Chapter XVII: Wise Words and Unwise Deeds

_February 10th, Monday._

A BITTERLY cold winter, and Emmie is so delicate as to be a perpetual anxiety, while Addie is the very picture of health. But for Emmie, we should have just now almost no cares. Of course, there is much to look back upon that is sad, but our little home is very happy, and we are making pleasant friends. My mother has not looked so well for years. The single anxiety is Emmie; and she is just the one about whom we can be most anxious of all. She is so lovable and sweet, and such an unselfish little darling. Every one clings to Emmie.

Must there be always something; always a shadow in one direction or another; always a weight of some kind; never perfect freedom? I asked this question of Millicent,—perhaps impatiently, for I had been feeling impatient.

"Perfect 'here'? No. Things are not meant to be perfect here."

"One would like a little rest sometimes."

"But this is not our rest," she answered softly. "Rest by-and-by, not here, not now. This is the fighting-time, the preparation-time."

That is how she feels, and Mother, and aunt Marian. But though I have learnt much in the last few years, somehow I cannot yet feel myself to be a mere bird of passage. Perhaps I love this life too well. It is so much to me that I am always wanting it to be more, always craving for perfection. I know well enough that perfection cannot be found in this world, that it would not be good for me, because then I should no longer look up and forward and beyond. And yet I crave for it.

The teaching comes slowly, step by step. By-and-by, I shall learn more. Perhaps I shall learn to feel as Mother feels. One cannot force oneself into a different frame of mind; one can only be willing to be taught.

And I suppose the teaching often has to come through sorrow. I suppose that is the "must be." There are things that one could not possibly learn in any other way; only through trouble and strain and loss.

For our characters have to be formed, that I know. And it has to be through pressure, just as a potter presses the clay into shape with his hands. If there were no pressure, there would be no beautiful shapes. I suppose we are all being shaped, slowly, by means of a touch here, a weight there, sometimes a sudden sharp blow. All through our lifetime on earth, we are being gradually shaped and made fit for the life of by-and-by.

Yes, I see it now. And I see, too, the need for self-discipline, the need to gain power over self, the need sometimes to say "No" to self even when it is not necessary, so that one may have strength to say "No" effectually when it "is" necessary. And I see how, if we will not do this, if we will not steadily fight to gain the mastery over ourselves, we have to be taken in hand and dealt with sharply, for the curing of those faults which we might have cured ourselves by self-discipline.

I see all this in myself. I have seen the faults, through being yielded to, grow too tough for me to conquer. And then I have felt the sharp discipline; and I have understood the need, and yet often I have not been willing. Sometimes now I am not willing.

It is one thing to understand that one is in need of disagreeable medicine, and quite another thing to be willing to take it, still more to accept it joyfully.

As years go on, I suppose that too becomes easier.

_February 16th, Sunday._

Another thought has come to me about life's troubles and tangles.

Things often seem so upside-down, so confused, so exactly as one would not choose them to be. And then the temptation arises to wonder why they are so, why God does not interfere and arrange differently, and make all straight and smooth for us. If He loved us, surely He might, surely He "would," when it must be so easy to Him.

And yet all the while, it may be just because He so loves us that He does not put things straight. It may be just because their being crooked is needful, perhaps as a test, perhaps to draw out something in our characters which could not be drawn out in any other way,—absolutely "could not!"

I often think of a little talk I had once, years and years ago, with Millicent. She told me that one could not possibly be patient unless there were something which might make one impatient. She said that if all one's life were smooth, and everything were just as one liked, one might be comfortable and contented and good-tempered, but not patient. For patience meant endurance, and endurance meant something which had to be endured.

I did not fully see it then, but I see it now. Patience is an active virtue, not a passive one. It means bearing up against a strain; it means very often hard fighting below.

And I suppose the same thing is true in other directions also. One cannot be truly good-tempered, unless there is something to be overcome which would naturally make one ill-tempered; one cannot be truly brave, unless there is something to be overcome which might naturally render one cowardly; one cannot be truly self-denying, unless there is something to be given up which would please self; one cannot in any way be truly victor, except through some kind of battling.

Something in Mr. Farrars' sermon to-day has set me thinking in this way. He spoke of our Lord's life upon earth; and of how the trials and temptations and sorrows which beset Him were, if one may so say, partly for the perfecting of His human Character. He was made perfect through suffering. These things drew out or developed into active life those perfections which were "in" Him, but which could not have been manifested in any other way.

And Mr. Farrars said that in any of us there might be the "germs" of patience, of self-conquest, of self-sacrifice, implanted there by God; but that it was only through action, through having to fight against the opposite tendency, that the germs could be developed into active life, and could be seen by all around.

It is a wonderful thought to me that every trial, and every opposition, and every temptation, which may come, is really meant for a help heavenward. That every pull in the wrong direction is actually an opportunity for a step in the right direction.

If only I could keep it always before my eyes! I think I do see now what Mr. Farrars meant, but one's impressions fade so fast. To-day I feel that it might be the worst thing in the world for me to have my life made smooth and placid and easy; to-morrow, as likely as not, the impulse will come again to fret and be discontented because life "cannot" be easy and smooth.

_March 16th, Sunday._

I have been reading through the last entry, and thinking seriously about it. On Sundays, if possible, I always try to get a quiet hour, or at least half-an-hour, to read and think all alone.

What I wrote that day was true enough.

This life only the threshold of the great Life beyond. Yes, indeed. It is only the schoolroom preparation-time, the testing-time, the training-time. And it does not truly matter in the very least whether or no we have what we want, but only whether we are doing exactly what we are meant to do, whether we are carrying out God's will and letting Him work His will in us unhindered.

That is the main point,—whether we do not "hinder" Him in what He would do in us, and with us, and through us.

Some people care so very much about whether they are "comfortable." One often hears it said as an excuse, "Oh, I don't like to be uncomfortable!" But isn't that childish? What does it signify whether we are comfortable or uncomfortable, so long as we are doing rightly, and not merely pleasing ourselves?

That is how one ought to feel, and I think it is how I do feel about the question as a whole, in the abstract. But when the abstract comes down to the particular, when it isn't a matter of the general question, but of doing or not doing one particular thing, then I am apt to fail, just like other people.

For pleasing God must mean self-denial, self-forgetfulness, self-effacement! And these things are hardest of all.

The word "self-effacement" seems so perfectly to describe my mother and Millicent. Mother has always been ready to "efface" herself to any amount for the sake of others, for the sake of her husband and children especially. And in quite another way, Millicent lives a life of practical self-effacement. Both are beautiful.

This afternoon, I have taken a resolution to make that my rule of life: to live for the happiness of others; to be careless whether I am comfortable or not, so that only I am doing God's will; to strive after a spirit of self-effacement, so far as the pleasing of self goes; to take happiness, when it comes, straight from the Hand of God, willing any moment to let it go; to take sorrow, when it comes, in the same way, straight from His hand, willing to keep it so long as He wills.

The very thought of such a life is like having a little glimpse into the Beyond.

I do not at present see any "great" way in which I shall be able to sacrifice myself for others. But I must try to find little ways. And perhaps they will be a rehearsal for something greater by-and-by.

_March 18th, Tuesday._

It isn't easy! I thought it would be so much easier. How one's resolutions do fail! But I mean to fight on.

_March 19th, Wednesday._

Clarissa wants me soon to spend a month with her in Town. She is not very well; and Mr. Griffith—somehow I never can call him "John," though he is my cousin—has to go abroad. Clarissa does not like to leave the children, besides feeling unequal to travelling. So she asks me to be her companion, and I am delighted. I am to go just before Easter.

_April 21st, Monday._

I have been here now for nearly a fortnight.

Clarissa is perfectly charming as a hostess. I never knew before how nice she could be. All these years, I have only stayed with her twice for three or four days, and it is two years since the last time. She and I fit in together so much better now.

She is so handsome that I am quite proud of her; and she thinks of everything, and just lays herself out to give people pleasure.

She is not very strong, and gets easily tired, but she has found friends to take me about. The last few days have been quite a rush of sight-seeing. I do not half like leaving her so much, as I am here to be her companion. She gives me no choice, however.

_April 22nd, Tuesday._

Such an unexpected thing has happened to-day!

I was alone in the drawing-room after lunch. Clarissa had gone to lie down, and the children were off for their walk, and I had been out the whole morning so I meant to have part of the afternoon indoors. And all at once, when I was comfortably tucked into a corner of the sofa, with book and work, the door opened, and Richards announced—

"Mr. Derwentwater!"

I don't think I blushed. I don't think I felt anything very particular at the first moment, beyond a sort of bewildered surprise. I stood up, and Mr. Derwentwater came in, bowing.

And Richards said, glancing towards me,—

"I will tell Mrs. Griffith, sir. She is upstairs, I believe."

"Mrs. Griffith has gone to lie down," I said, stupidly enough; for Clarissa hates nothing so much as any manner of fuss about her health.

I was noting how much he is altered—grown older and thinner, browner and graver. Also, he had no beard in those days, and now he has one. If I had not heard the name, I should hardly at the first glance have recognised him. And I suppose I am still more altered. People often tell me how much I have changed.

"Pray do not disturb Mrs. Griffith on any account. I will leave my card, and call again," Mr. Derwentwater said earnestly.

But Richards knew better than to listen to any such proposal.

We were left alone together, and he gave me a very puzzled look, as if vaguely aware that he ought to be able to claim acquaintance. I did not exactly help him. I sat down, asked him to do the same, and remarked in a careless way, "It is a long while since we met last. What a cold wind there is to-day."

"Very cold. Yes—I beg your pardon—I was sure I must have seen you here before."

"Here! No, I think not."

"Then—elsewhere."

"A long while ago, when I was a child. You would not remember me, of course. And I should not have known you but for the sound of your name."

"Then we must have met at—"

He made a pause, quite in the dark still, hoping that I would supply a name.

Instead of which I only said,—

"Yes."

This was too much for his gravity, and his face broke into a smile—just the old pleasant smile which captivated my childish heart all those years ago.

"And you have been abroad for some time, have you not—some years?" I asked.

"Several years; only running home for a few weeks now and then."

"India or China?"—though I knew it was neither.

"Nothing more interesting than the Continent."

"How tame! One would at least like to get into a fresh quarter of the world."

Then Clarissa appeared. She greeted him kindly as an acquaintance, and would have introduced him to me but for my remark that he and I had met before. This stopped her; rather to his disappointment, I fancy.

Clarissa, it is plain, had no recollection of a certain small episode in my life. Perhaps she never even heard a whisper of it.

I took up my work, and listened while he and she talked. And it came out that Mr. Griffith has some kind of connection with the Bank to which Mr. Derwentwater belongs. I have not known that until now.

Evidently Clarissa has seen him from time to time when he has come home, but not often or much. They chatted about surface matters; and Mr. Derwentwater was sorry to find that he could not see Mr. Griffith; and Clarissa asked if he would come to dinner on Friday.

Presently she turned to me, making some remark and saying my name. Almost in the same breath, she turned again to him, with an allusion to "my cousin, Miss Frith," having been sight-seeing all the week. I fancy she had detected his perplexity, and was more willing to help him out of it than I had been.

A little flash of intelligence came to his face, and then I knew that he was examining me in a series of glances.

Clarissa went off presently to look for a letter of her husband's which contained information needed by Mr. Derwentwater. As the door closed behind her, he said, as if involuntarily,—

"Yes, I remember now. It was at Wayatford." I looked up inquiringly. "Had I not the pleasure of meeting you many years ago at Wayatford?"

"When I was a child, there 'was' a Mr. Derwentwater there."

"And there undoubtedly 'was' a Miss Rhoda Frith, unless my memory is very much at fault."

Neither of us could help laughing. I have long since lost sight of the anger which I once felt towards him. The self which was so deeply injured then seems quite a different person from this present self; and I have not over much sympathy with her. To be sure, "his" action was not particularly beautiful, but he was young; and certainly I deserved it all.

"My home now is in Wayatford."

"It is—really!" His face lighted up again.

"We have gone there to be near my aunt, Mrs. Ramsay."

"Ah! She was a great friend of mine in those days. I am afraid our correspondence has languished of late. And she is as usual? It would be a pleasure to see her again."

"Why not?"

"Why not go to Wayatford? My ties with the place are broken. The Park is in the hands of strangers."

"Old ties ought not to break, if they are worth anything."

"No; I believe you are right. Sometimes the force of circumstances proves too strong to be resisted."

A rather sad look came to his face, a look I had never seen there in old days.

Should I speak of Millicent? No, I thought, not unless he brought her name forward. He could do so if he wished. But a history, begun and ended, lay between the past and the present. I knew well that I, in Millicent's place, would hardly have been able to forgive any one who should mistakenly have forced my name upon him. If anybody mentioned her, it ought to be none other than himself.

"Are you staying here—in this house, I mean—for any length of time?" he asked.

The question was abrupt, curiously so for him, I thought. He was not abrupt in past days.

"I came for a month, and I have been here a fortnight. I don't know how much longer my visit will really last."

"Then I shall see you again. And you will tell me, perhaps, all about old friends."

Did he mean Millicent? He said the words hurriedly, for the door opened, and it seemed as if he did not wish Clarissa to overhear. When she came in, he stood up, and nothing would induce him to sit down again. Clarissa read aloud the sentence in her husband's letter which contained the information wanted; and then he disappeared.

I fancy the unexpected encounter had given him a little shake, rousing old memories. True, there has been the other girl between, and the sorrow of losing her; and for a while, he must have quite forgotten Millicent. But it is just possible that he may be inclined now to turn again to the thoughts of her. Why not? It would surely be happier for him.

Well, he will be here to dinner on Friday; and I shall see something of him. Clarissa means him to take me in, for she has said so. He will have plenty of time to ask about old friends, Millicent included, if he wishes.

_April 23rd, Wednesday._

Clarissa is asking other friends to dinner on Friday, just three more, so as to make a nice sociable half-dozen.

This morning we went into a shop; and she ordered for me a new evening dress, at her own expense, a kind of very soft white crêpe, to be made prettily, with black ribbons. It is to be sent home in time for Friday evening.

Clarissa says I shall look my best in that dress; and she has made me alter the way of doing my hair. She says I am so improved altogether.

And of course that is pleasant to hear. One likes to be able to look nice. I asked her whether she had ever thought mine "a pussy-cat face."

"Very decidedly so, in old days. It does not strike me now in that light," she answered.

At all events, I should like to look my best on Friday.

Not that it matters—really! I have to think of Millicent, not of myself.

_April 25th, Friday Afternoon._

The dress has come home, and it is perfectly lovely. I have never had anything so beautiful in all my life. It is only white and black, and not too fussy for a quiet little dinner party, but it is so gracefully made, and so perfect in fit.

Of course I put it on directly, to make sure that all was right. Clarissa walked round me and smiled, and said, "Yes; that will do. That will do very well indeed, very well indeed."

"It 'is' pretty," I said.

"And you are pretty in it; yes, really pretty. I am not flattering you, my dear. Some people look well in anything, and you are not one of those people. But certainly you repay one for a little trouble in the dressing-line."

I was delighted to hear her say so. Yet why should I care? Does it really matter?—I mean in this instance particularly.