just
dead, and the child Kitty had to live with them.'
'Miss Locke engaged!' I exclaimed, in some surprise, for it had never
struck me that the homely middle-aged woman had this sort of experience
in her life.
Max looked amused.
'In that class they do not always choose youth and beauty. Certainly
Susan Locke was neither young nor handsome, but she was a neat-looking
body, only she has aged of late. Do you want to know all about it? Well,
she was engaged to a man named Duncan: he was a widower with three or
four children; he had the all-sorts shop down the village, only he moved
last year. He was a respectable man and had a comfortable little
business, and I daresay he thought Miss Locke would make a good mother to
his children. She told me all about it, poor thing! She would have liked
to marry Duncan; she was fond of him, and thought he would have made her
a steady husband; but with Phoebe on her hands she could not do her duty
to him or the children.
'"And there is Kitty; and he has enough of his own; and a sickly body
like Phoebe would hinder the comfort of the house, and I have promised
mother to take care of her." And then she asked my opinion. Well, I could
not but own that with the shop and the house to mind, and five children,
counting Kitty, and a bedridden invalid, her hands would be over-weighted
with work and worry.
'"I think so too," she answered, as quietly as possible, "and I have no
right to burden Duncan. I am sure he will listen to reason when I tell
him Phoebe is against our marrying." And she never said another word
about it. But Duncan came to me about six months afterwards and asked me
to put up his banns.
'"I wanted Susan Locke," he said, in a shamefaced manner, "but that
sister of hers hinders our marrying; so, as I must think of the children,
I have got Janet Sharpe to promise me. She is a good, steady lass, and
Susan speaks well of her."'
Uncle Max had told his story without interruption. I listened to it with
almost painful interest.
With what quiet self-denial this homely woman had put aside her own hopes
of happiness for the sake of the sickly creature dependent on her! She
had owned her affection for Duncan with the utmost simplicity; but in her
unselfishness she refused to burden him with her responsibilities. If she
married him she must do her duty by him and his children, and she felt
that Phoebe would be a drag on her strength and time.
'She is a good woman, Uncle Max,' I observed, when he had finished.
'She is working herself to death, and Phoebe never gives her a word
of comfort.'
'How can you expect it?' he replied quietly. 'You cannot draw comfort out
of empty wells, and poor Phoebe's heart is like a broken cistern, holding
nothing.'
'But surely you talk to her, Uncle Max?'
'I have tried to do so,' he answered sadly; 'but for the last year she
has refused to see me, and Hamilton has advised me to keep away. If I
cross the threshold it is to see Miss Locke. I thought it was a whim at
first, and I sent Tudor in my stead; but she was so rude to him, and
lashed herself into such a fury against us clerics, that he came back
looking quite scared, and asked why I had sent him to a mad woman.'
'She was angry with me to-day.' And I told him about the blind.
'That is right, Ursula,' he said encouragingly. 'You have made a good
beginning: the singing may do more to soften her strange nature than all
our preaching. You will be a comfort to Miss Locke, at any rate.' And
then he stopped, and looked at me rather wistfully, as though he longed
to tell me something but could not make up his mind to do it 'You will be
a comfort to us all if you go on in this way,' he continued; and then he
surprised me by asking if I had not yet seen the ladies from Gladwyn.
The question struck me as rather irrelevant, but I took care not to say
so as I answered in the negative.
'You have been here nearly a week; they might have risked a call by this
time,' he returned, knitting his brows as though something perplexed him;
but I broke in on his reflections rather impatiently.
'I declare, Max, you have quite piqued my curiosity about these people;
some mystery seems to attach to Gladwyn. I shall expect to see something
very wonderful.'
'Then you will be disappointed,' he returned quietly, not a bit offended
by my petulance. 'I cannot help wishing you to make acquaintance with
them, as they are such intimate friends of mine, and I think it will be a
mutual benefit.'
Then, as I made no reply to this, he went on, still more mildly:
'I confess I should like your opinion of them. I have a great reliance in
your intuition and common sense; and you are so deliciously frank and
outspoken, Ursula, that I shall soon know what you think. Well, I must
not stay gossiping here. Your company is very charming, my dear, but I
have letters to write before bedtime. You will see our friends in church
on Sunday. I hear Miss Elizabeth comes home to-morrow; she is the lively
one,--not quite of the Merry Pecksniff order, but still a bright, chatty
lady.
"From morning till night
It is Betty's delight
To chatter and talk without stopping."
'You know the rest, Ursula, my dear. By the bye,' opening the door, and
looking cautiously into the passage, 'I wonder whom the Bartons are
entertaining in the kitchen to-night? I hear a masculine voice.'
'It is only Mr. Hamilton,' I returned indifferently. 'I heard him come
in half an hour ago; he is giving Nathaniel a lesson in mathematics.'
'To be sure. What a good fellow he is!' in an enthusiastic tone. 'Well,
good-night, child: do not sit up late.' And he vanished.
I am afraid I disregarded this injunction, for I wanted to write to my
poor Jill--who was never absent from my mind--and Lesbia; and I was loath
to leave the fireside, and too much excited for sleep.
When I had finished my letters I still sat on gazing into the bright
caverns of coal, and thinking over Susan Locke's history.
'How many good people there are in the world!' I said, half aloud; but I
almost jumped out of my chair at the sound of a deep, angry voice on the
other side of the door.
'It is a thriftless, wasteful sort of thing burning the candle at both
ends. Women have very little common sense, after all.'
I extinguished the lamp hastily, for of course Mr. Hamilton's growl was
meant for me, though it was addressed to Nathaniel. I heard him close the
door a moment afterwards, and Nathaniel crept back into the kitchen. I
woke rather tired the next day, and owned he was right, for I found my
duties somewhat irksome that morning. The feeling did not pass off, and
I actually discovered that I was dreading my visit to Phoebe, only of
course I scouted it as nonsense.
Miss Locke was out, and Kitty opened the door. Her demure little face
brightened when she saw me, and especially when I placed a large
brown-paper parcel in her arms, of that oblong shape dear to all
doll-loving children, and bade her take it into the kitchen.
'It is too dark and cold for you to play outside, Kitty,' I observed,
'so perhaps you will make the acquaintance of the blue-eyed baby I have
brought you; when Aunt Susan comes in, you can ask her for some pieces to
dress her in, for her paper robe is rather cold.'
Kitty's eyes grew wide with surprise and delight as she ran off with her
treasure; the baby-doll would be a playmate for the lonely child, and
solace those weary hours in the sick-room. I would rather have brought
her a kitten, but I felt instinctively that no animal would be tolerated
by the invalid.
It was somewhat dark when I entered the room, but one glance showed me
that my directions had been obeyed; the window was unshaded, and the
flowers were in their place.
Phoebe was lying watching the fire. I saw at once that she was in a
better mood. The few questions I put to her were answered quietly and
to the point, and there was no excitement or exaggeration in her manner.
I did not talk much. After a minute or two I sat down by the uncurtained
window and began to sing as usual. I commenced with a simple ballad, but
very soon my songs merged into hymns. It began to be a pleasure to me to
sing in that room. I had a strange feeling as though my voice were
keeping the evil spirits away. I thought of the shepherd-boy who played
before Saul and refreshed the king's tormented mind; and now and then an
unuttered prayer would rise to my lips that in this way I might be able
to comfort the sad soul that truly Satan had bound.
When my voice grew a little weary, I rose softly and took down the old
brown sampler, as I wished to replace it by a little picture I had
brought with me.
It was a sacred photograph of the Crucifixion, in a simple Oxford frame,
and had always been a great favourite with me; it was less painful in its
details than other delineations of this subject: the face of the divine
sufferer wore an expression of tender pity. Beneath the cross the Blessed
Virgin and St. John stood with clasped hands,--adopted love and most
sacred responsibility,--receiving sanction and benediction.
I had scarcely hung it on the nail before Phoebe's querulous voice
remonstrated with me.
'Why can you not leave well alone, Miss Garston? I was thanking you in my
heart for the music, but you have just driven it away. I cannot have that
picture before my eyes; it is too painful.'
'You will not find it so,' I replied quietly; 'it is a little present I
have brought you. My dead brother bought it for me when he was a boy at
school, and it is one of the things I most prize. He is dead, you know,
and that makes it doubly dear to me. That is why I want you to have it,
because I have so much and you so little.'
My speech moved her a little, for her great eyes softened as she looked
at me.
'So you have been in trouble, too,' she said softly. 'And yet you can
sing like a bird that has lost its way and finds itself nearly at the
gate of Paradise.'
'Shall I tell you about my trouble?' I returned, sitting down by the
bed. It wrung my heart to talk of Charlie, but I knew the history of
his suffering and patience would teach Phoebe a valuable lesson.
An hour passed by unheeded, and when I had finished I exclaimed at the
lateness of the hour.
'Ay, you have tired yourself; you look quite pale,' was her answer; 'but
you have made me forget myself for the first time in my life.' She
stopped, and then with more effort continued, 'Come again to-morrow, and
I will tell you my trouble; it is worse than yours, and has made me the
crazy creature you see. Yes, I will tell you all about it'; but, half
crying, as though she had little hope of contesting my will, 'You will
not leave that picture to make my heart ache more than, it does now?'
'My poor Phoebe,' I said, kissing her, 'when your heart once aches for
the thought of another's sorrow your healing will have begun. Let that
picture say to you what no one has said to you before, "that all your
life you have been an idolater, that you have worshipped only yourself
and one other--"'
'Whom? What do you mean? Have you heard of Robert?' she asked excitedly.
'To-morrow is Sunday,' I returned, touching her softly. 'I am going to
church in the morning, and I shall not be here until evening; but we
shall have time then for a long talk, and you shall tell me everything.'
And then, without waiting for an answer, I left the room. It was late
indeed. Miss Locke had long returned, and was busying herself over her
sister's supper; she held up her finger to me smiling as I passed, and
I peeped in.
Kitty was lying on the rug, fast asleep, with the doll in her arms.
'I found them like this when I came in,' whispered Miss Locke; 'she must
have been listening to the music and fallen asleep. How late you have
stopped with Phoebe! it is nearly eight o'clock!'
'I do not think the time has been wasted,' I answered cheerfully, as
I bade her good-night and stepped out into the darkness. Is time ever
wasted, I wonder, when we stop in our daily work to give one of these
weak ones a cup of cold water? It is not for me to answer; only our
recording angel knows how some such little deed of kindness may brighten
some dim struggling life that seems over-full of pain.