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Title: No royal road
or, The thing that lies the nearest. A story for girls.
Author: Florence E. Burch
Release date: August 10, 2025 [eBook #76667]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Sunday School Union, 1886
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NO ROYAL ROAD ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: LILLA AND HER GRANDMOTHER. _Frontispiece._]
NO ROYAL ROAD;
OR,
_THE THING THAT LIES THE NEAREST._
A Story for Girls.
BY
FLORENCE E. BURCH
_THIRTEENTH THOUSAND._
LONDON:
THE SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION
57 AND 59 LUDGATE HILL, E.C.
PRINTED BY
MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
—————
CHAP.
I. LILLA
II. MARGIE
III. LIVES OF GREAT WOMEN
IV. A GOOD BEGINNING
V. LILLA MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
VI. LILLA AWAKENS MARGIE'S AMBITION
VII. THE REWARD OF DILIGENCE
VIII. WASTED MINUTES
IX. WHICH WAS THE GREATEST?
X. A FRIEND IN NEED
XI. MARGIE THROWS NEW LIGHT ON THE QUESTION
XII. THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE
ILLUSTRATIONS.
—————
LILLA AND HER GRANDMOTHER. (_Frontispiece._)
"SHE LOOKED UP AS LILLA ENTERED."
MISS ST. IVES.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
NO ROYAL ROAD.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
LILLA.
"Standing with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet."
LONGFELLOW.
IN a shady nook, hidden away from the road by an overgrown hedge and a
row of tall lime trees, stood a quaint-looking little cottage.
It was concealed from view as you came along the lane, for it had
formerly been the lodge of a larger house, and in order to enter the
swinging gate in the sweet-briar hedge which separated its little
garden from the carriage drive, you had to pass through a broad iron
gateway standing back in a deep bay in the plantation.
It was no longer required as a porter's lodge at the time of our story,
the house having been long untenanted. And though the rooms were small
and the thatched gables old-fashioned, it formed a very comfortable
dwelling for the old lady who had now been its inmate for more than ten
years.
It was a wonderfully pretty little house, too. It had a rustic porch,
covered with jessamine and honeysuckle, and latticed windows that
opened wide to admit the summer breezes. Upstairs were the snuggest
bedrooms, with sloping ceiling and snowy curtained dormer windows, and
handy cupboards to fill up spare corners.
Then, too, the garden, full of the old-fashioned flowers dear to
those whose bright memories of far distant childhood are so closely
wound up with them. Sweet peas and lupins, wallflowers—or warriors,
as the children call them—stocks and clove pinks, and Aaron's rod and
sweetwilliam—
"With his homely cottage smell."
And the roses! Not the trim heads of bloom on straight, stiff stems,
which you see in gardens of the present day, but luxuriant bushes, rich
with blossoms, that seemed grateful for the sunlight, so sweet was
their perfume. All sorts were there: tea roses, cabbage roses—worthy of
a prettier name—delicate buds in moss wrappings, and at every turn of
the paths, arches laden with the snowy wreaths of the cluster.
At the bottom of the garden ran a brook, silent and peaceful in summer,
when the overhanging fringe of foliage hid its pebbly bed from view;
gurgling and rushing with wild vehemence in spring when the snows had
melted, and the dark firs of the plantation beyond were rocking and
swaying in the wind.
But enough of the place, that we may pass on to its inmates.
It would have been a dull spot for an old lady to spend her last days
in alone. But Mrs. Eden had a companion.
Fourteen years ago, when her hair was still brown, her only daughter
had faded and died, leaving to her care the dimpled baby girl who was
just beginning to lisp her name. For three years the fond grandmother
made her home with her son-in-law, devoting herself entirely to the
little darling whose ways reminded her so much of the babyhood of her
own child. But sickness laid its hand upon that home again.
There came a time when the little one asked, with wonder in her blue
eyes, why father was always tired now. And, later on, why father never
romped with her as he used; why he never got up, and why the doctor
came so often. Until at last, one evening they did not even take her to
him for her good-night kiss.
Next morning they showed him to her, cold and still in the long sleep
of death, telling her that he had gone to be with Jesus in God's bright
heaven, where everybody had a golden harp. And Lilla Claridge was an
orphan.
Then it was that bereft of all, save that tender little life, which
seemed to cling to her as the young ivy to the old tree trunk, the old
lady came to live at The Lodge, where, by various little economics,
such as substituting her own needlework for that of a seamstress, and
doing her own housework, with occasional help, she could not only make
her slender means sufficient for them both, but even add something
yearly to the little capital which was accumulating at the bank in
Lilla's name.
So the ten years had passed, bringing snowy locks and failing strength
to the old lady, whilst for Lilla, each return of the season had some
fresh gift of growth and intellect.
Lilla was turned fourteen, and a sensible girl for her years, quite
a companion for any grown woman. Having been so much in the society
of an old lady, she had perhaps learnt to think older thoughts than
most young people of her age. She was amiable and gentle, too. For in
training her, Mrs. Eden had not forgotten that some day she must mix
with those who would not have a grandmother's indulgence. So, instead
of spoiling her, as it would have been so easy to do, with no one
close to lavish her tenderness upon, she had tried her best to lay the
foundation of all those qualities most calculated to make of any girl—a
happy, useful woman.
Lilla had grown up with no companion of her own age. Their economical
style of housekeeping had rendered it impossible that she should mix
with those really in her own station. And as Mrs. Eden had undertaken
her education, intending to procure lessons in French and music for her
so soon as she should be far enough advanced, she had formed no school
friendships.
At the time when our story commences, Easter was just past, and the
larches were hanging out their green tassels in pretty contrast
against the sombre green of the firs. A keen wind was still blowing,
and the distant hills looked dark and well defined in the clear air
as the sun sank to his western couch. But leaf-buds were swelling on
the hedges, and thrushes were piping merrily on the tree-tops. In
the woods, primroses were peeping out from their hiding places under
the dead leaves, and anemones were shaking their delicate bells by
the watercourses. Spring was advancing rapidly, in spite of winter's
attempts to keep his hold, and even an occasional snowfall could not
long hinder the young monarch from ascending his rightful throne, so
many upon all hands were his subjects.
Lilla and her grandmother had just returned from their afternoon's
walk. They formed a strong contrast. The young girl, with her lithesome
elastic figure, and the old lady, with her silver locks and feeble
steps. But they always went out together when Lilla's tasks were done,
and it was astonishing the long distances the old lady made round the
country lanes beyond their little home.
Lilla's hands were full of anemones and trailing ivy, for she loved
plants and flowers. Unlike many girls of her age who let the spring
pass over them unheeded, its many voices had an undefinable charm for
her. She could not have told you why she listened so eagerly for the
first thrush's note, or watched the opening buds on tree and plant, but
it was not simply that winter disagreeables were retreating before a
milder reign. The reason was rooted in the poetic part of her nature
which loved the life and beauty all around.
Here again you might trace her grandmother's teaching:
"God's world is so beautiful," she would say, "and Jesus loved the
flowers. He has given them to us that we may learn from them. Every
spring ought to remind us that we must open our hearts to the sunbeams
of His love, if we would grow daily in beauty and fragrance."
Mrs. Eden was unusually tired with her walk that day.
"I am not so young as I was, Lilla," she said, with a sigh, as she took
the door-key from her pocket.
"But you are wonderful, grandmother," returned Lilla fondly, as she
followed her in. "I wonder how many old ladies of sixty-eight could
walk the miles you do!"
The kitchen fire was out, for Mrs. Eden could not afford to keep two
fires burning when the morning's work was done. But the kettle was
singing contentedly on the trivet in the sitting-room.
Lilla saw at a glance that all was right, and in less than a minute she
had fetched the tea-tray, so that her grandmother might make the tea at
once.
Whilst it was brewing, she slipped out into the garden to plant a
primrose root which she had brought in with her. This need not have
occupied many minutes, but the stars were coming out, and Lilla could
not resist watching them as their tiny orbs glittered and twinkled in
the clear, pale sky. When she looked down to earth again, everything
seemed so dark that it was some time before she could find a place for
her primrose. By degrees, however, her eyes became accustomed to the
change of light, and the plant was soon disposed of, its native soil
snugly patted down round its roots.
"There!" exclaimed Lilla, as she raised herself up and turned to go in.
But somehow her eyes went back to the stars. She was surprised to see
how much brighter they appeared to have grown during the few moments
occupied by planting the flower. They no longer seemed struggling to
make their feeble rays penetrate the twilight. They were shining down
with a clear, steady light. And one after another added itself to their
number as Lilla's eyes wandered over the heavens.
"It must be the contrast," she said to herself, resting on her spade,
"for I have not been long. It is no darker than when I came out, and
yet they were hardly visible then. But the sky is always brighter than
the earth."
Lilla stood thinking for several minutes. But she suddenly remembered
her grandmother and the tea, so she moved on towards the house. She had
just put the spade in the tool shed when a noise of shouts and cries up
the lane caught her ear, and, unable to repress her natural curiosity,
she ran down the path, slipped through the gate, and went out into the
road to see what it meant.
A pony was coming full tear that way, and two boys, one of whom had a
rope bridle in his hand, were running after him at their utmost speed,
at the same time doing their best by their halloos and yells to make
him gallop the faster.
Lilla hurried back into the bay, and just got into shelter behind the
gate as the pony dashed past. She was not used to animals, and was
rather frightened of them.
But there is something exciting that few young people can resist in the
sight of a runaway horse.
Lilla almost wished herself one of the pursuers, instead of a demure
little maiden just about to wash her hands and sit down to tea with her
grandmother.
However, it was of no use wishing. And certainly it would have been
undesirable to change places with the two uncouth, mud-begrimed figures
that hurried by next minute.
Lilla waited until the sound of hoofs was out of hearing, then hastened
indoors, and ran upstairs to lay aside her outdoor things. In a few
minutes she was seated opposite Mrs. Eden at the tea-table.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
MARGIE.
"The crown must be won for Heaven,
In the battlefield of life."
ADELAIDE PROCTER.
MEANWHILE, the fugitive and his pursuers were far away, and a desperate
race they had. Until at last, the unwary animal, scenting a freshly cut
stack of hay, turned in at the gate of a farm-yard, and being taken in
the trap, was ridden back by the panting youths, both of whom mounted
on his back—one clasping his arms round the waist of the other who held
the bridle in his right hand, whilst with his left, he kept a firm grip
of the animal's mane.
In this fashion they reached his master's dwelling, turned him in for
the night, and trudged homewards.
They were evidently behind time, for their sister had been out more
than once to look for them. She was standing in the doorway when they
appeared, a strongly-built girl, with unusually sturdy arms for her
age, and a look as if she was accustomed to work hard.
A glance round the room revealed the secret. Half a dozen little
brothers and sisters, beside a lad older than herself, and the two boys
who now pushed their way passed her and began clamouring for something
to eat. No wonder she could not be spared to service, whilst her mother
had so many "to do for."
"You don't deserve anything to eat, if you can't come in at the proper
time," said the mother sharply. "Tea has been cleared away this long
while."
"Jack ran away," said the elder of the two boys.
"And we had a job to catch him," added the other. "My word! What a run
we had!"
"And what a pretty lot of dirt you've brought in," exclaimed the
mother. "Go and pull your boots off."
But the boys knew their tea was safe, for their mother never kept them
without food as a punishment.
Margie followed them into the outer kitchen.
"You 'are' in a mess," she exclaimed, as they kicked off the dirty
boots. "Why can't you be more careful? You're up to your necks with
mud. See what you've brought in for me to clear up."
"Well! Who's to help it?" said the biggest. "I say, Margie! Ain't there
any tea for us?"
"Of course there is," replied Margery, getting down a loaf, from which
she cut two thick slices. "And I saved you this bit off father's bacon.
So now you must be good boys, and get me some wood first thing on
Monday, for we've hardly got a bit. And this wind has brought down a
lot."
When the boys came back, munching their last mouthful, they tumbled
over two of the smaller children playing on the floor, and the latter
set up such a dismal howl that it was all over with the peace of the
family. After several vain attempts to restore quiet, Margery had to
march them off to bed by two's, beginning at the youngest, whilst her
mother remained downstairs patching some clothes for the eldest boy,
who worked on a farm close by.
This was the way in which Margery's day usually ended. It always
commenced by getting them up, and from early morn until they were safe
asleep, she was slaving to keep them out of mischief. Poor child!
Sometimes she got very tired, but she never seemed to regard it as
anything to complain of. She had been accustomed ever since she could
remember to do her utmost. And if she had more to get through every
day, it was only because she was capable of more, so the balance still
kept even.
There was only one thing she regretted, that she could not go to
service. To get a good place and keep it, as one of her cousins was
doing, earning money to buy her own clothes, and even laying by a
little so that she might be able to help her parents in their old age.
That was Margery's dream. But her mother wanted her at home, and that
was quite sufficient reason why she should stay.
The best day of the week was Sunday, because after Margery had helped
get breakfast and wash the children ready for Sunday school, there was
not much else to do, except tidy herself and go to church.
It seemed such a rest to get away and walk through the sweet, quiet air
to the little church on the hill side, where she could sit still in
the high-backed pew and listen to the minister's voice and the solemn
tones of the organ. There was something in the light from the coloured
windows, with their quaint Bible pictures, and in the dim arches of the
vaulted roof overhead, that made her forget how she had been working
and hurrying all the week.
Her brothers called her a silly for going to sit still there all the
morning, when she might have had a ramble in the fields with them.
And if she asked her father to go, he always replied, "Not to-day,
Margie. I must rest my legs a bit, against to-morrow." Then he went and
lounged about the garden and cleaned the pig-stye, or even did a bit
of hoeing among his potatoes, but he never went to church except on
Christmas Day and Easter Sunday.
It was a source of perplexity to Margery, what difference there could
be between attending to the garden and walking to church. But if she
was unable to explain why the former rested his legs more than the
latter, she was just as unable to tell why the church had such a
quieting effect upon "her," so she was content to let the matter rest.
As it happened, the day following that on which we made her
acquaintance, was Sunday. A bright beautiful day it was, one of God's
own Sabbaths, when all the earth seems full of joy and gratitude to its
Maker. The wind, too, had lulled, so the trees were no longer buffeted
and shaken, and their budding branches glittered against the blue sky,
as the sun poured down upon them. Margery usually gave a little sigh of
relief as she closed the door after her, but this morning everything
was so bright that there was no room for a sigh. She only looked away
across the fields to the green hills, over which came the sound of the
bells already ringing for service, and exclaimed—"Oh if it were only
'always' Sunday!"
"What then, little maid?" asked a voice just behind her.
Margery started and turned quickly, and coloured to the roots of her
hair, for it was the clergyman who had overheard her.
"What would you do with all Sundays?" he asked, as she looked down and
did not reply.
"I was thinking there would be no work to do, sir," she answered.
"Ah! That is bad reason," returned the old gentleman. "None but lazy
people want to escape their fair share of work."
"But I was thinking, sir, that if it was always Sunday, 'no one' would
have any work to do."
"I do not fancy they would be any happier for that," said the
clergyman. "It is God who gives us our work to do, you know; and He
never sends us anything that is not good for us."
"But some people have to work so hard, sir," said Margery, "and then
they get tired."
"Do 'you' often get very tired?"
The old gentleman looked down so kindly at her as he asked this
question, that Margery could not feel afraid of him. She glanced up
trustfully in his face and answered—
"Not very, sir; only—I like Sunday."
"And you can't quite tell why? Do you think you would like it so well
if you hadn't been busy all the week? You know the Bible speaks of
heaven as a beautiful land of rest, where we shall never grow weary.
But Jesus said, 'I must work the works of Him that sent Me while it is
day, for the night cometh when no man can work.' And death will be like
a long winter night to those who have not used their daylight well. But
to those who have never been 'weary in well-doing' it will be like this
beautiful Sabbath day, a time to rest and worship God."
Margery did not answer. Probably she did not understand his words, for
she had never troubled her head much about such things as yet. She was
only just beginning to think about them a little. But just then the
clergyman stopped to speak to a lady and gentleman who were coming
along that way, so Margery went on alone.
It was very early when she arrived at the church, only the beadle and
pew-opener were there. The children had not even come in from the
school-room, so Margery sat down on the stone seat in the porch to wait
and watch the faint shadows from the clouds moving across the fields
beyond the graveyard. The wind had risen a little, and the fleecy white
masses kept chasing each other sportively across the sun, until at
last, one denser than the rest came, throwing a shadow which seemed
as if it would never pass. But it was the last. Behind it the sky
stretched clear and blue to the horizon, and as the landscape flashed
into light again, a lark rose out of the grass carolling blithely as he
soared, and mounting in ever-lessening circles, until he became a faint
black speck of song.
"Oh! If I were only a lark," exclaimed Margery to herself. "It wouldn't
matter about Sunday then." But this time she did not express her
thoughts aloud, and there would have been no one to hear them if she
had.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
LIVES OF GREAT WOMEN.
"Lives of great men all remind us
We may snake our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints in the sands of time."
LONGFELLOW.
THE next day seemed determined to show how disagreeable clouds can make
the face of nature. The wind moaned in the plantation as if the trees
were complaining that the sun had broken his promise, and the brook
sobbed as though it had come down from the hills on purpose to tell
some sad, sad story. There was no going out after dinner. So, after
lingering near the window for some minutes, half in hopes that the
clouds would break, Lilla curled herself up in a big armchair with a
book, whilst Mrs. Eden took her work.
They were both very still, not a sound in the room, save the ticking of
the timepiece, and the regular click of the old lady's needle.
Mrs. Eden was very busy with her thoughts as well as her sewing, and
it was easy to guess what she was thinking about, for every time the
shaking of the casement and the tap-tap of the rose-tree against it,
made her look up, she glanced towards her granddaughter.
These fourteen years had passed very quickly, but Mrs. Eden felt that
they had wrought a great change in herself, and she often wondered what
Lilla would do when the last change came to still her voice and hands
in the sleep of death.
Of one thing she felt sure. The Heavenly Father, in whom she had
trusted all her life, and who had never failed her, would never forsake
the dear child for whom she had prayed so unceasingly. But she longed
for the assurance that Lilla had found for herself the One who would be
her guide when her earthly teacher was no longer by to counsel her.
"She is a good girl," she often said to herself. "But the time is
coming when she will have to think for herself, for I cannot be with
her much longer. Pray God that when I am gone she may have an arm to
lean upon which will never fail her!"
They had been sitting so for more than an hour, when Lilla with a deep
sigh suddenly closed her book, got up, and, going to the window, looked
out with a weary yawn.
Mrs. Eden glanced up from her work.
"Tired of your book, Lilla?" she asked.
"Not exactly, grandmother," Lilla replied, turning back towards the
fire. "Tired of myself, I suppose, or of the rain. But I think you must
be weary of sitting quiet."
"No," replied Mrs. Eden, "my thoughts have been as active as my needle,
but I shall not be able to see much longer."
"Then let us have tea early, grandmother, and we can shut out this
gloom and be cosy. Shall I stir the fire up?"
There was soon a cheerful blaze under the kettle, and Lilla sat down
with some wool-work to wait until the first notes of its song should
give the signal to fetch the tea-tray.
"I always wish something would happen on days like these," she said:
"some adventure like you read of in books. A prince in disguise might
come and beg our hospitality, or some travellers who had lost their
way. But that is the worst of living in a civilised country—nothing
romantic ever happens."
"Most things have a 'best' side as well as a 'worst,'" said her
grandmother. "I think the disadvantages of uncivilised life would
outweigh its advantages. But look! There is your traveller."
A wet umbrella was at the gate. Lilla jumped up.
"Oh! Grandmother," she exclaimed, "it is Mr. Munro! I wanted a prince,
not a clergyman. Mr. Munro always puts me in a tremble."
"We must not keep him waiting in the rain," said Mrs. Eden, putting
down her work and rising.
But Lilla sprang to the door.
"Let me go, grandmother!" she cried. "The wind blows in so cold.
Besides, I am not so terrified of Mr. Munro that I dare not let him in.
But I am disappointed, because now we shall not be able to have tea,
and he will stay a long while and spoil our cosy evening."
With these words she left the room, and soon returned ushering in Mr.
Munro.
"It is very good of you to come and see us on such a wet day." Mrs.
Eden said, when she had seen the clergyman safely seated in the large
easy-chair where Lilla had been reading.
"I usually find people at home on afternoons like this," replied Mr.
Munro, "and, as for myself, I enjoy such good health that I never stay
indoors for the weather. I often think that I have made my constitution
what it is by accustoming myself to spend a certain part of each day in
open air exercise. So you see duty brings its reward."
"Ay! That it does," said Mrs. Eden; "we never sow but God gives us our
harvest. Lilla and I rarely take any notice of the weather, but to-day
we thought it 'too' wet and windy, so we have worked and read until the
daylight is almost gone, and we were about to shut out the rain and
light up."
"And have an early cup of tea," added Mr. Munro, with a glance towards
the kettle, which was now steaming out in good earnest. "Will you allow
me to join you?"
Mrs. Eden expressed herself delighted, and Lilla went to fetch the
tea-tray.
"I don't know a more cheery companion than the kettle," continued Mr.
Munro. "I think the rich lose a great deal by banishing it from their
sitting-rooms. I remember in the good old days at home my mother always
had the water boiled, and the tea brewed under her own supervision. And
no modern tea comes up to it, unless it is yours and my wife's."
In the meantime Lilla had cut some bread, which she now proceeded to
toast, whilst her grandmother went to fetch some preserve from her
store-closet.
"And how have you been occupying yourself?" Mr. Munro asked as he
watched her kneeling before the fire, slowly turning the bread until it
assumed a delicate brown.
"I have been reading some 'Lives of Great Women,' the best part of the
time, Mr. Munro," replied Lilla. "But all of a sudden I got tired, so
took up some wool-work and talked to grandmother."
"Which is nearly as good as a book, she is so wise and good," said Mr.
Munro. "Do you soon get tired of reading?"
"Not usually, if the book is interesting," replied Lilla.
"And this wasn't?"
"Oh! Yes, but—I can't tell you exactly. It made me feel discontented."
"With yourself, or your surroundings?"
"I don't know. It made me want to be great too. And of course I never
can, so I put it down and tried to forget it."
"I am not quite sure that was the best thing to do."
Lilla's eyes had been so intent upon her toast that she had answered
all Mr. Munro's questions hitherto without looking up. But his last
words puzzled her a little. Reading the lives of these heroines of
womankind had made her feel discontented with the narrowness of her
own life, spent in eating and drinking, walking and sleeping, learning
tasks and doing fancy-work, and talking to her grandmother. And it was
wrong to wish to be anything but what God had made her, so she had
thrown the temptation aside with the book. Surely that was right! Lilla
looked up involuntarily, as if to read his meaning in his face.
"There are two ways of wanting to be great," Mr. Munro went on, seeing
her puzzled expression. "And it makes all the difference which one your
book put into your head. You know God's estimate of greatness is very
different from the world's. We very often think it consists in fine
circumstances and plenty of money and servants, because we look on the
outward appearance, but God looks on the heart. If your book made you
long to be great, no matter what circumstances you were placed in, the
more you read of it, the better."
"But what is the use of wishing?" said Lilla, looking up as she
reached for another slice of bread. "There are some things I can do
nicely enough. I can sew evenly, and grandmother says I make toast
very well, but that will never make a great woman of me. How could I
do as Florence Nightingale or Mrs. Fry did? I couldn't nurse soldiers
all night. I should fall asleep just when I ought to give them their
physic, and kill them by my neglect. Besides, I know nothing about
medicine. And as for going about distributing tracts, I couldn't do
that, much less write them. I'm neither brave nor clever enough, and I
don't even learn half I might."
"That may be," said Mr. Munro, with a smile at Lilla's graphic picture,
"and I know numbers of clever people who couldn't write tracts. But
sometimes it takes more perseverance than bravery to make people great.
Courage is for the battle-field, and industry and patience for the
workshop. Did it ever strike you that there are more workshops than
battle-fields in the world?"
Lilla did not answer. She had never thought about it. And now she
did not quite see what workshops and battle-fields had to with great
women. But her grandmother returned just then with some of her famous
preserved cherries, and as the toast was ready, she rose from her knees
and went to the table to butter it.
Tea-time passed very pleasantly, for in spite of what Lilla said about
Mr. Munro always putting her in a tremble, he was far from being a
terrible sort of old gentleman. He was as kind and full of interesting
talk as it was possible to be. And the conversation happening to turn
upon a tour which he had made some years before, in Egypt, Lilla forgot
rain and terror and everything, until Mr. Munro took out his watch and
said that it was time for him to be going.
"There was one thing struck me particularly," he said, as he rose.
"Almost all trace of the existence of these old-world people consists
in their provision for a future state. There are still remains of
the costly tombs they made—covered with sculptures and pictures of
the scenes amongst which they had lived—as though they wished to be
surrounded after death by the familiar objects they had known from
youth to old age. But of their lives and labours you see no trace. All
vestiges of their everyday work seem to have perished with them."
"So much everyday work is too trivial to live," remarked Mrs. Eden.
"Yet Christ glorified it," returned Mr. Munro. "It seems to me that the
strength of Christianity lies in the fact that it is by faithfulness in
little things that we rise to true greatness. 'Do the work that lies
the nearest' is the best motto for a Christian. And the nearer we get
to Christ-likeness, the better we understand the reason why."
After tea, Lilla had her lessons to prepare for next day, so she forgot
all about Mr. Munro. But the wind was very high when she went to bed,
and for a long while she lay awake thinking.
"'Do the work that lies the nearest,'" she said to herself. "I suppose
that is what I do every day, but I don't see that it makes me very
great. I fancy I should be a good deal greater if I could do something
else. I wonder how Mrs. Fry and Florence Nightingale managed to be so
clever and good. There is one thing, I am only a little girl. But after
all, they must have begun by being little girls—only I don't see how
music lessons and French vocabulary and English grammar can make me
great. I suppose they had to learn it though."
Just then a great gust of wind shook Lilla's casement so roughly
that she involuntarily raised her head from the pillow. But her
grandmother's regular breathing in the next room told her that she was
already asleep. So Lilla snugged down again with a thought of the poor
sailors and fishermen out at sea. She always prayed for them when the
wind was high. As the gust lulled, however, her thoughts went back to
Mr. Munro.
"I can't quite remember what he said about being faithful in little
things," she said. "Something about true greatness. I 'should' like
to be great. But after all, I suppose the best thing I can do is to
learn my lessons as well as possible—'faithfully,' as Mr. Munro would
say. I mean to begin to-morrow morning. I will get up half-an-hour
earlier—and—"
Lilla was becoming drowsy, and, in a few minutes more, neither good
resolutions nor the most boisterous gusts of wind could keep her awake
any longer.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
A GOOD BEGINNING.
"Life is real! Life is earnest!"
LONGFELLOW.
WHEN Lilla awoke next morning, all was calm and still. The wind had
done its work and swept away the clouds, and with the dawn, it had
hushed to rest. Lilla was beautifully warm and snug, and she lay for
some time in a sort of dreamy doze, thinking of nothing and not even
noticing how light it was. Her thoughts about greatness were still
slumbering peacefully. But all on a sudden, something made her look up,
and there, on the wall, was a broad strip of sunlight stealing through
her blind.
Lilla raised her head on the pillow, and now for the first time became
aware that the thrushes were singing blithely in the plantation. In
an instant everything rushed back into her mind—yesterday's storm,
Mrs. Fry and Florence Nightingale, Mr. Munro and her own resolutions.
And throwing back the covering, she sprang out of bed. A peep at her
grandmother's door, however, assured her that the latter was not yet
astir. So gently closing her own, she went across to the window and
drew aside the blind.
What a beautiful sight it was that met her eyes! Not a cloud in the
sky, and the sun—still low in the east—shining like a golden eye of
love upon the waking world, touching into gems the drops that still
hung upon the boughs, and flashing a stream of light down the brook.
No wonder the thrushes had found such a happy hymn of praise! Who could
help feeling glad with such a blue sky laughing down at the green
fields, and such sunlight making ready to play hide-and-seek with the
breezes among the boughs. Yet, as Lilla gazed, a sort of soberness came
over her; for something reminded her that she had to learn to be great,
not to swing idly in the tree-tops like those thrushes, who had nothing
to think of but singing all day long.
Nothing to think of but singing! Lilla little understood them. Not one
but had a nest to build before the month was out, and there was much
to be done to scrape together material, but their hearts were in their
work, and they simply went on doing it as it came, without a question
as to what was beyond, or how dreadfully pushed they would be on the
morrow, and that was at the bottom of their happiness. When men and
women learn that secret, life itself becomes a psalm, and they have
perpetual music and sunshine in their hearts. As regards the birds
never attaining to any greatness—well, they are often God's messengers
of hope to the weary and forlorn. And perhaps none of us can desire to
be anything worthier.
However, Lilla dropped the corner of her blind and hurried on with her
toilet, bent upon getting down to her lessons as quickly as possible.
The consequence was that when Mrs. Eden came out of her room in her
large apron and housemaid's gloves, ready to light the fire, Lilla was
just opening her door to go downstairs, instead of lying fast asleep as
usual, waiting to be called.
Mrs. Eden looked surprised, though she had fancied she heard Lilla
stirring.
"You are up betimes, Lilla," she said.
"I have come to the conclusion that I waste a good deal of time in the
morning," replied Lilla, sagely; "so I am going to begin getting up
early. If you can get up, grandmother, I think I ought to."
"Young people often require plenty of sleep," replied Mrs. Eden. "If
you are awake, it will do you good to get up. But I generally have some
trouble in rousing you."
"But if I 'mean' to wake, I shall," said Lilla, "at least I 'think' I
shall. I am going to begin being very industrious, grandmother."
"I don't consider idleness a fault of yours," said Mrs. Eden, as she
threw open the shutters.
"Only I waste so many 'between whiles,'" said Lilla. "I mean to use up
every 'minute' of my time, for the future."
Mrs. Eden passed on to the kitchen, and Lilla walked up to the
book-case.
"Which shall it be?" she said to herself, leaning both elbows on
it, and running her eyes along her row of lesson books. "Oh! French
vocabulary, because I hate that most. And it is always best to do the
disagreeable things first."
When Mrs. Eden came back with her wood and matches, she found Lilla
curled up in the big armchair, absorbed in her task.
"Lessons before breakfast, Lilla?"
Lilla only looked up to smile and nod, and went on with her French,
alternately reading over the column and covering it with her hand to
see if she knew it. When it was about half perfect, her grandmother
came in with the whisk-broom to sweep the carpet.
"I shall make you dusty, Lilla," she said, as she proceeded to lay a
cover over the sofa and the sideboard where the old china was arranged.
"Then I must decamp, grandmother," said Lilla, uncurling herself and
getting out of the chair. "I can go into the kitchen."
"You will find it cold. There is no fire."
"Oh! I'm too busy to be cold," returned Lilla, as she trotted off.
"I've got all my lessons to learn before breakfast."
Mrs. Eden could not forbear a smile. "Too good to last," she said to
herself, "and not desirable either. Exercise is best for young folks
before breakfast, especially in March weather." Notwithstanding, she
was pleased to see that Lilla began to understand the value of time,
and no longer regarded her tasks as disagreeable duties.
Meanwhile Lilla had begun to find that her grandmother was right after
all. She had felt so warm after hurriedly dressing in her sunny little
room that she had no idea the morning was cold. As she sat by the
kitchen window, however, plodding away at the unmanageable idioms, her
fingers began to grow stiff, and cold shivers ran through her limbs.
She put the book on the sill and rubbed her palms together, whispering
the words over to herself all the time. But the chilly sensations still
crept on, and she was quite glad when, just as the lesson was perfect,
her grandmother reappeared with the whisk. She shut the book, jumped
up, and gave her hands a good rub.
Mrs. Eden noticed it. "You will get chilblains, Lilla," she said.
"Oh! No, grandmother, I shall get accustomed to it," answered Lilla,
cheerfully. "Besides, the warmer weather is coming, when I can take my
books out on the door-step in the sun."
"I think you would do better to take your skipping-rope for
half-an-hour instead," said Mrs. Eden.
"Then I should want to rise half-an-hour earlier still," said Lilla,
"because skipping is child's play, and will never make me great."
"Is that your ambition?" asked her grandmother.
Lilla coloured, and made no answer. She had not intended to say
anything about her high aspirations, for, like many people, she was shy
of speaking about what she might never be able to accomplish.
"After all," continued Mrs. Eden, "neglecting your health will not
help you to be great. Many people, who might otherwise have lived very
useful lives, have rendered themselves all but useless by forgetting
that, to work properly, machinery must be in thoroughly good order; my
sewing machine has taught me so a good many times over."
Lilla was silent. This was a new aspect of the question.
As her grandmother got her duster, however, she picked up the book,
saying: "I suppose I can come back now, grandmother."
Mrs. Eden replying in the affirmative, Lilla followed her to the
sitting-room, replaced her book on the shelf, and, taking down another,
seated herself on a low stool near the fire.
"You see, I am fast growing up now, grandmother," she said, as she
found her place, "and I want to make the most of my time."
"You will not do that by devouring your capital," returned the old lady.
"I don't think I understand," said Lilla, with a puzzled expression.
Mrs. Eden proceeded to explain. "Your health and strength are the funds
which youth has laid up for you. If you draw upon them, by and-by
your health will break down, and there will be no capital left to
produce interest, so you will be bankrupt. If you cram one week full of
lessons, and at the same time catch a cold, you will have to lie up all
the next week and lose more time than you gained."
Lilla was thoughtful for a moment or two, but suddenly she jumped up.
"Does your back ache, grandmother?" she asked, for she observed that
every time the old lady stooped she caught her breath, as if a sudden
pain seized her. "You are not well this morning; let me dust for you."
"Then what about your lessons?"
"Oh! I'm not 'obliged' to do them before breakfast, grandmother, and
dusting will be as good as skipping—only of more use."
So Mrs. Eden willingly resigned her duster and went on seeing about
breakfast. For, truth to tell, she felt far from well that morning, and
was glad of Lilla's help.
It may seem strange to those of my readers who are accustomed to take
their share of the housework that Lilla should have been so selfish
as never to have helped her grandmother before. But they must look at
the question from another point of view, and admire Mrs. Eden for the
unselfishness which had prompted her to undertake so much hard work
without pressing Lilla into the service. Like many young girls, Lilla
usually slept until she was called, except in summer, when she spent
the time attending to her flower-garden, so the sitting-room was always
swept and dusted by the time she came down. On the other hand, Mrs.
Eden reasoned that had Lilla's father lived, she would never have had
to do servant's work, and that it would not be right to bring her up to
what was beneath her station, when she ought to be spending her time
in gaining an education which would fit her to take her proper place
in society. She therefore determined to do it herself as long as her
strength permitted, and when that failed, to engage a young servant.
That time was approaching very rapidly. The old lady had already found
the winter very trying. But she had persevered bravely, in hopes of
being able to manage through another summer. But she felt that she had
taken a decided step downward since the winter, and she was beginning
to think seriously of securing a little more ease for herself.
"What would you say to having a servant, Lilla?" she asked as they sat
at breakfast. "I am getting too old to work."
Lilla looked surprised for a moment. Then she replied: "I have been
thinking it is too much for you, grandmother. I wonder I never thought
of it before. Why couldn't I have helped you, instead of snoring my
time away upstairs? I 'am' vexed with myself."
"I have made up my mind to engage a maid at once," continued Mrs. Eden,
"instead of waiting till the autumn. I have managed without ever since
your father died, and I think I may leave off trying to save now."
"Besides, you will be bankrupt if you devour your capital," said Lilla,
mischievously, quoting her grandmother's words.
Something which happened during the day decided Mrs. Eden upon taking
the step at once.
Lilla's work for the morning was done, and she was practising, whilst
Mrs. Eden cleared up the dinner things, and eagerly looking forward to
the afternoon's walk after the previous day's disappointment. She had
just finished one piece, and was taking another from her portfolio,
when her grandmother came in and sat down by the fire. Lilla closed the
portfolio and got off the music-stool at once.
"Ready, grandmother?" she asked, without turning her head.
"I have not quite finished up," replied Mrs. Eden, "but I am afraid
I must give up the walk to-day. I am so giddy. Reach me that phial,
Lilla, and fetch me a glass of water."
Lilla did as she was desired, feeling rather frightened; and, having
administered the dose, by her grandmother's directions, tucked her up
on the sofa, and slipped out into the kitchen to finish clearing up.
When she returned, the old lady was dozing peacefully, so Lilla crept
upstairs for her hat, to make the best of the afternoon in the garden.
The attack did not prove serious, and after a good sleep and some
tea—which Lilla made for the first time in her life—Mrs. Eden was much
better. She declared her intentions, however, as they went upstairs for
the night, of hiring a servant without delay, and it was arranged that
they should set about making inquiries the very next afternoon.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
LILLA MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
"Lo here hath been dawning
Another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it
Slip useless away?
Out of eternity
This new day is born,
Into eternity
At night will return."
THOMAS CARLYLE.
WHEN Lilla reached her room, the first words which came into her head
were—
"'Do the thing that lies the nearest.'"
"I wonder if that is what I have been doing to-day," she said to
herself. And, setting her candle down, she drew aside the blind to look
at the stars.
They were wonderfully bright in the clear, keen air. But Lilla remarked
that those constellations which had been on the horizon when she looked
out some hours earlier were now high in the heavens, whilst others had
crept up to take their places.
"They never appear to hurry," she said to herself, as her eyes wandered
from one to another, "yet the morning never comes before they are
ready. I suppose they are different from human beings. I haven't done a
scrap more for hurrying up this morning. But it isn't my fault, because
I helped grandmother dust, and then she was ill. And, after all, it was
a good thing I learnt my vocabulary before breakfast, or I shouldn't
have had time for it at all. I must make haste into bed, so as to wake
early again. Perhaps I shall succeed better to-morrow."
And Lilla came away from the window, and was soon in bed and fast
asleep.
When she awoke next morning, she knew by the position of the sunlight
on the wall that it was even earlier than on the preceding day, but she
jumped up immediately, and, without losing time over looking out of
window, at once began to dress.
Her grandmother's door was still ajar when she opened hers; her heavy
breathing told that she was still asleep.
"Now I shall have nice time," she said to herself. "Perhaps I can learn
double vocabulary. I ought to be getting on now."
But something else came into her head at that moment, and she stopped
short, half-way down the stairs. Then, turning back, she tip-toed into
her grandmother's room, found her large apron and gloves, and crept out.
"Grandmother will be glad to find the kettle ready," she said to
herself. "And it is a shame she should do everything now that I am old
enough to help, especially as she is not well."
So Lilla noiselessly opened the shutters, and then, collecting her
materials, set to work to kindle a fire—for the first time in her life.
Now fires are like most other things, very easy to manage if you know
the right way, but Lilla having had no experience, did not go about her
task in the very best method. The consequence was that, after poking
and puzzling between the bars for a considerable length of time, and
striking lucifers enough for a dozen fires, she succeeded in getting
the coals to catch, just as a step in the doorway made her turn. There,
to her dismay stood her grandmother.
"Oh! Grandmother," she exclaimed, in a disappointed tone of voice. "You
'are' early!"
Mrs. Eden smiled. "Not so early as you think, my dear," she said. "Time
passes quickly when you are trying to do anything you are not used to.
I am half-an-hour later than usual."
"And I meant to have had the water boiling by the time you came down,"
cried Lilla.
"Ah! You mustn't expect to do wonders all at once," said Mrs. Eden.
"You have managed very well for a first attempt. But I suppose you
would like to finish, as you have begun," she added, looking down at
the hearth, which had yet to be cleared and brushed up.
Lilla went down on her knees again, feeling a certain sort of comfort
in being permitted to retrieve her honour. And in course of time, the
stove was tidy, and she had carried away her brushes and shovel. There
was no chance for the vocabulary, however, for almost as soon as she
had washed her hands, breakfast was ready, and she was glad to sit
down, feeling an unusually good appetite.
Lilla was rather silent for the first few minutes, thinking how another
morning had gone without the accomplishment of her resolve to devote it
to her studies. Still, she could not help feeling that she had done her
duty. And a word from her grandmother made her quite happy.
"Many hands make light work, Lilla," Mrs. Eden said, as she sipped her
coffee. "You have been a very good girl this morning."
Lilla's eyes brightened. "I meant to do my lessons when I got up,
grandmother," she said, "but this seemed to come between me and them,
so I suppose it was 'the thing that lay the nearest.'"
"Well, if we are successful in our search after a maid," returned her
grandmother, "neither of us will have to do it. Meanwhile, it is useful
experience for you, for every woman—lady or not—ought to be 'able' to
light her own fire and brush her own stove."
"I suppose a lady ought to be able to do anything that a servant can
do, grandmother, or else she cannot really be the greatest."
After dinner Mrs. Eden and Lilla set out on their expedition in search
of a maid. Fortunately, however, before they started, they heard
from the baker's man of a girl who seemed likely to meet Mrs. Eden's
requirements. She had never been to service before, the man said,
being the eldest girl of a large family, most of whom were boys. But
her mother was anxious now to place her out, as some of the others
were growing old enough to be left in charge when she went out for a
day's charing. Accordingly, Lilla and her grandmother started for the
cottage, which was about a mile and a half up the lane.
It was a pretty walk. The way lay over undulating country: sometimes
between fields, over which they could see far and wide to the horizon
on either hand; sometimes through roadside plantations, where the trees
met overhead in graceful arches, and the underwood, already bursting
into leaf, showed like a pale green veil amongst the brown trunks. It
was very beautiful, and Lilla did not miss it; for, as I have already
said, she had a quick eye for the beauties of nature. But she was much
more quiet than usual, and seemed pre-occupied.
Presently she said, "I don't altogether like the idea of having a
servant, grandmother."
"Why not?" asked Mrs. Eden, in surprise. "I thought you would be
pleased."
"It will be so horrid to have a stranger always in the house. We shall
never be all to ourselves, as we have been."
"Oh! Yes," replied the old lady, "she will be in the kitchen, and we in
the sitting-room. Besides, it really is getting too much for me."
"I know, grandmother, but if I helped you we could manage. I should
soon learn to light the fire quickly, and you need never come down till
breakfast was ready."
"I am afraid you would tire of it when the novelty wore off," said Mrs.
Eden, "and I don't want you to waste your time over kitchen work. I am
anxious you should make the most of it for your studies now, so that
when you take your finishing lessons, you may be able to profit by
them."
Lilla brightened at the mention of finishing lessons. The prospect of
having masters seemed such a decided advance on the road to greatness.
"Besides," continued Mrs. Eden, "it is time you made some friends now."
"I don't want any friends, grandmother," said Lilla. "You are quite
enough for me."
"Aye! 'Now,'" returned Mrs. Eden. "But I am fading away, and you will
want some one to take my place."
"No one can ever do that, grandmother," cried Lilla, "because we two
have been so happy together, and you are all the world to me."
Just then Lilla caught sight of the bushy tail of a squirrel whisking
up a tree at a little distance, and off she bounded to watch it. So the
conversation dropped, and another bend of the road brought them to the
cottage.
Mrs. Rust looked pleased when the old lady stated her errand.
"It's what I've been wanting for her, ma'am," she said. "We're a large
family to keep, you see. And I must try and make shift without her now,
though she's been a power of help to me."
Mrs. Eden then proceeded to ask several questions concerning the girl's
capabilities and disposition, all of which the mother answered in a
very satisfactory manner. "But I'll call her, ma'am," she added, "and
then you can see her for yourself." And she forthwith went out into the
kitchen, where there was a sound of children's voices and some one at
work.
After a few minutes she returned, followed by a sturdy girl, whose face
bore traces of having been hastily washed, and in whom we recognise the
same girl whose wish that it was 'always Sunday' Mr. Munro overheard on
his way to church.
She glanced from Mrs. Eden to Lilla as she came in. Then, as her mother
brought her forward with the words, "This is Margie, ma'am," she
advanced and stood before the old lady, with her eyes demurely cast
down.
"How old are you, my dear?" asked Mrs. Eden, anxious to hear her voice.
For, of all qualities, she loved cheerfulness in anyone who was to be
constantly about her. And she believed very firmly that disposition
generally reveals itself in the tone of the voice.
"In her sixteenth year," replied the mother, before Margie could answer.
"I was fifteen last twelfth of January," added Margie, looking up for
an instant. And then, stealing another glance across at Lilla, "I'm
strong for my age."
"Are you afraid of work?"
"I've never been out, ma'am," replied Margie, looking up more
confidently this time, "but I'm not afraid of it at home."
"And she has plenty of it, too," added the mother, anxious to make the
most of the girl's capabilities.
Mrs. Eden had already made one discovery in Margie's favour: she
possessed a nice honest pair of brown eyes, which seemed to attest
their owner's truthfulness when they met yours. The old lady was
beginning to take a fancy to her.
"Are you a good riser?" she asked.
"I couldn't quite say, ma'am," replied Margie, candidly, "because the
children always wake me. But I could get up if I was called."
"And you would be willing to learn to do your work properly? Because I
shall have a great deal to teach you, if you come to be my servant."
"I 'want' to learn, ma'am," answered Margie, quickly. "That's just what
I've longed to do, ever since my cousin went to service."
Mrs. Eden then entered into detail with Margie's mother about her
outfit and wages. So the former, seeing that she was no longer required
to speak for herself, retreated to a little distance, and stood
furtively glancing at Lilla.
Margie would have been rather surprised if she could have read the
young lady's thoughts. For the fact was, the latter was quite as shy
of Margie as Margie was of her. Margie was thinking how glossy Lilla's
long, fair plait looked, and how prettily her large beaver hat shaded
her face, and wondering whether she would be very proud as her young
mistress, and despise her for her red cheeks and rough hair and her
coarse hands. Lilla, on her part, was thinking how strange it would
be for Margie to leave her mother and work for her living amongst
strangers; she very much wanted to say something kind to her, but,
somehow, she could not summon up courage.
At last she edged her chair a little nearer to where Margie stood. "Do
you think you would like to come and live with us?" she asked, timidly.
Something in her face won Margie's heart at once.
"I'm sure I should, Miss," she answered; "because—" And then she
stopped short and took up a corner of her apron, not exactly knowing
how to express what she meant.
Lilla wanted to be kind, but she could not think what to say next, so
she sat still for a few minutes. Then she glanced at Margie again, but
Margie was watching her with such a comical expression, that Lilla's
face puckered up into a smile. Whereupon Margie caught the infection,
and both of them laughed outright.
At last Margie said, "We've got some rabbits, miss, if you'd like to
see them."
So, at a nod from her grandmother, who had lost nothing of what passed
between them, Lilla followed her new acquaintance through the kitchen
into the garden, where half a dozen little brothers and sisters, on
perceiving a stranger, first of all huddled up towards the remotest
corner, and then gradually returned, one by one, and stood at a little
distance watching Margie exhibit the inmates of the rabbit-hutch.
"I shall like you to come and live with us," said Lilla, presently.
"Shall you?" returned Margie. "Why?"
"Because I believe we shall be good friends," replied Lilla. "Though I
daresay, we shall be a little afraid of each other at first."
"I shouldn't think 'you'd' be afraid of 'me,'" said Margie, bluntly;
"because you're a young lady."
"But we're both girls," replied Lilla, simply.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
LILLA AWAKENS MARGIE'S AMBITION.
"Poor and uncared for,
Toiling not learning,
What can I do
That will earn me renown?
Living and loving,
No useful work spurning,
Faithful to death
Thou shalt win thee a crown."—ANON.
MRS. EDEN had arranged with Margie's mother that the former should come
on the first day of the next week.
"That will give you time to get her things ready," she said.
But there were grave difficulties in the shape of Margie's outfit. Mrs.
Rust was poor, and with such a large family to provide for she could
not afford the necessary outlay all at once. She promised to do her
best, however, and there the matter rested.
But on the way home, Mrs. Eden proposed a plan which Lilla caught at
eagerly. This was, that the very next morning they should go into the
village and buy enough print to make Margie a dress.
"If I stitch the seams up in my machine, we can soon finish it between
us," Mrs. Eden said. "And it will make her look tidy at once, besides
being an inducement to her to be a good girl."
Lilla lay awake a good while that night thinking about the change which
was to take place in their household arrangements, and in consequence
did not rouse next morning until her grandmother called her. By
making extraordinary haste, she was down in time to help dust and set
breakfast. But there was no chance for her French vocabulary, and
almost immediately after breakfast they started for the linendraper's.
Some lessons could be learnt whilst the print was being cut out, but
Lilla's thoughts were so much distracted that she had hard work to
concentrate them on her book. And when she went to bed that night, she
could not help questioning whether the manner in which the day had been
spent had tended much towards the attainment of her ambition.
"But Margie wants the dress," she said to herself. "After all, Dorcas
made clothes for poor people, and I couldn't help sleeping late."
And then "the thing that lies the nearest" came into her head again,
and she said, half aloud:
"It certainly was 'the nearest,' though how I am ever to grow great at
this rate, I can't see. Oh! Dear—" And Lilla extinguished her light and
soon forgot all about it in sleep.
But when Sunday night came round, matters were no better. A whole week
had passed since the forming of her resolution, and no progress seemed
to have been made. To be sure, Margie's dress was completed, and Lilla
had tried it on and laughed to see how loosely it fitted her. For Mrs.
Eden had made ample allowance for the maid's sturdier build. But that
was nothing towards being great, and fewer lessons than ever had been
done.
"I confess I can't understand it," she said to herself, as she laid her
head upon the pillow. "I don't believe I can have found the right road,
or I should get along faster. But when our servant comes, I shall have
nothing to do but study, and I am to have masters soon."
Monday evening brought Margie, with a bundle of clothes and a small box
containing her Sunday hat, and some caps and white aprons to wait in.
It was curious to watch the awkward advances the two girls made to
each other; Margie afraid of presuming upon her young mistress's good
nature, and Lilla shy from the bare fact that Margie was a stranger.
By degrees, however, this strangeness wore off. And at the end of
the first week, they were on very good terms. Mrs. Eden, on her
side, expressed great satisfaction with her new maid's activity and
teachableness, and things seemed going on very smoothly.
Lilla found now that she had time for her books before breakfast, and
as April brought mild weather, she was often up and at work for an
hour, as well as having time to attend to her flower-garden. To her
great delight, her grandmother appeared very pleased with the rapid
progress she was making, and began to talk seriously of procuring
further instruction for her next term.
"For you will really be beyond me soon, Lilla, if you go on at this
rate," she said.
One great source of wonder to Lilla was the strength of Margie's arms.
She would often watch her as she rubbed and swept and scrubbed and
carried with untiring energy, and then, looking down at her own slender
white arms, feel almost ashamed to remember how quickly they used to
tire when she "played" at being servant.
At last one Saturday morning she could be silent no longer. Margie had
been giving the grate an extra clean, and still was on her knees before
it, brushing away with all her might to put on the final polish.
She looked up as Lilla entered, and paused for a moment to shake back
her hair, which was curly and apt to get rather untidy when she was at
work.
[Illustration: SHE LOOKED UP AS LILLA ENTERED.]
"Isn't that very hard work, Margie?" Lilla asked.
"Not very," answered Margie, giving her hair another toss, and
then—finding it refused to obey—a push with her hand, which left a
droll smear across her forehead.
"I should soon get tired of it," said Lilla.
"I'm used to work," returned Margie. "I expect I'm a good deal stronger
than you are. I know what 'I' should get tired of, though—those books.
Sit, sit, sitting, all day long, and every day in the week. I shouldn't
mind the piano so much."
"But I want to get on," said Lilla. "You know, Margie, I mean to be
great when I am grown up." And she hurried off with her books.
But that night when Lilla went to bed, she happened to remember
Margie's words. And as it was Saturday night, she had plenty of time
for conning them over, for Mrs. Eden never encouraged her in working
late at her lessons on Saturdays.
"God gave us the Sabbath," she would say, "in order that we might
refresh our bodies, as well as our souls, and make them strong for
another week's work. And if we overtire ourselves before it comes, we
lose half the benefit of it—which is next to breaking it."
Lilla put down her candle and went to the window. The sky was cloudy,
and there were no stars, but the moon was up, and kept appearing
between the rifts, casting a pale light over the plantation, and then
vanishing again.
"I don't expect I 'am' so strong as Margie," she said to herself, as
she watched it, "and certainly I am not so clever at housework. Then, I
suppose, 'I cannot be so great in that respect.'"
This was a new thought, for it had never occurred to Lilla before that
"greatness" could have anything to do with such things as physical
health or bodily strength, or, in fact, anything but head-work.
"To be sure," she continued, after a few moments' reflection, "I make
up for it in learning, for she doesn't know a word of French. But,
then, I don't see how I can be 'really' great if one part of me is
inferior. Still, I'm doing the best I can, and grandmother is certainly
very pleased with my progress, so I must persevere. Only I must try to
grow strong too."
So Lilla took to watering her flowers more vigorously, and running
upstairs two steps at a time. She rummaged out a pair of dumb-bells,
and used them, too, for ten minutes every day, to expand her chest.
Meanwhile, Margie, on her side, had not forgotten Lilla's words: "I
mean to be great when I am grown up."
"It wouldn't be much use 'my' trying!" she said to herself. "Scrubbing
and cleaning never made anyone great yet. But I should rather like to
be something worth growing up for."
Thus, unknown to each other, mistress and maid were trying to reach the
same end. But, as neither had yet learnt what true greatness really
was, neither had found the road.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
THE REWARD OF DILIGENCE.
"One by one thy duties wait thee,
Let thy whole strength go to each;
Let no future dreams elate thee,
Learn thou first what these can teach."
A. A. PROCTER.
SPRING passed and summer came, giving Lilla more time than ever for her
books.
Every morning she was up with the lark. Whilst Margie bustled about
the housework, she was busy in her flower-garden. Then, as the sun
grew hot, she took her books into the little arbour and studied with
unflagging assiduity, until Margie came to call her to breakfast.
All through the day she continued learning, translating, drawing and
practising, only allowing herself an occasional few minutes' respite.
Then, in the cool of the evening, she would go for a stroll in the lane
with her grandmother, or water the flowers with Margie until the stars
came out, when she would stand gazing up at the sky, telling her their
names, or trying to explain the solar system, until, when Mrs. Eden
called them in, they were so dazed that they could hardly see their way.
Thus a firm friendship sprung up between them, and they came to tell
each other their thoughts and to exchange confidences about their hopes
and aspirations. And in this way, Lilla at last discovered that the
young servant girl, like herself, had felt dissatisfied with living for
nothing but eating and drinking, and earning money. And that she, too,
longed to be something greater and worthier.
"But it's of no use," Margie said, sadly, as they turned to go in,
after one of these talks. "And it won't do to stand still thinking
about it, because I've got my living to earn. I suppose I must just go
on sweeping and scrubbing, and perhaps it'll all come right some day."
"It would, if there were really such things as fairies," replied Lilla,
"but they only exist in children's stories."
Yet there had been One all through the days of that spring and summer
watching their every action and listening to their every thought,
guiding and keeping them, and waiting until their ears were ready to
listen to that gentle voice which said to John and Peter of old—"Follow
Me."
With the end of August the days began to grow perceptibly shorter,
and as September brought to a close the golden harvest time, Lilla's
routine had gradually to change; afternoon walks were resumed, and
lessons after tea took the place of gardening and star-gazing. But a
reward for the past six months' diligence was awaiting her.
One day Mrs. Eden informed her that she had engaged a young lady to
come every morning and superintend her studies.
"I had intended you to have masters for French and music," she said,
"but that would leave out drawing for the present, besides which, I
heard you express a wish to learn German, so I thought I could not do
better than come to terms with this young lady, who teaches all these
branches, and appears highly accomplished."
Lilla was very pleased, though somewhat excited, at the prospect of
having to take lessons of a perfect stranger. The name of "governess"
frequently suggests to young girls, the idea of a prim, stiff-backed
sort of person, very clever, and extremely severe. Probably, Lilla
shared the common notion. Therefore, although in her anxiety to get on
she determined to brave all these terrors, she was very much relieved
to find Miss St. Ives the exact opposite of all that she had pictured.
She had the gentlest face and manners and such a beautiful way of
explaining things that it was impossible not to understand. In short,
from the very first, Lilla felt compelled to love her. There was a
reason for this.
Miss St. Ives had been brought up in the school of trouble, which
usually does one of two things for its pupils: either it puts hard
lines on their faces and renders them fretful and discontented, because
the world is not the fairyland of pleasure they once imagined it, or
it makes them gentle and patient, always ready to help those who need
encouragement. This was the case with Miss St. Ives, for she was a true
follower of Christ. So when her father died, leaving them with a very
slender income to depend upon, she had determined to forget how sad her
own heart was in striving to be the stay and sunshine of her home. She
had bravely undertaken the education of her two little sisters, and set
herself to learn how to make her own dresses.
And when at last this opportunity of earning a little money had
presented itself, she had thankfully accepted it in addition to her
other work, in order that her mother—whose health had been much
shattered by nursing and night watches—might have extra ease and
comfort. And she was reaping a rich reward in the building up of a
character which everybody loved and trusted.
Lilla soon found herself talking to her as freely as if she had known
her for years, and even Margie would watch for the chance of getting
to the door first for the sake of a smile and "thank you" when she
admitted her. Mrs. Eden, herself, never allowed a morning to pass
without coming to exchange a few words with her, and in doing so the
old lady was not merely fulfilling the demands of common courtesy—she
was attracted to the young governess by the irresistible charm of her
Christ-like spirit.
Mrs. Eden was glad to have secured for Lilla a teacher whose influence
over her was likely to be so good, especially as she, herself, was
growing less and less fit to be her companion. The old lady was obliged
to give up her long rambles now, so Lilla frequently walked home with
Miss St. Ives after lessons, or accompanied her and her sisters in
their strolls.
It was well for Lilla that she did not understand the many signs of
failing health which were throwing their shadows over her grandmother.
It would have saddened her young heart too much had she realised how
the beloved companion and protector of her early days was fading away.
The early morning no longer found the old lady briskly stirring, and
she had even delegated to Lilla the duty of making the coffee. Her step
had grown heavier of late, too, and she often heaved a weary sigh over
her work. And, as the autumn evenings closed in, she loved to sit in
the twilight, gazing into the fire, and talking of old times.
This was a sore trial for Lilla. There were tasks waiting to be
learned, and she longed to be at them. Her ambition was to lose no
moment of her time, and to waste half-an-hour listening to tales which
she had known from time immemorial was a severe test of patience. But
she never once allowed her grandmother to feel that she was weary of
her forced idleness.
[Illustration: MISS ST. IVES.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
WASTED MINUTES.
"Every hour that fleets so slowly
Has its task to do or bear;
Luminous the crown and holy,
If thou set each gem with care."
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
ONE afternoon Mrs. Eden had been unusually silent, as they sat watching
the flickering of the flames.
It had been a dull day. The darkness had closed in so early that it
seemed to Lilla as if they had sat there for an hour or more, and she
was getting terribly impatient. She had special reasons for wishing
to be at work. Having received an invitation to spend the following
evening with Clara and Nellie St. Ives, she was anxious to get double
work done beforehand.
It was hard to be forced to doze away the hours to no purpose, and it
is hardly to be wondered at if a spirit of rebellion was rising in her
heart.
"Grandmother knows I want to study," she said to herself, "and she
might be more considerate than to make me waste my time in this way."
Several times she was on the point of suggesting that she should light
the lamp. But each time she looked up, the old lady's eyes were closed,
and affection checked the words on her lips.
"She is old, and needs rest," it said.
So Lilla waited on, inwardly wondering how long.
At last Mrs. Eden's eyes opened, and she glanced at Lilla with a
half-suppressed sigh.
Lilla looked up brightly, hoping that this was the signal to move.
"You have had a nice sleep, grandmother," she said, cheerfully.
"I have not been asleep," Mrs. Eden replied, "only resting. I am
getting old now, and I did not sleep well last night."
"How was that?" inquired Lilla, anxiously. "Perhaps you overtired
yourself yesterday, turning over those drawers."
"I did not hurry particularly," replied the old lady; "for I kept
coming across so many relics of the past, and I could not help
lingering over them. They will be yours soon, Lilla."
"I shall always treasure them, grandmother," replied the young girl,
affectionately.
"Perhaps it was thinking about them that made me dream so much,"
continued the old lady, after a pause. "I thought I was back again
among the hills where I lived when your grandfather and I were first
married. There was the farmhouse, just as it stood on the side of the
clough, and the spring at the bottom of the valley, and the stones
where we so often sat together when your mother was a baby, watching
the shadows creeping up. All just as it used to be when I was young."
"And you saw it all so plainly—"
"Ay! So plainly that it made me long to go back once more. But I
shall never do that—nor see such hills again, until I stand upon the
everlasting hills 'from whence cometh my help.'"
Lilla was silent. Her grandmother's words had awakened a new train of
thought in her mind, and she forgot all about her lessons, until Margie
came to know if she should bring tea.
She told Miss St. Ives about it next day, when they were alone
together. They had had tea early, so as to make the evening as long as
possible, and the twilight had scarcely yet taken the place of clear
day.
"This is the time I usually waste," she said.
"How is that?" Miss St. Ives asked.
"Grandmother likes to sit still in the twilight," Lilla explained, "and
I am compelled to wait, with my hands in my lap, whilst the sand runs
out of my hour-glass."
"That gives you a little rest," said Miss St. Ives. "You must not go
all on, all on."
"Oh! But indeed, I would rather be going on," pleaded Lilla. "I nearly
get cross over it sometimes; you cannot think what a trouble it is to
me."
"Cannot I?" said Miss St. Ives, stroking her hair fondly. "Do you know,
I heard of somebody once, who used to 'waste' an hour every afternoon
in a similar way, and sit up in the cold after every one was in bed to
make amends."
(She did not say that it was herself of whom she was speaking; for
"love vaunteth not itself.")
"But you must not think of doing that," she added. "'She' was fitting
herself to earn her living. 'You' are only trying to make the most of
your time."
"But half-an-hour a day is three hours a week," said Lilla. "Twelve
hours a month. Twelve whole working days in the year. Too much to
waste!"
"Are you quite sure it is 'waste'? What are you trying to learn?"
Lilla looked surprised. "French and German, and drawing and music," she
answered.
"Is that all?"
"English, of course," said Lilla, "and everything that a lady ought to
know. That is why I am so anxious not to lose time. I want to begin
Italian by-and-by, if you will teach me. I want to be great."
"What is being great?" asked her friend.
Lilla did not reply directly; then she answered slowly: "I don't
exactly know."
Miss St. Ives was silent for several minutes, too, before she
spoke. Then she said: "Two things about it I can tell you. Mere
'book-learning' can never produce true greatness, and 'there is no
royal road to it.'"
Lilla looked puzzled, and a thoughtful expression came over her face.
"These 'wasted hours,'" continued her friend, "have been teaching
you more than all your books—except 'one'—could teach you. You have
been learning how to be patient and give up your own way in order to
minister to another. Do you see that tree at the bottom of the garden?"
Miss St. Ives pointed to a tall wych-elm in the hedge that bounded
their little garden. The autumnal blast had not left a single leaf upon
its graceful boughs, but a strong plant of ivy had twined its arms
around the trunk, casting a thick mantle of green around its desolate
old age.
"I often think that we young people are like the ivy," she said. "There
is so little enjoyment in the lives of the aged and infirm, unless we
cling to them and spread our young green leaves around them. But we
have to learn to do it. And it is often far more difficult than French
or German because it involves self-forgetfulness and patience. But it
comes far nearer leading us to true greatness."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
WHICH WAS THE GREATEST?
"Real glory
Springs from the silent conquest of ourselves."
THOMSON.
MARGIE was in high feather. She had been in Mrs. Eden's service six
months now, and had earned money enough to buy herself a tidy Sunday
dress, besides which Mrs. Eden had promised to raise her wages at the
end of that time, if she proved herself worthy. So having obtained
permission to go one afternoon to choose the dress, she started out
early after dinner, to join her mother, who had arranged to meet her at
Mrs. Eden's gate.
She was not in sight, however, when Margie stepped out, so she walked
on, expecting every minute to see the well-known bonnet and shawl in
the distance. But step after step had taken her past the farm where
Jack worked, which marked half-way, and still her mother did not come.
Margie began to grow uneasy lest she should have gone on without her.
She turned once or twice and looked back towards the farm, wondering
whether her mother had gone up to the house for anything, but she could
not see anything of her, and nothing remained but to go straight on. So
on Margie went, until she came in sight of the cottage.
"Mother must have forgotten all about it," she said to herself, as she
ran round the back door and through the wash-house.
But her mother had not forgotten, and Margie saw at once how it was,
as she entered the room. Mrs. Rust was sitting by the fire with little
Tommy on her lap, and Tommy did not even open his eyes at his sister's
approach.
Margie looked frightened.
"What is the matter, mother?" she cried, bending over him.
"I don't know," replied Mrs. Rust. "I've been up with him two nights,
but the doctor can't tell what's amiss with the child. He thinks it's a
chill."
"And you 'do' look tired, mother," said Margie. "Let me take him a bit."
Mrs. Rust shook her head. "Best not," she said, "in case of its being
anything catching."
"But you can't manage everything and nurse him too, mother," said
Margie, sitting down at a little distance. "I'd better come home and
help you, if Mrs. Eden would spare me."
Mrs. Rust shook her head again.
"That would never do," she replied. "You would lose your place, for
ladies won't be put out. I can't afford to have you at home. I must
manage as best I can."
"But you can't, mother," persisted Margie. "And Mrs. Eden is so kind, I
am sure she would spare me."
Mrs. Rust, however, declined to entertain the idea, repeating that with
sickness in the house, and the winter coming on, her father would not
want her on his hands.
"I shall be glad of your money, though, Margie," she added, "for if
Tommy gets better, please God, he'll want feeding up. Any way, there'll
be the doctor's bill to pay. So I'm afraid you must give up all
thoughts of your dress for the present."
Margie took out the money which she had carefully tied up in a corner
of her handkerchief, and laid it on the mantel-shelf without a murmur.
It was rather hard to have to part with it, after looking forward so
long to the pleasure of spending it. But Margie thought more about
Tommy than about that.
"Poor little fellow!" she exclaimed, looking tenderly at his sad little
face for a moment. Then, jumping up and pulling off her hat and jacket,
she asked: "Now, mother, what is there wants doing?"
And for the rest of the time that she could call her own, Margie did
not once sit down, so anxious was she to make things easy for her
mother.
Lilla looked almost more disappointed than Margie herself when the
latter returned and told her.
"What a shame!" she cried. "You ought to have your dress, Margie."
"But you see, Miss Lilla, mother wants the money. It's nobody's fault
that Tommy is ill."
"Well, of course, I didn't exactly mean 'that,'" returned Lilla. "But
you have worked for the money; it's your own, and you ought to have the
dress. Aren't you very vexed?"
Margie was forced to admit that she was sorry. "I thought I was going
to get on, like my cousin Charlotte," she said. "You should see her
clothes, Miss Lilla. All worked like any ladies. Such nice dresses,
too, and a Sunday hat as smart as yours. But it can't be helped. I
don't suppose I shall ever get on."
"It doesn't seem as if I ever shall, either," said Lilla. "So many
things come in the way that I've almost given up trying to be great.
And yet I can't help wanting to."
"Ah! It's different for rich people," sighed Margie. "The only way for
poor people to get on, is to work hard. Even then there's no chance of
their being 'great.'"
"But we're not 'rich,'" said Lilla. "That was why grandmother did
without a servant so many years."
"You're not 'poor,'" returned Margie, decisively. "You just try living
in our house for only a week, Miss Lilla."
Tommy's recovery was very slow. Even after he fairly took a turn for
the better, it was long before he had any appetite for any but the
daintiest food. Mrs. Eden was very kind, and often made tempting little
puddings for him. Sometimes Lilla would carry them to the cottage;
sometimes Mrs. Eden would spare Margie for a couple of hours in the
afternoon to run over and see how Tommy was. And on these occasions,
the good girl always spent the whole of the time in doing her utmost to
help her mother.
One afternoon on reaching home she found her cousin Charlotte sitting
by the fire. Margie had brought a little custard in a basket, and also
her week's wages, which she put down upon the table with some pride,
after greeting her cousin.
"Is that all you get?" exclaimed the latter, in a scornful tone.
"I think half-a-crown is very good for a first place," replied Margie,
a little astonished at Charlotte's contemptuous manner.
"Oh I if you're satisfied, I am," was the rejoinder. "But you'll never
get on at that rate."
"I only had two shillings a week, for the first six months," said
truthful Margie.
"Come, you've 'got on' sixpenny worth, then," sneered the other.
"And Mrs. Eden is so kind that I'm sure she would give me what is
right," continued Margie.
"You simple!" exclaimed Charlotte. "She's taken you in, has she? If
you'd asked more, she'd have given it. I wonder aunt isn't sharper."
"Mother is quite satisfied," said Margie.
And, as Mrs. Rust returned just then with Tommy in her arms, the
conversation dropped.
Charlotte had taken possession of the easiest chair, but she did not
attempt to give it up to her aunt, although the latter had the sick
child to nurse. Margie did not notice this, however, for the instant
her mother came in she jumped up and took Tommy.
And Mrs. Rust, apparently very glad of the relief, sat down to rest.
Presently she perceived the half-crown on the table.
"That is just what I was counting on, Margie," she said, putting it on
the mantel-shelf. "I had to take some of the rent money for Tommy's
medicine, and this will replace it."
Margie was too busy trying to amuse Tommy to remark the expression on
her cousin's face at these words. But a few minutes later, Mrs. Rust
went out into the wash-house to make the most of her time while Margie
could stay, and then Charlotte began.
"I say, Margie," she said, "I didn't think you were quite such a simple
as that! Do you mean to say that you give up all your money?"
"I've been obliged to since Tommy's been ill," replied Margie.
"How do you expect to get on, at that rate, you simpleton?" exclaimed
her cousin. "I tell you, I never gave up a penny of 'my' money from the
very first. And that's why you see me as I am."
Charlotte looked down at herself with a very self-satisfied air, and
Margie's eyes followed hers.
One glance was sufficient. Her outfit seemed perfect. Her hat was
turned up on one side with a jaunty air, and had a flashy scarlet
flower on the front. Her jacket fitted tightly to her figure, and
fastened over with a double row of bright buttons, whilst from under
the edge of her dark-blue skirt peeped one foot in a dainty walking
shoe and red stocking.
Margie was struck dumb for the minute, by so much finery, and did not
answer, but bent her head over Tommy, feeling almost ashamed of her
plain linsey gown.
"You'd like to get on, wouldn't you?" continued Charlotte, gratified at
the effect she had produced.
"Of course," answered Margie.
"Well; there's only one way," said Charlotte. "And that is to look
after number one."
"But how can I help myself?" asked Margie. "The rent must be paid."
"You've nothing to do with the rent once you're in service," said
Charlotte. "Why, you're not even eating your father's food now, and he
ought to have that much more money towards the rent. Take my advice,
Margie. If you give, you 'may' give; and that's all the thanks you'll
get."
And, snapping her fingers, she rose, and said it was time for her to be
going.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
"God uses us to help each other so."
BROWNING.
MARGIE thought a good deal about her cousin's words as she ran back to
the lodge, and she could not help acknowledging the justice of them.
Her father certainly had more money to spend than when she was at home,
and it would undoubtedly be very pleasant to wear nice clothes and look
like a lady. But, as Charlotte had observed, she would never do it at
that rate. Even if she spent all her money upon herself, it would be
some years before she could be as well dressed as her cousin. But if
not—"Why, it's as bad as trying to walk through a brick wall," said
Margie to herself; "there's no road."
So she went home to her place in rather a disturbed state of mind,
between her desire to "get on" and her affection for her parents.
It happened that Lilla's day had not passed over quite satisfactorily
either. Mrs. Eden had been turning over some more of her drawers, and
Lilla, attracted by the curious patterns of the dresses—some of which
the old lady had worn in her girlhood—had been tempted away from her
studies. The consequence was that, when bed-time came, they were not
completed, and Lilla had to go upstairs feeling that her day's work was
unfinished.
Margie was just taking her candle into her room at the same time, and
Lilla, remembering something which she had rummaged out from amongst
her grandmother's curiosities, called to her.
"Look here, Margie," she said, "isn't this a funny little book?
Grandmother gave it me this afternoon. It is thirty years old."
"'Dewdrops,'" said Margie, taking it in her hand.
"Yes. It contains a text for every day in the year; something like Miss
St. Ives' birthday book. I wonder what to-day's is."
Margie gave it back to her, and having found the day of the month,
Lilla read out:—"'Whose adorning let it not be that outward adorning of
plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel;
but let it be the hidden man of the heart—even the ornament of a meek
and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.'"
"'Apparel,' Miss Lilla?" asked Margie.
"Fine clothes," explained Lilla. "It means, I suppose, that to be good
and kind is worth far more than to be finely dressed."
Margie went to bed thinking a good deal over these words, and when she
knelt to say her prayer, she added a little petition of her own, that
she might not envy her cousin's fine clothes, but be content with doing
what she knew to be right, whether it made her "great" or not.
Thus Lilla's text was the salt which prevented her pure young heart
from becoming corrupted by her cousin's advice.
Meanwhile, Lilla had glanced in at the verse for next day. It
was:—"'The wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.'"
She did not understand the meaning of it then. But passing over it
to the next, she read:—"'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His
righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.'"
"I am trying to do right," she said to herself, as she put it down, "so
I suppose I shall be great some day. I wish I could get along faster,
though!"
As time went on, Margie's troubles increased.
Tommy was no sooner able to run about again than her mother's health
broke down. And when Margie went home one Sunday afternoon, she found
her in bed.
"What to do I don't know," she said. "Doctor says I may have to lie
here some weeks, and, in the meantime, what is to become of the
children? I shouldn't like to take you away from your place, but I
can't see how it's to be helped."
Margie cried herself to sleep that night. But after breakfast next
morning, having risen earlier than usual, in order to give the room
an extra clean, she astonished Mrs. Eden by the intelligence that she
wanted to leave at once.
"How is that, Margie?" inquired the old lady, in rather a displeased
tone of voice. "And why have you not given me proper notice?"
"I'm very sorry, ma'am," replied Margie, looking down to hide her
tears. "Please don't be angry with me, but—"
"Aren't you comfortable?" asked Mrs. Eden. "Or isn't your mother
satisfied?"
"It isn't that, ma'am," replied Margie. "I don't want to go, for I'm so
fond of Miss Lilla, and you've been so good to Tommy; but—" And here
Margie, unable to hold out any longer, fairly broke down and hid her
face in her apron as she sobbed out: "Mother's ill in bed, and there's
no one to look after her."
Mrs. Eden saw at once how matters stood, and, finding upon further
inquiry that Mrs. Rust's illness was serious, promised that, as soon as
Margie had done what was absolutely necessary, she should go home.
Lilla came in just as Margie was carrying out her waiter, and,
perceiving her red eyes, inquired of her grandmother what was the
matter.
"Poor girl!" she exclaimed. "Shall we have to find another servant,
grandmother?"
"I suppose we shall," replied Mrs. Eden. "The cold weather is coming
on, and Mrs. Rust may be some weeks before she is able to spare Margie
again."
"I 'am' sorry," Lilla said, as she took down her books, ready for Miss
St. Ives.
Mrs. Eden sat still some time thinking. Then she rose, saying: "Yes,
I am sorry too. She has been a good girl, and it will give me some
trouble to train a fresh hand."
A sudden idea came into Lilla's head.
"Grandmother," she said, "need we send her away altogether?"
Mrs. Eden reflected. "I had been turning it over in my mind," she said.
"To be sure, I could have a woman to clear up in the afternoon, but who
is to get up and light the fire?"
"May I do it, grandmother?" asked Lilla.
"I am afraid you would soon tire of it," replied her grandmother, "and
have Miss St. Ives complaining about neglected lessons. Still, if you
are really desirous of trying, you may do so."
"And I can work a little harder to make up, grandmother. I'm afraid I
haven't been so industrious lately."
The fact was, Lilla had grown almost tired of making mere learning her
only aim. For she had a heart as well as a head, and there was another
kind of education—not to be acquired from books—without which she could
never be truly happy or great. But the idea of doing something to help
Margie inspired her with fresh energy.
Mrs. Eden had not been long absent when she returned for something she
had forgotten. During this time, Lilla had remained standing by the
book shelves, to all appearance intently studying the bindings of the
volumes, but in reality busily revolving a scheme which had suggested
itself to her. When her grandmother came in, however, she turned round.
"Grandmother," she said, "I have been thinking that if you employ a
charwoman every afternoon, it will cost you much more than you pay
Margie. Couldn't I take her place entirely till she comes back, and let
her carry home her money the same as usual. I am sure they will want it
more than ever."
Mrs. Eden hesitated at first, but, finding that Lilla was in earnest,
at length gave her consent to the arrangement.
Margie's gratitude knew no bounds. She cried and thanked Lilla over and
over again.
But Lilla said, simply: "I know how I should feel if grandmother were
ill, and I'm sure I shall be much happier for doing it."
Lilla was right. Though, it must be confessed, it was cold work on the
raw December morning, and her fingers looked red and swollen on the
keys of the piano when Miss St. Ives gave her her lesson. But Miss St.
Ives thought none the worse of her for that, having been told by Mrs.
Eden the secret of her unselfishness.
And had Lilla but known it, by this action of self-sacrificing love
towards one who, in the eyes of this world, was her inferior, she was
daily growing more and more like Him of whom it was written, that He
"increased in wisdom and stature, and 'in favour with God and man.'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
MARGIE THROWS NEW LIGHT ON THE QUESTION.
"It is not well to say,
Our lowly race is run
In far too narrow way,
For great deeds to be done.
"Let fair intention move
The heart to do its best,
And little wrought in love
Is 'good work' great and blest."
ELIZA COOK.
MRS. RUST'S recovery was much hastened by Margie's presence at home,
especially as she knew that, through the kindness of her young
mistress, the forced holiday would in no way affect her prospects.
Still, December was nearly over, and the Old Year, with hoary head and
darkened sight, was tottering to his grave, before Margie reappeared as
maid-of-all-work at the Lodge.
Lilla needed no thanks. Margie's happy face, as she once more took up
her place in the little kitchen, was reward enough.
"And how tidy you've kept everything, Miss Lilla," she said. "I had no
idea that ladies could work."
"I only had to get up a little earlier," returned Lilla. "I never quite
liked your being capable of something I couldn't do. All I minded was
being obliged to neglect my lessons, but Miss St. Ives knew it was not
my fault, so she did not scold me."
Poor Margie said nothing, but Lilla had unintentionally made her feel
that she was to blame if her young mistress had been kept back on the
road to greatness. Yet she herself had never once murmured at having
given up all the money which was to have enabled her to make the first
start towards "getting on."
Meanwhile, as the old frock grew older and older, it became
increasingly difficult to make it look respectable, and when Lilla went
into the kitchen on the last day of the old year, which happened to be
Saturday, she found Margie patching it, with a very rueful look upon
her face.
"You will soon be able to have the new one now, Margie," Lilla said,
kindly.
Margie shook her head. "I want new boots, first, Miss Lilla," she
said. "I must make this do a bit longer. I had no idea it would be so
difficult to get on," she added, with a little sigh as she prepared
to fix another patch. "But, then, I mustn't complain, after all your
kindness."
"It does seem hard to get on," said Lilla, reflectively. "Mr. Munro
said the way was always to do the thing that lay the nearest, but I
have been trying to do that ever since last March, and now the year is
gone, I don't believe I'm a step nearer being 'great' than I was when I
started."
Margie was silent, not knowing what to say, but she understood
perfectly well how Lilla felt.
"Mother often tells us we don't know what we can do till we try," she
went on to herself when Lilla was gone. "It seems as if we don't know
how hard some things are till we try . . . And yet I've learnt a good
deal since last spring. A few months ago I couldn't have sewn on these
patches without mother fixing them, and I suppose I only found out
how to do it by trying. But, after all, being able to patch my frock
doesn't make me 'great.'"
Had Margie opened her Bible at the right place, she would have read—"He
that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much." But,
probably, she would not have thought the words had much to do with her.
Next day she went to church as usual, only feeling more than ever glad
that it was dark, so that the smartly-dressed people who pushed by her
in the aisle could not see how shabby she was. She thought about it a
good deal more than she ought to have done during the prayers, but at
the first sound of the text she started as if Mr. Munro had addressed
her by name, and all through the sermon she listened with undivided
attention.
The verse which he had given out was Matt. xx. 26: "Whosoever will be
'great' among you, let him be your minister; and whosoever will be
chief among you, let him be your servant: even as the Son of Man came
not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give His life a
ransom for many."
There was a great deal in the sermon that she could not understand, but
one thing Mr. Munro said plainly: that those who, of their own free
will, became the servants of others, were most truly great, because
they copied most faithfully the Saviour, who humbled himself for our
sakes even to the death upon the cross.
Margie thought of her young mistress.
"Isn't that just like what Miss Lilla did?" she said to herself.
"Making herself a servant on purpose to help mother and me?"
Margie was right so far, but not in her next conclusion.
"'I' can never be a servant 'of my own free will,'" she said to
herself. "I am obliged to be one to earn my living."
She forgot how she had voluntarily given up her money, to nurse her
mother and minister to her brothers and sisters, when she might have
gratified her own desires and sought her own pleasure.
Next morning Margie went about her accustomed work as briskly as usual.
But as she swept and brushed, this sermon came back to her, and she
wished she could be a lady, if only for a single day, so that she might
stoop to enter in at the low door of humility which leads to true
greatness.
She did not yet know the meaning of the word "servant."
When Lilla came down, she was on her knees, plying her brush vigorously
on the carpet. Lilla went straight across to the book-shelves and took
down an armful of books. But as she crossed the room to carry them out
into the kitchen, she paused.
"You sweep better than I do, Margie," she said. "It makes my wrists
ache so."
"I'm used to it, Miss Lilla," replied Margie, looking down at her own
stout arms and resting for a moment. "It's not fit for ladies."
"I can't see why ladies should not be able to do what their servants
can," said Lilla, thoughtfully. "How can they pretend to be greater,
else?"
Margie bent forward again with one palm on the carpet and gave one or
two strokes with her brush, as though half a mind to say something.
"Miss Lilla," she asked suddenly, without looking up, "did you listen
to the sermon last night?"
"Of course I did," replied Lilla. "Why? I always do; don't you?"
"I don't know," replied Margie, still sweeping gently. "I don't think I
do, for I never heard one before that kept in my head so much. Did you
notice that it was all about being great?"
"Yes," returned Lilla, with a sigh. "But it didn't make it any plainer
to me how I was to be great."
"Didn't it, Miss Lilla?" said Margie. "It seemed to be all about you."
"All about me?" Lilla rested her books on the table and began chafing
her hands, which were still red and chapped from the effects of the
housework she had done.
Margie noticed them.
"Look at your poor hands, Miss Lilla," she said, raising herself up
again and resting on her brush, "and all because you became my servant.
That's like what Jesus Christ would have done, if He had seen me crying
about my mother."
These words of Margie's threw a new light on the question. It had never
occurred to Lilla before that greatness could be reached by any other
means than diligent study. But it flashed upon her now that Margie's
text was the key to the golden gate; that she must not only strive to
store her mind with a wealth of knowledge and learning, but that she
must endeavour so to copy the beautiful example of her Saviour's life
that all her powers of heart, mind, and soul—as well as every moment of
her time—might be consecrated to His service.
"At any rate," she said to herself, glancing with a sense of
satisfaction at her rough hands, "I have made a beginning. And, now
that I have once found out the way, I shall keep a sharp look out for
opportunities of doing good. I will not neglect my studies, and I will
do all I can to grow strong and robust. But I will be very good to
grandmother and Margie. And as soon as ever I am old enough, I will
begin teaching poor children and reading the Bible to old women, and
making Dorcas' clothes; and perhaps some of these days I shall be a
little bit like Mrs. Fry and Florence Nightingale."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE.
"Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever:
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever
One grand, sweet song."
KINGSLEY.
LILLA found her new resolve harder to carry out than she had expected.
She was constantly planning what she could do to serve others, and in
her quiet home-life there seemed so little opportunity for heroic deeds
of self-sacrifice that she speedily grew disheartened. And whilst she
was dreaming of all that she would do when she was grown up—how she
would brave the fire of the enemy like the good nurses who tended the
soldiers on the battle-field, how she would move to and fro among the
beds in the hospital wards followed by the fervent blessings of every
patient, or how she would even sail away from her dear, native land, to
sit, Bible in hand, under a palm-tree, telling the dark-skinned heathen
of the love of Christ—all her real opportunities, "the things that lay
the nearest," slipped by. And she was left vexed, and often peevish,
because she had done no more. Thus the weeks slipped away, and Easter
drew nigh, and still she seemed no nearer her goal.
Then her grandmother fell ill, and studies had to be neglected for
poulticing. And the poor child's hands became very full, preparing
beef-tea and jellies.
What she would have done without the help of Miss St. Ives in this new
trouble, it is impossible to say. For she knew very little about making
delicacies. But Miss St. Ives had gained considerable experience in
such work, and would often come in for an hour to help her out of her
difficulties, or stay with the old lady whilst Lilla went out for some
fresh air.
Of course, as long as Mrs. Eden continued seriously ill, there was so
much to engage Lilla's attention that her good resolutions and her
ambition to be great had a holiday. But when the old lady became fairly
convalescent, and things slipped back into their old routine, she began
to review the past month and think how little advance she had made.
"I waste so much time," she said to Miss St. Ives one day, as they
talked by the firelight whilst Mrs. Eden took her customary nap
upstairs, "and then Mr. Munro preaches one of his beautiful sermons and
reminds me how all my resolutions have vanished into mist; and I end by
being very unhappy."
Lilla had been opening her heart to her friend, and the latter, helped
by her own experience, had seen even deeper into its recesses than
Lilla knew.
"What do you do when you hear a sermon?" she asked.
"I don't know what to do," replied the girl.
"Don't know what to do?"
Had Miss St. Ives' question been less gently asked, it might have
sounded like a harsh censure on Lilla's helplessness. As it was, it
had the effect which Miss St. Ives intended—it made Lilla explain to
herself the reason why all her good thoughts ended in such a hopeless
tangle.
"I think I will do a good many things," she said, looking up quickly,
"and then I wonder which I had better begin with, and whether it will
be at all possible to do any of them. And it always ends where it
began—in thinking."
"Suppose you were to think of one thing only."
"If I knew which one to pick out, I would," answered Lilla, sadly.
"Let me see if I can help you in the choice," said Miss St. Ives. "Give
me a list."
Lilla hesitated a moment, and then complied, detailing at length all
her plans for devoting her life to the service of God and the good of
her fellow creatures.
Miss St. Ives shook her head.
"Not one of them, Lilla," she said.
Lilla looked surprised.
"You are beginning in the wrong place," continued her friend, "because
when you have done one, all the rest remain to be done."
Lilla looked yet more hopelessly bewildered, and Miss St. Ives went on:
"You never heard of a fruit-tree which 'began' by bearing fruit. All
the good works in your list are 'fruits,' but they cannot come unless
the tree is 'rooted and grounded in love.' 'As the branch cannot bear
fruit, . . . except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye
abide in Me,' said Christ."
"What am I to do, then?"
"What does the tree do?"
Lilla rested her chin in her palm, and gazed into the fire. "It grows,"
she answered, slowly, "but I don't know how it grows."
"No more than how you, yourself, grow."
"Am I growing?"
"Undoubtedly. You are like a seed, struggling upward towards the light."
"But the tree grows without thinking. So many thoughts come into my
head about 'how' I am to do it; and that is what puzzles me."
"They are only the signs of life in your soul. If you were to place a
seedling where it could barely see the light, what would it do? 'It
would grow towards the light.' It would bend and twist itself anyhow in
order to escape from under the shade that hid it. And that is what you
are doing—struggling to get into the light, because it is the nature of
every man and woman whom God has made in His own image to long after
His light."
"What am I to do, then?" again asked Lilla, with a sigh.
"You are heavy laden, Lilla," said her friend; "and Christ is calling
you to take His yoke upon you. You are like those disciples journeying
to Emmaus on that first Easter-even. Your heart burns within you,
though you have not recognised His voice."
"But I am trying to serve God," said Lilla, looking up with tears in
her eyes.
"I know, Lilla," replied her friend, "but you have been trying with
your hands and your head. Give your heart to Christ, and head and hands
will follow. For if you truly love Him 'who gave Himself' for you, you
will keep His commandments."
"And that will make me truly great," said Lilla, looking up eagerly.
"Not in the eyes of the world," replied Miss St. Ives, gently. "Perhaps
'never' in this world, for the 'narrow way' is no 'Royal Road,' and
those who travel it are often footsore and weary. But they have peace
in their hearts, for the Master has trodden it before them. And when it
is hardest, they can say, 'He knoweth the way that I take.'"
Lilla sat silent for some minutes, gazing thoughtfully into the blaze.
Then she said slowly:
"Is 'following Christ' doing 'the thing that lies the nearest'—however
humble it may be—because He has given it me to do, and because I love
Him?"
"That is all, Lilla; and that is why it is a way of perfect peace. For
we have not to search out great and hard things to do, but just to go
on faithfully fulfilling each duty as it comes—for His dear sake."
"High and low, rich and poor, one with another," repeated Lilla,
thoughtfully, as her friend, having finished buttoning her gloves, rose
to go. "I must tell Margie that."
* * * * * *
Two years have passed since the Easter when Lilla chose "that better
part, which shall not be taken away from her," and she has made good
progress upon the way that "leadeth unto life."
It has not all been sunshine for her. The dear old face she loved so
well is laid to sleep in the churchyard on the hill, and "The Lodge"
is no longer Lilla's home. Instead of looking out upon the familiar
plantation, with its babbling brook and its chorus of song-birds, her
window now faces the backs of the houses in the next street of the
suburb where she lives with one of her aunts.
But she has "drunk of the brook by the way," and it has become a
fountain of water in her heart, springing up unto everlasting life. And
amid all her troubles, she has the knowledge that an all-wise Hand is
guiding her, and that her trust is in One who is able to guard and keep
her unto the end.
So, although she often longs for a sight of the old place, she is
happy in living where God has placed her, and in trying to do her duty
faithfully and well. She is building up a strong and useful womanhood
which will leave the world the better for its influence.
As for Margie, she has found a home in Mr. Munro's family, glad to
remain so near her mother, though deeply sorry to be separated from the
young mistress by whose help she came to see that a servant-maid may be
as truly great as any lady to whose daily wants she ministers.
She, too, is walking worthy of her high calling, and daily growing in
all those Christian graces which beautify the most common lot.
What the future has in store for her we cannot tell. It may be that in
years to come she will strengthen the hands of some honest working man,
and make his home the happy haven which every English hearth should
be. Or it may be she will stay in service all her days, comforting her
parents' old age with her savings, and laying up a little store against
the time when grey hairs and wrinkles come to her. But either way, her
life will be a useful and contented one, if still lived unto Him whose
"Well done" is the promised reward of all faithful work.
Meanwhile, although Lilla and Margie do not often meet now, they often
write to each other. And Margie will never forget how Lilla helped her
to find the way, which—although it is no royal road—is yet the path our
Saviour trod of old when He bade His disciples "Follow Me."
THE END.
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