Although Mrs. Grey had spent a large part of her life in the city of Gotham, that was not, at this time, her home. When they had a house full of boys and girls she and her husband met with so many annoyances in their summer resorts, growing out of such a flock to dispose of, that they at last secured a large house in the vicinity, thereby not only adding greatly to the comfort of the family, but improving their health, since, with a table at her command, Mrs. Grey could provide wholesome food for her family. Mr. Grey's death occurred before any of the children had become settled in life, and the loneliness of her widowhood was cheered by their presence. But when, midway between fifty and sixty, she was left alone with Maud, and ceased to have any special cares, she became everybody's property, and was used by all sorts of people in all sorts of ways. Soon after her work on education appeared, she received numerous letters, asking counsel in special cases to which she had made no allusion there, the following being one:
Dear Mrs. Grey:—Charlie and I have just finished your last book, and think you must beperfectly lovely! I should likesomuch to see you. May I come? And if I may, will you tell me what train to take? I have so many things to say to you. And Charlie says he shall be so glad to have me come under your influence.
Your admiring friend,
Mrs. Libbie Clare.
No. —, Fifth Avenue.
Mrs. Grey's keen eye took in the measure of "Mrs. Libbie Clare" at a glance. But if it was keen it was not unkind. Turning to Margaret, who sat near, she said, "Will you answer this, and tell the child she may come out by the 9:10 train any morning this week?"
"Oh, aunty, you are not going to give up amorningto a woman who signs herself 'Mrs.'? Can't she come in the afternoon?"
"No, the days are too short."
"But, aunty, you have had no leisure for a long time, and have got intent on your book again."
"Yes, dear, I know, but here is a chance to gratify and perhaps be of use to one of those 'neighbors' we are told to love. Now, selfishness might urge me to go on with my work, but obedience to Christian duty may and ought to be stronger than self."
Margaret said no more; but she was puzzled. She did not understand the readiness shown by Mrs. Grey to be "pulled about," as she termed it. Somehow she felt sure that Mrs. Libbie Clare was not much of a woman, and was coming to exhibit herself rather than to see her aunt.
And she was right. Mrs. Clare was quite young, was very proud of her husband and children, told their whole history, gave her own views of education, and hardly allowed Mrs. Grey to utter a word. Two mortal hours she stayed, and then when she took leave, put up her mouth for a kiss, without taking her hands from her muff, said she had had a delightful visit, and hoped it would soon be returned.
Mrs. Grey went back to her desk feeling decidedly flat, and found that Margaret, according to her wont, had been illustrating her MS. with a ridiculously funny caricature of a young father holding his son and heir most awkwardly in his arms, while there proceeded from its mouth the words, "Oh, how he pinches! how he pinches!"
She laughed, cut it out, and threw it into a drawer, where kindred sketches already reposed. She had just resumed her pen when Mrs. Grosgrain was announced.
"Who is Mrs. Grosgrain?" asked Margaret. "I don't remember ever seeing or hearing of her."
"No, she was in Europe when you came here, andhas only just returned. I shall want her to see you, sometime." So saying, Mrs. Grey proceeded to meet her guest, and after some animated conversation together, the latter said:
"I hear you have adopted a young orphan girl, to take the place to you of your darling Maud. Yet, I don't see how you could."
"You have not heard the story quite correctly," replied Mrs. Grey. "It is true that I have adopted a young girl of Maud's age, but not to fill her place. No one can or ought to fill that. But there were so many things left by her that were adapted to gratify the taste of a young person, and that young person a girl, that I longed to see them enjoyed. There was Maud's piano standing idle; her rooms tastefully furnished, left empty; and, to tell the truth, plenty of love in this old heart to give away. ThatIwas to gain much, if anything, never crossed my mind. But all has turned out delightfully."
"Is she like Maud, then?"
"Not in the least. She is a girl of very marked character; once I could not have tolerated her faults. But she amuses me and keeps me young; and she is going to become a very fine woman in time."
"And in the meanwhile?"
"Why, I shall have to put up with some decided opinions and habits that are not to my mind. But I did not look for, or expect to find, a faultless character. Margaret has heart and soul; she has enthusiasm; she knows her own mind and decides upon this and that at once, and once for all. She does not care for music, as Maud did; in fact, she hates it."
"Hatesit!"
Mrs. Grey smiled. "Oh, it is all love or hate with her. She can't be indifferent to anything. I found she had decided, though undeveloped, artistic talent, and she is taking lessons in drawing and painting. I never met a person who could do so many things well."
"Is not her sudden good fortune turning her head?"
"Not at all. She has too much good common sense for that. In any sphere she would have been self-reliant, and perhaps appear, to some persons, conceited. But she is too proud to be conceited."
"Proud, indeed," thought Mrs. Grosgrain, who did not comprehend the vigorous character described. "I should think she had little to be proud of. Poor Mrs. Grey, she ought to have a very different young person about her at her time of life. Some sweet, lovely girl like little Matty Rhodes. Dear Matty! I wish she had such a home as this. What a pity it all happened while I was abroad. I would have spoken a good word for the child if I had known. My sister would have been so thankful to see one of her six girls provided for."
During this soliloquy, Mrs. Grey had gone on talking, but Mrs. Grosgrain had not heard a word, and now took leave.
"Well, girls," she said, on reaching home, "I have seen Mrs. Grey, but she did not exhibit her new acquisition. Still, you must all go and call on her prize."
"I don't intend to go," said Miss Grosgrain. "Mrs. Grey ought not to expect people in society to fall in with her oddities."
"You must either call on this girl or give up Mrs. Grey altogether. She has taken her right into poor Maud's place, and is quite infatuated about her; although, from her description, I should judge her to be a disagreeable creature."
"But to expectusto associate with a person picked up out of the streets, as it were; really it is too much."
"You needn't associate with her; merely go and make a short call, just to keep up appearances with Mrs. Grey, you know."
"Why not drop Mrs. Grey, and done with it?"
"Because we can't afford to have her drop us. You seem to forget the struggle we have made to get a position, and to fancy we can maintain it without difficulty."
"We might forget it if you ever gave us a chance, but you are forever reminding us of it. People aretoo glad to eat our splendid dinners, and to attend our elegant parties, to drop us."
"Mrs. Grey never eats our dinners or comes to our parties. Now, girls, I am determined to keep up the acquaintance. Hers is one of the few old families we have got into; she is rich, she is popular; one meets nice people at her house, and my policy always has been and always will be, 'Hold fast what I give you and catch what you can.'"
"For my part," said Miss Mary, "I am curious to see and to put down this upstart of a girl. I flatter myself that I am gifted in that line."
"Yes, let's go," said Miss Flora, "it will be such fun!"
Accordingly, the next day, the four Misses Grosgrain went in a body to call on Margaret. She had just set her palette in order, to paint some tea-roses before they began to droop, and was anything but pleased at the interruption. The moment she laid eyes upon them she conceived an aversion for them which she found it almost impossible to conceal. They, on their part, had made up their minds that she was of low origin, and intended to make it at once clear that the visit originated in no intention to gratify her.
"Mamma has told us about your singular good fortune," began the eldest young lady, "and desired us to show our respect for Mrs. Grey by calling on you."
Instantly hurt by this intentional sting, Margaretwas tempted to reply in like manner. But she controlled herself, and said, stiffly:
"My aunt's friends are welcome, of course."
"Oh, is she your aunt, after all?" cried Miss Flora. "We supposed you were not related to her in any way."
"Nor am I," replied Margaret; and condescended to no explanations.
"It was a curious freak of Mrs. Grey, taking you up so, was it not?" inquired Miss Mary in a most innocent tone. "How surprised you must have been! How strange it must seem to be suddenly introduced to such new scenes! Do excuse our curiosity, we would not do anything ill-bred for the world; but how did you contrive to ingratiate yourself so with her?"
"By no contrivance whatever; I scorn contrivance!"
"Oh, I did not mean to offend you."
"I am not offended."
"Well, touched, then. Not one of us would intentionally say anything ill-bred. Mamma has trained ussocarefully! We have just returned from Europe, where we spent nearly three years. It is very improving. You ought to coax Mrs. Grey to take you abroad. You have no idea how refining it is to see works of art, and to mix with cultivated people."
"I never coax," was the reply.
"Comme elle est fière!" said one sister to another.
"Et assez jaune!" said the other.
"Proud and yellow," repeated Margaret, "but unfortunately not deaf or dumb."
"Goodness! Who could fancy you understood French! What an unlucky blunder we have made."
"Our respect for Mrs. Grey—"
"Rules of good-breeding—"
"Difficult position—"
cried the sisters in chorus, each warbling a different tune, and each pretty thoroughly mortified and embarrassed. There was nothing left for it but to take leave.
"What a disagreeable scrape that girl has got us into!" said Miss Grosgrain, as soon as they were safe in their carriage.
"Well, it's rather hard, I must say," complained another, "to have to demean one's-self to visit a creature about whose antecedents one knows nothing. Where can she have picked up French, I wonder?"
"Very likely from some fellow-servant, some nursery-governess, where she has lived," cried Miss Mary.
"Now, Mary Grosgrain, you don't mean that she has been anybody's servant?"
"Well, I do not say that, positively, but I know Mrs. Grey picked her up in a tenement-house. Fancy our visiting an inmate of a tenement-house!"
"How tall she is!"
"And how she was dressed! Not a ring or a bracelet, or a bow or a puff. But of course Mrs. Grey has to keep her down."
"I saw a great smooch of paint on her sleeve," said Miss Mary.
"She hasn't a particle of style," said Miss Flora.
"Of course not; how should she? She has not had our advantages."
"I heard that she was a splendid-looking girl," said Miss Grosgrain.
"From whom?"
"Fred Rogers."
"Pooh! Fred Rogers!"
"Mamma, we've had such a time," cried all four, when they reached home. "Such airs as that girl puts on. And somehow contrived to make us feel flat, though she is a nobody. Mrs. Grey is altogether too Quixotic. It is very annoying to have to humor her whims. What in the world did she want of another daughter, when she has a dozen or so of her own?"
"But they are all married, and live at a distance, and she was getting old, and probably needed a companion to wait upon her, mend her lace, do her clear-starching, draw her checks, do her shopping, go to market, and all that sort of thing," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "She has put her right in Maud's room. Of all things how strange! And has given away allMaud's beautiful clothes! Why, if I should lose either of you I should regard your garments as the most sacred things in the world; no mortal should ever touch them. But some people have so little feeling."
"It isn't quite fair to say that Mrs. Grey has little feeling," said Miss Grosgrain, "for when they were screwing down the lid of Maud's coffin she fainted away. She'squeer; that's the word to describe her—queer."
"Well, yes, thatisthe word," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "When I called the other day, she seemed—well, it's an awful thing to say, and I hope you won't repeat it, girls, but she actually seemed—happy! Why, if one of you should die I should not have another happy moment. I should consecrate my life to grief."
In the privacy of their own room that night, Miss Grosgrain dutifully remarked to Miss Clara:
"Mamma did not 'consecrate her life to grief' after papa's death, but to spending his money."
"Oh, as to that, I think she did all he could have expected," was the reply. "She wore the deepest and the most fashionable mourning she could find; had the deepest possible black edge to her cards, and always put on a mournful expression whenever anyone called."
Miss Grosgrain smiled grimly.
"You are right as to the 'mournful expression'; she did 'put it on' with a vengeance."
Margaret, meanwhile, returned to her work, with burning cheeks.
"It is true," she said to herself, "that people have a right to sneer at me. My mother has been a servant and so have I. But we were not born to it, either of us. Even if Mrs. Grey hadn't taken me up, I shouldn't have spent my life in a kitchen. Nobody ever did who could paint likethat! And yet, my poor father never got on, and it isn't likely I have more talent than he had. But stop; it was only yesterday aunty was saying that gifts sometimes overleap one generation; it is quite possible that I had a grandfather or grandmother whose abilities have come to me. How horrid it is not to know one's relatives!"
Just here letters were brought in; one for Margaret, several for Mrs. Grey. Margaret seized hers with a thrill of surprise and delight, for this was an era in her life, her first letter! And she has no objection to our reading it:
Dear Margaret:—I cannot help loving you for your love to my mother and to my little Mabel, and wanted to tell you so when I was at home, but have no faculty for showing what I feel. We are all glad mother has your bright face to look at when she misses ours. And, Margaret, don't let her work too hard. She does not realize how dear Maud's death has worn upon her, but I see it plainly, and it almost vexes me to see how she allows herself to be at everybody's beck and call. And yet, I love her for it, too; it is only living out her religion, as we all must learn to do.
Now, a word about my little pet; and don't laugh at me as a silly mother who makes a fuss about trifles, but please watch the lammie, without seeming to do it, and if you see anything dishonorable dawning in her character, write and tell me so. I know it is generally a thankless task to tell mothers of their children's faults, but I can bear it if it is done kindly, though as bad as anybody if it is done unkindly. Just now this is all I have time to say, except that I am your affectionate sister,
Belle.
"'Your affectionate sister, Belle!'" Great, bright tears filled Margaret's eyes as they fell upon the words.
"HowcouldI let those dreadful Grosgrains hurt me so," she asked herself, "when I have such friends? Oh, Belle, how I do admire and love you! But whatis this about my pet? Mabel dishonorable? That little white lamb! I'm sure she isn't!"
She handed the letter to Mrs. Grey, and stood leaning over her as she read it.
"Isn't it just lovely in B.—Mrs. Heath—to write me such a letter, and call herself my sister?"
"It is just like her," said Mrs. Grey, "and it is worth having, because it cost her something. Now it is different with Laura. Laura takes everything easy."
"But what a curious question about Mabel!"
"Oh, that is on account of the bit of sugar the child took from the nursery-closet."
"When?"
"On the day you exhibited the children so prettily."
"And who dares say my innocent little darling is a thief?" cried Margaret, her color rising. "I gave her sugar in order to coax her to take her part with the other children, for she was shy about it at first. Did her mother fancy she took it herself?"
"She naturally thought so, but as the child had not eaten it, and said she did not mean to do so, she did not punish her."
"It is a thousand pities. But as Mabel knew herself to be innocent, why didn't she declare it? Why did she blush and cry as if she had done something wrong?"
"Because she had done wrong in accepting it. It never would answer for such a young child to eat whatever injudicious persons chose to give it, therefore Belle forbids her little ones receiving dainties save from herself or some other authorized hand. You can't imagine how recklessly many people behave in such matters. I have known a conscientious child to be almost laughed into eating and drinking forbidden luxuries, such as coffee, mince-pie, and rich cake."
"I did not know one had to be so careful with children."
"It is the case, though, and if it seems to you that Belle has made too much of this affair, you must remember that she must adapt herself to the very small world in which Mabel lives, and whose trivial wants are as great to her as the most serious ones will be, by and by."
"I shall write to B.—Mrs. Heath—this very minute," cried Margaret, "but what shall I call her?"
"I think she has settled that. Call her Belle. But, before you begin I want you to see what a lovely little note the mail has brought me!"
And if Margaret reads it, why shouldn't we?
Dear Mrs. Grey:—I have not the faintest idea that you are pining for a letter from me, but it is a relief to me now and then to say that I love you, and the size of the sheet I write it on is no symbol how much.
I am reading a delightful book to my invalid auntie; in it a lady speaks of a friend as an "Amen to the Bible."That, say I, is what Mrs. Grey has been to me.
Again, "Mrs. Jameson was the consoler of her sex in England." Ah, say I,Mrs. Greyis the consoler of her sex in America.
But you will think I have been kissing the blarney stone. But when peoplemeanthings, can't they say them?
I stay with auntie all the time, day and night, and am real happy in a quiet way, for I do feel, in a small degree, I know, but a great deal more than ever before, the loving-kindness of my Heavenly Father, thegoodness and severity of God.
Yours, lovingly and gratefully,
Helena.
"What a graceful little note, and on what a tiny sheet!" exclaimed Margaret. "Who is this Helena? Any one I know?"
"You have never seen her, but she often visits me, and I love her much. Her forte is in writing charming letters. I shall want you to know her. But you want to write to Belle now, and I won't detain you."
Margaret rushed off to her room, and rushed, as it were, a shovelful of hot coals at Belle, as reply to her letter. Then what receptacle was worthy tohold this treasure? Her eye fell upon one object after another, and rejected them, till it rested upon her Russian leather mouchoir-case.
"The very thing!" she cried; pulled out the handkerchiefs, thrust them,en masse, into a drawer, replaced them with the letter, and then flew to hug and kiss Mabel, on whom she vented the feeling she could not express.
Ah, Margaret, you will have many, many such idols as you are now making of Belle Heath! How many times they will fall off the altar, and you will put them in their place again! What power they will have to swell your heart with joy, to melt it into tears! And yet—thank God that you have a heart! for even an aching one is better than none at all.
"I want you to get dressed, now," said Mrs. Grey, "for I have ordered the carriage, and am going to make some visits."
Margaret groaned. She did not believe in paying visits, except to very agreeable people, and was very apt to be silent and stupid in company, unless it was congenial. And this was not entirely her own fault. It belonged to her type of character as much as her gifts did.
She went off and dressed now, however, without a word of remonstrance, for she was in a happy mood; Belle's letter warming and brightening her.
As they drove from house to house, she chattedgayly with her aunt of a score of innocent, girlish things, and Mrs. Grey listened, and smiled, amused at her keen observation, her simplicity and naturalness. Her mother had so guarded her life that she was very ignorant of evil, and Mrs. Grey had kept up this care successfully.
"I know how I would arrange things if I had the management of them. I would go to see people I loved, ever so often, and have them come to see me. But I would have nothing to do with anybody else, in the way of visiting them. Why not? Why should those who do not love each other waste their time in meeting?"
"And what reason would you give those you neglected for your conduct?"
"Oh, I would speak the truth; I would just say, out and out, I don't love you, so I am not going to see you; you don't love me, and so you needn't come to see me."
"And how many friends should you have, at that rate?"
"Not so very many, but they would all be after my own heart."
"Well, now, let us see how your scheme will work. Here are two sisters; you love one, and can't bear the other. You make your frank statement to both, asking the one to come to see you, and the other to keep her distance; how much sympathy can existbetween them after it? You probably will lose the friendship of both.
"Take another instance. You meet with a person with whom you fall in love, as you term it; she is more cautious than you, and hesitates to give her friendship until she knows you better. She asks questions about you of sister Number Two, who replies, 'All I know about her is, that she is very odd and very rude, and thinks herself capable of reconstructing society.' Now, the fact is simply this. We are all more or less dependent on each other. And therefore we must put up with some people who are not congenial to us, and they must put up with us."
"Yes, I see. Wouldn't it be nice to have an island which no disagreeable or stupid people would be allowed to visit! Everybody in it pleasant, and cultivated, and refined; like Belle, for instance."
"It might be nice, but not possible; and, if possible, not best. In the first place, there would be different opinions as to who would be eligible as inhabitants of your famous island. A. would object to B., and B. to C. Besides, life in this world is not to be just to our minds. We need the discipline of contact with uncongenial characters. But then, we are to stay in this world but a short time. By and by we shall go to a far more delightful and ideal spot than your island; an abode into which will be gathered the best, the wisest, the purest beings that ever adorned earth."
"Still, it seems hard to have to waste so much precious time in driving about from house to house. You have plenty of things to occupy every moment. You have your books to write, and a thousand other things to do; and as for me, with all the time I've lost, it seems almost wicked to be going to see people who care nothing for me, and for whom I don't care a fig."
"The time is not wasted, however. I seldom, if ever, make a morning visit without getting a new thought from somebody; and as for you, you must see something of the world, or be awkward and ill at ease all your life. But here we are at Mrs. Wallace's; she has some pretty little children; they may interest you."
Mrs. Wallace was a sweet-looking young woman, and was followed into the parlor by three girls, who soon gave evidence of being strong-minded females, though the eldest was not more than ten years old. They appropriated Margaret at once. One seized her muff and pelted the others with it. Another insisted on unbuttoning her gloves. A third wanted to know how much her hat cost. Now this may sound like exaggeration, but it is the literal truth. Their mother never seemed to realize that a forward, unabashed child is one of the most annoying and unnatural things in the world; she suffered these little girls, who were not bad children, to form these offensive habits, and victimized all her friends with them. When they had got all the entertainment out of Margaret she was able to render them, they thought she might be permitted to depart, and asked their mother, in audible whispers, how long "they" were going to stay. She whispered back, and Mrs. Grey, finding her too much occupied with them to attend further to her, rose to take leave.
"What dreadful children!" ejaculated Margaret, as they re-entered the carriage. "Aunty, you say you get some thought out of almost every visit you make; now what did you get out of this one?"
Mrs. Grey smiled.
"I know those children of old," she said, "and never had so comfortable a visit there before, as this time you were their prey. Well, my thought was this: How much depends on manners! These little girls are not bad children, and yet they are the terror of all their mother's friends. They ought to be kept in their nursery, and not be allowed to come into the parlor to torment visitors."
"Doesn't she know what annoyance they cause?"
"Perhaps she partially knows it, but fancies their great beauty will atone for that. We must not be hard upon her. The temptation to display those three beautiful faces is very great. We don't know what we should do under similar circumstances."
"Don't we?" cried Margaret. "I know what Ishould do. I should lock them all up in a box rather than let them behave as they do. Why, I would rather they were shy and awkward than bold and presuming as they are. I suppose people began by noticing them on account of their curling hair, and brown eyes, and bright speeches—for they are bright—and that spoiled them."
"Yes; and manners one can tolerate in a child of three, are intolerable in one of ten. However, these girls will outgrow these outside faults, I dare say, and grow up into agreeable and estimable women. Their mother has this one weak spot of wanting to display them; but, in the main, she is wise and true, and will exert a good influence over them."
"Oh! but, aunty, you did not hear all that passed. They are not merely rude—they are conceited. One of them asked me if I ever saw such pretty hair as hers, and then had a dispute with another who declared hers was prettier!"
"Beauty is a snare, no doubt," said Mrs. Grey; "and I am afraid it is over-valued in that home. And now for the Grosgrains."
"Oh, those Grosgrains!MustI return their visit? We haven't a single idea in common. And they look down upon me so!"
"Yes, I can imagine that. But do not let it disturb you. They will not put on any airs in my presence, for I know, and they know that I know,whence they sprung. Their mother was brought up in a foundling hospital, and after she left it, learned a trade—that of tailoress. She was a hard-working, friendless girl, and had a certain kind of good looks as dowry. A young man took a fancy to, and married her. She kept at work at her trade, and made the first suit of clothes my Frank ever wore. They had no children for some years, so they laid up money, and began to live in more comfort than they ever had dreamed of doing. He had good business capacity, and she was ambitious. They kept rising in the world, and would have liked to have their early history fade out of people's memories. Then came these four girls, by whom they did the best they could. Women rise as men cannot do; they have quick, smart ways, and pick up a certain outside kind of good breeding, and the Grosgrains availed themselves of these advantages to the best of their ability. But the struggle to keep up on the one hand, and unaccustomed luxuries on the other, proved too much for Mrs. Grosgrain, and she sank under it. Now during her career as a woman of means, she had taken a young sister into her home, and educated her as far as money could educate, and it was natural enough for Mr. Grosgrain to marry her. She made as good a mother to the girls as she knew how to be, but in the best sense of the word never made ladies of them. As to Mr. Grosgrain,he had one talent: it was for making money, and money he made; but he had no culture, and no faculty for living in style; and the luxuries which were the delight of his wife and daughters, had no charm for him, especially as they were expensive. There was no end to the family squabbles on the subject of expenditures. He had five females to twit, and to snub, and to set him right—five females to spend his money and ruin him. He became a monomaniac, and worried himself to death on the ground of poverty. His departure was a relief to them all. They immediately went abroad and wandered all over Europe, during a long period. It makes one shudder to think of their being regarded there as representative Americans. Now I have not told you all this for the sake of talking, or to prejudice you against them. I only want you not to allow them to put you in a false position by looking down upon you. Observe a proper self-respect when in their company. You are far less aparvenuthan they."
"But, aunty, how did they get in with you?"
"Why, the first Mrs. Grosgrain, mother of the girls, used to come to me as tailoress, by the day, and would bring her sister to sew with her. Then when they became rich they fancied that that put us on a level. The present Mrs. Grosgrain has been instructed and snubbed by turns, until she has acquireda good use of language; and when they set up their carriage, and came and called on me, I thought it would be a silly pride in me not to return the visit. And I have a benevolent interest in them, for one thing. And then if it is any satisfaction to them to boast that they are, oh!sointimate with me, why not let them have it? It does not hurt me. If I should altogether turn a cold shoulder to them, they would think I despised them for their low origin. Now I despise nobody for accidents of birth over which they have had no control; neither do I bow down to royalty itself, unless it is as pure and high-toned as it is noble."
On arriving at Mrs. Grosgrain's ostentatious residence, they were informed that the ladies were all engaged. This was so far true, that they were engaged in peeping over the banisters to see who their visitors were, in dressing-gowns and curl-papers.
"Now, girls, it is too bad," said Mrs. Grosgrain, as the cards were handed her. "Here we have lost a visit from Mrs. Grey! We really ought to be dressed at this time of day. There's no knowing when she will call again. And it is such a distinction to have her carriage at our door! I do hope the Van Tropes saw it."
"I can't bear her books," said Miss Grosgrain.
"Nor I," said Miss Mary.
"But it's the fashion to read 'em," said Mrs.Grosgrain, "and to like 'em, too. And when I think your marmer used to be a tailoress, and your parper—"
"Now do hush!" cried Miss Grosgrain, putting her hand over the maternal mouth. "Why need you be forever alluding to such things? You never let us have the ghost of a chance to forget them."
"If you had gone through all I have, I guess you'd allude to it often enough. Your poor parper and marmer, they—"
"Do, for goodness' sake, stop calling him parper! It issoAmerican! Going abroad hasn't done you a bit of good."
Mabel's "baby" (she never called it dolly) was almost always nestling in her arms. It seemed to fill the maternal element of her character, and though she was a wee little mother, a veritable mother she was, and it was amusing to watch her quaint ways with it. The march of improvement had taken up dolls, as well as everything else. What marvels of art are their generation, nowadays! Compare them with the stiff wooden monsters of fifty years ago, with their back hair done up like that of aged matrons, surmounted with high yellow combs! What a stretch of imagination is required to fancy these angular ladies'babies.
But now an event befel that nearly broke her heart. Baby's sweet blue eyes suddenly disappeared, leaving two empty holes in her face. From that moment all illusion concerning her vanished. The eyes of real babies never dropped down inside of them. So she begged to have it put away where she could never again be horrified by the sight. Margaret could notunderstand this. But Mabel had always shrank from the sight of unpleasant objects, and her aversion to her baby in its mutilated state was almost morbid. Still she bemoaned her loss sorely, and when Mrs. Grey, fearing she would make herself ill with crying, left the book she was writing, and everything else, and went to the city to replace the departed, nothing would induce the child to accept the offering, though it was the facsimile of the poor blue-eyed Mary.
Margaret spent a large part of the next day in making paper dolls for Mabel. Her nature was opulent; as she loved the few she loved to infatuation, so her gifts were prodigal. Never had a child so suddenly acquired a large family; their name was legion. Still, they did not supersede her darling.
"I want a yeal live baby," she said, amid her tears.
"So do I," said Margaret, "but I don't cry for one. And there are no live babies for sale, so I can't buy one for myself, or for you." Mabel said no more. She had been taught to pray for what she wanted, so she now stopped crying, went behind the door, and said, softly:
"Christ, will you give me a yeal live baby, with yeal eyes that can't drop out?" and came back composed and full of faith.
The next morning brought a line from Cyril Heath, announcing that the storks had brought them a splendid pair of twins, one for him and one for Belle. Margaret immediately wrote the history of Mabel's sorrow and Mabel's faith, and asked Cyril to givehisbaby to Mabel, which drew from him the following letter:
My Darling little Mabel:—
I am so sorry to hear that your baby has lost its eyes, so I am going to tell you something. Mamma has had a present of a "yeal live baby," and so have I, and I am going to give mine to you; that is, I shall let you call it yours, and let you love it with all your might and main. At the beginning of your prayer to-night, ask God to bless your baby, and He will. Mamma sends you twenty kisses on your dear little mouth, and says she loves you, oh, ever so much. What fun we shall all have when you come home! The babies are such funny little fellows, with dark, curly hair, and big blue eyes! Good-bye, my pet lamb!
Papa.
"Now I know where my baby's eyes have gone!" cried Mabel, clapping her hands. "Christ took them out to give to my yeal baby. And I am going yight home, I am."
"No, dearie, you must wait till your papa comes for you," said Mrs. Grey. "Only to think! Two babies! How rich your mamma is getting! It isbeautiful to have twins. I think I must go and see them."
"What, with going to the city to buy dolls, and make visits, and go to all sorts of meetings, and being on forty-one committees, and now a pair of twins," said Margaret, laughing, "I don't see when your book is to be written. Is it always so? Whendoyou write?"
"Yes, it's always so, barring the twins. My dear, industrious people contrive to do a great deal in fragments of time that others waste. Writing books is only an episode in my life, not my profession. Nothing gives way to it. However, I must own that everything is giving way before this piece of news. To think of my Belle having twins! If they look alike, what a pretty sight they'll be!"
Margaret had never seen Mrs. Grey so excited, and was much amused.
"This is the very first minute I have seen you sit still and do nothing, since I came here," she said. "Oh, and here is a letter from Laura, with one inside for you."
Mrs. Grey took her share of the letter, and began to read it aloud, but suddenly stopped. "I forgot, dear, that you have a letter too, and must be eager to read it."
"I can wait, please go on; it is very entertaining."
Mrs. Grey finished reading, and said, "What a child she is, to be sure! And what does she say to you?"
Margaret, who had been glancing over her letter smiled, and read as follows:
Dear old Mag:—
Why haven't you written to ask me why I didn't write? You know perfectly well that I am in love with you, and yet you express no surprise that I do not pour out my soul on paper. Well, you must know that as soon as I reached home, and had set the family pendulum swinging again, I trotted out and bought a ream of foolscap on which to write my book. Mamma always buys hers by the quire. Of course I intended to write to you before I began my stupendous undertaking. But when I just ran up to the nursery to see that all was right there, I found all wrong. Pug was lying in his nurse's arms as red as a lobster, and of course I knew he had scarlet fever, and that Trot would have it, and that they both would die. Also, of course, I let them die, and began my book. You know I haven't any heart, only a large hole where one may grow, in time. Well, the two creatures were the sickest creatures I ever knew to get well, but I consoled myself with the fact that I had their portraits anyhow. Harry and I got a trick of sitting up nights with these twain small people, and he says I worked like a tiger over them; but then, he exaggerates awfully. They were not at all tired of this world, and were determined to stay in it;so here I am tied hand and foot to my nursery; and as to my book, there is nothing to show for it but that ream of paper; and that does look like business. I forgot to say that I upset a tea-pot of tea on my hand the first thing I did when I saw Pug looking so dreadfully ill, and that this is the first time I have held a pen in it since I came home. Some other pleasant little items occurred; my cook had a felon, and was nearly wild with the pain, and my laundress went and got married in a tangent. And now, Mag, I've one thing to add, and it is this: I would rather have forty wild Indians, a rattlesnake, and a hyena, enter my nursery than scarlet fever.
Still, I'm going to write that book! and am
Your devoted admirer,
Oney.
"Strange that I had not noticed not hearing from the child," said Mrs. Grey. "But there are so many of them all that they drive each other out of my poor, forgetful old head. It will be a wonder if Georgy and Trot pull safely through. And how poor Laura's hand must have pained her! I must write, immediately, and warn her of the dangers of convalescence in this dreadful disease."
"Do you think she is really going to write a book?"
"I do not doubt that she will begin half a dozen, but whether she will ever finish one is another question."
"What a droll subject she had!"
"Yes; but I am not sure that she or anybody else can manage it. One might get fun out of it, though."
They both began now to answer Laura's letter; Mrs. Grey giving any amount of counsel about the children; Margaret, throwing care to the winds, and entering, with zest, into the pleasure, so new to her, of having friends to whom to write.
And not many days later, Mr. Heath came for Mabel. He was as impatient as a child to have her see the new babies, whom he considered marvelous beings, and of whom he was very proud. As to the child, she was eager to enter into possession of her share of the spoils, and Margaret felt a spasm of pain shoot through her heart when, with smiling faces, they took leave. She had loved Mabel so! Was she to be parted with in this way all her life, she asked herself, always giving amply and receiving sparingly? But one must not reason thus about little children. They know little about time and space; they have not learned to sentimentalize; they live in the present moment. Many a mother has experienced a pang akin to Margaret's, when returning from a journey, longing to fold her dear ones to her heart, the prosaic cry salutes her, "What have you brought me, mamma?" as if in bringing herself she had not done all a loving child ought to ask.
Mrs. Grey and Margaret now returned to their interrupted work, and the wintry days flew rapidly by. The weather continued mild until late in February, when the first snow of the season fell. But previously to this an event occurred which put a new aspect on life to Margaret. They had been to the city: Mrs. Grey to make visits to friends in hospitals there; Margaret to take her painting lesson, and on reaching the station found the carriage awaiting them, and the horses in a restive mood, which was provoking the temper of the old coachman not a little.
"What is the matter, Samp?" asked Mrs. Grey.
"Ain't used enough," returned Samp. "Needs to be took down."
"Any danger of their running away with us?"
"Never knowed 'em to run away."
"Nor I, either," said Mrs. Grey, "and yet I've a good mind to walk. What do you say, Margaret?"
"I say that it's too far for you to walk. Belle charged me to not let you overdo."
"Very well. But it's not too far for you to walk. I have a queer presentiment that something is going to happen. Suppose I drive, and you come home at your leisure?"
"No!" said Margaret decidedly; "if anything is going to happen, it must be to me, not you. But nothing is, except lunch." So saying, she sprang into the carriage, and Samp drove off.
"I never saw you nervous, aunty, till now."
"And I am not nervous now on my own account."
Margaret understood, and was silent. After a few moments, however, she said:
"We fly over the ground like lightning. Can it be that Samp has lost control of the horses? Oh, aunty! there he goes! He's off the box! They're running away with us! We must jump out!"
"We mustnotjump out," said Mrs. Grey, in a tone that made Margaret pause. "It would be death to us both."
"What shall we do, then?"
"We must trust ourselves to Him who, if He can hold the winds in His fist, can certainly control these animals. And if He does not think it best to do that—if they rush on and plunge down the riverbank—why, it would be an easier death than martyrdom."
She was as quiet as if seated on her sofa at home.
Margaret grew quiet too. They clasped each other's hands and waited.
The horses flew on; they were nearing the river; now for it! They are over!
Neither knew anything more till they awoke as from a sleep, and found themselves at home; Mrs. Grey lying on her bed; Margaret being borne to her room on a door that hasty hands had torn from its hinges. The house was full, but by degrees faithful Mary cleared it of all but those whose presence wasneeded; and the physicians proceeded to examine the patients. Mrs. Grey's injury was on the head, but not serious. Margaret had a fractured ankle, and many bruises. Each forgot herself, and thought only of the other; but it was ten days before they met. Margaret was shocked when Mrs. Grey, with a face all colors, from the bruises on her head, was supported into her room, and made light of her own severer injury. It was comfort to see each other even in this unsatisfactory way, but Mrs. Grey had time to recover entirely before Margaret could leave her bed. And for a long time she was in too much pain to think or to feel much on any subject. But at last she said, abruptly:
"Aunty, did you expect to be killed that day?"
"Yes."
"And you were as calm as you are now."
"Yes, dear—why not?"
"And were you ever afraid to die?"
"Yes, very much afraid."
"And how did you get over it?"
"By realizing that Christ is conqueror over Death, whom He will, sometime, make His messenger to show me the way home."
"It was an awful moment when we plunged down the bank! I almost think I never really prayed in my life before! I don't know exactly what I believe about the world of the lost, but I heard a man sayonce that there will be no little children there—only grown-up sinners. And I don't want to spend my eternity with sinners. It makes me shudder to think of it. I want to spend it with those who were pure and good in this world, and have grown into greater purity in heaven."
"Margaret, my child," said Mrs. Grey, leaning tenderly over her, "do you call this the aspiration of an unrenewed heart?"
"No, aunty; I have been wanting to tell you that in that awful plunge down the bank, there came to me, as by a lightning's flash,assurance of faith. You know how I have distrusted and quarrelled with myself, and refused to believe myself a Christian, because light had come to me so gradually, that I did not know when it began to dawn. I might have gone on so for years but for the revelation of that moment."
"I have never doubted that your feet were on the Rock, my child; but, oh! how I have prayed that they might stand steadier there! You have made me very happy."
"It has almost killed me to say all this, aunty. And I don't want to say another word, or have you ask me any questions. Only I want to thank you for not plaguing me with exhortations. It wouldn't have done me any good. And I think a great deal more of how people act than of how they talk.One's words can cheat; one's life can't. I watched mother like a lynx, to find flaws in her religion, and sometimes thought I found them. Then I watched you in the same way; and, oh! what sermons you have both preached to me, when you were, very likely, reproaching yourselves for not doing more for me!"
By this time Margaret's face, long paled through sleepless nights and distressing days, had become crimson. To give even this beloved "mother-friend" a glimpse into her soul, cost her all the strength of her strong will. But what a new love had now sprung up between them!
As soon as Mrs. Grey recovered her health and strength, she took up her abode in Margaret's sickroom, her mother's former "hospital," and devised endless ways of relieving the tedium of her long confinement. Margaret spent her days on one of the little white beds, and her nights on the other; the change was easily effected by members of the household, and was very refreshing. Mrs. Grey read to her, told her stories, played games with her, brought her fresh flowers and fruit every day, and was as companionable as a girl. Yet it cost her brave heart something thus to live over again Maud's illness, without alluding to it; only a mother who has ministered to a dying child can know at what a price. Once, when Margaret was suffering unusual pain, she broke down, and cried heartily; but for herself she shed no tears.
"My precious child," she said, "how you need your own dear mother now!"
"I wouldn't have her see me suffer so for theworld!" cried Margaret. "As long as I live, whatever happens to hurt or distress me, I shall have one comfort—my darling mother never had to see this!"
Mrs. Grey made no reply to this exclamation, but took care to put it into every letter she wrote her children, till they had all received this hint how she wished them to feel after she had gone. Meanwhile, letters and luxuries flowed in from them all. Belle wrote about the children, especially Mabel and the twins; Laura kept up her usual artillery of fun; even "the boys," Frank, and Rafe, and Fred, wrote, when they found what a delight it was to Margaret. Under ordinary circumstances, "the girls" would have relieved their mother from the care they all regretted so much; but Belle was tied hand and foot by her babies, and so was Laura, who had become duly impressed with the danger still lurking about her nursery; the daughter who came between, these two (Grace) had her husband's mother with her, of whom people said, "She means no harm, but she is peculiar." She was so very peculiar, that it took all Grace's faith and patience to endure her semi-annual visits, which she looked forward to as she would to a fit of sickness. Old Mrs. Harrison would never have got over it if Grace had deserted her for any reason whatever; yet if any one had accused her of being exacting, she would have been surprised and felt insulted.
One morning, when Margaret was beginning to suffer less, she said, earnestly:
"Now, aunty, I think I have taken as much of your time, to say the least of it, as the case required, and I want you to go on with your book. What a trial this long interruption must have been!"
"It has not been a trial, dear. You will understand why, one of these days. I used to chafe and fret when interrupted in favorite pursuits, but I have learned that my time all belongs to God, and just leave it in His hands. It is very sweet to use it for Him when He has anything for me to do, and pleasant to use it for myself when He hasn't. There's no knowing what I have learned through these weeks that I needed to learn, in order to have my book what He chooses it shall be. Perhaps your fractured ankle has a mission to some soul, which it will accomplish through my pen; who knows?"
"I think I shall write a book myself," said Margaret, demurely.
Mrs. Grey smiled interrogatively.
"It would be such fun years hence to read it over. Yes, I certainly will write it. Come, aunty, you bring your pen and paper and set the inkstand between us, and we'll both write. I am going to write down the nice things that have happened to me; the letters and presents I have had, and my journeys, and excursions, and all that. And I shall illustrate it withpen-and-ink sketches. It will be a bigger book than you ever wrote, if I live much longer, and you all go on being so good to me."
"I don't believe you can use ink; however, we'll see. That's a good idea of yours. I wish I had begun such a book at your age. It would be most entertaining reading at my time of life. Oh, what a volume of undeserved mercies."
"Well, I have a nice blank-book on hand which you shall have."
She went and hunted it up, collected her materials, and they both became absorbed in their work, until a little musical laugh from Margaret broke in upon the stillness.
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Grey. Margaret handed her the book by way of reply. She had written its title on the first page:
"My Book of Remembrance,"
and had drawn a picture of herself as a miniature angel flying down from heaven into a bright, artistic room.
"I remember my father's painting in which I was represented as thus entering the world, and how it was one of the last things mother consented to part with. She finally let it go to our landlord for rent. He refused to take it for a long time, declaring that he must have the money; when he concluded to consent to do so, mother called his attention to its title, 'The Advent of my First-Born,' and explained that it was my father's poetical way of stating a prosaic fact.
"'La!' quoth he, 'you don't say that's a angel, do yer? I always thought it was alightning bug!'"
Mrs. Grey laughed. It rested and refreshed her to see Margaret's brightness beginning to return. But their books were not destined to grow that day, for Mrs. Cameron and Agnes came and staid an hour and a half, and then Mrs. Huestis drove them away, and Mrs. Cram stepped in for a minute and staid forty-five, and so it went on till dusk. Mrs. Cameron always had some important secret to divulge, and must see Mrs. Grey alone; Mrs. Huestis always wanted advice; Mrs. Cram invariably was in trouble and wanted sympathy; and as to them all they were not in the least to blame for taking so much of her time, for they all knew thathertime was not her own. She had, long ago, consecrated it to Christ, and He used, but never abused it. Agnes Cameron amused Margaret, while her mother was in the library below, with scraps of domestic scenes, wherein she hit off, in a good-natured way, some of their household "ways," as she called them. One of her little brothers had a "way" of doing mischief, and his last performance was pouring a can of kerosene oil on the parlor carpet.
"Mamma spanked him for it," continued Agnes,"and he said, 'the whipping hurt, but I 'joyed pouring out the oil!'"
"What a little scamp!" said Margaret. "Your mother couldn't have whipped him very hard."
"Oh, yes, she did; she used her slipper. But he 'joys his mischief too much to care what she does to him. He put the kitten into a pot of hot soup; he drank a lot of sugar of lead; he pushed tacks up his nose, and into his ears; he scratched the piano all over with scissors; he threw papa's razor out of the window; he has poured ink all over himself twice; he climbed out of the window and hung there by his hands till mamma fainted away; and yesterday, when he wanted something she refused him, he climbed up on to the table, and walked across it, and helped himself."
"And what was done to him?"
"Oh, nothing. We all laughed, that was all."
"He would drive me crazy in a week," said Margaret, scandalized.
"No, he wouldn't. He is such a good-natured little fellow you couldn't help loving him."
Margaret would not dispute the point, but she thought it all the more a fraud upon the child to spoil him, when he was created with agreeable qualities.
"I would not laugh at his mischief if I were you," she said, at last. "He'll get to think it is nice and smart to cut up capers."
"Oh, he'll outgrow his ways."
Margaret had her doubts, but had too little experience with children to venture to offer any further advice. After what seemed an endless period of time, Mrs. Cameron and Agnes departed, and the short wintry day came to an end.
Margaret's book of remembrance grew in spite of interruptions, for all sorts of kind deeds and loving deeds kept rushing in, and sometimes after writing for a time, she would lie back on her pillow in silent ecstacy, that she, a little while ago, only an "incumbrance," was now literally surrounded with mercies. If every young person would keep such a record, there would be more smiling and more gratitude in this frowning, grumbling world.
And now she was to take the air, and glide over the smooth, white snow that fell just in time to cover all the inequalities of the roads. Samp had not been much hurt when he fell from the box, and new horses had been bought in place of the pair that had to be killed after the accident.
Mrs. Grey went with her, and both sat thoughtfully side by side, and quite silent, for they had each lived through a world since their last drive.
But on their return, Mrs. Grey said, "I have had a curious request made me during your imprisonment, and want to consult you about it."
"You are always having curious requests. How people do act."
"It is not their fault. I belong to 'people.' Well, here is a letter from a woman I don't remember ever seeing, though she says she once spent a summer in a boarding-house with me and mine. She wants me to come and examine her home-life, which she pronounces a failure, and tell her what is amiss. But read the letter before you give an opinion."
Dear Mrs. Grey:—
Some years ago I spent a summer at Newport in the "House on the Cliffs;" among others, you were there, with your children. I was only a young girl at that time, but I was struck with the difference between your family and those of others; I did not understand then, nor do I know now, wherein this difference lay. But I am the mother of six children, the eldest a boy of fourteen, the youngest a baby. In deep humility, in bitter disappointment, my husband and myself have come to this conclusion: our boys and girls are exceptionally troublesome, or we are very bad managers. Our home-life is beset with disorder and discomfort, which is becoming intolerable. Well, can you, and will you, undertake the task of spending a day or two, more or less, as you think best, in our family? See for yourself where the fault lies, and act the part of a friend to us in the greatest emergency of our lives? It is asking a very self-denying act on your part; we realize that, but virtuehas its own reward. Whatever strictures you may find occasion to make, will be thankfully received. We are unknown to you, but you are well known to us, and we put our cause into your hands.
Truly yours,
Lucy A. Thayer.
Please address Mrs. Neilson Thayer,
Box 298, New York.
"It's a nice letter," Margaret reluctantly owned; "but you mustn't go."
"Why not?"
"There are five hundred and forty reasons why."
"Tell me one."
"Why should you, who can speak to thousands through your books, be pinned down to one disorderly family?"
"Oh, that's no argument at all. If I were sitting on a pedestal, and had to climb down in order to help my brother, my sister, it might be a different thing. But I am not. My advantage over these younger people is, that I have longer experience of life than they have, and that's all."
Margaret smiled.
"I believe if the whole world knelt at your feet you wouldn't know it," she said.
"I don't think I should, for Iwouldn'tknow it. And, Margaret, I think I shall go and have a longtalk with these people; to do it, I may have to stay with them one night, as I suppose Mr. Thayer will only be accessible in the evening."
"Well, it's just like you to do such things."
"That'snot the way to put it. It's just like God to make His children serve one another."
"Do go right away, then, and have it over with. You have spoiled me so, that I hate to have you out of my sight. However, I've plenty to do while you are gone."
"Oh, I should not leave you if you had not. Let me see, I must write to this Mrs. Thayer, to say that I am coming. To-day is Friday—too late in the week; I'll go on Monday."