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.'"
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."
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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