All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography. Barr Amelia E.

into them with the greatest ease. Then we went down stairs, and Miss Berners introduced me to the girls, and after tea we had a pleasant evening together.

      I shall not detain my readers with any account of this school. It was the usual boarding school of its date, under very delightful surroundings and conditions. I remained until the following June in Downham Market, working hard, but willingly, and forming many agreeable acquaintances, but not one among them, that had any influence or bearing upon my future life. I remember their names, and their personalities, and can go all through their simple or splendid homes, but that is all. Doubtless we were merely introduced to each other for our next reincarnation. Then we may have a more fortunate meeting.

      I liked all the people I was brought into constant contact with, but if I had not liked them, Miss Stromberg would have been sufficient. I really loved the clever little woman. She spoke five languages; she played with the magical tang and touch of a gypsy with a violin; she danced like a fairy; and when she sang her North Russian songs, you wept with pity for the lonely souls, on the great snow plains, who out of their own deep sadness, caused their very music to weep. She made all her dresses, and we envied their cut and style, and she knew perfectly all the feminine arts of the toilet.

      It was not her fault that I did not become a creditable French scholar. She did her best with me but I had no aptitude for languages; and like the other “stupid English girls” I found it silly to talk with four of my members at once; my eyes at that time had not learned speech, my shoulders I had been told from my childhood, to keep down and well back, and my hands had a hundred duties of their own. But for many, many other things, I thank her even to this day. I kissed her good-bye in June. I was sure we would meet in September, but I never saw her again – never, never, even heard from her. But I remember yet, how patiently she rubbed off the crudities of my insular education, and how day by day her kind tactful ways, led me to a far lower estimate of my own attainments; for measuring myself by Maria Stromberg, I could not but see how little I knew, how unpolished I really was, and especially how far behind the mark in that control of temper and sweetness of thought and intention, that made all Maria Stromberg said and did, agreeable and welcome. I have never forgotten her; I wonder if she still lives! Wherever in God’s universe she now dwells, I hope she is happy, and still remembers me.

      On the last evening of my stay in Downham Market, Miss Berners asked me to walk with her in the garden, and while doing so, she told me she intended to remove her school to some London suburb. She thought probably to Richmond. I was glad to hear this. The thought of London was an enchantment, and I promised to come to her as soon as I could in any way help the settlement of the new home. We parted mutually pleased and hopeful, and the next morning I took a train for London, and from thence one direct to Kendal.

      I had twenty pounds in my pocket book, and I felt that my ten months’ faithful work had given me a right to turn homeward, and then as soon as I did so, I was impatient of any delay. I found the whole family at tea, and how happily I joined the party, any one can imagine. I had so much to tell about the school, and was so proud that we were going to remove it to London. Downham Market had become almost contemptible, and I spoke of it as a dull, country village, where nothing ever happened but a horse or a cattle fair. After tea, Father went to his study, and I followed and laid the twenty sovereigns beside him.

      “They are yours, dear Father,” I said. “I do not need them, and they will help Mary’s and Alethia’s school bills.”

      He looked at them, and at me, and his eyes filled. “Milly! Milly!” he answered, “you are a good child, and I thank God for you, but you must keep your money; Father does not need it. You know about your Uncle Bell, do you not?”

      “I know nothing of Uncle Bell, Father. I wrote to him once, but he never answered my letter.”

      “Then I must tell you, that on the fifth of last February, your mother’s birthday, he called on Mother and gave her the row of cottages standing on Tenter Fell. Now, Milly, the income from there, just about balances the loss I made through that villain, Blackpool. So, my dear, we have enough, and even a little to spare; what more does a child of God want?” and as he spoke, he gently pushed the sovereigns towards me.

      “No one told me about Uncle Bell,” I said. “I wish I had known.”

      “I remember, we thought it best not to name it. You would not have saved twenty pounds if you had known of the gift, and you might have missed some fine lessons, that only a sense of poverty teaches.”

      I soon went back to Mother. I found her sitting quiet in the gloaming. I told her about the twenty pounds, and said, “Dear Mother, you and I will divide it. Will you take half?”

      “I will take it gladly,” she answered. “There are so many little things a woman wants, that I do not like to ask Father for.”

      “I know that, Mother,” I answered. “Have I not seen you alter the dressing of your hair, because you broke one of your side combs, and did not wish to trouble Father about a new pair. I can recall twenty things, that were a distress to you to want, and which you did without rather than – ”

      “Milly, that ten pounds puts all right. I shall get what I want out of it.”

      “Did not Uncle Bell leave you some money, Mother?”

      “Did Father tell you so?”

      “Yes, he said it covered the loss he made. Now you will have a small income, Mother. Will it begin soon?”

      “It began at once. The cottages were a gift. Father went the next morning and drew February’s rents.”

      “How much did they amount to, Mother?”

      “I do not know, Milly. He never told me. He has drawn them now for five months, but I have never seen a farthing of the money. I have felt sometimes, as if it would be pleasant – just to see it, and have it in my hands,” and the tears welled slowly into her soft brown eyes.

      “But I do not understand,” I continued. “Father would not touch my money, yet he takes all of yours without leave or license. What does it mean?”

      “It means that I am a wife. All I had, or might have, became your father’s as soon as I was his wife. You are yet a spinster, and have some rights in your own earnings.”

      “But suppose you have no legal rights, all the more Father ought to give your every right. It is unkind, unjust, utterly contemptible!” I cried in something of a passion. “I am ashamed of Father!”

      “No! No! All men do as he does, and many do a great deal worse. Father has never seen, or heard of wives treated any differently. If he knew better, he would do better.”

      “Then, Mother,” I said, “he ought to know better for he will not escape punishment on the plea of ignorance. I have often wondered why John Bunyan makes Ignorance go into hell by the back door. He is right. Such ignorance as you make an excuse for Father is a sneaking sin. It suits back doors. I would rather be a brazen thief, and go in swearing by the main entrance. Father ought to be told the truth, and you ought to ask for your money.”

      “It is too late, Milly. Say no more. I have got so far through life without money. Until I was married, I had to go to my father for every shilling – since then, I have gone to your father. But I have ten pounds now. I never had as much money before, to spend as I liked. I feel quite rich.”

      This conversation sunk into my soul. A great pity for this sweet, patient, penniless mother, suffering so unnoticed and uncomplaining the need of many womanly trifles, made me childishly angry. The next day I went to Father with “Pilgrim’s Progress” in my hand, and asked him what Bunyan meant “by putting Ignorance into hell in such an ignominious manner?” I followed this question with others, which made him look at me with a queer, thoughtful expression, and then relapse into a silence so marked, as to be virtually a dismissal.

      It is a joy to me this day to remember that on this visit, I was able to do many little things for Mother which made life pleasanter to her; for Father was certainly much worse, and it appeared almost wrong to permit him to preach. Yet I could see that in the pulpit the spiritual man had not lost control; for the same lucid, telling sentences followed each other with