Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
She must make a place for herself in their hearts first. She must at least show them what she was and had to give them, and then if they did not want her she could go away; and so she put aside the pride which kept coming up to trouble her at the thought that she was not wanted, and calling to her aid all those winning ways that were hers by nature, as well as of grace, she set herself to win her brother Joseph. With glowing cheeks and bright eyes, looking first at one and then the other brother, and with well-chosen, pleasant words she told bright bits of things that had occurred on her journey. She made them laugh several times, which was a great help.
They forgot for the moment that she was city bred, and that they must have a care for the way they managed their forks, articles which had sorely oppressed them during the beginning of the meal, for Aunt Nancy's training in the table etiquette had seldom included the use of the fork in preference to the knife. David even ventured to respond to her bright talk occasionally, and secretly voted her unusually jolly for a girl. Joseph seemed silent, almost shy, watching the new sister furtively, enjoying the good cheer, but wearing an air that said as plainly as words could have said, “I'm not to be fooled into liking you by all this.” At last the evening was over, the preparations made for the morning meal, and the weary young woman was at leisure to rest and think. It was in the quiet of the bare room upstairs, whose dull ingrain carpet, helped out on one end by a breadth of faded rag carpet, seemed to intensify the dreariness.
The only other furniture was a plain old bed of the kind known as a cord bedstead, two wooden chairs, a wooden table, with wash-bowl and pitcher, and a small, cheap, gilt-framed looking-glass hanging over it. There was a closet in the room, and a green paper shade at the window, and the lamp which she had brought up with her and deposited on a rude wooden shelf over the chimney shed a dull, desolate light over all. Ruth's tired nerves gave out at last, and she sat down in the wooden chair by the door and cried. Why had she come here after all? Her lawyer had begged her to write and find out about things, or let him come on ahead and survey the land. Her many friends, and her foster-mother's as well, had opened their hearts and homes to her. A dear old friend of her mother had offered to make her home with Ruth, in case she preferred remaining in the old home, which was hers to do with as she pleased. But she had refused them all and had come here, stubbornly perhaps, but feeling that it was what Christ would have her do. It was what her own father and mother would have had her do, as well as what would please the dear ones who had for so many years occupied the places of father and mother in her heart. Had it all been a mistake? Ought she to have waited? Did she then have no call from God to come? Should she have stayed in the city?
There were many things she might have done to feel that she was of use in the world. Not that she needed to earn her living, for she was amply provided for as far as money went, but she might have gone into city mission work. She could have given her time to church work. She was a graduate of a school for physical culture. She could have given some time to teaching and helping poor overworked girls to a better physical life, and so have led them step by step to a better spiritual life through this influence. She might have organized classes in cooking, or dressmaking, or millinery, among young women who were too poor to afford to go to the schools where such things are taught. She had delighted in all such things herself and was one of those people who can turn their hands to almost anything. The father and mother who now were gone had made it their pleasure to see that she had the best instruction in any line which seemed to please her. She thought now of the many words of praise she had received for this or that little service which she had performed well, and how others had envied her varied skill. She had not thought much of it then, because anything she tried to do always seemed easy to her. Now Satan came to tempt her with the thought that she ought not to bury these talents up here in the country, when they might be reaching hundreds, instead of just two young men who really did not want her to stay. Then something seemed to say: “But they are my brothers, and if I have any talents I can use them here as well as in the city. Jesus Christ knows what is best for me to do, and he will show me what I must do next. I will ask him.”
She knelt beside the ugly bed and told all her troubles, asking that she might be guided in the way he would have her go; that she might be humble, and not seek to do work he did not want her to do; that the Lord would bless her brothers, and if possible give them some love for her. Then she rose and went about her preparations for the night with the tumult in her heart stayed. Even the creaking of the cord bed did not serve to rouse the evil thoughts again, though it certainly was not pleasant. She fell asleep wondering whether she would always care about little things and be so annoyed by them, and if eating with one's knife and wearing no collar would be barriers of the true love that ought to exist between brother and sister, supposing that there was no way to get rid of these little annoyances. She was distressed with herself beyond measure that she noticed these things. Why was it that she noticed them so much more than if they had been in some of her Sunday-school scholars? True, these men were her own flesh and blood—her brothers. Yes, it was pride after all. But the others were her own brothers and sisters in Christ. She was God's, and he would take care of it all, she thought; and then fell asleep.
JOSEPH spoke but little at breakfast, and went off to work soon after the meal was completed. David seemed to Ruth much changed. He had had time to reflect and get himself out of the maze of unexpected problems into which he had been plunged by Ruth's letter and arrival. He showed great kindness, 'even tenderness and thoughtfulness, with regard to her comfort. He said at once that they must have some help in the house, and spoke cheerfully about his desire to have things bright and pleasant for her. He even went so far as to tell her that he had never dreamed there could be so much comfort in any home as she had brought to theirs during the few short hours since her arrival.
Ruth flushed pink over his praise, for she recognized that it had been hard for him to say these things, and that to him, hardened and roughened by his outdoor work, she seemed a very dainty, fashionable creature, more to be looked at than used, and that, in a way, he was afraid of her. Still she felt that this feeling was wearing away with him and that they would presently be as frank and friendly as though they had always known one another. She decided that David was a true gentleman, and she divided the word into two parts when she said it softly to herself while she washed the dishes, and she put an emphasis on the word “gentle,” with all its ancient, courtly, noble meaning. Yes, it was going to be very easy to love him as a brother, she felt. As for Joseph, he was very interesting, and she felt sure the love would come. No need to worry about that. They were brother and sister, and all the tenderness of that relationship would surely come by and by. Her troubles seemed to be lightened by the morning light and she felt more hopeful of the future, and thus fell to planning.
She had discovered in her talk with David that the idea of hired help had been a great bugbear to the brothers on account of the extreme familiarity with the family which all the Summerton girls who “lived out” expected. They dreaded it. David in particular seemed to stand in horror of having Eliza Barnes or Jane Myrtilla Fowler sitting at the table at every meal and speaking to him as "Dave Benedict." He had also tried in a helpless kind of way to explain to his sister how utterly unlike her these girls were and how incongruous it would be to see them sitting across the table from her. David had an innate delicacy about him which was more than mere worldly pride. Ruth laughed brightly at the idea that there would be anything out of the way in her eating at the same table with the said Jane Myrtilla if need be, but secretly she saw exactly how unwise it would be for them to try to have another element in their already mixed household. Matters must be simplified as much as possible if they were to find a common level for all three to live upon. It would not do to have a stranger always about who might possibly report to the entire town anything which was said at the table by any one of them. Ruth sat down perplexed. Something must be done. She must talk it over with David. The house needed cleaning. There would be hard work to which she was unaccustomed, which even if she felt competent to do might end by making her ill.
A bright idea suddenly occurred to her. Sally, the cook, of whom she had taken a sorrowful leave but four days before, had been in her foster-mother's family for twelve years. She had been rescued from a life of trouble and taken in by Mrs. Benedict, and she felt a gratitude which knew no bounds. She had clasped the young girl in her arms in a reverent kind of way as she bade her good-bye and said, "Yeh dear little thing, yeh! Miss Ruth, if ye'll jist say the word only one time and wroite me, I'll folly ye to the inds of the earth." Now, it was but four days since she had left and she was going to her sister's to stay till she had found a suitable place. Perhaps it was not too late to secure her. Ruth thought over all the possibilities, pictured Sally, used to large rooms, elegant furniture, and fine cooking, placed in the plain farmhouse, and decided what she would do. She would put the matter before her plainly and let her decide for herself. Ruth ran to the door and called David. He came quickly from the barnyard, where he was busy about some work, thinking to himself how very pleasant it was to have some one there to call him.
“David, isn't there some woman who will come in to clean house and go home to her meals for a few days? Or can we get along for a few days almost anyway, you know? I have a plan.”
David thought a moment and finally decided on a good, strong colored woman who might be induced to go out by the day for a short time. Then Ruth unfolded her plan. David was somewhat dubious about introducing another unknown quantity into the household, but he was already beginning to have unbounded confidence in the young woman who was at the helm, so he gave his assent to her proposition. Ruth then went in to write Sally, while David prepared to “hitch up” and take the letter to the office.
After Ruth had dinner well under way she took a survey of the house, trying not to feel the chill of desolation as she entered one after another the great bare rooms. It made her shudder to feel the cold air that struck her even on this warm day in late summer as she opened the closed rooms. She threw open all the shutters and let the sunlight stream in from garret to cellar, even over the sacred haircloth furniture in the well-guarded "front room" which Aunt Nancy had carefully kept just as it had been when she came, and which, since the mother's death, had not been used. There was a wax cross with clambering, impossible flowers, under a glass globe on the marble-top table. There were several thread tidies in elaborate patterns on the haircloth chairs and sofa. The small box stove that was supposed to heat the room had a grim, leering effect, with a few cobwebs draped across its front. The yellow paper shades had stiff baskets of fruit pictured on them by way of decoration. The ingrain carpet was a bold attempt in crude reds and greens. Beside the glass globe on the center table, there was a large old-fashioned family Bible, and on it lay a red plush album with a looking-glass on the upper cover. It looked absurdly new and out of place amid the old-fashioned atmosphere of the room. It had been Aunt Nancy's purchase of a traveling agent for whom she felt sorry, and she had excused the unwonted extravagance by saying that "the woman needed help, and an album was a handy thing to have in the house, anyway." It was about the only luxury that Aunt Nancy had ever permit-ted herself to purchase in the whole of her lifetime, for she was of a saving disposition and had been brought up to economical habits.
There was a framed wreath of hair flowers under glass and there were some portraits on the wall, queer old-fashioned photographs and daguerreotypes in oval gilt, or frames of ancient pine cones and varnished coffee berries. The faces were faded and the hair and dress were of years before. It made them seem unreal. She wished she knew which were her own father and mother. It was so strange a position, hers, not to know the look of the faces of those who had been the source of her being. With a sinking sensation as if everything were slipping away from her, she reached out her hand to the Bible and read a part of the ninety-first Psalm:
“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.”
There came a warm thrill of joy to her heart, and it was as if her Master were speaking sweet words in her ear. Here was a message for her, and perhaps then she was wanted just here to live and work for him. If she were under the shadow of the Almighty, then surely no earthly shadows could ever fall upon her. It was hers to dwell in the secret place of the Most High if she would. She dropped upon her knees and asked for strength to dwell in that sweet secret place, and then again for guidance in this her much-hedged-about path.
Then Ruth deliberately sat her down to face the question of this bare, old-fashioned, unattractive house—almost uninhabitable it seemed to her refined taste, used to having everything arranged in comfort and harmony. In the first place, the furniture was not abundant, and what there was was of the stiff; hard kind. How could she ever make this home attractive and comfort-able for her brothers and pleasant for herself? Some of the furnishings had suffered through much use and some through neglect. The boys had not been careful housekeepers. How could they have been expected to be? The rag carpets were musty from long dampness and lack of air in the rooms. Ruth leaned her head against the hard haircloth back of the only arm-chair the room contained and closed her eyes, thinking wearily and hungrily of the soft carpets in rich harmonious colorings which covered all the floors of the home she had left, and of the easy-chairs and pretty curtains, and oh! all the pretty belongings of a comfortable, even luxurious, city borne. She had helped to select many of those home furnishings, and her heart ached for a sight of them even after one day's absence, If she only dared bring them here, or some of them, but no—and here she sat erect. Was it possible that she was so bound down to mere things that she could not give them up for a time? Her brothers might be seriously offended if she should propose such a thing. Besides, she had put the house, furniture and all, into the hands of her agent to rent, and it was doubtless by this time rented. She had burnt her bridges behind her and must not look back.
David's step as he came through the hall from the kitchen in search of her roused her effectually. Had he returned so soon? She smiled as she heard his hesitating voice calling her by name. He scarcely felt that he had a right to speak to her so familiarly. A thought of sorrow that it should be so between own brother and sister came to her, and then she met him in the hall. He had brought her a letter, and as she took it a swift hope passed over her that maybe the Lord was calling her in other directions, that this letter contained an answer to her prayer. She tore it open hastily, while David stood awkwardly by, watching her, not knowing whether to go or stay, and half fearing himself that this letter might in some way snatch this new-found sister away from the gloomy house. He was beginning to be thoroughly glad she had come, even so soon.
But no, she found that there was no call for her to come back to the city. Instead, it was a letter from her agent saying he had an opportunity to rent the house at a good rate unfurnished, if only she were willing to have her goods stored. He desired to have an immediate reply as to whether she wished him to close this bargain or not, and awaited her orders concerning the furniture, in case she chose to have the articles taken from the house. He added in a postscript, that as they had so often talked over the matter of renting unfurnished, and decided it was best to rent furnished under the circumstances, he feared she might consider that he had taken a good deal upon himself to consider the matter at all; but the fact that the parties wishing to rent were such exceptionally fine tenants and willing to pay so high a rent had made him feel that possibly she would wish to change her mind.
Ruth read the letter through twice, standing there in the hall, and then sighed and wished she had some one to advise her, and so looking up met the clear admiring eyes of her brother fixed upon her. Why, to be sure! David could advise her, and was it possible this letter was in answer to prayer for guidance? Was it put in this way that it might be easy for her to bring her own furniture here without offense? Without more ado she handed the open letter to David and sank upon the lower step of the staircase saying, “There, David, tell me what to do?”
Surely God's Holy Spirit was guiding her every action. She could not have done anything which would have more completely and quickly won the heart of her brother than to thus freely and frankly give him her entire confidence. It changed the face of matters quite materially in his mind. He was no longer being condescended to by an angel who had suddenly dropped down and might as suddenly and mysteriously disappear, but he was being looked up to as a brother by one who needed help, advice and protection. His heart warmed instantly with the thought that he would protect her always from everything just so long as she would let him. Then he read the letter. Ruth watched him as he read and decided again that he was handsome. There was a look and bearing about him which reminded her of his Uncle Hiram, who had been known to her all her life as her father. She wondered if he did not resemble their father.
David had a few questions to ask. Did she know what the rates of storage in the city were? Were they not very high? Was she attached to the furniture? Would she like to have some or perhaps all of it about her? Would it not make the old farmhouse seem more homelike to her? He had a dim recollection of rich blendings of color and soft luxury of which he had caught a glimpse on that memorable visit to his Aunt Ruth's, and a fine instinct told him that the haircloth furniture and rag carpets must be a decided contrast. Her face flushed and her eyes grew bright with eagerness as he asked this last question.
Oh, she would like to have her things here; might she? She clasped her hands in her eagerness and came and stood shyly by his side, looking up at him. Was he sure they would not be in the way? Would he mind having her put them in place of some of the present furniture? She did not want to do anything which would hurt his feelings or Joseph's, and if he was attached to the things he had been used to all his life, she was perfectly willing to live just as they did. (At this instant she made up her mind to really like that red and green ingrain in the parlor, if it was necessary in order to win her brothers' love.)