THE next day Mrs. Randolph announced that the "young ladies," meaning Isabel and Mabel, would dine in the middle of the day, and do their lessons in their own room in the evening instead of coming down to the drawing-room. Now, although Mabel's experience of an evening in the drawing-room was anything but a pleasant one, she was by no means pleased at such an escape being provided for her.
"Why should the usual arrangements be altered on my account?" she asked Isabel somewhat resentfully.
But Isabel could only shake her head, for she was inwardly wondering why this change had been made.
"Perhaps mamma thinks you would like it better," she said.
But Mabel gave her head an indignant shake of denial.
"No, no; it is not for that reason. But I can guess why it is done." And Mabel drew herself up and put on her haughtiest airs, as she reflected that she was to be treated as a poor relation.
"Never mind, dear; we can be very happy here—happier, I think, than we should be in the drawing-room. I should like it better, I am sure, if—if—" And then Isabel hesitated, and the tears slowly filled her eyes.
"Yes, I know," said Mabel indignantly.
Isabel looked at her cousin through her tears. "Perhaps papa will come up here to us sometimes," she said.
Mabel looked as though she did not understand. "Uncle come up here!" she said.
"Why should he come?"
"Because we are not to go down. It is the only thing I care for. I shall scarcely see papa all day else. For it is not often we have an evening in the library like we did last night."
Mabel made no reply, but she felt a little ashamed of her anger, and she likewise hoped that her uncle would interfere and prevent this plan being carried out, as it would grieve Isabel so much.
They were not to commence lessons for a few days, and so Isabel proposed that they should go and see her old nurse, who lived in a pretty cottage in the village. And when they were dressed for their walk, Isabel noticed for the first time that her cousin was always dressed in brown.
"That is your favourite colour, I suppose," she said, looking rather deprecatingly at her own bright blue dress.
"No, I hate it now." And she told Isabel of the unfortunate accident that had compelled her to wear two brown dresses. "I shall have nothing but these all the winter," she concluded, "and I hate them already."
"Oh! But you need not do that, for they look very nice, I think." And as she spoke, Isabel formed a little plan in her own mind to reconcile her cousin to her dull-coloured dresses.
The visit to nurse's cottage was always a pleasant one to Isabel, and now the old woman had some news to impart and gladly welcomed her young lady.
"I'm going to have a lodger, my dear," she said, when Isabel had been duly presented and the usual inquiries had been made.
"Oh, nurse, a lodger!" exclaimed Isabel.
"Yes, my dear. She is a distant sort of cousin and an old woman like myself, and so it will be a bit of company for me. Now, my deary, take care and wrap yourself up well when you come out. You see, Miss Mabel, your cousin is delicate. How is your cough now, deary?"
"Oh, just about the same, nurse," said Isabel, looking up from her attentions to the cat who sat purring on her lap.
"Well, dear, mind you tell your mamma if it gets the least bit worse," said nurse, with a deep-drawn sigh as she looked tenderly down into the pale face.
There was a little more friendly gossip, and then the girls took their departure, Mabel feeling somewhat displeased over their visit, for it was by no means the sort of visiting among the poor that she contemplated.
"Isabel, you ought to have some tracts," she said somewhat severely, as soon as they were outside the house.
"Some tracts!" repeated Isabel. "Oh, but I could not give nurse a tract. I wonder what she would say if I was to try?" And the idea seemed altogether so funny that Isabel broke into a merry laugh at the thought of it.
"But, Isabel, you ought to do something to make your life of some use," said Mabel in a half-offended tone.
"But of what use would it be to give tracts to nursey—dear old nursey, who is the wisest old woman in the parish. I am sure it would be more fit for her to come and bring them to Julia and me. How is it, Mabel, that people think if they are a little better off than others that they are fit to teach them at once?"
Isabel asked the question quite innocently and in all good faith, but Mabel chose to think it was done to rebuke her, and she answered shortly:
"I am sure I had no wish to teach your nurse."
"No, no, dear, of course not, for I am sure you could not do it. But still I have heard of such things, but—but I forgot, dear, you are so much wiser than I am, that I daresay you could teach some people older than yourself, although I should be afraid even to try. You see, Mabel, I can only hope to be just a little ornamental, for I am afraid that what mamma says is true, and I shall never be 'an ornament to society' like Julia, and I cannot be useful like you."
If Mr. Randolph had been asked, however, he would probably have given a different opinion, for he called his youngest daughter his "home sunshine," and various other pet names, indicative of how her gentle love and influence brightened all his life. Useful! Why, no one else could render the loving service to him that Isabel did. And when he heard of the change that had been made for the girls, he asked his wife angrily what could have induced her to make such an alteration.
"It is for their good, my dear," said the lady suavely. "Mabel has come here to complete her education, and she ought to have her evenings for study and to prepare her lessons in readiness for the next day."
"Very well, you know best about such things, only I must have Bella when you are out."
"Well, Isabel could come, of course. She is not very strong, and cannot apply herself to her like her cousin—indeed, there is no occasion for it. But if Mabel is here for self-improvement, she ought to make the best use of her time," concluded the lady.
This was all so reasonable and so plausible that Mr. Randolph could not dispute it. But to be deprived of the society of his youngest daughter was out of the question, and so when dinner was over, a servant was despatched to summon Isabel to the drawing-room.
"Only Miss Isabel," concluded the servant when she had delivered the message.
The two girls looked up from their to each other, and Mabel's face grew hot and angry.
"Are you sure mamma did not send for both of us?" said Isabel.
"I shall not come down to-night even if aunt sends for me. I want to write a letter to mamma," said Mabel quickly, and without giving the servant time to reply.
"Then you won't mind me leaving you alone a little while," said Isabel.
"Mind! Of course not. I tell you I shall be busy writing."
But although Mabel hastened to get her desk and take out her writing materials, when Isabel was gone she seemed in no hurry to begin her letter.
"I won't stay," she said half aloud as soon as the door had closed upon Isabel. "I am not going to be treated as a poor relation. Why should the dinner hour be altered because I am here, and why should I not go down to the drawing-room in the evening? No, no, I won't put up with it, and I'll write and tell mamma so at once." And then Mabel drew her desk towards her and began her home letter.
She wrote on, covering page after page, sometimes stopping to shed a few tears, for she really was feeling home-sick as well as hurt and disappointed. And these interruptions so hindered her that Isabel came back before she had quite finished her letter.
"Oh, Mabel, you are feeling dull I am afraid," said Isabel, slipping her arm round her cousin's neck, as she noticed the traces of tears on her face.
"Oh, it don't matter," said Mabel hastily. "You see I have only just finished my letter," she added, pointing to the table.
Should she tell her cousin what she had told her mother—that she could not stay here in this fine house where everything was so different from her own home. While she hesitated, however, Isabel said:
"We will go shopping to-morrow, Mabel. Mamma says we can have the carriage in the morning, and papa has given me a cheque to go and buy a new dress."
"Another new dress," said Mabel, who thought her cousin already possessed an extensive wardrobe.
"Yes, dear, I am going to have one just like yours; I think I like brown now," concluded Isabel critically. "You look like a robin redbreast in your brown dress and red bonnet strings—so cosy and comfortable. I wonder whether I shall look as nice."
"To be sure you will, dear," said Mabel, greatly mollified by her cousin's delicate flattery. And she picked up her letter and put it into the desk, resolving to finish and send it off the next day.
But the next day, after a pleasant drive to the town and the excitement of a shopping expedition, during which her opinion was always allowed full sway, Mabel did not feel quite so eager to return home, and in truth she felt a little ashamed of the complaints it contained.
"It would vex mamma, I know," she said to herself as she took the letter out of her desk and re-read it.
She could smile at its dolefulness to-day. And she threw it into the fire and sat down and wrote another that caused her mother almost as much anxiety as the first would have done, for Mabel could talk of nothing but the comfort and luxury of her new home. And her mother feared that the best educational advantages, amid such surroundings, could scarcely compensate for the effect it would have on the character of such a girl as Mabel. She pictured her throwing herself into a life of luxury and frivolity, without thought or care for that future she was sent to prepare herself for. And from that time, Mabel had a larger share than ever in her mother's prayers.
Whether Mrs. Randolph's fears for her daughter would not have been realized, if the supposed danger had really existed, it is hard to say. But in a few days, lessons began for Mabel in earnest, and she had little time to think of anything else. Music, drawing, painting, German and French exercises left her small time to brood over fancied slights. And Isabel's fondness for her brown dress, so that they were usually dressed alike, reconciled her more than anything to her own sombre appearance.
Occasionally she spent the evening in the drawing-room, but this was when her aunt and elder cousin were out, and Isabel and her father had it to themselves.
At other times Mabel spent her evenings in the school-room or their own sitting-room, with her alone, for Mr. Randolph had strictly interdicted too much study for Isabel. Her persistent cough and general delicate health was sufficient excuse for his claiming all her evenings. And he also insisted that whenever the weather was fine, the two girls should go out together during the day, either for a drive or a walk.
Isabel's favourite walk was to go and see her old nurse, but as the village was some distance from her home, this was not often possible. When at length an opportunity occurred, Mabel was determined to turn the visit to some account, and before they started she said:
"Your old nurse has got her lodger now, I suppose, so I shall take my Bible and read a chapter to her as I used to do to my poor people at home."
Isabel looked a little awe-stricken at the proposal. "Do—do you think she would like it?" she said. "Don't you think we had better ask first?"
But Mabel laughed at the idea of treating the poor as though they were personal friends, on an equality with themselves.
"You leave me to manage it," she said. "I shall be glad of this opportunity of making myself useful."
When they reached the cottage they heard, to Isabel's disappointment, but Mabel's relief, that nurse herself was out—had gone to the town to make some necessary purchases, and would not be back for some time.
"But walk in, young ladies," said the stranger courteously. "You must not go back until you have rested yourselves." And she led the way into a cosy little parlour and placed chairs for them near the fire.
"I will read a chapter to you while we rest," said Mabel, drawing forth her Bible as she spoke. And without waiting for her hostess to assent or dissent to her proposal, she turned to the parable of the sower and read it.
When she closed the and before she could begin her little commonplace comments upon what she had read, the old lady said rather abruptly:
"I am afraid we none of us think as much as we ought to do about this seed, which is the very Word of God planted in our hearts."
And then she reached her own well-worn Bible, and turned over the leaves to the first chapter of John, and read, "'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.' This was what the Lord Jesus Christ meant by the seed in the parable," she said. "It is the Spirit or Life of God, 'the true Light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world.'
"You see in the parable the seed is the same, but the difference is in the soil, and so the life of God—the spiritual life in us—will grow and flourish, or dwindle and pine, as we remove the weeds of worldliness and selfishness, or suffer them to grow unchecked. This little flower of grace is a delicate plant, and the hot sun of pleasure, or fame, or applause will soon wither it, or the weeds of pride, and envy, and selfishness choke it, if these are allowed to grow unchecked."
"Yes, but if we try to make our life a useful one?" said Mabel as soon as she could recover from her astonishment.
"If the usefulness springs from the root of grace, then it is a beautiful flower. But I have heard of such things as artificial flowers—very pretty, very natural looking, but having no root—they are simply imitations. I am an old woman, my dear, and have been about the world a good deal, and I have known people who, as you say, have tried to make their lives useful, but never thought of pulling up the weeds of selfishness from their own hearts. In the world, they have been known as most useful people—Sunday-school teachers, perhaps—while at home their friends could tell you that they were peevish and exacting, or proud and overbearing, or envious and jealous.
"What can be thought of the beautiful flowers of usefulness, then, when we hear that this delicate plant of God's Word is being choked by such worldliness? We know that the root and the delicate green blade are pining and withering, and therefore these flowers can only be poor imitations of what the real ones would be. But now, my dear young ladies, having had our little talk, you will let me get you a glass of milk and a biscuit." And the old lady bustled about in spite of their assurances that they did not need anything.
Mabel sat silently wondering over the strange turn her patronizing of the poor had suddenly taken. But the old woman's words—her new reading of the parable of the sower—had likewise made a deep impression upon her mind. It had been presented to her in a new aspect. It was not simply the written word that might be listened to and forgotten, and listened to again, but the very Life of God—the Word—the Light which lighteth every man—the Christ-life in the heart that was meant. And this, like a tender blade of corn, was likely to be choked by giving way to the very thoughts, and feelings, and passions that had ruled her life lately.
Very quietly she sat and pondered over these things while she ate her biscuit and sipped her milk, while Isabel chatted with their hostess. Then arose the question,—Had this seed of grace ever been planted in her heart? And then she repeated the well-known lines:
"'Tis a point I long to know—
Oft it causes anxious thought—
Do I love the Lord or no?
Am I his, or am I not?"
But she found no answer to her question.
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