"And won't I be glad to tell Miss Oliver that I am not coming to school any more! She thought she was going to turn me off, and now I shall turn her off instead."
Such was the somewhat inconsistent conclusion to Marion's reflections, but she saw no inconsistency. The career for which she had been sighing had come to her unsought. She was going to have the new place and the new "beginning" she had wished for, and to leave all her troubles behind her.
Marion was leaning out of her window as she indulged in these pleasing dreams, when she suddenly became aware that her case was being discussed in the room below. It was not very dignified to listen, but the temptation to know what her friends really thought of the project was strong.
"I think myself the child had better go," said her grandfather. "The truth is we have spoiled her here among us, and her faults are partly ours."
"I have not meant to spoil her," said Miss Baby.
"No, you have meant to do nothing but what was right, I am sure, but you have after all made yourself a kind of slave to Marion. You have always taken every stick and stone out of her way; you have taken on yourself all the work that was anyway hard or disagreeable, and left to her only that which was light and easy. You have denied your own tastes and fancies, that hers might be gratified; and worked far harder than you ought in order that she might have time to study. We have all done it, more or less, but you most of all. We have spoiled the child among us, there is no denying it, and we ought not to expect her to be grateful for the spoiling."
"You know I thought it would be better to keep Marion at home and at work this summer," said Alick; "and something Miss Oliver told me yesterday has confirmed me in my opinion. She says Marion has not done well at all the last year, and that she is injuring the school by her bad example. I thought to speak to Marion about the matter, but as she is to go away so soon, perhaps it is not worth while."
"I dare say she will do better in a new place," observed Aunt Christian. "A change of scene and circumstances often works wonders. Marion seems to me to be bright enough."
"Miss Oliver says that is not the trouble; she says Marion will not work."
"Perhaps she is a little unjust. Teachers do sometimes take dislikes to particular scholars, there is no denying that. I know Miss Parsons did to me."
"Yes, because you would ask inconvenient questions, which she could not answer. I don't think that Miss Oliver is prejudiced against Marion, however; she seemed to regret her conduct very much."
"It is only natural that Marion should like the prospect of a change," said Miss Baby. "I don't blame her for it at all. I suppose I have waited on her and indulged her more than I ought. I am afraid Eiley may do the same thing."
"The little fellow they had with them in New York seemed to be in excellent order, I thought," remarked Doctor Campbell; "I should say Van Alstine was not a man to be trifled with. He looks to me as if he might rule with a pretty firm hand, and be rather alarming if one rebelled. How many children are there?"
"Four or five boys at home and one married, besides a daughter who is married to his partner, Mr. Overbeck."
"She is not his own, I believe, but either an adopted child or a step-daughter," said Miss Baby; "she always calls Eiley 'Mother,' and Eiley seems to like her very much. Fancy our Eiley being called grandmother by a great girl fourteen years old!"
"I felt badly when I heard of Eiley's second marriage, but it has certainly turned out very well, much better than her first unlucky venture," observed Christian. "I see Marion has very exalted ideas of her father. What has become of all the poor man's pictures?"
"They are all put away in the garret and locked up," answered Miss Barbara. "I could not have them round; they were too dreadful. It seemed the kindest thing to put them out of sight and out of mind."
"Well, bairns, it is quite time we were all abed," said old Hector. "I think we have all decided rightly, and that it is best for the lassie to go. If the arrangement does not answer, she can always come back. Poor thing! She knows no more of what is before her than a chicken before it chips the shell."
Marion withdrew from the window and hastily prepared for bed. She was sure of going, that was one comfort. But to think that grandfather should call her "a spoiled child," and think that Aunt Barbara had been her "slave!"
"Perhaps they may find out the difference when I am gone," said she proudly. "Perhaps when Aunt Baby finds she has all the errands and the rest on her hands, she will know that she has not done everything, But never mind, let her think so if it does her any good, poor soul! I dare say it does look that way to her. People do so like to think themselves abused, and it is a pity if she can't enjoy the privilege. I am sure I won't do anything to destroy the illusion." So magnanimously resolved Marion, who always bitterly resented being thought better off than her neighbours.
CHAPTER X.
GOING AND STAYING.
MARION waked in the morning with a general impression that something very delightful had happened, but it was some minutes before she could disentangle her recollections. At last, however, it came to her. She was really going away, going to begin the world anew as she had wished. She was going where she would have a chance to show what she could do, and where she would not be looked down upon, and treated like a baby, as she was now.
As she lay and looked round her pretty little room with its old-fashioned furniture almost black with age, the carved cabinet which did duty as a bureau, the looking-glass with its queer frame of black wood and tarnished gilding, the muslin-covered toilet-table which Aunt Baby had dressed up in one of her own old flowered dresses as a surprise for Marion's birthday, she wondered how it would seem to wake in a new place.
"Of course I shall go to work and make my room as pretty as I can. I mean to begin some mats and tidies and a scrap-bag, and have some glasses for flowers. I mean to ask Aunt Baby to let me have father's pictures and hang them up—at least some of them. Perhaps some day I shall have a fine house and picture galleries of my own, and then dear father's works shall be appreciated at last. Of course poor dear Aunt Baby could not be expected to see anything in them."
Then returning to her room: "I shall have my Bible and books of course, and when the little boys come in to see me, as I shall let them when they are very good, I shall read to them and tell them Bible stories. Perhaps I shall get them to have family worship after a while."
Marion lay indulging in these delightful visions till the striking clock warned her that it was time to get up. She had resolved on being very kind and amiable to everybody, so as to leave none but pleasant remembrances behind her. Especially she would be very considerate to Aunt Baby. After all, she had meant to be kind, and had been so according to her lights. As Christian said, the idea of her own superiority was firmly fixed in Marion's mind, especially of her superiority to her own family.
"I suppose Marie must have some new clothes," said Hector McGregor at breakfast. "We must not let her go among her new friends with nothing to wear."
"I don't think you need take any trouble about that, grandfather," said Marion, "I dare say father—I mean Mr. Van Alstine—will provide all that is necessary."
"I dare say Ezra will do what is right, my dear, but I should not like you to begin by asking him for something to wear," said Miss Baby. "Aunt Christian has to go to T— for two or three days. We will just look over your things and see what is needed, and she will buy it for us."
The clothes were looked over, and it was decided that Marion should have a new black silk, a muslin and some other articles of minor importance.
"Don't you mean to send for your summer shawl, Aunt Baby?" asked Marion. "You won't have another so good a chance."
"No, dear; I don't think I shall buy a summer shawl just at present," answered Aunt Baby, quietly. "My old one will do very well for some time yet."
"Well, I wonder how you can bear to wear that old snuff-coloured Canton crape that is as well-known as the meeting-house," said Marion.
And it was not till some hours afterward that she suspected that the price of Aunt Baby's new summer shawl had gone into her black silk. It was not that Marion meant to be ungrateful so much as that she did not think. Her heart was never—
"At leisure from itself"
to consider the claims and feelings of others.
"Aunt Baby, I wish you would let me have the key of the east garret," said Marion next day after doctor and Mrs. Campbell had gone; "I want to look at father's pictures."
Miss Baby hesitated.
"Marie dear, I don't think I would touch them if I were you. I don't think you will find any pleasure in them."
"I can tell better when I see them," said Marion, loftily. "I think I have a right to the things which belonged to him, and whatever his faults were, he was my father."
"True, my dear. I would have you respect his memory, and for that very reason I would let the dead rest. However, take ell own way, lassie," she added, as Marion made a gesture of impatience. "Here is the key. Bring it back when you have done with it."
"I suppose I can have some of the pictures to take with me," said Marion; "and the rest can stay here till I have a house of my own."
"Oh yes, they can stay; never fear."
Marion ran up to the east garret, as it was called, and opened the stiff and seldom-used door. The place was not so much a garret as a little chamber in the roof, with a large dormer window a good deal darkened first by dust and cobwebs and secondly by an old green curtain.
Marion went down for a broom, with which she brushed away the cobwebs. She rolled up the curtain, threw open the window, and then looked eagerly about her.
A quantity of rather thin new-looking books were piled on the floor in one corner. In another were a number of large unframed canvases leaning against the wall. Marion eagerly seized upon two and turned them round. Her heart sank at the first glance, but she resolutely wiped the dust from their faces and placed them in the most favourable light and sat down on an old chair to look at them. Alas for her dreams of picture galleries and posthumous fame for her poor father! One of the pictures represented a broad pewter-coloured river running down the middle of the canvas at a very steep angle. On one verdigris-coloured bank was a large red church, which seemed on the point of slipping out of the picture. On the other, exactly opposite, was a large red house similarly endangered. A cow which, judging from the rest of the picture, must have been about sixty feet long, was standing lengthwise in the pewter river, to which if turned across she would have made a convenient bridge. The other picture was worse if possible than the first.
Marion had a correct eye and some knowledge of drawing, but these were hardly required to show that the pictures were the most wretched daubs imaginable. She hastily pushed them back into their original position, and was about to close the window when her eye fell on the books. They might be better, and she took one and opened it at random. The volume was prettily printed on nice paper, and must have cost a good deal. The first poem she lighted on was called "The Rose," and read as follows:
"The rose is a beautiful flower,
It holds up its elegant head
Above all the rest in the bower,
And gives a sweet scent when it's dead.
"A beautiful blue is the violet,
Round and white is the snowball,
But, love, when you send me a bouquet,
Oh, let a sweet rose crown them all!"
and so on for many verses. This elegant poem was a fair sample of the contents of the volume.
Marion threw it down and burst into very pardonable tears of mortification and disgust. Her visions of vindicating the reputation of her dead father were among the least selfish and narrow of her many day-dreams, and it was indeed very hard to have them so rudely dispelled.
"Marie dear, don't cry," said a gentle voice, and Aunt Baby's hand was laid on her head.
"Oh, Aunt Baby, I wish I had taken your advice," sobbed Marion, laying her head on her aunt's shoulder as the latter knelt beside her. "I wish I had never looked at the things. They ought not to have been kept. They ought to be burned up."
"My dear, I have said that to myself a great many times, but it isn't a very easy matter to burn up two or three hundred bound volumes all at once. I might have used them for kindling, but I had a kind of tenderness for the poor things after all. Your father thought them so fine, it seemed almost cruel to treat them in that way. So I e'en piled them all up here, and left them to the mice."
"But they are such—such horrible trash," said Marion, picking up the volume she had dropped. "They are not even good grammar. Just see here:
"'Oh, what an impulsive truant love thou art!
Thou first subdues then inspirates the heart!'
"I don't see how he ever got any one to publish them!"
"He could not get any one to publish them, and wasted a great deal of money in printing them himself: I don't want to blame him now that he is away, but you can see what a distress and mortification it was to all of us, especially as your poor mother's little portion and earnings were all wasted in such undertakings, and she actually suffered. From what I have learned since, I have very little doubt that the death of Eiley's first child was caused by its mother's want of the common necessaries of life, while its father was refusing work which would have supported his family, to paint pictures and write poems such as these."
"But my mother never would have thought anything of this rubbish," said Marion. "She must have known better."
"Of course she did. That was not one of the least of her many troubles. But if she ever said a word, her husband talked of the trials of genius and bemoaned his hard fate in being yoked to such an uncongenial mate, the doited haverel," said Aunt Baby in sudden impatience. "My dear, I beg your pardon, I ought not to speak so of your father before you. There, let us put the books and pictures away and close the door on them."
"I mean to ask Uncle Alick to burn them all up some time when he is burning a log heap," said Marion.
"That is a very good notion. I never thought of it," said Aunt Baby. "There, don't cry any more. I never meant you should see these things, for I knew they would vex you."
"She is just as good as she can be," said Marion to herself as she went to her room to wash her hands and brush the dust from her dress. "I won't do a single thing to tease her as long as I stay, and I will help her all I can. It was very good of her to give up her new shawl, and it isn't her fault if she doesn't understand me."
And then Marion blushed as she remembered how her father had considered himself a misunderstood genius. "I wonder if I am like him," she thought. "Aunt Baby must have remembered him ever so many times when I talked of being misunderstood. I will never do it again, I know that."
The lesson she had received was not lost upon Marion. She certainly was far more modest and amiable than usual during the remainder of her stay at home. She took her share of the household work without grumbling, and tried to anticipate her aunt and to save her steps. She even made a resolution to forego the society of the heiress of the McGregors, and kept it for at least forty-eight hours. She read her Bible punctually, and spent more time than usual in prayer.
But she did not go to the root of the matter. She had not learned to call by their right names the great faults of her character, her self-consciousness, conceit and habitual contempt for those about her. She did not see these things in the light of sins to be prayed and striven against. She knew that people considered her self-conceited, but that was only because "they did not understand her."
Consequently, it was not long before her day-dreams resumed their sway. She was once more the model daughter and sister who was to bring order out of chaos and elegance and refinement out of vulgarity. Her very religious exercises ministered to her delusion. With her vigorous imagination, it was not difficult for her to work herself up into a state of exalted feeling, and she found pleasure in so doing. She took this feeling as an evidence that she was truly converted. She applied to her daily conduct none of those Scripture tests which seem given especially to guard against such delusions as hers.
"If ye love me, keep my commandments."
"He that hath my commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth
me."
"If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above."
Marion never thought of applying any such tests as these. She pleased herself with dreams of influencing her unknown father and brothers, of establishing Sunday schools among an all but heathen population of workmen and their families, even of persuading her father and brother-in-law to build a church; but all the time it was Marion McGregor who was to have the honour. Not that she said this in so many words, but it was at the bottom of all her schemes. She was not undeceived when she forgot her Sunday school lesson in her ideal class, lost the whole church service, sermon and all, in dreaming over the church she meant to build, and spent the time devoted to her private devotions in the same way.
The circumstances of Marion's journey were all arranged. She was to travel with Doctor and Mrs. Campbell to New York. The doctor would put her on the train for the nearest station to Hemlock Valley, under the care of the conductor, and she would have no changes after that; her stepfather or one of the boys would meet her at the station, and take her home.
The day before her departure arrived, and Marion had been down to the village to say some good-byes and make some last little purchases. She was not in quite as good spirits as she had been. After all, it was a serious thing to leave her friends who had brought her up, and the place which had always been her home, and go away among strangers. She began to appreciate the love which had always surround her, and to have some few stirrings of conscience as to the way she had received and recompensed that love. Her grandfather, vigorous as he was, had long passed the usual term of human life, and Marion felt that she might very probably never see him again.
"I wish I had not seemed so glad to go," thought Marion; "they will all think I am very unfeeling. Here are Kitty and Therese coming; I wonder if they have been up to our house. I wish I was going to Paris like Therese, instead of into the woods, though after all I suppose she will be only a servant."
"We have been up to see you," said Kitty, when they met; "I suppose you will be going to-morrow."
"Yes, by the early express; but I shall not get home till night to-morrow, Uncle Duncan says. And you?"
"We go to New York in two weeks, but we shall not sail for some time," answered Kitty. "Only think, Marion, Therese is not going after all. Isn't it too bad?"
"Not going!" exclaimed Marion; "Why, I thought it was all settled."
"So it was, but it has been unsettled again," said Therese; "that is the way with things in this world, you know."
"But how?"
"Well, Grandmother Duval is very feeble; she has no relation but me in the world, that she knows of. She isn't fit to stay alone, and she doesn't like having a stranger; so there seems a clear call for me to stay."
"But what does Mrs. Tremaine say?"
"She thinks I am right, and so does Mrs. Parmalee, and I am sure I am," answered Therese. "Grand-mère Duval has always been the kindest of the kind to me, and now it is my turn to do something for her."
"Well, I think she is very mean and selfish to require such a sacrifice," said Marion, with her usual want of consideration; "she ought to be willing to give up something for your sake, and not expect you to sacrifice such advantages for improving yourself."
"I suppose the best way of improving one's self is by doing one's duty," said Therese with some animation. "If you knew my grandmother, Marion, you would never think of calling her selfish. She never asked me to stay. But I know it will be a great comfort to her, and indeed I don't see how she could do without me. She is very much changed and broken since—since I was sick. She is unfit to be alone, and there is nobody else to stay with her. She did all she could for me, and, as I said, now it is my turn to do for her."
"But were you not dreadfully disappointed?" asked Marion, with an uncomfortable feeling that these words might somehow apply to herself.
"Why yes, I was, there is no denying it," answered Therese, winking her long lashes pretty hard, but smiling brightly at the same time. "However, it is not an unmixed disappointment after all. I am going to step into your shoes, Marion. Miss Tilly has given me her scholarship in the Crocker school."
"Why, what has Miss Tilly to do with it, and how does she come to have a scholarship?" asked Marion.
"Because her name is Crocker," answered Kitty. "There is a great deal in a name sometimes. Cousin Tilly is one of the two remaining descendants of old Mr. Crocker who founded and endowed the school before the Revolution. She is his great-granddaughter, and, as such, has the right of nominating two pupils to the school whenever there are vacancies. I have one scholarship, and I have lent it to Mary Parmalee's cousin for the present. The other has been vacant some time, and Cousin Tilly has given it to Therese."
"Well, I'm sure she is welcome to it for me, and I wish her joy of it," said Marion; "I know you all think Miss Oliver perfection, but I never could see her merit, though she does very well for a little place like this."
"Mamma thinks Miss Oliver is one of the best teachers she ever knew anywhere," said Kitty.
"She never understood me," replied Marion; "but as she is obliged to teach for a living, it is a good thing that somebody wants her."
"I hope somebody will want me when I am educated," said Therese. "Well, Kitty, we ought to be going. Good-bye, Marion; I hope you will have a pleasant journey."
"I wonder if Aunt Baby thinks I ought to stay at home and help her?" thought Marion as she went on her way homeward. "I suppose she has really done a good deal more for me than Therese's grandmother for her."
But these thoughts were not agreeable, and Marion returned to her day-dreams.
The next morning she set out on her journey.
CHAPTER XI.
"THE CLEAR CALL."
THERESE had not come to her conclusion without a good deal of hesitation and not a few tears. It was not in nature willingly to give up such a brilliant prospect as that which Mrs. Tremaine's plan had opened to her without a severe struggle.
The matter was as she had told Marion. Mrs. Tremaine had most unexpectedly inherited from an old relative of her late husband an estate in one of the small towns near Paris, with a considerable sum of money, on the condition that she should make the old house her home for two or three years. She was not fond of Paris. She had once resided there for several years, and her remembrances of the time were far from agreeable, but she felt that it was hardly right to refuse such an accession to the small property which Kitty would have to depend upon in case of her death. The arrangement would give Kitty the advantage of excellent teachers for the ornamental parts of her education—advantages which she could hardly attain while living in Holford, and which Mrs. Tremaine was far from despising, and it would give her an opportunity of benefiting Therese, in whom she was much interested. So after much consideration she decided to close her house in Holford and go abroad.
Of course the girls were delighted. Kitty was very fond of Therese, and enjoyed the prospect of having her as a companion in her studies and amusements. Therese was happy in the thought of being able to prepare herself for a first-rate teacher, and she and Kitty held many long talks on the subject, Kitty recalling for Therese's benefit all her juvenile recollections of Paris. Kitty had been too young to share in her mother's anxieties and perplexities, and her remembrances were of unmixed pleasure: of walks under the trees in the Champs Elysées, of beautiful shops and delicious bonbons. It was no wonder that she was pleased at the thought of returning to such a Paradise.
Grandfather Beaubien at once gave his consent to the arrangement. He had unlimited confidence in Mrs. Tremaine, and he thought Therese would be better off in a new place where nobody would know or cast up to her the faults and disgrace of her father and mother. The old man was far above that mean jealousy which makes some parents in such cases resent any improvement in the circumstances of a child as an injury to themselves.
"Go, go, my good child," he had said to Therese. "Thou hast been a dutiful daughter, and no doubt the blessing will go with thee. Madame is an angel of goodness and rectitude. She will care for thee, she will educate thee. Thou wilt reflect honour on her and on thy own family. For me, I have dutiful children to care for me in my age and enough for all my simple wants. Be a good child, be obedient to Madame, forget not to pray for thy grandfather and thy unfortunate parents, and the blessing of the good God go with thee. If thou shouldst go to Normandy, try to seek out the graves of thy kindred and lay some flowers thereon for me."
As Therese was going toward Madame Duval's neat little house, she met Doctor Gates in his carriage, who drew up to the side of the road to speak to her.
"Are you going to your grandmother's, Therese? I have just been to see her."
"To see grandmother! I did not know she was sick," said Therese in alarm. "Did she send for you?"
"Not she indeed," answered the doctor, smiling. "Madeline Lenoir told me she was not well, and I stopped at her house. I think there is a great change in her, Therese. Cannot you persuade her to have somebody with her? She is not fit to live alone any more."
"I have felt unhappy about her being alone for some time," answered Therese; "but she is not willing to take any stranger into her house."
"That is very natural," replied Doctor Gates; "but it does not alter the facts of the case; she is no longer capable of taking care of herself and her house as she has done, of making her own fire and cooking her own meals. Madeline says she goes in as often as she can, but of course she has her own family to attend to. Turn it over in your mind, Therese, and see what can be done about it. Good-bye."
The doctor touched up his horse, and Therese went on her way. She found her grandmother sitting up as usual by the window, her dress in the best order, her knitting in her hands, and her great French Bible, an heirloom of many generations, open on the table at her elbow. Everything in the room was in its customary order, and shining with neatness, from the well-polished stove to the tortoise-shell cat and her two white kittens; but Therese was startled with the change in the old lady herself.
"Have you been ill, grand-mère?" asked Therese.
"No, my child, not ill. I have not been well for some days past; I have had a shock, and it is not in nature that an old woman like me should not feel it. I am eighty years old this month."
"I did not think you were as old as that."
"Yes, your poor mother was my youngest child, the last survivor of six hopeful children who all died in childhood; and but for thee, Therese, I could find it in my heart to regret that she had not slept with them."
This was the first time grand-mère had mentioned her mother to Therese.
"But thou art a good child, Therese, and I am glad thou hast such kind friends; thou canst say,—
"'When my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up.'
"Tell me about thy prospects."
Therese repeated what we have heard of Mrs. Tremaine's plans, concluding with—"And when I come back, grand-mère, I shall be able to have a school of my own like Miss Oliver's, and make a home for thee, and perhaps for poor mamma also, if she should return."
The old lady smiled, but shook her head. "May thy dreams be fulfilled, child, but I shall never see them. I shall be in a fairer home than thine long before that time. I could have wished to have thee beside me to close my eyes, but it is to be otherwise, and I shall not be left alone. There, do not weep, my Therese, but listen while I tell thee the disposition of my affairs, that thou mayst remember them. I have made my will according to the law of the land, and it is in good Mr. McGregor's hands. Thou wilt inherit this house and all that I have; it is not much.
"But, Therese, keep carefully the clock and the old bureau and carved chest; they came from France with my father when he fled for his life in the persecuting times, when France, like Jerusalem, killed her prophets, and stoned them that were sent unto her. * And this Bible," said she, turning over the leaves and showing Therese a dark stain she had often seen before—"see, it is wet with the blood of the martyr, thy great-grandfather. He was shot down at a preaching. The people were collected in a close, narrow valley, at a communion; they were surprised by the troops, who fired volley after volley among them. My grandfather was shot down and died on the spot; my uncle and father escaped to carry the news and this book to their mother. They found that the enemy had been there during their absence. They left her half dead, and carried away her only girl, a child of ten years old. She never saw the child again."
* We are apt to think of Romanist persecution as entirely a thing of
the past. At the very time when Lafayette was fighting our battles,
there were multitudes of pastors and gentlemen in the galleys of
Marseilles and Toulon for no other offence than that of being
Protestants.
"What became of her?" anxiously inquired Therese.
"Nobody knows. She was doubtless taken to some convent where she was brought up to deny the faith of her fathers; perhaps to die for the truth, as younger children have done before now. The poor woman herself soon after died. Her sons, after long lurking in dens and caves of the earth, at last escaped, and came to Canada, where they had relations and friends and found peace and safety. They preserved this book through all, and thou must preserve it too. And, Therese, if thou art ever tempted to desert the faith, remember the line of which thou art sprung. Look unto the rock from which thou art hewn, and the hole of the pit from whence thou art digged. Thou art come of a race of martyrs, men and women, aye, and children, who thought of and cared for nothing in comparison of the truth and their duty. Be not thou unworthy of them. Count not thy life nor any part of it dear unto thyself if God calls thee to lay it down."
This was a long speech for Grand-mère Duval, who was usually a woman of few words.
Therese listened with silent and respectful interest. She had often tried to set her grandmother talking of these matters, but hitherto without much success. Now she ventured to ask a question which she had not dared to broach:
"Grand-mère, maman gave me a picture. She said you would tell me the story about it."
She drew from her pocket as she spoke the miniature which her mother had given her.
Grand-mère took it and looked at it long and earnestly.
"Thou art her namesake, Therese. She was thy great-grandmother—the one of whom I have been telling thee. She came of a noble French family who cast her off because she embraced the Reformed faith. They would have shut her up, but she escaped to the good pastor Rabant, who gave her shelter, and there thy great-grandfather found and married her."
"I have seen somebody very much like her, but I cannot think who," said Therese, studying the picture intently.
Grandma Duval smiled. "Look in the glass, my child. Thou art the very picture of that poor afflicted one. Mayst thou have her faith and steadfastness to lay down all at the call of duty! But art thou not staying too long, my child?"
"Mrs. Tremaine said I might stay as long as you liked to have me," said Therese. "Let me get your supper for you."
"Gladly, so thou wilt share it with me. It is a pleasure to see thee going about. If I had a little house-fairy like thee, I might consent to follow the good doctor's advice and have somebody to stay with me."
"It troubles me to think of your being alone," said Therese, glad to have her grandmother touch on the delicate subject of her own accord. "Is there nobody—Joujou Lenoir, now—"
Grand-mère Duval made a face of disgust. "Bah! She is a break-all, a what say you? A slattern, a gad-about. She would drive me mad. I cannot bear the thought of a stranger about me. No, no, child, that can never be."
Therese understood her grandmother well enough to know that there was no use in saying any more. She got the supper ready, milked the little cow, which was one of the old lady's chief sources of revenue, and skimmed the cream, while Madame Duval produced her finest dish of preserved strawberries and her favourite cream-cheese to grace the meal.
"I shall leave thee the receipt for this cheese for part of thy inheritance," said she, with gentle pride; "nobody here knows how to make it rightly."
When the time came for Therese to go, the old lady held her long in a close embrace. It was evident that her heart clung to the child of her poor perverse daughter.
"Thou art my only relative, alas! Save one, living in this country, and it is hard to let thee go," said she; "we shall never meet again in this world, but I shall see thee in heaven."
It was with a heavy heart and a sad face that Therese at last took her leave. She walked slowly homeward, and was very silent all the evening. Before she went to bed, she spent a long time in prayer and in searching her Bible; and when she was at last about to put out her light, she took out the picture of her ancestress and looked at it.
"She counted not her life dear to herself," she murmured; "she laid down all, far more than life, for his sake. Oh, what shall I do? What ought I to do? Oh, make thy way plain before my face, and teach me how to walk therein."
For a day or two, Therese continued silent and preoccupied, and Mrs. Tremaine saw that she had something on her mind. At last she preferred a petition:
"Please, Mrs. Tremaine, may I go out this afternoon? I want to walk up to mother's old house."
Mrs. Tremaine hesitated.
"I will not be gone long," said Therese.
"It is not that," said Mrs. Tremaine, and then added, smiling: "The truth is, Therese, I believe I have a kind of terror of the place."
"I don't think there is any danger," said Therese.
"No, I presume not, and it is natural you should wish to see it again. Yes, you may go, but do not be away very long, or, reasonable or not, I shall be uneasy about you."
Therese promised, and set out on her walk. She had a difficulty to face and question to decide, and she had a feeling that she could settle it better in that place than anywhere else. She walked quickly till she turned into the mountain-road, and then more deliberately till she came to the little farm. It was a lonely place always, and somehow seemed more lonely still for the presence of the little house with its nailed-up windows and smokeless chimney. Therese unlocked the door, and once more explored the rooms, from which the furniture had all been removed. She looked through the closets, and found and treasured up a handkerchief of her mother's. Then she made all secure again, and sat down on the steps to think.
"It is giving up a great deal—a great deal," she said to herself; "there is no use in denying that. It is giving up not only the present pleasure, but all the future gain. If I went abroad and learned French at Paris, I might always earn a good salary, as good or better than Miss Oliver's. But if it is my duty to stay, if it is a sacrifice He asks of me, then all these things go for nothing and less than nothing.
"Grand-mère told me to look to the rock from whence I was hewed. It is not a martyrdom like theirs to which I am called, and yet it is in a way laying down my life. He laid down his life for us, and we also should lay down our lives for the brethren. He laid down his life for us—for me! I can lay down mine for him. Kitty loves me, and will be sorry, but she has her cousins, and she will not want for friends. Grand-mère has nobody but me, and she has always been kind to me—always. Grandfather Beaubien says she was the best of mothers to my poor mother; he says she is a saint, though she is a Protestant. But if she were not, she is old and alone; she has no one but me belonging to her; she is not fit to stay by herself. Doctor Gates says so, and I can see it with my own eyes. If she has to take in a stranger, it will spoil all the comfort of her life, and she may live ever so many years. I believe it is a clear call," said Therese, speaking out loud in her earnestness. "I believe He will give me grace to follow it, and will be with me. He is with me."
Therese bowed her head on her hands, and sat some time without speaking. At last she raised her head, and, startled to see how low the sun was getting, she started up and walked rapidly home.
Life had been altered for Therese since the twilight talk with old Hector McGregor recorded in a past chapter. She had been more or less religiously inclined all her life, and for more than a year past she had been conscientiously and earnestly trying to live a Christian life. She believed all she had been taught, she loved to read her Bible, and prayed in full faith of being heard. But she had never been able to bring the things of eternity so near as to make them seem very real to her. It was hard for her to think that her heavenly Father cared individually for her, that he loved her personally and particularly, and desired her love in return.
Then came the time of great and awful desolation, when she was forsaken by that mother who had been her one object in life hitherto. All her supports seemed cut away. She felt herself adrift, with nothing to do and nobody to work for or to care for her. Heaven seemed very far away. She too might live to be ninety years old, but there would be nobody to care for her as his children did for Hector McGregor. She would always bear the burden of her parents' sins. She would be Tone Beaubien's daughter to the end of the chapter.
But after that evening all was changed. A new life had come to the little girl, still almost a child in years. She had consecrated herself to his service who never causes one to regret such a consecration, and she had received in return the mystical gift, the white stone with a new name written thereon which no man knows but he that hath it. She felt herself accepted. She was no more alone, for one had promised to be with her to the end of the world. He could make hard things easy, or give more grace. He could turn even disgrace and shame to his glory. He would give her work to do for him, and strength and wisdom to do it, and what did she want more?
Therese was no idle dreamer. She did not look forward to doing great things. She knew that not one in a thousand is called to a high place in the sight of men. But she had seen in her grandmother Duval, in Mrs. Tremaine and her cousin, yes, even in Kitty, young as she was, how the little cares and labours of every day may be sanctified so as to make everyday life a blessing to all around. That was what she asked for herself.
Now a greater thing was asked of her, a real taking up of the cross. It was no small sacrifice to renounce such a plan as had been made for her, such a career as had been opened for her, to nurse her grandmother's declining years, to hear all the remarks that would be made and face the misconstructions that would perhaps be put upon her change of plans. She knew there would be trials of temper and patience both at home and abroad. She feared Grandfather Beaubien would be displeased, for the Beaubiens had always felt some lurking jealousy of old Madame Duval, who was the richest of the whole French settlement and had the credit of thinking herself better than her neighbours.
Therese had come to that place where two roads met. One was fair and flowery, leading as it seemed to green pastures and beside still waters, to pleasant heights of prosperity; the other low and somewhat rugged, with few flowers or trees, and leading she could not see where. There was no stopping—no turning back. Therese made her choice. She believed that a beam from heaven shone on the narrow rugged path, that a voice said, "This is the way; walk ye in it," and after a moment's hesitation she resolutely and humbly set her feet therein.
The next day she had a talk with Mrs. Tremaine and Kitty. Kitty could hardly be brought to listen, and exclaimed,—
"After we have it all so nicely arranged! And what shall I do without you? I do think you are too bad, even to think of such a thing!"
"Hush, dear!" said her mother. "Let us hear Therese tell her reasons."
Therese opened her heart to the bottom. She could hardly have done it to any one else; but Mrs. Tremaine had been her Sunday school teacher for years, and Kitty was a second self. Mrs. Tremaine was convinced, and even Kitty was brought to say—
"Well, of course there wouldn't be any comfort if you went against your duty and conscience and thought your grandmother was wanting you all the time. But you must come to us if anything happens, mustn't she, mamma?"
"Certainly—that must be understood. And, Therese, some provision must be made for your education. Would your grandmother spare you to go to school?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am. She doesn't really need a great deal done for her."
"And Therese can have my scholarship, can't she, mamma?"
"I think we can arrange it even better than that, Kitty. Yours has only two years to run. Cousin Tilly's would be better, and as Marion McGregor's withdrawal makes a vacancy, I have no doubt Cousin Tilly will give the nomination to Therese."
So the matter was arranged, and Therese, feeling that her self-denial was already rewarded, went down to communicate the news to her grandmother. Madame Duval made some difficulty about her accepting the sacrifice, but her delight at the proposal could not be concealed. The Beaubiens were less easy to satisfy, but they were easy-going, good-natured people, and the pride and pleasure of seeing their pet's name among the young ladies of the Crocker school helped to smooth matters.
And so it was all concluded at last. Kitty left Therese guardian of her books and all her peculiar treasures and promised to write very often, and Therese settled down in her little white-curtained bedroom at her grandmother's, and began to study with all her might that she might appear with credit at the opening of Miss Oliver's school.
CHAPTER XII.
THE JOURNEY.
MARION had a very pleasant journey to New York, and spent an agreeable day in seeing the wonders of the city. It might have been still more agreeable but for one drawback. That was her dread of being taken for a country girl; an absurd fear lest of all these thousands of people whom she had never seen, and would never see again, somebody should think that she—Marion McGregor—had not lived in the city all her life.
Now it is evident that of the thirty odd millions who inhabit these United States, but a very small part can live in the city, nor is it easy to see how any disgrace should attach to not living in the city; but Marion could not help feeling that it would be a great misfortune should she be suspected of coming from the country. Consequently she was distressed every time her aunt looked into a shop window, and could not enjoy her walk through Stewart's grand establishment, because she was trying so hard to look as though she had seen it all before.
And after all, she had the mortification of overhearing her uncle say to her aunt:
"Poor child, how terribly stiff and awkward she is! Cannot you give her a hint not to look so like a wooden image?"
"I believe it would only make matters worse," said her aunt.
"Well, I can't help thinking it is well she is going to have a change."
"I am sure it is, for more reasons than one. It is Marion's self-consciousness and sense of her own importance which makes her so awkward and constrained. Therese Beaubien has had no more advantages than Marion, and she would appear well anywhere."
So, that was all she got by being dignified, to be called stiff and awkward! At dinner she went to the other extreme, and talked so much and so loudly that Christian was obliged to check her. The check was very gentle, but it sent Marion into a state of offended silence for the rest of the evening, and a fit of crying when she went to bed.
The next morning Doctor Campbell found an acquaintance in a Philadelphia gentleman, who was going for a part of the way by the same road as Marion, and put her under his care. Before breakfast, Aunt Christian entered Marion's room, carrying a very pretty leather travelling-bag, and a writing-case which Marion had admired the day before.
"I have brought you a little keepsake from uncle and myself," said she; "see, can you put this in your trunk."
"Oh, Aunt Christian, how very pretty!" exclaimed Marion. "And what a beautiful travelling-bag! Just exactly what I wanted. But what shall I do with the old one? I don't see how I can carry them both; I believe I will leave it."
"By no means; you will find it very convenient if you want to go away for a night."
"But what will people think to see me with two travelling-bags?"
"Why, they will think you have two travelling-bags; what should they think? Or who do you suppose will trouble themselves about the matter? But if you are distressed about it, I will take possession of the old bag myself. I am by far too old a traveller to be troubled by any kind or amount of baggage. Dear me! When you have gone on a journey or two with your own tents, portable cooking apparatus, bedsteads, and all other conceivable furniture following you on the back of two or three mules, and convoyed by a half a dozen rather more than half naked muleteers, you will trouble yourself very little about an extra parcel or two.
"So let me have the bag if you are afraid of it. I dare say I shall find a use for it; but I advise you instead to keep it, and I will have a nice lunch put up for you. Come now, it is time you were ready for breakfast. Good-bye, Marion. Tell your father and mother we shall come and make them a visit as soon as we get back from the West. And, Marie dear, let me whisper one last word in your ear. Try not to think of yourself and your own dignity; forget yourself in other people, and don't be always looking out for Marion McGregor, and you will do very well."
The Philadelphia gentleman proved to be a pleasant elderly clergyman, who found Marion a seat on the right side of the car, gave her a new magazine to amuse herself with, and then betook himself to his newspaper. The day wore away very agreeably. Mr. Randall was a pleasant, cultivated man, very polite, and treated Marion with the sort of half-gallant half-paternal kindness which elderly gentlemen are apt to assume towards young girls. He talked enough to keep Marion from feeling lonely and embarrassed, pointed out objects of interest along the road, told her odd and interesting anecdotes of his travels in Europe and the East, and when lunch-time came presented her with an orange and two bananas, which latter fruit Marion had never before tasted.
Marion asked him to share the delicate lunch which Aunt Christian's care had provided.
"No, thank you, my dear," replied Mr. Randall. "I shall be at home before long, and I should only spoil my dinner. Luncheon is a meal only thoroughly enjoyed by young folks. I see somebody I want to speak to, so I will leave you to your repast."
And away went Mr. Randall, leaving Marion disturbed by the idea that he considered her young, which as he was towards seventy, it is very likely he did.
"I have been talking to the conductor about you, my dear," said Mr. Randall when, he came back. "He is acquainted with your family, and he tells me there is a lady on board who is going to the next station to yours, so you will have company. You are sure you know where your checks are—that's right. Don't lose them or your purse, and do just as the conductor tells you, and you will be all right. Good-bye, and God bless you."
Marion had no time to feel lonely, for at the moment they started, the conductor came up with a pretty, delicate-looking woman.
"This is the young lady," said he.
"To be sure," said the stranger, pleasantly. "You are Marion McGregor, my father-in-law's step-daughter. I knew you were expected. But you don't know who I am, of course, I am Asahel Van Alstine's wife, and my name is Gertrude. So I hope you will think of me as your sister."
Mrs. Gertrude's manner was very sweet, and she was both pretty and elegant in appearance. Marion liked her at once.
"I suppose they will meet you at the Falls," continued Gertrude. "I wonder they should let you come from New York alone."
"I did not come alone," said Marion. "Uncle Duncan put me under the care of Doctor Randall."
"Yes, I know for part of the way, but I should have thought Harry might have run up to New York. He goes often enough on his own errands. If Asahel were not expecting me, I would go on to the Falls with you myself. If the boys are not down, I don't know what you will do, for there is no place to stay."
"Don't you think they will come to meet me?" asked Marion, rather alarmed. "Uncle Duncan telegraphed from New York yesterday, and they knew besides when I was coming."
"Oh yes, I dare say they will if the horses are not too busy. Father Van Alstine doesn't like to have them taken away from their work. I found that out when I lived there. You have never seen him, have you?"
"Never—but I have his picture in my book. He is a very handsome man, I think."
"Handsome, oh yes, all the family are handsome except Amity, who isn't really one of the family either, though I believe Father Van Alstine thinks more of her than of all the rest put together. Oh yes, I think Father Van Alstine means to do right, only he has a good deal to contend with, and he is naturally overbearing—all the family have that kind of temper. Amity is no exception there. But I dare say you will get on very well, only you must be a little careful not to cross him. I am glad you are come, I am sure, and I hope you will be a comfort to mother, poor thing."
"Why do you say 'poor thing'?" asked Marion.
"Did I say so? Well, I didn't mean anything particular, only you know she has a hard time of it of course, with all those rough noisy boys—and perhaps she is not as good a manager as some. I used to try to help her when I lived in the Valley, but it didn't answer very well. A second wife you know is apt to be jealous of interference, and there was Amity always at hand. But I dare say it will be different with you, being her own daughter."
And so Mrs. Gertrude ran on, always speaking in the most friendly tone of the whole of her husband's family, but managing to insinuate something to the disadvantage of every one. Presently Marion asked some question about the governess.
"The governess? Oh yes, I understand, you mean Mrs. Andrews. So they call her a governess, do they? Well, that is a genteel way of putting it."
"I don't know that any one used the word governess but myself," said Marion, who began to be a little annoyed. "Mother said they had a little family school and a very good teacher. I don't think they mentioned her name at all."
"No, I dare say not. Well, her name is Mrs. Andrews, and she is a widow, a cousin of the Overbecks, and has been a missionary somewhere."
"A missionary!" repeated Marion. "I wonder where! I wonder if Aunt Christian knows her."
"Very likely. All that kind of people seem to know one another more or less," said Mrs. Gertrude. "Well, Mrs. Andrews is a widow, as I said. You will know that the first minute you see her, for she never appears without being dressed in character. She is very handsome, very demure, and I suppose an excellent teacher: every one says so. I know she has all those boys under her thumbs from the oldest to the youngest in a way that I shouldn't like if I were their mother. However, Father Van Alstine sustains her through thick and thin, and perhaps it is just as well that somebody should govern them."
"Does mother have good servants?" asked Marion, when she had a chance to speak. "Or don't she keep any?"
"Oh, yes, she has two excellent girls, and old James is always pottering about helping here and there. Between ourselves, though I don't want to hurt your feelings, mother is no great things as a housekeeper. She doesn't seem to notice things that would drive me half crazy. Now, though I am sick a great deal and have nobody that compares with Maggy, you don't see many cobwebs hanging about my house. But I hope you will be a great help to her, only you must not be surprised if you don't find things as you are used to seeing them. The boys have the run of the house, and such places as they make of their rooms and the sitting-room with bringing in all sorts of rubbish! To be sure Mrs. Andrews puts them up to it, and mother is nobody against her. Well, here is my station, so good-bye my dear. I see my husband is waiting for me. We shall be over to see you in a few days."
Marion had just time to catch a bow from a tall man in linen clothes before the train whirled on. They had half an hour's ride to the next station, and in that time Marion had rearranged most all her ideas in relation to the family she was going to see. Mr. Van Alstine was a hard, severe man ruling his family with a rod of iron, but governed by an artful, scheming widow. Amity was an interfering overbearing woman, always meddling and making trouble. The boys were rude, lawless, untaught savages, and her poor, gentle, weak-minded, mother was preyed upon and tyrannized over by all in turn. It did not trouble Marion that the different parts of this picture were as much out of drawing as if her father had painted it. She would be the good angel who should bring peace, and cast oil on the troubled waters. She would sustain and strengthen her poor mother, and supply all her deficiencies by her own ready tact; she would soften and conciliate the hard, severe father; in short, all was to be made right and sweet and good, and she, Marion McGregor, would do it all.
"We are coming to the station, miss," said the conductor presently. "You had better be all ready, for we only stop a minute, and it is an awkward place to get off. I hope your brother or some one will be on hand; the Falls isn't just the place where I should like to leave a young lady alone. Oh, yes, there he is; take care and step out on the right side."
It was only a minute or two before the train swept on and left Marion standing on a narrow platform, in company with her trunks and a tall, dark young gentleman in a gray business-suit, who had helped her out.
"You are late; I began to think something had happened," said the tall young man, not at all in the manner of a cub or a savage; "but I must introduce myself. I am Harry Van Alstine, and you, I suppose, are Marion. This is my brother Frank Van Alstine, and—hallo, old fellow, don't be so demonstrative." The last words were addressed to an immense dog of the mastiff persuasion, who, evidently thinking himself neglected, pushed his way into the group and thrust his dark brindled muzzle into Marion's hand.
"He wants to be introduced as well as the rest," said Frank. "This, sister Marion, is Dog Van Alstine, commonly known as Trump, and one of the most respectable and influential members of the family. And now, Harry, I think we had better be going, for we shall hardly be home before dark as it is."
"True," said Harry. "Marion, which trunk would you rather have first? We can take one on the carriage, and the other will come with the team."
Marion found her voice and pointed out the trunk. She was vexed at herself for feeling stiff, embarrassed and shy, when she meant to be affable and amiable. The heiress of the McGregors had been so, and had soon succeeded in setting the boys quite at their ease. But these boys were quite at their ease already, and they were very different from what she expected and from Mrs. Gertrude's description. Harry was fully as elegant a young gentleman as Doctor Prince, who was the model young man of Holford society, and she was obliged to own that Frank seemed as nice a boy as she had ever seen.