Joanna.
There is many a cruel thorn,
Many a roaring lion,
Many a stone by footsteps worn,
On the road that leads to Zion.
Early in October Isabel came back to town, and again took up her
abode at her uncle's house in Prince's Gate. Lady Farley had been
naturally much disappointed at the breaking off of her niece's
engagement with Lord Wrexham, but she was too just not to see that,
after all, Isabel was old enough to please herself, and that a woman
on the threshold of the thirties was too old to be scolded. She was
perfectly conscious that, from a social point of view, Isabel was
fast writing herself down a failure; and therefore, for the first
time in her life, Lady Farley did not disguise from her niece her
high opinion of that niece's attractions.
Like Horace Walpole, Lady Farley knew her world; and she had learned
that it is when we fail, that a little flattery is beneficial to us;
also, that we do not thank the friend who admires our excellencies,
but for the stranger who openly exalts the strength of our weak
places we reserve our undying devotion. So her ladyship was very
complimentary to Isabel just then.
The first Sunday afternoon after Isabel's return, Edgar Ford called
at the Farleys'; and, after a few customary banalities, Miss Carnaby
inquired how the Seatons were getting on.
"Not at all well, I am sorry to say," replied Edgar; "Joanna is very
ill, and Mrs. Seaton seems to be breaking up."
"Oh! I am so sorry; do tell me all about them," begged Isabel.
"Poor Joanna has been ailing all the summer; and now the doctors say
that the only thing that could save her life would be a winter at
Davos, and that she will run the greatest risk if she attempts to
remain in England."
Isabel's eyes filled with tears; somehow lately all the gilt and the
sunshine on things had vanished, and she kept seeing the underlying
sadness of life whichever way she turned.
"Of course the Seatons are not at all well off," continued Edgar,
"and a winter abroad is always a costly business for any one; but
Paul, I believe, is ready to defray all Joanna's expenses, so that no
burden shall fall upon his father. The difficulty, however, is that
there is no one to go with her, and she is far too delicate to go
alone."
"That is a serious difficulty," said Lady Farley.
"They cannot find any one who happens to be going and who would take
charge of her: besides, it would be hard for the poor girl to go out,
perhaps to die, with strangers; and the journey would kill Mr. or
Mrs. Seaton right out, even if they could afford it."
"Couldn't her brother take her?" Lady Farley suggested.
Edgar shook his head. "He could not possibly spare the time. He is
such an unselfish fellow that he would gladly go with Joanna if it
could be managed, and take every care of her; but he could not leave
London for several months without resigning his appointment as editor
of _The Pendulum_; and if he did that, he could not afford to pay
even Joanna's expenses, much less his own."
Then Lady Farley--being tired of the Seatons as a subject of
conversation--began to talk about other things, while Isabel
dispensed the tea which had just been brought in.
"I am afraid I must be off," Edgar said at last, "for I am going to
the service at St. James's Hall to-night, and it is impossible to get
a seat unless one is there half an hour before the time."
"I have never been," said Isabel, "I should like to go and see what
it is like." She felt great leanings towards anything connected with
Methodism just then; not from any special sympathy with the teachings
of John Wesley, but simply because Methodism--like yellow
roses--reminded her of Paul.
"Then come with me now! I will take great care of her, Lady Farley,
and bring her back safe and sound."
"Yes; go, my dear," said her ladyship kindly, "if you think it will
interest you." Lady Farley regarded religious services as she
regarded love affairs, namely, as seemly diversions _pour passer le
temps_.
So Isabel ran upstairs to put on what women call "her things," and
then she and Edgar repaired to St. James's Hall.
When they arrived there the hall was practically full, though it was
a good half-hour before the beginning of the service; but the
congregation kept streaming in, and by seven o'clock every corner was
densely packed, and people were standing in the doorways and the
passages.
"This crowded audience looks more like a political meeting than a
religious service," whispered Isabel to Edgar, with that surprise
which we all feel when God, for the time being, occupies public
attention to the exclusion of Man, and heaven instead of earth
becomes the topic of the hour.
"It is a wonderful sight!" Edgar whispered back; "there is nothing
like it in London."
The whole scene stirred Isabel strangely. Not only was the crowd
very large, but it consisted chiefly of men; a great number of them
were soldiers in their scarlet uniforms, and almost all of them were
counted among those poor to whom it has been promised that the Gospel
shall be preached. These were none of the well-to-do people who go
to church or to chapel, as they go to court, because it is the
correct thing to pay homage to the heavenly as to the earthly
Sovereign; but working men, whose hearts as well as whose hands had
been scarred and hardened by the ceaseless grind of poverty and toil.
On the platform behind the minister's desk sat a row of sweet-faced
Sisters of the Poor, in their plain black gowns and long grey veils;
while again behind them came the band, and a crowd of "workers,"
filling the enormous platform of St. James's Hall up to the roof.
A less emotional woman than Isabel Carnaby would have been thrilled
at the sound of a hymn sung by so vast a concourse of people, and at
the sight of so large a number gathered together with one accord in
one place; and when the time for the sermon came, and the preacher
showed forth some of the sorrows of the world, and echoed its great
cry for help, she felt that there was no resisting that appeal.
Until now she had been one of the careless daughters--one of the
women that are at ease; and she had been deaf to the weeping and the
wailing inside the prison walls of poverty. But at last her ears had
been opened, and she had heard the sorrowful sighing of the prisoners
appointed to die; and she felt she must be up and doing, and must
take her part in stemming the torrent of the world's great flood of
tears.
She and Edgar said little on their way home; and each understood that
the heart of the other was too full for speech.
The next day Isabel wrote the following letter:--
"MY DEAR MRS. SEATON,
"I am so dreadfully sorry to hear from Mr. Ford that Joanna is ill; I
cannot tell you how unhappy it has made me, but I think you will
understand without being told.
"I am full of hope that a winter at Davos will set her right again,
as I have known it work such wonderful cures. But I hear your
difficulty is that she can find nobody to accompany her; and
therefore I am writing to ask if I may offer my services. I would
promise to take every care of her; and my maid--who is an experienced
nurse as well as a most faithful old servant--would look after us
both.
"I could be ready to start in a fortnight from now; and could arrange
to stay as far into the spring as the doctors thought desirable on
Joanna's account.
"Yours lovingly,
"ISABEL CARNABY."
This letter brought great joy to the little home at Chayford. Mrs.
Seaton's first impulse was to close with Isabel's offer at once, and
so ensure a chance of recovery for Joanna; but she felt that anything
connected with Isabel was Paul's business, and that therefore she
could settle nothing without first consulting him. So she wrote a
loving letter to Isabel, telling the latter how grateful both Joanna
and her parents were for this great kindness, but that Paul was
undertaking the entire management of his sister's journey, so the
final arrangements must rest with him.
Then Mrs. Seaton forwarded Isabel's letter to Paul, bidding him deal
with it as he thought best. "I am not doing this in order to bring
Paul and Isabel together again," she said to herself, "but entirely
on Joanna's account; I should have done just the same had Miss
Dallicot made the offer instead of Isabel, for it is clearly Paul's
duty to make all the arrangements he can for his sister's comfort.
It is purely a matter of business." Then a smile stole round the
corners of her mouth as she added: "It will all come right again as
soon as they see each other, and my boy will be as happy as he
deserves to be".
For Paul's mother had heard of the breaking off of the Wrexham
engagement, and had drawn her own conclusions.
A day or two after this, Isabel received a letter from Paul:--
"MY DEAR MISS CARNABY,
"My mother has forwarded to me your most kind and generous offer of
help to us in our present difficulty, as it is I who am taking all
the responsibility of Joanna's illness. I feel that we cannot refuse
the offer without due consideration, because the plan that you
propose would prove such an inestimable benefit to my sister; nor can
we, on the other hand, accept it without due consideration, because
it would be a most serious undertaking for you. Therefore, if you
will allow me, I will call upon you to-morrow afternoon to discuss
the matter more fully than we can do by letter.
"Yours gratefully,
"PAUL SEATON."
As Paul wrote the above, he laughed at his own folly. "What a fool I
am!" he said to himself, "of course I could manage it perfectly by
writing, if I wanted to do so; but I am as excited as a boy of twenty
at the mere idea of seeing her face and hearing her voice again. I
wonder if Lord Wrexham minded being thrown over by her as much as I
did; if so, I pity him with all my heart."
So Paul Seaton and Isabel Carnaby saw each other face to face once
more. Because they were well-bred people--and, moreover, a man and
woman of the world--they met apparently with perfect ease and without
any disquieting emotion; although Paul's heart beat like a regimental
drum all the time, and Isabel felt as if a little bird were
fluttering in the middle of her throat. A casual observer would have
thought that they were ordinary acquaintances, who had seen each
other the day before; and the only difference that the most
experienced eye could have detected was that they were neither quite
as clever as usual. They did not seem to look at one another with
any special attention; and yet in the first ten seconds that they
were together, Paul knew that Isabel was thinner than of old, and
that there had come a tired look into the blue eyes; and Isabel
perceived that there were many grey hairs round Paul's temples, and
that she and Time together had managed to plough some deep furrows
across his forehead.
"How do you do?" began Isabel, talking a shade faster than her wont,
"it is very good of such a busy man to spare the time to come and see
me."
"It is very good of you to let me come," replied Paul, "but it is so
much easier to talk over plans than to write about them."
"Then let us get to business at once," suggested Isabel hurriedly,
"as I daresay you have not much time to spare."
She really meant that she had not much courage to spare; but we so
rarely say what we actually mean. And why should we? The
understanding people know without our saying, and it doesn't matter
whether the stupid ones know or not.
"Certainly," agreed Paul, who happened to be one of the understanding
people, "I know it is very bad manners to be in a hurry, but
unfortunately I nearly always am. I believe my health will be
permanently impaired by the scalding state in which I always have to
swallow cups of tea during afternoon calls. Long and bitter
experience has taught me that unless you can fly before you hear the
distant rattle of the tea-cups, you are lost; if once tea is within
ear-shot, escape becomes impossible till the cup is drained to the
dregs. If you leave in the interval between the sound of tea and its
outpouring, you somehow cast a slur upon the quickness of your
hostess's servant."
Paul knew perfectly well about that little bird fluttering in
Isabel's throat, and he talked on at random in order to give her time
to recover herself.
She laughed. "Well, I am glad that the tea is here now, so that you
can have a cup at once and drink it at your leisure."
"Thank you. And now, about Joanna. I cannot tell you how grateful I
am to you for your most kind suggestion; but before we go into that,
I want you to consider what it will mean to you. At present I think
you have no idea of the sacrifice which it will involve on your part."
"I don't mind that; the greater the sacrifice the better it will be
for me. You see, I have done nothing but help myself for thirty
years, and now I think it is time I began to help other people."
"But this is such a big beginning," persisted Paul; "it means
shutting yourself up for six months in an atmosphere of sickness, and
possibly of death; and this is a tremendous undertaking for any
woman, especially for one who has hitherto had all the wheels of life
oiled for her."
"But think of Joanna."
"I am trying not to think of her, till I have done thinking of you.
Of course my first impulse was to thank you on my knees for thus
coming to our help; but you must be considered as well as Joanna; and
I am not sure that I should be justified in letting you make so great
a sacrifice for any one who has after all no claim upon you." And
Paul got up from his seat and looked out of the window, so that
Isabel might not see his face.
Isabel's eyes grew wistful. "Please don't stop me now that at last I
am trying to be good."
"Heaven forbid! But the path of duty is not easy walking, and I
would carry you over the rough places if I could; for the way is
thorny and your feet are very tender," replied Paul gently.
"Nevertheless I am going."
"And I cannot help you, much as I should wish it. If Joanna became
much worse I should come out to her once; but I could not afford the
time to stay with her long, as the unavoidable expenses of her
illness will make me specially busy all this winter."
"Nevertheless I am going," repeated Isabel.
"You have definitely made up your mind?"
"Yes."
"What does Lady Farley say about it?" asked Paul.
"She says I am old enough and wise enough to please myself, and to
know my own business best."
"Then, if your decision is now made and my words are powerless to
affect you one way or another, I may tell you what this act of yours
means to me and to my people. It will probably be the saving of
Joanna's life--at any rate it is giving her the one chance she has of
recovery; and without you this one chance would have been denied her.
After I have told you this, all expressions of gratitude would be
superfluous, I think."
"Yes; please don't thank me; I don't want to be thanked," said Isabel
breathlessly, "let us make all the necessary arrangements; for Joanna
and I ought to be starting soon, if this foggy weather continues."
So Paul and Isabel set to work to plan poor Joanna's exodus out of
England before the winter actually set in; and three weeks after this
interview Isabel and Joanna went out to Davos Platz together, with
the former's faithful old nurse to take care of and look after them.
The new life was very interesting to Isabel. She had hitherto lived
in a world where sickness and death were put out of sight and
forgotten as far as possible; but now she was suddenly plunged into
the midst of a society of people who were all either ill or anxious.
But these bore it bravely, and put on a cheerful courage; and if she
had not known that all was not well with them, she would have found
them pretty much the same as happier folks.
Joanna specially interested Isabel, and the two women were drawn very
close together. Neither had ever had a sister; and a woman who has
never had a sister has missed something which can never be made up to
her in this world. Women who have no sisters share their confidences
with their friends or their sisters-in-law, just as men who have no
legs walk about on cork or wooden ones; but perfect satisfaction is
not found in makeshifts. However anything is better than nothing; so
Isabel and Joanna found much pleasure in each other's society.
Joanna did not talk much about herself; but when she did, it was with
perfect ease and cheerfulness. She had been brought up in a circle
where the things which are seen and temporal are not more familiar or
real than the things which are unseen and eternal; and this
familiarity and sense of nearness is of good comfort to such souls as
feel forebodings of the chill and the darkness of the great Shadow.
"I minded dreadfully being ill at first," she said one day to Isabel,
after they had been some weeks together, and their friendship was
established, "I had meant to do so much work for God--in my own
little world I really was doing it--and it seemed rather hard to be
suddenly put by on the shelf as of no further use. I was actually
getting so conceited that I thought none of the classes or meetings
in Chayford would get on properly without me; and yet mother says in
her last letter that my Bible-class has increased in numbers since
Miss Dallicot became the leader in my place, while the Dorcas-meeting
is doing more work than ever. As for my district, Alice Martin took
it; and the people simply adore her, she is so sweet and pretty and
can speak to them so beautifully. So the Lord can carry on His work
without my help, though at one time I doubted it." And Joanna
laughed.
"I did not know that Alice was good at work of that kind."
"She is; she is simply splendid. In the first place she is very
pretty, and that has a tremendous influence. It would take me twenty
visits to the poor to win as much love as she gains in one."
"But I did not know she was so religious."
"She was always good and amiable," replied Joanna, "even when she was
quite a child. But lately she has been a great deal under Edgar
Ford's influence, and has learnt from him the importance of our
responsibility to the poor. She will do more good in my district
than I have ever done."
"I suppose the world could do without any of us," said Isabel sadly,
"none of us are indispensable to anything or anybody."
Joanna shook her head. "The world might, but God couldn't."
"But you said that He could."
"Oh! no, I didn't. I said that He could carry on His work without
us, which is quite a different thing."
Isabel looked puzzled. "What is the difference?"
"Don't you see? it is like this. When I was a little girl, father
always allowed me to open all his letters with a small paper-knife.
I used to love doing it, I felt so important, and I imagined that if
it hadn't been for me, father's letters would have permanently
remained unopened. I used to say nearly every day, 'You couldn't do
without me, could you, father?' and he always answered, 'No'. Of
course father could have opened all his letters well enough without
my help, but he couldn't have done without me all the same."
"How good you are, dear Joanna!"
"Indeed I am not--I only wish I were; but I am ill, and when one is
ill one has plenty of time to think. And I have come to the
conclusion that God knows His own business best, and that He must
often smile at us tenderly when He sees us so ready to help Him with
our advice. He knows everything, and He says that a certain thing
will be best for us; we know next to nothing, and yet, like Beatrice,
we are 'at Him upon our knees every morning and evening,' to prove to
Him that He is mistaken and that we know better. It really is rather
humorous."
"Then you have learnt to leave everything to Him, and not to worry?"
"I hope I have," replied Joanna. "I don't deny that it has been a
difficult lesson. At one time, like everybody else, I thought that I
knew better than God, and I tried my utmost to teach Him what was the
right thing for me and for Methodism and for Christianity at large;
and I confess that I was grieved, not to say reproachful, when He did
not follow my advice. But now I just sit still, and let Him take all
the responsibility."
"It must be very restful," sighed Isabel.
"It is. If you went on a long voyage, it would be very tiring to
spend all your time in trying to steer the ship by beating against
the bulwarks with your hands, and very ineffectual and foolish. Then
why behave thus absurdly on the voyage of life? For our Pilot never
makes mistakes."
It was not till the two friends became very intimate that they began
to talk about Paul, though they both spent much time in thinking
about him. But at last even that barrier of reserve gave way, as
most barriers do, if only a _tête-à-tête_ be long enough, and Paul's
sister soon discovered that Isabel still loved Paul.
"My dear, why don't you ask him to come back to you?" asked Joanna
abruptly.
"Oh! I couldn't--I should be ashamed, after the way I have treated
him."
"Then do you mean to let your pride spoil both your life and his?"
Isabel did not answer, and Joanna continued: "When people come to
where I am now, they look at life so differently from how they used
to look when the end of the road was not in sight; and they see that
the things which once seemed important are trivial, and the things
which once seemed trivial are the only things that matter. When you
stand where I am standing, you won't care a scrap whether your pride
and your self-respect received their due; but you will care
infinitely whether you and Paul are together, or whether you will
have to go down into the dark valley all alone."
Isabel began to cry quietly.
"Don't cry, Isabel; I am so sorry that I have upset you, and I hate
to talk in this horrid, depressing way. But I felt I must tell you
just once that, when the end comes, you will find that nothing really
matters except the love of God and our love for each other; and I
want you to realize this before it is too late."
Isabel came and knelt down by Joanna's sofa. "Do you think that Paul
could forgive me?" she asked.
"I should think so; there is nothing that real love cannot forgive,
and I am sure that Paul really loved you."
"How do you know so much about love, Joanna?"
"I can't tell; I suppose every woman knows all about it, whether she
has tasted it or not. That is one of the things that I used to think
I could teach the Lord; I imagined that it was best for me--and for
every other woman--to live the ordinary woman's happy life. But God
knew better, and so love passed me by."
"Poor Joanna!"
Joanna rested her cheek against Isabel's. "You need not pity me now,
dear; I have long ceased to mind, though I did dreadfully at one
time. But when God withholds a thing from us, He always gives us
something better in its place. It is hard, I admit, to stand alone
on Pisgah, and to see the others going on without us into the
Promised Land; but Pisgah and its disappointment are forgotten, after
we have stood for a moment upon the Mount of Transfiguration, and
have caught glimpses of the glory which shall be revealed."
After a moment's silence Isabel said softly: "I don't believe there
ever was anybody so good as you and Paul."
"Paul is a good man; no one but father and mother and I quite knows
how good, I think."
"I do," whispered Isabel.
"Of course he gets angry sometimes," continued Joanna, "and is stern
and self-willed and masterful; but he is very gentle and tender
underneath, and very unselfish. There is only one thing he has ever
done which has really grieved me, and which seemed to me to be
inconsistent with the rest of his character; but I suppose when men
are very unhappy and bitter they do things for which they are hardly
accountable. Still I wish Paul had not written _Shams and Shadows_."
"He never did write it," cried Isabel, looking up through her tears;
"he was far too good and true and noble to write such a nasty,
sneering book as that. He could not have done it if he had tried!"
"Then if Paul didn't write it, who did?"
"_I_ did," replied Isabel with a sob, "I was angry with myself and
therefore with everything else, and I wrote that horrid book in a fit
of temper. And when I saw how people hated it, I was ashamed, and
felt I could not bear the disgrace of being known as its author. And
then Paul saved me from the consequences of my own folly, and bore
the punishment instead of me."