I had a quiet time, compared to some girls who were always rushed after, and rushing through the gay dances. I was politely asked, and I did dance; but not every time; that was as it always was with me. But all the beauty and all the gladness in the whole room was mine; for it was all “the dear Lord’s,” and He was giving it as He would. “Passing it round,” I couldn’t help thinking—was it irreverent, I wonder—as the sweet, rich confections were passed round, that were meant, a share in turn, for all. My turn would come. And for my plain, still, Rocky-Mountain face that I was wearing now,—there was a secret between me and some Heart that thought of me across whatever cold and emptiness of wintry way might seem to lie between, like that which had been when in my childish disappointment I wore the simple bit of ribbon that “my mother had put on.”
There came a time when I had to give up other beauty. To recognise that it was not for me,—yet. Not in all this long, waiting world, as other people have it. That was harder; yet it was all one. It seemed to me that some people were given at their birth a kind of ticket that opened to them all paradises; and that others were thrust forth, unaccredited, into a life whose most beautiful doors would be shut, one after another, in their faces.
THE GROWN-UP EMMELINE.
I had to content myself with a fate like my face; a plain pleasantness without great, wonderful delight. A Rocky-Mountain aspect of living, that seemed hard and rough until I got into the heart of it, and let it shut out the fair champaigns, and then it showed me its own depth, and height, and glory.
There was one long, heavy time when For-mamma and I were separated for years. For-mamma was a widow, now; we four that had been a family together were we two here and they two there; they three, in the other home. And my grandmother, in her feeble, querulous, uncomfortable old age, had nobody to come and live with her and “see her through,” as she said. At nearly the same time, For-mamma’s sister died, and there were five little children to be cared for. I thought she would never get away from that duty, though mine might see an end. But a new wife came there after a good while, as For-mamma—I hope it was as she came—had come to us; and then grandmother died, and nobody could say otherwise than that it was a release. I did not say so; I hate to hear people say that; it is so apt to mean a release for those who outlive. There are long dyings, and brief ones; when it is over, we go back to the well time to measure our loss. Grandmother’s dying began almost twenty years before, when her nerves gave out, and her comfort in living was over, and people began to lose patience with her. I looked back to that time, and thought what a bright handsome woman, fond of her own way but with such a fine capable way, I could recollect her.
I had tried to do my duty; it was a piece of life that the same Love had put on me that I had learned—a little—to believe in as a mother’s; and now it was over—“through,” and For-mamma and I came together again, so gladly!
I suppose everybody thinks we are very fortunate people, and perfectly happy; for we have plenty of money, and can do all the pleasant things that can be done with money, for ourselves and for others. I suppose many persons think that my five years with Grandmother Cumberland were paid for in the fifty thousand dollars that she left me. I know that they were paid for as they went along, and as I found myself able and cheerful to live them.
For-mamma and I are happy; I do not think we shall ever leave each other now so long as we both may live. I often think how my father joined us together with those words.