Chapter XXVII: Life-Training

THREE months had passed, and Pearl was still absent.

Winter drew on apace, and days grew short and nights grew long. The little mountain village no more sheltered Millicent and Escott. They had travelled to the south of France, accompanied not only by Pearl, but also by Mr. Crosbie and Marian. Mr. Crosbie, in delight at escaping his enemy, the damp cold of an English winter, talked of remaining there until the spring, and it seemed to be taken for granted that Pearl was to do the same.

"She hasn't even the grace to ask leave," Diana said bitterly. "But it doesn't matter. If she does not wish to come back, I am sure I don't want her. So much for gratitude!"

Diana was sinking into a state of thorough invalidism. Her pretty and youthful looks were rapidly forsaking her, and she grew, week by week, more feeble, haggard, and fretful. She had not been again to London to see the oculist. The necessity for so doing was frequently discussed between herself and Beryl; but she seemed never to be or never to count herself equal to the fatigue of the journey.

Morbid dislike to the truth becoming known continued unabated. Mrs. Fenwick preferred that friends should ascribe her ill-health to nerves, fancies, or anything they pleased, sooner than that they should hear the real explanation. Miss Carmichael was often in and out, but Miss Carmichael asked no questions. She seemed to know by instinct that Beryl was not free to answer; and neither she nor Hester ever put Beryl into a corner, or forced her to take refuge in uncomfortable evasions.

Beryl's life was no easy one, those weeks. She was in attendance on Diana day and night, and rarely had five minutes to herself. Soon after Pearl's departure, Diana had begged Beryl to sleep in her room, "just for a week or so;" and the plan once begun was continued. Diana was an exacting invalid, and her nervous depression, yielded to unresistingly from the first, steadily increased. It became gradually a settled matter that, if Diana could not walk out, Beryl might not walk out either; if Diana could not go to Church, Beryl must sit at home to bear her company.

Beryl chafed somewhat under the restraint. The incessant companionship of a querulous invalid, whom she pitied but scarcely loved, could not but be trying, even to one of Beryl's steady nerves and strong constitution. She had longed for work, and here it was. Now she found herself longing for freedom.

"I don't want to grumble," she said one day, when snatching a five minutes' chat with Miss Carmichael at the garden-gate. "But it is a little tiresome sometimes. Aunt Di doesn't seem to think I can ever want any time at all away from her. And I 'should' like a good sharp walk now and then. Aunt Di only creeps, and I never go out except with her. I think I am getting restless."

"You are young and healthy, and exercise is a necessity for you," said Miss Carmichael. "Cannot you take your own way in this matter, Beryl?"

Beryl shook her head. "Aunt Di can't bear to be crossed," she said.

"My dear, invalids must be crossed sometimes, for their own good as well as for the good of others."

"Yes, only she would not like it from me. I don't want to make her dislike me again. And it is so bad for her to cry."

"Why?"

Beryl began forgetfully to say,—"The occu—" and stopped short.

A light seemed to flash on Miss Carmichael.

"Ah, I see," she said.

"I hope I have not told you anything," said Beryl, distressed. "I ought not."

"No; but I understand. I have fancied once or twice that all was not right there. We will not discuss it now, however, or I may get you into trouble. Good-bye."

On the afternoon of the next day, Miss Carmichael appeared again. And when shown into the drawing-room, she said in a matter-of-fact manner—"I have come to ask leave to sit with you for an hour, Mrs. Fenwick, while Beryl takes a walk. It is a lovely afternoon, and I don't suppose you can walk so far yourself as you would wish her to go."

To Beryl's utter astonishment, Diana offered no objections.

Miss Carmichael's manner of taking consent for granted possibly made them difficult; also this was one of Diana's better days.

Beryl dressed with all speed, and was soon hurrying along the road, into the nearest country lane. "If you go in the direction of Barrowfield, you may possibly meet Hester," Miss Carmichael said to her at the last moment.

And Beryl obeyed, but soon forgot to expect Hester's appearance.

She had perhaps never in her life more enjoyed herself than during this brief and well-earned respite. The sun shone brightly; and a keen wind, which would have troubled some people, only gave zest to Beryl's pleasure. Her quick walk broke at length into almost a run, nobody being within range of sight; but presently, to her surprise, she found herself growing quite tired with the exercise, of late so rare, and she was glad to take a seat on a fallen log.

There she sank into a muse on her little world of interests,—not nearly so wide a world as many gals of her age can boast. She only had Pearl, whom she dearly loved, but in whose return-love she felt no confidence; and Diana Fenwick, whom she pitied greatly, but for whom she scarcely could be said to feel affection; and Miss Carmichael, who was to her the embodiment of all that is good and tender and beautiful; and Hester Wyatt, whom she regarded as a fainter shadow of Miss Carmichael. In a quiet corner of her mind—perhaps of her heart—lay also an image of Escott Cumming, as of one true and trustworthy and kind; and a more dim image of Millicent, statuesque and fair. These comprised the whole of Beryl's heart-belongings, except that into the outer circle crept also a gentle remembrance of Suzette Bise, and of good Mr. Bishop. There was nobody else. Mr. Crosbie disliked Beryl, and made no secret of the fact. Her life touched—consciously to herself—no other human beings. Unconsciously to ourselves, the ripples resulting from our motions spread often farther than we imagine.

These were her human interests, her heart-possessions of this world. And had they been all that she had to turn to, Beryl would have been poor indeed.

But heavenly light had broken of late into the twilight of her being. The little circumscribing wall which closed her in had of late been shattered, and a rush of deeper and wider interests had come to her. She had sprung from a lower to a higher life. For God, not for self; for eternity, not for time; this was the change. It was as if she had stepped out from a small underground cellar, and had suddenly found herself free beneath the wide blue sky.

People are not all alike, and Beryl did not go through precisely the same order of experiences that some others pass through. There is one pathway to heaven, but there is no one stereotyped mode of treading that pathway. And there are many who stumble into and along it, and reach their goal in safety, who are all the while very vague indeed in their ideas and definitions as to the nature of the pathway.

Beryl had little to say as to her own feelings, even to Miss Carmichael, and nothing at all to anybody else; and she would have come off badly in a set examination on forms of doctrine. Yet on some points she was clear. She had come first to the sense of need, and the knowledge of evil in self to be put down; and then she had reached suddenly the great reality of God's love for her, had seen the dying of Christ upon the Cross, had learnt something of His wondrous power to save. Accepting all in easy trustfulness, like a child, she knew Him as her living Lord, and knew herself as His servant. Afterwards, sprang up the longing to do something for Him, followed by disappointment at finding herself ready to murmur at the work when it was given her to do, just because she found it a little burdensome.

"I suppose I don't like it because it isn't exactly the kind I had fancied to myself," Beryl murmured, as she sat on the log. She had little power of definite thought except in spoken words, and consequently she often uttered her thoughts aloud, when alone. "I am sure, though, that one oughtn't to want to choose for one's self. It would not be a good thing if one could. This sort of life isn't really a bit harder than the hospital work, which I wanted,—only that sounded grander. But this is best for me, or I shouldn't have it, of course. I wonder if I am to go on so for years—waiting on Aunt Di. When she is quite blind, she will need me more than ever. And she is so young,—she might live thirty, or forty, or fifty years. It would be rather hard to keep on all that time, never changing. I am afraid I should get impatient. It isn't as if I really loved her from my heart. It seems as if I never could or should do that. But of course, in a hospital I shouldn't love all the patients either, only there would be more bustle and change. Now it is always the same, hour after hour,—never the least change. Well, I must be brave, and try not to mind, that's all."

The last few words were spoken more clearly than any before, and, as if in response, a soft voice said,—

"'Why should I hold my ease so dear?
The work of training "must" be done!'"

Beryl started, and sprang to her feet. She looked behind and around, but could see no human being. The lane in which she sat was straight and narrow, with a thick hedge on one side and a grassy bank on the other.

"Who is it?" she asked, almost trembling, though not at all given to nervousness.

Silence answered. Beryl stood still, waiting. The words came home to her strangely. But by whom had they been uttered? A feeling of awe crept over Beryl.

"Who is it?" she repeated gravely. "Please answer me. Please speak again."

And the voice recommenced, in soft distinct accents,—

"'Why should I hold my ease so dear?
The work of training must be done.
I must be taught what I would know;
I must be led where I would go,—
And all the rest ordained for me,
Till that which is not seen I see
Is to be found in trusting Thee.'"

"Hettie!" exclaimed Beryl, in astonishment.—"Where are you?"

She recognised the voice this time, yet still the feeling of awe was upon her, as if she had received a message from another world. The intonation of the last few words was unmistakable, and it was half in relief, half in disappointment, that Beryl called—"Hettie! Where are you?"

"I am here," Hettie replied.

"Where? I can't see you!"

"The other side of the hedge. I can just see you, through a little peep-hole. The field is nicer than the lane. There is a stile farther on, and we can meet there. No, not that way,—the other."

Beryl sped along at a pace which brought her first to the stile, and she was quickly across. Hester came up more slowly.

"What made you say all that?" Beryl asked, with an odd flushed look.

"I don't know; it came into my mind. I didn't know you were near till I heard you muttering something, and then I found my peep-hole and saw you. I caught a few words that you said, and I answered them. Miss Carmichael is very fond of those lines, and she repeated them to me a few days ago, and said they made her think of you. So I learnt them by heart, meaning to say them to you some time or other, but I did not know it would be so soon. Were you startled?"

"I don't know," said Beryl gruffly. "I thought—almost—just for a moment—it was an angel. At least,—I think I thought of mother."

Beryl choked, and was very nearly crying.

Hester threw an arm round her, and drew her down on the grassy slope.

"Poor Beryl! You don't remember your mother, do you?"

"Just a little; not much."

"I shouldn't have thought mine was at all an angelic voice," said Hester, softly smiling.

"I wish you would write out that piece of poetry for me," said Beryl shyly. "I liked it very much. And I think it would be a help."

"I'll get you a copy of Miss Waring's 'Hymns and Meditations,' and you will find it there, Beryl."

Beryl's "Oh, thank you," spoke of unmitigated pleasure. She had had so few presents in her lifetime that the coming of one unexpectedly was a real delight.

"I suppose the teaching and the leading are a little hard just now," said Hester suddenly. "I mean you must find it a little hard to be patient."

"Yes," said Beryl, "I think I do. I should not mind it for a time—a good long while—but I have been wondering whether it will go on always just the same."

"Nothing ever does go on always just the same," said Hester confidently. "Fresh things are always happening."

"I don't see anything likely to happen now," remarked Beryl.

"No; you can't see round the corner," said Hester, smiling. "But God can. And it is so nice to think that He is arranging all for us. You needn't be afraid, Beryl. It will all come right somehow, if you just leave it to Him."

"But suppose it were the right thing for me to go on for years—forty or fifty years—doing nothing but wait on Aunt Di?" said Beryl soberly.

"Well—if it were," said Hester,—"if it were—God could make it easy to you. He could make her quite different, so sweet and loving that it would be a real delight to wait on her. Or He could give you such great joy in Himself, Beryl, that nothing else would seem of any great importance. I don't know how it will be, of course; only I am 'quite' sure that you may be happy and restful, and may leave it all with Him."

"I'll try," said Beryl. "I suppose it is best not to look forward."

"Why, you can't," said Hester. "You can't possibly look forward. It is all grey mist ahead. God can see through it, but we can't. And what we call looking forward is only fancying all sorts of things, which most likely will never happen at all. I wouldn't, dear. It is of no use."

"I suppose you and Miss Carmichael never get into a worry," said Beryl.

"I dare say Miss Carmichael would say she did sometimes, but she doesn't let it appear. I am trying to trust more, and not to be so easily fretted. It isn't always easy—when one is tempted to try the 'looking forward' plan."

"But you have nothing to look forward to that isn't delightful," exclaimed Beryl.

Hester's smile was sad this time. "Do you think so?" she asked. "It is all utter perplexity, Beryl."

Beryl was amazed, and her face said so.

Bright tears were shining in Hester's eyes.

"I can't see my way in the least. But I know it will all come clear by and by. I can't tell how yet. There must be great pain either way."

"Either way!" repeated Beryl, bewildered.

"There are two paths, and I shall have to go down one. And both look wrong, and yet right; and both mean sorrow, and yet joy. Beryl, you must not say a word of this to anybody,—not to Miss Carmichael, mind. I only say it to you, because I want you to see that other people have their troubles too. But I am trying to leave it all alone for the present, and by and by I shall see my way plainly. You will see yours too, if you wait quietly. 'It is good that a man should both hope and quietly wait,' you know."

"I don't think I am puzzled," said Beryl: "I only feel rather inclined to grumble at what I have to do."

"Don't," said Hester briefly. "One loses so much by grumbling."

"No, I don't mean to," responded Beryl sincerely, though not quite grammatically; and she added,—

"I suppose I can't do anything at all to help you, Hettie."

Hester shook her head, and the two sat on, till Beryl suddenly recollected the time, and sprang up. Her hour of absence was already over.