Daisy
consulted, and Lansing ran down to waylay the chambermaid and beg a
broom. By the help of the broom handle my cap was at length dislodged
from its perch, and restored to me. But I was angry. I felt the fiery
current running through my veins; and the unspeakable saucy glance of
St. Clair's eye, as I passed her to take my place in the procession,
threw fuel on the fire. I think for years I had not been angry in such
a fashion. The indignation I had at different times felt against the
overseer at Magnolia was a justifiable thing. Now I was angry and
piqued. The feeling was new to me. I had been without it very long. I
swallowed the ground with my feet during my walk; but before the walk
came to an end the question began to come up in my mind, what was the
matter? and whether I did well? These sprinklings of water on the
flame I think made it leap into new life at first; but as they came
and came again, I had more to think about than St. Clair when I got
back to the house. Yes, and as we were all taking off our things
together I was conscious that I shunned her; that the sight of her was
disagreeable; and that I would have liked to visit some gentle
punishment upon her careless head. The bustle of business swallowed up
the feeling for the rest of the time till we went to bed.
But then it rose very fresh, and I began to question myself about it
in the silence and darkness. Finding myself inclined to justify
myself, I bethought me to try this new feeling by some of the words I
had been studying in my little book for a few days past. "The entrance
of thy words giveth light"--was the leading text for the day that had
just gone; now I thought I would try it in my difficulty. The very
next words on the page I remembered were these--"God is light, and in
him is no darkness at all."
It came into my mind as soon, that this feeling of anger and
resentment which troubled me had to do with darkness, not with the
light. In vain I reasoned to prove the contrary; I _felt_ dark. I
could not look up to that clear white light where God dwells, and feel
at all that I was "walking in the light as he is in the light."
Clearly Daisy Randolph was out of the way. And I went on with
bitterness of heart to the next words--"Ye _were_ sometime darkness,
but now are ye light in the Lord; walk as children of light."
And what then? was I to pass by quietly the insolence of St. Clair? was I
to take it quite quietly, and give no sign even of annoyance? take no
means of showing my displeasure, or of putting a stop to the naughtiness
that called it forth? My mind put these questions impatiently, and still,
as it did so, an answer came from somewhere,--"Walk as children of
light." I _knew_ that children of light would reprove darkness only with
light; and a struggle began. Other words came into my head then, which
made the matter only clearer. "If any man smite thee on the one cheek,
turn to him the other." "Love your enemies." Ah, but how could I? with
what should I put out this fire kindled in my heart, which seemed only to
burn the fiercer whatever I threw upon it? And then other words came
still sweeping upon me with their sweetness, and I remembered who had
said, "I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee." I softly got out
of bed, wrapped the coverlid round me, and knelt down to pray. For I had
no time to lose. To-morrow I must meet my little companion, and to-morrow
I _must_ be ready to walk as a child of light, and to-night the fires of
darkness were burning in my heart. I was long on my knees. I remember, in
a kind of despair at last I flung myself on the word of Jesus, and cried
to Him as Peter did when he saw the wind boisterous. I remember how the
fire died out in my heart, till the very coals were dead; and how the day
and the sunlight came stealing in, till it was all sunshine. I gave my
thanks, and got into bed, and slept without a break the rest of the night.
CHAPTER XI.
A PLACE IN THE WORLD.
I was an humbler child when I got out of bed the next morning, I
think, than ever I had been in my life before. But I had another
lesson to learn.
I was not angry any more at Miss St. Clair. That was gone. Even when
she did one or two other mischievous things to me, the rising feeling
of offence was quickly got under; and I lived in great charity with
her. My new lesson was of another sort.
Two or three days passed, and then came Sunday. It was never a
comfortable day at Mme. Ricard's. We all went to church of course,
under the care of one or other of the teachers; and we had our choice
where to go. Miss Babbitt went to a Presbyterian church. Miss Maria to
a high Episcopal. Mme. Jupon attended a little French Protestant
chapel; and Mlle. Genevieve and Mme. Ricard went to the Catholic
church. The first Sunday I had gone with them, not knowing at all
whither. I found that would not do; and since then I had tried the
other parties. But I was in a strait; for Miss Maria's church seemed
to me a faded image of Mlle. Genevieve's; the Presbyterian church
which Miss Babbitt went to was stiff and dull; I was not at home in
either of them, and could not understand or enjoy what was spoken. The
very music had an air of incipient petrification, if I can speak so
about sounds. At the little French chapel I could as little comprehend
the words that were uttered. But in the pulpit there was a man with a
shining face; a face full of love and truth and earnestness. He spoke
out of his heart, and no set words; and the singing was simple and
sweet and the hymns beautiful. I could understand them, for I had the
hymn-book in my hands. Also I had the French Bible, and Mme. Jupon,
delighted to have me with her, assured me that if I listened I would
very soon begin to understand the minister's preaching just as well as
if it were English. So I went with Mme. Jupon, and thereby lost some
part of Mlle. Genevieve's favour; but that I did not understand till
afterwards.
We had all been to church as usual, this Sunday, and we were taking
off our hats and things upstairs, after the second service. My simple
toilet was soon made; and I sat upon the side of my little bed,
watching those of my companions. They were a contrast to mine. The
utmost that money could do, to bring girls into the fashion, was done
for these girls; for the patrons of Mme. Ricard's establishment were
nearly all rich.
Costly coats and cloaks, heavily trimmed, were surmounted with every
variety of showy head-gear, in every variety of unsuitableness. To
study bad taste, one would want no better field than the heads of Mme.
Ricard's seventy boarders dressed for church. Not that the articles
which were worn on the heads were always bad; some of them came from
irreproachable workshops; but there was everywhere the bad taste of
overdressing, and nowhere the tact of appropriation. The hats were
all on the wrong heads. Everybody was a testimony of what money can do
without art. I sat on my little bed, vaguely speculating on all this
as I watched my companions disrobing; at intervals humming the sweet
French melody to which the last hymn had been sung; when St. Clair
paused in her talk and threw a glance in my direction. It lighted on
my plain plaid frock and undressed hair.
"Don't you come from the country, Miss Randolph?" she said, insolently
enough.
I answered yes. And I remembered what my mantua-maker had said.
"Did you have that dress made there?"
"For shame, St. Clair!" said Miss Bentley; "let Miss Randolph alone. I
am sure her dress is very neat."
"I wonder if women don't wear long hair where she came from?" said the
girl, turning away from me again. The others laughed.
I was as little pleased at that moment with the defence as with the
attack. The instant thought in my mind was, that Miss Bentley knew no
more how to conduct the one than Miss St. Clair to make the other; if
the latter had no civility, the first had no style. Now the St. Clair
was one of the best dressed girls in school and came from one of the
most important families. I thought, if she knew where I came from, and
who my mother was, she would change her tone. Nevertheless, I wished
mamma would order me to let my hair grow, and I began to think whether
I might not do it without order. And I thought also that the spring
was advancing, and warm weather would soon be upon us; and that these
girls would change their talk and their opinion about me when they
saw my summer frocks. There was nothing like _them_ in all the school.
I ran over in my mind their various elegance, of texture and lace, and
fine embroidery, and graceful, simple drapery. And also I thought, if
these girls could see Magnolia, its magnificent oaks, and its acres of
timber, and its sweeps of rich fields, and its troops of servants,
their minds would be enlightened as to me and my belongings.
These meditations were a mixture of comfort and discomfort to me; but
on the whole I was not comfortable. This process of comparing myself
with my neighbours, I was not accustomed to; and even though its
results were so favourable, I did not like it. Neither did I quite
relish living under a cloud; and my eyes being a little sharpened now,
I could see that not by my young companions alone, but by every one of
the four teachers, I was looked upon as a harmless little girl whose
mother knew nothing about the fashionable world. I do not think that
anything in my manner showed either my pique or my disdain; I believe
I went out of doors just as usual; but these things were often in my
thoughts, and taking by degrees more room in them.
It was not till the Sunday came round again, that I got any more
light. The afternoon service was over; we had come home and laid off
our bonnets and cloaks; for though we were in April it was cold and
windy; and my schoolfellows had all gone downstairs to the parlour,
where they had the privilege of doing what they pleased before tea. I
was left alone. It was almost my only time for being alone in the
whole week. I had an hour then; and I used to spend it in my bedroom
with my Bible. To-day I was reading the first epistle of John, which I
was very fond of; and as my custom was, not reading merely, but
pondering and praying over the words verse by verse. So I found that
I understood them better and enjoyed them a great deal more. I came to
these words,--
"Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we
should be called the sons of God; therefore the world knoweth us not,
because it knew him not."
I had dwelt sometime upon the first part of the verse, forgetting all my
discomforts of the week past; and came in due course to the next words. I
never shall forget how they swept in upon. "_The world knoweth us
not._"--What did that mean? "Because it knew him not." How did it not
know Him; He was in the midst of men; He lived no hidden life; the world
knew Him well enough as a benefactor, a teacher, a reprover; in what
sense did it _not_ know Him? And I remembered, it did not know Him as one
of its own party. He was "this fellow,"--and "the deceiver;"--"the
Nazarene;" "they called the master of the house Beelzebub." And so the
world knoweth _us_ not; and I knew well enough why; because we must be
like Him. And then, I found an unwillingness in myself to have these
words true of me. I had been very satisfied under the slighting tones and
looks of the little world around me, thinking that they were mistaken and
would by and by know it; they would know that in all that they held so
dear, of grace and fashion and elegance and distinguished appearance, my
mother, and of course I, were not only their match but above them. Now,
must I be content to have them never know it? But, I thought, I could not
help their seeing the fact; if I dressed as my mother's child was