Amazing Grace, Who Proves That Virtue Has Its Silver Lining

By Kate Trimble Sharber

DigiCat Publishing presents to you this special edition of "Amazing Grace, Who Proves That Virtue Has Its Silver Lining" by Kate Trimble Sharber. DigiCat Publishing considers every written word to be a legacy of humankind. Every DigiCat book has been carefully reproduced for republishing in a new modern format. The books are available in print, as well as ebooks. DigiCat hopes you will treat this work with the acknowledgment and passion it deserves as a classic of world literature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Sep 4, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547242499

Book preview

Kate Trimble Sharber

Amazing Grace, Who Proves That Virtue Has Its Silver Lining

EAN 8596547242499

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I STRAINED RELATIONS

CHAPTER II A GLIMPSE OF PROMISED LAND

CHAPTER III NIP AND TUCK

CHAPTER IV THE QUALITY OF MERCY

CHAPTER V ET TU, BRUTE!

CHAPTER VI FLAG DAY

CHAPTER VII STRAWS POINT

CHAPTER VIII LONGEST WAY HOME

CHAPTER IX MAITLAND TAIT

CHAPTER X IN THE FIRELIGHT

CHAPTER XI TWO MEN AND A MAID

CHAPTER XII AN ASSIGNMENT

CHAPTER XIII JILTED!

CHAPTER XIV THE SKIES FALL

CHAPTER XV THE JOURNEY

CHAPTER XVI LONDON

CHAPTER XVII HOUSE OF A HUNDRED DREAMS

CHAPTER I

STRAINED RELATIONS

Table of Contents

Some people, you will admit, can absorb experience in gentle little homeopathic doses, while others require it to be shot into them by hypodermic injections.

Certainly my Dresden-china mother up to the time of my birth had been forced to take this bitter medicine in every form, yet she had never been known to profit by it. She would not, it is true, fly in the very face of Providence, but she would nag at its coat tails.

You might as well name this child 'Praise-the-Lord,' and be done with it! complained the rich Christie connection (which mother had always regarded as outlaws as well as in-laws), shaking its finger across the christening font into mother's boarding-school face on the day of my baptism. "Of course all the world knows you're glad she's posthumous, but—"

But with Tom Christie only six weeks in spirit-land it isn't decent! Cousin Pollie finished up individually.

Besides, good families don't name their children for abstract things, Aunt Hannah put in. It—well, it simply isn't done.

A woman who never does anything that isn't done, never does anything worth doing, mother answered, through pretty pursed lips.

But, since you must be freakish, why not call her Prudence, or Patience—to keep Oldburgh from wagging its tongue in two? Aunt Louella suggested.

Oldburgh isn't the town's name, of course, but it's a descriptive alias. The place itself is, unfortunately, the worst overworked southern capital in fiction. It is one of the Old South's types, boasting far more social leaders than sky-scrapers—and you can't suffer a blow-out on any pike near the city's limits that isn't flanked by a college campus.

Oldburgh knows how I feel, mother replied. "If this baby had been a boy I should have named him Theodore—gift of God—but since she's a girl, her name is Grace."

She said it smoothly, I feel sure, for her Vere de Vere repose always jutted out like an iceberg into a troubled sea when there was a family squall going on.

"All right!" pronounced two aunts, simultaneously and acidly.

"All right!" chorused another two, but Cousin Pollie hadn't given up the ship.

Just name a girl Faith, Hope or Natalie, if you want her to grow up freckle-faced and marry a ribbon clerk! she threatened. Grace is every bit as bad! It is indicative! It proclaims what you think of her—what you will expect of her—and just trust her to disappoint you!

Which is only too true! You may be named Fannie or Bess without your family having anything up its sleeve, but it's an entirely different matter when you're named for one of the prismatic virtues. You know then that you're expected to take an A.B. degree, mate with a millionaire and bring up your children by the Montessori method.

Bet Gwace 'ud ruther be ducked 'n cwistened, anyhow! observed Guilford Blake, my five-year-old betrothed.—Not that we were Hindus and believed in infant marriage exactly! Not that! We were simply southerners, living in that portion of the South where the principal ambition in life is to stay put—where everything you get is inherited, tastes, mates and demijohns—where blood is thicker than axle-grease, and the dividing fence between your estate and the next is properly supposed to act as a seesaw basis for your amalgamated grandchildren.—Hence this early occasion for Enter Guilford.

My daughter is not going to disappoint me, mother declared, as she motioned for Guilford's mother to come forward and keep him from profaning the water in the font with his little celluloid duck.

Don't be too sure, warned Cousin Pollie.

Well, I'll—I'll risk it! mother fired back. "And if you must know the truth, I couldn't express my feelings of gratitude—yes, I said gratitude—in any other name than Grace. I have had a wonderful blessing lately, and I am going to give credit where it is due! It was nothing less than an act of heavenly grace that released me!"

At this point the mercury dropped so suddenly that Cousin Pollie's breath became visible. Only six weeks before my father had died—of delirium tremens. It was a case of "the death wound on his gallant breast the last of many scars," but the Christies had never given mother any sympathy on that account. He had done nothing worse, his family considered, than to get his feet tangled up in the line of least resistance. Nearly every southern man born with a silver spoon in his mouth discards it for a straw to drink mint julep with!

Calling her the whole of the doxology isn't going to get that Christie look off her! father's family sniffed, their triumph answering her defiant outburst. She is the living image of Uncle Lancelot!

You'll notice this about in-laws. If the baby is like their family their attitude is triumphant—if it's like anybody else on the face of the earth their manner is distinctly accusing.

'Lancelot!' mother repeated scornfully. If they had to name him for poetry why didn't they call him Lothario and be done with it!

The circle again stiffened, as if they had a spine in common.

Certainly it isn't becoming in you to train this child up with a disrespectful feeling toward Uncle Lancelot, some one reprimanded quickly, since she gives every evidence of being very much like him in appearance.

My child like that notorious Lancelot Christie! mother repeated, then burst into tears. "Why she's a Moore, I'll have you understand—from here—down to here!"

She encompassed the space between the crown of my throbbing head and the soles of my kicking feet, but neither the tears nor the measurements melted Cousin Pollie.

A Moore! Bah! Why, you needn't expect that she'll turn out anything like you. A Lydia Languish mother always brings forth a caryatid!

A what? mother demanded frenziedly, then remembering that Cousin Pollie had just returned from Europe with guide-books full of strange but not necessarily insulting words, she backed down into her former assertion. She's a Moore! She's the image of my revered father.

There's something in that, Pollie, admitted Aunt Louella, who was the weak-kneed one of the sisters. Look at the poetic little brow and expression of spiritual intelligence!

But what a combination! Aunt Hannah pointed out. As sure as you're a living woman this mouth and chin are like Uncle Lancelot!—Think of it—Jacob Moore and Lancelot Christie living together in the same skin!

Why, they'll tear the child limb from limb!

This piece of sarcasm came from old great-great-aunt, Patricia Christie, who never took sides with anybody in family disputes, because she hated them one and all alike. She rose from her chair now and hobbled on her stick into the midst of the battle-field.

Let me see! Let me see!

She's remarkably like Uncle Lancelot, aunty, Cousin Pollie declared with a superior air of finality.

She's a thousand times more like my father than I, myself, am, poor little mother avowed stanchly.

Then, all I've got to say is that it's a devilish bad combination! Aunt Patricia threw out, making faces at them impartially.

And to pursue the matter further, I may state that it was! All my life I have been divided between those ancient enemies—cut in two by a Solomon's sword, as it were, because no decision could be made as to which one really owned me.

You believe in a dual personality? Well, they're mine! They quarrel within me! They dispute! They pull and wrangle and seesaw in as many different directions as a party of Cook tourists in Cairo—coming into the council-chamber of my conscience to decide everything I do, from the selection of a black-dotted veil to the emancipation of the sex—while I sit by as helpless as a bound-and-gagged spiritual medium.

They're not going to affect her future, mother said, but a little gasp of fear showed that if she'd been a Roman Catholic she would be crossing herself.

Of course not! Aunt Patricia answered. It's all written down, anyhow, in her little hand. Let me see the lines of her palm!

Her feet's a heap cuter! Guilford advised, but the old lady untwisted my tight little fist.

Ah! This tells the story!

What? mother asked, peering over eagerly.

Nothing—nothing, except that the youngster's a Christie, sure enough! All heart and no head.

Mother started to cry again, but Aunt Patricia stopped her.

For the lord's sake hush—here comes the minister! Anyhow, if the child grows up beautiful she may survive it—but heaven help the woman who has a big heart and a big nose at the same time.

Then, with this christening and bit of genealogical gossip by way of introduction, the next mile-stone in my career came one day when the twentieth century was in its wee small figures.

I hate Grandfather Moore and Uncle Lancelot Christie, both! I confided to Aunt Patricia upon that occasion, having been sent to her room to make her a duty visit, as I was home for the holidays—a slim-legged sorority pledge—and had learned that talking about the Past, either for or against, was the only way to gain her attention. I hate them both, I say! I wish you could be vaccinated against your ancestors. Are they in you to stay?

I put the question pertly, for she was not the kind to endure timidity nor hushed reverence from her family connections. She was a woman of great spirit herself, and she called forth spirit in other people. A visit with her was more like a bomb than a benediction.

Hate your ancestors?

At this time she was perching, hawk-eyed and claw-fingered, upon the edge of the grave, but she always liked and remembered me because I happened to be the only member of the family who didn't keep a black bonnet in readiness upon the wardrobe shelf.

I hate that grandfather and Uncle Lancelot affair! Don't you think it's a pity I couldn't have had a little say-so in that business?

Yes—no—I don't know—ouch, my knee! she snapped. What a chatterbox you are, Grace! I've got rheumatism!

But I've got 'hereditary tendencies,' I persisted, and chloroform liniment won't do any good with my ailment. I wish I need never hear my family history mentioned again.

Then, you shouldn't have chosen so notable a lineage, she exclaimed viciously. Your Grandfather Moore, as you know, was a famous divine—

I know—and Uncle Lancelot Christie was an equally famous infernal, I said, for the sake of varying the story a little. I was so tired of it.

She stared, arrested in her recital.

What?

Well, if you call a minister a divine, why shouldn't you call a gambler an infernal?

Just after the Civil War, she kept on, with the briefest pause left to show that she ignored my interruption, your grandfather did all in his power—although he was no kin to me, I give him credit for that—he did all in his power to re-establish peace between the states by preaching and praying across the border.

And Uncle Lancelot accomplished the feat in half the time by flirting and marrying, I reminded her.

She turned her face away, to hide a smile I knew, for she always concealed what was pleasant and displayed grimaces.

Well, I must admit that when Lancelot brought home his third Ohio heiress—

The other two heiresses having died of neglect, I put in to show my learning.

—many southern aristocrats felt that if the Mason and Dixon line had not been wiped away it had at least been broken up into dots and dashes—like a telegraph code.

I smiled conspicuously at her wit, then went back to my former stand. I was determined to be firm about it.

I don't care—I hate them both! Nagging old crisscross creatures!

She looked at me blankly for a moment, then:

Grace, you amaze me! she said.

But she mimicked mother's voice—mother's hurt, helpless, moral-suasion voice—as she said it, and we both burst out laughing.

But, honest Injun, aunty, if a person's got to carry around a heritage, why aren't you allowed to choose which one you prefer? I asked; then, a sudden memory coming to me, I leaped to my feet and sprang across the room, my gym. shoes sounding in hospital thuds against the floor. I drew up to where three portraits hung on the opposite wall. They represented an admiral, an ambassador and an artist.

Why can't you adopt an ancestor, as you can a child? I asked again, turning back to her.

Adopt an ancestor?

Her voice was trembling with excitement, which was not brought about by the annoyance of my chatter, and as I saw that she was nodding her head vigorously, I calmed down at once and regretted my precipitate action, for the doctor had said that any unusual exertion or change of routine would end her.

I only meant that I'd prefer these to grandfather and Uncle Lancelot, I explained soothingly, but her anxiety only increased.

Which one? she demanded in a squeaky voice which fairly bubbled with a bully-for-you sound. "Which one, Grace?"

Him, I answered.

They're all hims! she screamed impatiently.

I mean the artist.

At this she tried to struggle to her feet, then settled back in exhaustion and drew a deep breath.

Come here! Come here quick! she panted weakly.

Yes, 'um.

She wiped away a tear, in great shame, for she was not a weeping woman.

Thank God! she said angrily. Thank God! That awful problem is settled at last! I knew I couldn't have a moment's peace a-dying until I had decided.

Decided what? I gasped in dismay, for I was afraid from the look in her eyes that she was seeing things. Shall I call mother, or—some one?

Don't you dare! she challenged. "Don't you leave this room, miss. It's you that I have business with!"

But I haven't done a thing! I plead, as weak all of a sudden as she was.

"It's not what you've done, but what you are, she exclaimed. You're the only