GRACE CAMPBELL.
[Illustration]
It was a chilly Scotch spring day. The afternoon sun glistened with
fitful, feeble rays on the windows of the old house of Kirklands, and
unpleasant little gusts of east wind came eddying round its ancient
gables, and sweeping along its broad walks and shrubberies, sending a
chill to the hearts of all the young green things that were struggling
into life.
On the time-worn steps of the grey mansion there stood a girl, cloaked
and bonneted for a walk, notwithstanding the uninviting weather.
"It's a fule's errand, I assure ye, Miss Grace, and on such an
afternoon, too. I've been askin' at old Adam the gardener, and he says
there isna one o' the kind left worth mindin' in all the valley o'
Kirklands. So do not go wanderin' on such an errand in this bitter wind,
missy."
The speaker was an old woman, standing in the doorway, glancing with an
expression of kindly anxiety towards the girl, who leant on one of the
carved griffins of the old stone railing.
Grace had been looking at the speaker with troubled eyes as she listened
to her remonstrance, and now she said, meditatively, "Does old Adam
really say so, Margery?" Then with a quick gesture she turned to go down
the steps, adding cheerily, "Well, there's no harm in trying, and as for
the wind, that doesn't matter a bit. It's what Walter would call a nice
breezy day. I'm really going, nursie. Shut the door, and keep your old
self warm. I shall be home again by the time aunt has finished her
afternoon's sleep." And Grace turned quickly away, not in the direction
of the sheltered elm avenue, but across the park, by the path which led
most quickly beyond the grounds. Presently she slackened her pace, and
turning for a moment she glanced rather ruefully towards the high walls
of the old garden, as if prudence dictated that she should seek fuller
information there, before she set out on this search, which she had
planned that afternoon. The old nurse's words on the subject seemed to
have sent a chilling gust to her heart, harder to bear than the bitter
spring wind. Old Adam certainly knew the countryside better than anybody
else, she pondered, and he seemed to have given it as his decision that
she would not find her search successful.
Was it a rare plant growing in the valley that Grace was in search of?
Then, surely, the gardener was right; she should wait till the warm
sunshine came, and the south winds wafted sweet scents about, leading to
where the pleasant flowers grow among the cozy moss. Or did she mean to
go to the green velvety haughs of the winding river to get her
fishing-rod and tackle into working order at the little boat-house, and
try to tempt some unwary trout to eat his last supper, as she and her
brother Walter used to do in sunny summer evenings long ago?
These had been very pleasant days, and their lingering memories came
hovering round Grace as she stood once again among the familiar haunts,
after an absence of years. Echoes of merry ringing tones, in which her
own mingled, seemed to resound through the wooded paths, where only the
parching wind whistled shrilly to-day, and a boyish voice seemed still
to call impatiently under the lozenge-paned window of the old
school-room, "Gracie, Gracie, are you not done with lessons yet? Do come
out and play." And how dreary "Noel and Chapsal" used to grow all of a
sudden when that invitation came, and with what relentless slowness the
hands of the old clock dragged through the lesson-hour still to run.
But the quaint old window has the shutters on it now, and the eager face
that used to seek his caged playmate through its bars is looking out on
new lands from his wandering home at sea. The little girl, too, who used
to sit in the dim school-room seems to hear other voices calling to her
this afternoon.
And while Grace stands hesitating whether, after all, it might be wise
to go into the garden to hear what old Adam has to say before she
proceeded to the high road, we shall try to find what earnest quest sent
her out this afternoon, in spite of her old nurse's remonstrances and
the east wind.
Grace Campbell's father and mother died when she was very young, and
since then her home had been with her aunt. For the last few years Miss
Hume had been so infirm that she did not feel able to undertake the
journey to Kirklands, a small property in the north of Scotland, which
she inherited from her father. Her winter home was Edinburgh, and Miss
Hume for some years had only ventured on a short journey to the nearest
watering-place, while her country home stood silent and deserted, with
only the ancient gardener and his wife wandering about through the
darkened rooms and the old garden, with its laden fruit-trees and its
flowers run to seed. But, to Grace's great delight, her aunt had
announced some months before that if she felt strong enough for the
journey, she meant to go to Kirklands early in the spring. It seemed as
if in her fading autumnal time she longed to see the familiar woods and
dells of her childhood's home grow green again with returning life. So
the darkened rooms had been opened to the sun again, and on the day
before our story begins, some of the former inmates had taken possession
of them.
The three years during which Grace had been absent from Kirklands had
proved very eventful to her in many ways. There had been some changes in
her outer life. Walter, her only brother and playmate, had left home to
go to sea. They had only had one passing visit from him since, so
changed in his midshipman's dress, with his broadened shoulders and
bronzed face, and so full of sailor life and talk, that his playmate had
hardly composure of mind to discover till he was gone that the same
loving heart still beat under the blue dress and bright buttons. And
while she thought of him with a new pride, she felt an undercurrent of
sadness in the consciousness that the pleasant threads of daily
intercourse had been broken, and the old childish playfellow had passed
away.
But as the golden gate of childhood thus closed on Grace Campbell,
another gate opened for her which led to pleasant places. It had,
indeed, been waiting open for her ever since she came into the world,
though she had often passed it by unheeded. But at last there came to
Grace a glimpse of the shining light which still guides the way of
seeking souls to "yonder wicket gate." She began to feel an intense
longing to enter there and begin that new life to which it leads. She
knocked, and found that it was open for her, and entering there she met
the gracious Guide who had beckoned her to come, whispering in the
silence of her heart, "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life." Not long
after Grace had begun to walk in this path, an event happened which
proved to her like the visit to the "Interpreter's House" in the
Pilgrim's story; but in order to explain its full eventfulness, we must
go back to tell of earlier days in her aunt's home.
On Sunday mornings Grace usually drove with her aunt to church in
decorous state. When Walter was at home he made one of the carriage
party, though generally under protest, declaring that it would be "ever
so much jollier to walk than to be bowled along in that horrid old
rumble," as he used irreverently to designate his aunt's rather antique
chariot. When they arrived at church, the children followed their aunt's
slow steps to one of the pews in the gallery, where Miss Hume used to
take the precautionary measure of separating them by sending Grace to
the top of the seat, and placing herself between the vivacious Walter
and his playmate. Notwithstanding this precaution, they generally
contrived to find comfortable recreative resources during the service,
bringing all their inventive energy to bear on creating new diversions
as each Sunday came round. There was always their Aunt Hume's fur cloak
to stroke the wrong way, if there was nothing more diverting within
reach; had it only been the cat, whose sentiments regarding a like
treatment of her fur were too well known to Walter, he felt that the
pleasure would have been greater. Sometimes, indeed, the amusements were
of a strictly mental nature, conducted in the "chambers of imagery."
Miss Hume would feel gratified by the stillness of posture and the
earnest gaze in her nephew's eyes. They were certainly not fixed
directly on the preacher, but surely the boy must be listening, or he
would never be so quiet. Grace, however, was in the secret, and knew
better. Walter had confided to her that he had got such "a jolly
make-believe" to think about in church. The great chandelier which hung
from the centre of the church ceiling, with its poles, and chains, and
brackets, was transformed in his imagination to a ship's mast and
rigging, where he climbed and swung, and performed marvellous feats,
also in imagination, be it understood. And so it happened that Grace
could guess where her brother's thoughts were when he sat gazing
dreamily at the huge gilded chandelier of the city church.
Other imaginings had sometimes grown round it for Grace when it was all
lit up in the short winter days at afternoon service, and queer lights
and shadows fell on the gilded cherubs that decorated it, till their
wings seemed to move and hover over the heads of the congregation. To
Grace's childish mind they had been the embodiment of angels ever since
she could remember; and even long after childish things were put away
there remained a strange link between her conception of angelic beings
and those burnished cherubs whose serene, shining faces looked down
benignantly over the drowsy congregation on dark winter afternoons.
But all these imaginings certainly came under the catalogue of
"wandering thoughts," from which the old minister always prayed at the
opening of the service that they might be delivered. So it is to be
feared that the sermon had not even the chance of the wayside seed in
the parable of sinking into the children's hearts. The words of her
aunt's old minister had as yet proved little more than an outside sound
to Grace, though she was in the habit of listening more observantly than
her brother. But there came a day when, amidst those familiar
surroundings, with the molten cherubs looking serenely down on her, she
heard words which made her heart burn within her, and kindled a flame
which lasted as long as life.
It was on a Sunday afternoon in November, not long after Walter left.
Miss Hume was ailing, and unable to go to church, so it was arranged
that Margery should accompany Grace. The old nurse attended the same
church, and Grace had been in the habit of going under her wing when her
aunt was obliged to remain at home. The walk to church through the
crowded streets was a pleasant change, and Grace was in high spirits
when she ensconced herself at the top of Margery's seat--which was a
much better observatory than her aunt's pew--where every thing could be
seen that was interesting and amusing within the four walls. Besides,
there were small amenities connected with a seat in nurse's pew which
had great attractions for Grace when she was a little girl, and had
still a lingering charm for her. In the pew behind there sat a worthy
couple, friends of Margery, who exchanged friendly salutations with her
on Sunday, always including a kindly nod of recognition to her charges
if they happened to be with her. Then, at a certain juncture in the
service, the worthy tinsmith, for that was his calling, would hand
across the book-board his ancient silver snuff-box, of the contents of
which he himself partook freely and noisily. Of course, Margery only
used it politely, after the manner of a scent-bottle; and then Grace
came in for her turn of it, with a warning glance from nurse to beware
of staining her hat-strings, or any other serious effects from the
odorous powder. If Walter happened to be invited to enjoy the
privilege, he always contrived to secrete a deposit of the snuff between
his finger and thumb, being most anxious to imitate the tinsmith's
accomplishment. He was, however, afraid to make his first essay in
church, in case of sneezing symptoms, and before he had a chance of a
quiet moment to make the experiment when they left the pew, he used
generally to be caught by Margery, and summoned to put on his glove like
a gentleman, and any resistance was sure to end in the discovery and
loss of the precious pinch of snuff. Then the tinsmith's wife had also
her own congenial resources for comfort during service, which she
delighted to share with her neighbours. Grace used to receive a little
tap on the shoulder, and, on looking round, a box of peppermint lozenges
lay waiting her in the old woman's fat palm. These were very homely
little interchanges of friendship, but they made part of the happy
childish world to Grace, and years after, when the old pew knew her no
more, and she asked admittance to it as a stranger, she glanced round in
the vain hope of catching a glimpse of the broad, shining, kindly faces
of the old couple, feeling that to see them in their place would bring
back many pleasanter bygone associations than snuff and peppermint
lozenges.
On this Sunday afternoon Grace perceived that there was something out of
the ordinary routine in prospect. The pews were filling more quickly
than they usually did. Strangers were gathering in the passage, and a
general flutter of excitement and expectation seemed everywhere to
prevail.
"What is going to happen, I wonder, Margery?" whispered Grace,
impatiently; and presently the tinsmith leant across the book-board and
kindly volunteered the information that they were going to have a
"strange minister the night, and a special collection for some
new-fangled thing."
And then Grace turned towards the pulpit in time to see the "strange
minister," who had just entered it. He was a tall man, of a stately
though easy presence, with grace and life in every gesture. As she
looked at him Grace Campbell was reminded of an historical scene, a
picture of which hung in the old hall at Kirklands, of a mixed group of
Cavaliers and Puritans. This preacher seemed in his appearance curiously
to combine the varied characteristics of both the types of men in these
portraits. That graceful flexibility of tone and movement, the high
forehead and waving locks, surely belong to the gallant old Cavalier,
but there is something of the stern Puritan too. The resoluteness of
the firm though mobile mouth betokens a strength of moral purpose, which
does not belong to the caste of the mere court gentleman; about those
delicately-cut nostrils there dwells a possibility of quivering
indignation, and in the eyes that are looking broodingly down on the
congregation true pathos and keen humour are strangely blended.
Presently the deep, flexible voice, which had the soul of music in its
tones, re-echoed through the church as he called the people to worship
God, and read some verses of an old psalm. Familiar as the words were to
Grace, they seemed as he read them to have a new meaning, to be no
longer seven verses with queer, out-of-the-way expressions, that had
cost her trouble to learn as a Sunday evening's task, but a beautiful,
real prayer to a God that was listening, and would hear, as the "strange
minister's" voice pealed out,--
"Lord, bless and pity us,
Shine on us with Thy face;
That the earth Thy way, and nations all
May know Thy saving grace."
And when the sermon came, and the preacher began to talk in thrilling
words of that saving health which the Great Healer of souls had died to
bring to all nations, Grace felt the reality of those unseen, eternal
things of which he spoke as she had never done before. Then there were
interspersed with those faithful, burning words for God beautiful
illustrations from nature, which fascinated the little girl's
imagination, as she sat gazing, not at the gilded cherubs to-night, but
on the benignant, earnest face of the speaker. He surely must have been
a sailor, or he could never have known so well what a storm at sea was
like, she thought, as she listened, spell-bound, feeling as if she was
looking out on the angry sea, with the helpless wrecking ships tossing
upon the waves; but then in another moment he took them into the thick
of some ancient battle, where the brave-hearted "nobly conquering lived
or conquering died;" or it was to some fair, pastoral scene, and then
the preacher seemed to know so well all the delights of heathery hills
and pleasant mossy glades, that Grace thought he certainly must have
been at Kirklands and wandered among its woods and braes. And into each
of his wonderful photographs he wove many holy, stirring thoughts of
God, and of those "ways" of his that may be known upon the earth, of
which they had been singing.
Presently the preacher began to talk of what the worthy tinsmith had
called the "new-fangled scheme," for which, he said, he stood there to
plead that evening. He had come to ask help for the little outcast city
children. It was before the days when School Boards were born or thought
of that this gallant-hearted man sought to move the feelings and rouse
the consciences of men on behalf of those who seemed to have no helper.
It was for aid to establish schools for those destitute children, where
they might be clothed and fed as well as educated, that he went on to
plead. Grace sat entranced, listening to the preacher, as with the
"flaming swords of living words, he fought for the poor and weak." Never
before in the course of her narrow, sheltered child-life had she, even
in imagination, been brought face to face with the manifold wants and
woes of her poorer brothers and sisters, or understood the service to
which the Son of Man summons all his faithful followers: "Is it not to
deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast
out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and
that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?"
It seemed to Grace, when the preacher had ceased, as if a new world of
loving work and of duty stretched before her; for could she not become
one of that band whom the preacher called in such thrilling words to
enroll themselves in this service of love?
When the eloquent voice paused, and the congregation began to sing
again, Grace still felt the words sounding like trumpet-notes in her
heart. How she longed to ask the minister to take her to those courts
and alleys, and to tell her in what way she might best help those
neglected ones. How many plans coursed through her eager little brain
for their succour. But the preacher had said he wanted money for their
help; a collection was to be made before they left the church.
Grace's store of pocket-money was slender, and, moreover, was not in her
pocket now. How gladly would she have emptied her little silken purse,
if she had only had it with her; but, alas! it lay uselessly in her
drawer at home. Her conventional penny had been put into the plate at
the door, as she came into church, and Grace thought ruefully that she
had nothing--nothing to give to help these poor forsaken ones, whose
hard lot had so touched her heart. Just then, however, she happened to
raise her hand to her neck, and was reminded of an ornament which she
always wore, the only precious thing she possessed. It was an
old-fashioned locket, with rows of pearls round it, and in the centre a
baby lock of her own hair, which her mother used to wear. Her Aunt Hume
had some time ago taken it out of the old jewel-case which awaited her
when Grace was old enough to be trusted with its contents, and given it
to her to wear, so it was her very own. But was not this a worthy
occasion for bringing of one's best and most precious things? Might not
this pearl locket help to bring some little outcast waif into paths of
pleasantness and peace? Yes, the locket should be given to the special
collection, Grace resolved; but it might not be wise, to divulge the
intention to Margery, who had already replied, when she was asked by
Grace if she could lend her any money, that nobody would expect a
collection from such a young lady.
When the crowd moved away from the passage, and began to scatter,
Margery and her charge left the old pew in the highest gallery and
prepared to go down the great staircase which led to the entrance door.
Near the door there stood two elders of the church, with metal plates in
their hands, waiting for the offerings of the congregation. Grace had
been holding hers tightly in her hand, having untied it from her neck
and slipped the ribbon in her pocket, and now she laid it gently among
the silver, and the pennies, and the Scotch bank-notes, hoping that it
might slip unobserved between one of the crumpled notes, and so escape
the detective glance of Margery's quick eyes. But her hope was vain.
Nurse caught sight of the pearls gleaming pure and white among the other
offerings: "Missy, what have you done? Your locket! your mamma's
beautiful pearl locket! Did I ever see the like? It's a mistake, sir.
Miss Campbell could not have meant it," she said, turning to the elder,
with her hand raised to recapture it.
"Stop, Margery, it is not a mistake; I meant to put it there," replied
Grace in an eager whisper, as she pulled her nurse's shawl, glancing
timidly at the elder, as if she feared he was going to conspire with
Margery, and that, after all, her offering would be rejected.
"Missy! are you mad? What will your aunt say? Really, sir, will you be
so kind?"--and Margery did not finish her sentence, but looked piteously
at the elder, who was glancing at the little girl with a kindly, though
questioning expression in his eyes, saying presently:
"You may have your locket back, if you wish it, my child. Perhaps you
have given it hastily, and may regret it afterwards, and we would not
like to have your jewel in these circumstances."
"Oh, thank you, sir," Margery was beginning to say, in a grateful tone,
when Grace interrupted her.
"No, please don't, sir, I will not take it back. It was my very own, and
I have given it to God, to use for these poor, sad boys and girls,"
Grace added, in a tremulous tone.
Then the old elder looked at Margery, and said, "My friend, I cannot
help you further. Neither you nor I have anything to do with this gift;
it is between the giver and the Receiver."
There was something solemn in his tone which kept the still indignant
Margery from saying more, and she prepared to move away with her charge.
But, as she turned to go, she caught a glimpse of her acquaintance the
tinsmith, who was in the act of dropping into the plate a crumpled
Scotch bank-note, which he held in his broad palm.
"Bless me, they're all going daft together," muttered Margery, with
uplifted hands, as she hurried away. "It was a very good discourse, no
doubt, but to think of folk strippin' themselves like that--a pun'-note,
forsooth, near the half of the week's work; the man's gone clean
demented."
But the tinsmith's serene, smiling face showed no sign of any aberration
of intellect, and Margery took Grace's hand, and hurried her through the
crowd, resolved that she should not, for another instant, stand by and
countenance such reckless expenditure.
Grace was conscious that her old nurse was still possessed by a strong
feeling of disapproval regarding her donation, so she rather avoided
conversation; besides, she had a great deal to think about as she walked
along the crowded lamp-lit streets by Margery's side.
At last they reached the quiet square where Miss Hume lived, and as they
crossed the grass-grown pavement and went up the steps to the house,
Grace glanced up to the curtained window of her aunt's sitting-room, and
suddenly remembered, with a feeling of discomfort, that Miss Hume must
presently be told of the destination of her locket; if not by herself,
certainly by Margery, who had just heaved a heavy sigh, and was
evidently girding herself up for the painful duty of narrating the
strange behaviour of her charge.
"Now, Margery, I'm going to auntie, to tell her about the locket, this
very minute, so you need not trouble about it," said Grace, as she ran
quickly upstairs to her aunt's room and closed the door.
Margery never knew exactly what passed, nor how Miss Hume's
well-regulated mind was ever reconciled to such an impulsive act on the
part of her niece. But, as she sat at her usual post by the old lady
next day, while she took her afternoon's rest, Miss Hume said rather
unexpectedly, when Margery concluded she was asleep, "Margery, you
remember my sister? Does it not strike you that Miss Campbell is getting
very like her mother? These children are a great responsibility to me; I
wish their mother had been spared," she added, rather irrelevantly, it
seemed to Margery, and then presently she fell asleep without any
reference to the locket question.
But that night, when Grace was going to bed, she told her old nurse that
her aunt had promised that when they went back to Kirklands again she
might try to find some little boys and girls to teach, and that she
would allow her to have one of the old rooms for her class. She did not
tell how eagerly she had asked that, in the meantime, she might be
allowed to try and help the neglected city children, to whose
necessities she had been awakened by such thrilling words that day,
though Miss Hume had thought it wise to restrain her impatience. But
out of that evening's events had grown the cherished plan which sent
Grace on such a chilly afternoon among the woods and braes of Kirklands
to seek any boy or girl who might need her help and friendship.