_WISE WORDS AND UNWISE DEEDS._
_February 10th, Monday._
A BITTERLY cold winter, and Emmie is so delicate as to be a perpetual
anxiety, while Addie is the very picture of health. But for Emmie, we
should have just now almost no cares. Of course, there is much to look
back upon that is sad, but our little home is very happy, and we are
making pleasant friends. My mother has not looked so well for years.
The single anxiety is Emmie; and she is just the one about whom we
can be most anxious of all. She is so lovable and sweet, and such an
unselfish little darling. Every one clings to Emmie.
Must there be always something; always a shadow in one direction or
another; always a weight of some kind; never perfect freedom? I asked
this question of Millicent,—perhaps impatiently, for I had been feeling
impatient.
"Perfect 'here'? No. Things are not meant to be perfect here."
"One would like a little rest sometimes."
"But this is not our rest," she answered softly. "Rest by-and-by, not
here, not now. This is the fighting-time, the preparation-time."
That is how she feels, and Mother, and aunt Marian. But though I have
learnt much in the last few years, somehow I cannot yet feel myself to
be a mere bird of passage. Perhaps I love this life too well. It is
so much to me that I am always wanting it to be more, always craving
for perfection. I know well enough that perfection cannot be found in
this world, that it would not be good for me, because then I should no
longer look up and forward and beyond. And yet I crave for it.
The teaching comes slowly, step by step. By-and-by, I shall learn more.
Perhaps I shall learn to feel as Mother feels. One cannot force oneself
into a different frame of mind; one can only be willing to be taught.
And I suppose the teaching often has to come through sorrow. I suppose
that is the "must be." There are things that one could not possibly
learn in any other way; only through trouble and strain and loss.
For our characters have to be formed, that I know. And it has to be
through pressure, just as a potter presses the clay into shape with his
hands. If there were no pressure, there would be no beautiful shapes.
I suppose we are all being shaped, slowly, by means of a touch here, a
weight there, sometimes a sudden sharp blow. All through our lifetime
on earth, we are being gradually shaped and made fit for the life of
by-and-by.
Yes, I see it now. And I see, too, the need for self-discipline, the
need to gain power over self, the need sometimes to say "No" to self
even when it is not necessary, so that one may have strength to say
"No" effectually when it "is" necessary. And I see how, if we will
not do this, if we will not steadily fight to gain the mastery over
ourselves, we have to be taken in hand and dealt with sharply, for
the curing of those faults which we might have cured ourselves by
self-discipline.
I see all this in myself. I have seen the faults, through being yielded
to, grow too tough for me to conquer. And then I have felt the sharp
discipline; and I have understood the need, and yet often I have not
been willing. Sometimes now I am not willing.
It is one thing to understand that one is in need of disagreeable
medicine, and quite another thing to be willing to take it, still more
to accept it joyfully.
As years go on, I suppose that too becomes easier.
_February 16th, Sunday._
Another thought has come to me about life's troubles and tangles.
Things often seem so upside-down, so confused, so exactly as one would
not choose them to be. And then the temptation arises to wonder why
they are so, why God does not interfere and arrange differently, and
make all straight and smooth for us. If He loved us, surely He might,
surely He "would," when it must be so easy to Him.
And yet all the while, it may be just because He so loves us that
He does not put things straight. It may be just because their
being crooked is needful, perhaps as a test, perhaps to draw out
something in our characters which could not be drawn out in any other
way,—absolutely "could not!"
I often think of a little talk I had once, years and years ago, with
Millicent. She told me that one could not possibly be patient unless
there were something which might make one impatient. She said that if
all one's life were smooth, and everything were just as one liked, one
might be comfortable and contented and good-tempered, but not patient.
For patience meant endurance, and endurance meant something which had
to be endured.
I did not fully see it then, but I see it now. Patience is an active
virtue, not a passive one. It means bearing up against a strain; it
means very often hard fighting below.
And I suppose the same thing is true in other directions also. One
cannot be truly good-tempered, unless there is something to be overcome
which would naturally make one ill-tempered; one cannot be truly
brave, unless there is something to be overcome which might naturally
render one cowardly; one cannot be truly self-denying, unless there is
something to be given up which would please self; one cannot in any way
be truly victor, except through some kind of battling.
Something in Mr. Farrars' sermon to-day has set me thinking in this
way. He spoke of our Lord's life upon earth; and of how the trials
and temptations and sorrows which beset Him were, if one may so say,
partly for the perfecting of His human Character. He was made perfect
through suffering. These things drew out or developed into active life
those perfections which were "in" Him, but which could not have been
manifested in any other way.
And Mr. Farrars said that in any of us there might be the "germs" of
patience, of self-conquest, of self-sacrifice, implanted there by God;
but that it was only through action, through having to fight against
the opposite tendency, that the germs could be developed into active
life, and could be seen by all around.
It is a wonderful thought to me that every trial, and every opposition,
and every temptation, which may come, is really meant for a help
heavenward. That every pull in the wrong direction is actually an
opportunity for a step in the right direction.
If only I could keep it always before my eyes! I think I do see now
what Mr. Farrars meant, but one's impressions fade so fast. To-day I
feel that it might be the worst thing in the world for me to have my
life made smooth and placid and easy; to-morrow, as likely as not,
the impulse will come again to fret and be discontented because life
"cannot" be easy and smooth.
_March 16th, Sunday._
I have been reading through the last entry, and thinking seriously
about it. On Sundays, if possible, I always try to get a quiet hour, or
at least half-an-hour, to read and think all alone.
What I wrote that day was true enough.
This life only the threshold of the great Life beyond. Yes, indeed.
It is only the schoolroom preparation-time, the testing-time, the
training-time. And it does not truly matter in the very least whether
or no we have what we want, but only whether we are doing exactly what
we are meant to do, whether we are carrying out God's will and letting
Him work His will in us unhindered.
That is the main point,—whether we do not "hinder" Him in what He would
do in us, and with us, and through us.
Some people care so very much about whether they are "comfortable."
One often hears it said as an excuse, "Oh, I don't like to be
uncomfortable!" But isn't that childish? What does it signify whether
we are comfortable or uncomfortable, so long as we are doing rightly,
and not merely pleasing ourselves?
That is how one ought to feel, and I think it is how I do feel about
the question as a whole, in the abstract. But when the abstract comes
down to the particular, when it isn't a matter of the general question,
but of doing or not doing one particular thing, then I am apt to fail,
just like other people.
For pleasing God must mean self-denial, self-forgetfulness,
self-effacement! And these things are hardest of all.
The word "self-effacement" seems so perfectly to describe my mother
and Millicent. Mother has always been ready to "efface" herself to
any amount for the sake of others, for the sake of her husband and
children especially. And in quite another way, Millicent lives a life
of practical self-effacement. Both are beautiful.
This afternoon, I have taken a resolution to make that my rule of
life: to live for the happiness of others; to be careless whether I am
comfortable or not, so that only I am doing God's will; to strive after
a spirit of self-effacement, so far as the pleasing of self goes; to
take happiness, when it comes, straight from the Hand of God, willing
any moment to let it go; to take sorrow, when it comes, in the same
way, straight from His hand, willing to keep it so long as He wills.
The very thought of such a life is like having a little glimpse into
the Beyond.
I do not at present see any "great" way in which I shall be able to
sacrifice myself for others. But I must try to find little ways. And
perhaps they will be a rehearsal for something greater by-and-by.
_March 18th, Tuesday._
It isn't easy! I thought it would be so much easier. How one's
resolutions do fail! But I mean to fight on.
_March 19th, Wednesday._
Clarissa wants me soon to spend a month with her in Town. She is not
very well; and Mr. Griffith—somehow I never can call him "John," though
he is my cousin—has to go abroad. Clarissa does not like to leave the
children, besides feeling unequal to travelling. So she asks me to be
her companion, and I am delighted. I am to go just before Easter.
_April 21st, Monday._
I have been here now for nearly a fortnight.
Clarissa is perfectly charming as a hostess. I never knew before how
nice she could be. All these years, I have only stayed with her twice
for three or four days, and it is two years since the last time. She
and I fit in together so much better now.
She is so handsome that I am quite proud of her; and she thinks of
everything, and just lays herself out to give people pleasure.
She is not very strong, and gets easily tired, but she has found
friends to take me about. The last few days have been quite a rush of
sight-seeing. I do not half like leaving her so much, as I am here to
be her companion. She gives me no choice, however.
_April 22nd, Tuesday._
Such an unexpected thing has happened to-day!
I was alone in the drawing-room after lunch. Clarissa had gone to lie
down, and the children were off for their walk, and I had been out the
whole morning so I meant to have part of the afternoon indoors. And all
at once, when I was comfortably tucked into a corner of the sofa, with
book and work, the door opened, and Richards announced—
"Mr. Derwentwater!"
I don't think I blushed. I don't think I felt anything very particular
at the first moment, beyond a sort of bewildered surprise. I stood up,
and Mr. Derwentwater came in, bowing.
And Richards said, glancing towards me,—
"I will tell Mrs. Griffith, sir. She is upstairs, I believe."
"Mrs. Griffith has gone to lie down," I said, stupidly enough; for
Clarissa hates nothing so much as any manner of fuss about her health.
I was noting how much he is altered—grown older and thinner, browner
and graver. Also, he had no beard in those days, and now he has one.
If I had not heard the name, I should hardly at the first glance have
recognised him. And I suppose I am still more altered. People often
tell me how much I have changed.
"Pray do not disturb Mrs. Griffith on any account. I will leave my
card, and call again," Mr. Derwentwater said earnestly.
But Richards knew better than to listen to any such proposal.
[Illustration: The door opened, and
Richards announced—"Mr. Derwentwater!"]
We were left alone together, and he gave me a very puzzled look, as if
vaguely aware that he ought to be able to claim acquaintance. I did not
exactly help him. I sat down, asked him to do the same, and remarked in
a careless way, "It is a long while since we met last. What a cold wind
there is to-day."
"Very cold. Yes—I beg your pardon—I was sure I must have seen you here
before."
"Here! No, I think not."
"Then—elsewhere."
"A long while ago, when I was a child. You would not remember me, of
course. And I should not have known you but for the sound of your name."
"Then we must have met at—"
He made a pause, quite in the dark still, hoping that I would supply a
name.
Instead of which I only said,—
"Yes."
This was too much for his gravity, and his face broke into a smile—just
the old pleasant smile which captivated my childish heart all those
years ago.
"And you have been abroad for some time, have you not—some years?" I
asked.
"Several years; only running home for a few weeks now and then."
"India or China?"—though I knew it was neither.
"Nothing more interesting than the Continent."
"How tame! One would at least like to get into a fresh quarter of the
world."
Then Clarissa appeared. She greeted him kindly as an acquaintance, and
would have introduced him to me but for my remark that he and I had met
before. This stopped her; rather to his disappointment, I fancy.
Clarissa, it is plain, had no recollection of a certain small episode
in my life. Perhaps she never even heard a whisper of it.
I took up my work, and listened while he and she talked. And it came
out that Mr. Griffith has some kind of connection with the Bank to
which Mr. Derwentwater belongs. I have not known that until now.
Evidently Clarissa has seen him from time to time when he has come
home, but not often or much. They chatted about surface matters; and
Mr. Derwentwater was sorry to find that he could not see Mr. Griffith;
and Clarissa asked if he would come to dinner on Friday.
Presently she turned to me, making some remark and saying my name.
Almost in the same breath, she turned again to him, with an allusion to
"my cousin, Miss Frith," having been sight-seeing all the week. I fancy
she had detected his perplexity, and was more willing to help him out
of it than I had been.
A little flash of intelligence came to his face, and then I knew that
he was examining me in a series of glances.
Clarissa went off presently to look for a letter of her husband's which
contained information needed by Mr. Derwentwater. As the door closed
behind her, he said, as if involuntarily,—
"Yes, I remember now. It was at Wayatford." I looked up inquiringly.
"Had I not the pleasure of meeting you many years ago at Wayatford?"
"When I was a child, there 'was' a Mr. Derwentwater there."
"And there undoubtedly 'was' a Miss Rhoda Frith, unless my memory is
very much at fault."
Neither of us could help laughing. I have long since lost sight of
the anger which I once felt towards him. The self which was so deeply
injured then seems quite a different person from this present self; and
I have not over much sympathy with her. To be sure, "his" action was
not particularly beautiful, but he was young; and certainly I deserved
it all.
"My home now is in Wayatford."
"It is—really!" His face lighted up again.
"We have gone there to be near my aunt, Mrs. Ramsay."
"Ah! She was a great friend of mine in those days. I am afraid our
correspondence has languished of late. And she is as usual? It would be
a pleasure to see her again."
"Why not?"
"Why not go to Wayatford? My ties with the place are broken. The Park
is in the hands of strangers."
"Old ties ought not to break, if they are worth anything."
"No; I believe you are right. Sometimes the force of circumstances
proves too strong to be resisted."
A rather sad look came to his face, a look I had never seen there in
old days.
Should I speak of Millicent? No, I thought, not unless he brought her
name forward. He could do so if he wished. But a history, begun and
ended, lay between the past and the present. I knew well that I, in
Millicent's place, would hardly have been able to forgive any one who
should mistakenly have forced my name upon him. If anybody mentioned
her, it ought to be none other than himself.
"Are you staying here—in this house, I mean—for any length of time?" he
asked.
The question was abrupt, curiously so for him, I thought. He was not
abrupt in past days.
"I came for a month, and I have been here a fortnight. I don't know how
much longer my visit will really last."
"Then I shall see you again. And you will tell me, perhaps, all about
old friends."
Did he mean Millicent? He said the words hurriedly, for the door
opened, and it seemed as if he did not wish Clarissa to overhear. When
she came in, he stood up, and nothing would induce him to sit down
again. Clarissa read aloud the sentence in her husband's letter which
contained the information wanted; and then he disappeared.
I fancy the unexpected encounter had given him a little shake, rousing
old memories. True, there has been the other girl between, and the
sorrow of losing her; and for a while, he must have quite forgotten
Millicent. But it is just possible that he may be inclined now to turn
again to the thoughts of her. Why not? It would surely be happier for
him.
Well, he will be here to dinner on Friday; and I shall see something
of him. Clarissa means him to take me in, for she has said so. He will
have plenty of time to ask about old friends, Millicent included, if he
wishes.
_April 23rd, Wednesday._
Clarissa is asking other friends to dinner on Friday, just three more,
so as to make a nice sociable half-dozen.
This morning we went into a shop; and she ordered for me a new evening
dress, at her own expense, a kind of very soft white crêpe, to be made
prettily, with black ribbons. It is to be sent home in time for Friday
evening.
Clarissa says I shall look my best in that dress; and she has made me
alter the way of doing my hair. She says I am so improved altogether.
And of course that is pleasant to hear. One likes to be able to look
nice. I asked her whether she had ever thought mine "a pussy-cat face."
"Very decidedly so, in old days. It does not strike me now in that
light," she answered.
At all events, I should like to look my best on Friday.
Not that it matters—really! I have to think of Millicent, not of myself.
_April 25th, Friday Afternoon._
The dress has come home, and it is perfectly lovely. I have never had
anything so beautiful in all my life. It is only white and black, and
not too fussy for a quiet little dinner party, but it is so gracefully
made, and so perfect in fit.
Of course I put it on directly, to make sure that all was right.
Clarissa walked round me and smiled, and said, "Yes; that will do. That
will do very well indeed, very well indeed."
"It 'is' pretty," I said.
"And you are pretty in it; yes, really pretty. I am not flattering you,
my dear. Some people look well in anything, and you are not one of
those people. But certainly you repay one for a little trouble in the
dressing-line."
I was delighted to hear her say so. Yet why should I care? Does it
really matter?—I mean in this instance particularly.
[Illustration]