Heiress of McGregor.
A centre of attraction.
"That shows how agreeable Marion is."
"Tell Cousin Helen what we were talking about, Betsy," said Marion as Bram wheeled her chair round and helped her on the bed. "I mean about the lessons."
"I will; and I say, Marion."
"You what?" said Cousin Helen, whose mission it was to keep Betsy from becoming altogether a boy in manners.
"No, I don't say, then; but, Marion," and Betsy bent over the bed and whispered, "I'll call you 'aunt' now if you want me."
"Nonsense!" answered Marion, pushing her away. "I am not quite such a goose now, I hope."
It was a certain fact that Marion's room was becoming a centre of attraction. The large south parlour, which joined Mrs. Van Alstine's room, had been made into a bedroom for her, to the amazement of Gerty, who wondered how Mother Van Alstine could think of such a thing. But Mrs. Van Alstine answered quietly that one parlour and dining-room answered very well, and that Marion could not go up and down stairs. Here she had her bed and dressing-bureau, her reclining-chair, and other special possessions. Hither came the middle boys with new specimens of fish, flesh, and fowl, and the Scotchman with lessons to learn, stories to read, and carving to execute. Here Mr. Van Alstine was pretty sure to stop before he went out after dinner, and here he often read his paper after tea. If Marion had still coveted "influence" as much as she had done at one time, she might have been pleased with the thought that she was at last in a fair way to obtain it.
But Marion had done with such dreams for the present. During her long days of pain and weakness, when she could bear neither reading nor conversation, she had gone over her own life from as far back as she could remember, and the retrospect had not been agreeable. Groundless pride, self-adulation, wasted opportunities, ingratitude,—she saw these things in their true colours at last. She was grieved and wearied and at times almost crushed by the weight of her sins. The remembrance was grievous to her, the burden intolerable. At times, guided by the gentle counsel of Harry or Bram's earnest sympathy, she could lay the burden where it belonged. At others she was ready to despair and to think that she should never be good for anything.
"We are none of us good for anything, except as it pleases our Master to make use of us," said Harry one day. "We must make up our minds to that, and then be thankful if he lets us do ever so little."
"But wasted time can never come back, and I may never have the chance to do what I might have done at home."
"We can all say that; but, Marie, I would not waste time or strength in vain regrets. Try to do the thing that comes to be done now, whether great or small, and let the dead past bury its dead."
"I don't know that I shall ever have anything to do again," said Marion.
"Never fear for that. It is a good deal to lie here patiently as you do—quite enough for the present, I think. And other work will come as you are able to meet it. People are never left without work, if only they are willing to do little things."
One of the little things had come to Marion in the way of helping Betsy with her lessons. (Elizabeth Margaretta's everyday name was properly Bessy, but somehow or other, neither that nor Lizzy nor Betty seemed to answer the purpose. As she herself said, Betsy was the only name that would stick.) The arrangement was found to work very well with a little of Cousin Helen's supervision and care to keep Marion from being overworked in Betsy's zeal to get on. For as was to be expected, Betsy was not always perfectly reasonable in her requirements, and did not know when to stop.
"She had just heard Rob's parsing, and I don't see why she couldn't hear mine," she grumbled one day when Cousin Helen quietly checked her.
"She has just walked ten miles; why can't she just as well walk ten more?" said Cousin Helen. "What kind of logic is that, Betsy? The fact that she has just heard Rob is reason enough why she shouldn't hear you. Shall I quote to you ancient proverbs about the last drop and the last feather?"
"Well, I'm sure I don't want to be the last feather in the bucket that breaks the camel's back," said Betsy, recovering her good-humour, which was seldom mislaid long at a time. "Marion ought to tell me when she is beginning to feel tired."
"You must not leave that to her, but watch for yourself," said Cousin Helen. "Invalids don't like to be or seem ungracious, and for that reason they often overtask themselves and suffer for it afterward."
"I'm sure I hope Marion won't," said Betsy, in alarm. "I'm afraid she was too tired yesterday, and that was what made her head ache. Do you know when Mamma Van Alstine expects an answer to her letters?"
"She heard from the Campbells yesterday, and I believe she expects an answer from Holford to-day," answered Cousin Helen. "Doctor Campbell will come if the rest do, and he has written to his brother to urge him to arrange matters."
"There comes Rob with the mail this minute," exclaimed Betsy. "Can't I run down and get the letters?"
"Yes, do so, and bring them to the dining-room if there are any. You know Marion is not to know anything till the matter is all settled. Suspense would not be very good for her just now."
"Are you rested, Marie? Have you had a good nap?" asked Betsy, coming in on tiptoe. She had begged and obtained the privilege of being the messenger of good news to Marion.
"Oh yes, charming," answered Marion, rubbing her eyes. "I have had such a nice dream about Holford and grandfather."
"Wouldn't you like to see him."
"Yes, indeed," said Marion; "nobody knows how much I want to see him and Aunt Baby and Uncle Alick."
"Just suppose—only suppose—they could come here to keep Thanksgiving."
"It would be too lovely for anything," said Marion; "but I don't suppose that is to be thought of for a moment."
"Why not?" asked Betsy.
"Oh, because grandfather is so old and uncle and aunt could not leave the farm; and oh, there are many reasons."
"Everything can be brought together except mountains," said Betsy, quoting a French proverb. "Just suppose—now, only just suppose—that they were really coming."
"Betsy, you don't mean it?"
"Yes, I do. Father wrote to Doctor Campbell some time ago and begged him to try to persuade your other uncle, and somehow they have arranged it. And Doctor and Mrs. Campbell are coming on Saturday, and the rest on Monday. And your grandfather and Miss Barbara will stay and make a good long visit, and so will Doctor and Mrs. Campbell, but the other uncle can only stay a week, because of the farm, you know."
"But what will become of the farm and the cows and things?" asked Marion, bewildered.
"I don't know. They have arranged somehow—got some man and his wife to stay in the house, I believe."
"Donald Campbell, I dare say. But I don't know how to believe anything so perfectly delightful. I never dreamed of such a thing."
"I have known it all along," said Betsy. "But mother thought we had better not tell you anything till we were sure, so I didn't say a word."
"And that is the incredible part of it," said Bram, who had slipped in to enjoy Marion's surprise—"that Betsy should know anything and not tell it. One can believe anything after that."
"Now, Bram, you sha'n't tease her," said Marion, pulling Betsy down to her on the bed.
A year before she would have resented being kept out of the secret and treated like a child, as she would have said. Now she appreciated the kindness which had shielded her from suspense and possible disappointment.
"Oh, I don't mind them; they are only boys," said Betsy, with an air of magnificent disdain.
"Only boys! Just hear her!"
"Betsy always says that," said Rob, rather aggrieved. "I don't see why boys are not just as good as girls; and if they are not, they can't help it."
"Of course they can't; it's their misfortune, not their fault," returned aggravating Betsy.
"Elizabeth Margaret, if you don't behave, I shall feel it my duty, in a spirit of brotherly love, to come and pull your ears," said Bram, solemnly.
"You won't do anything of the kind," returned Marion. "You young gentlemen will please vacate the room immediately and let me get up and get ready for tea, and then you may return and attend me to the festive board if you like. I mean to go to supper."
"How nice Marion is nowadays!" said Rob to Bram in the hall. "She isn't a bit as she was when she first came here. Do you think it was falling into the old hemlock that did it?"
"Did it? Did what, Rob Roy?"
"Made her so nice."
"Well, no, not altogether that. Suppose you try it on the one Jem cut down yesterday."
"But that is not down a bank, as Marion's was," objected Rob, whose literal way of taking everything was a continual source of good-natured amusement to his brothers and cousins. "Do you really think it was that, Bram?"
"No, Robin, I don't think the fall had very much to do with it," answered Bram, more seriously. "I think Marion sees now that she was wrong in some things, and so she is trying to do better. Perhaps her accident helped by giving her time to think."
"It is very nice, her being so good-natured and having her room to whittle in, and all," observed Rob Roy, after another pause of consideration; "but I wish she could run about again."
Saturday and Monday came and brought the expected guests. Grandfather seemed to Marion's eyes to have grown somewhat older and to stoop a little. He was an object of instant and intense admiration to all the small fry, especially to solemn little Dotty Overbeck, who studied him on all sides, and then went and whispered to his mother:
"May we call him grandfather, mamma?"
"To be sure you may, my bonny man," said Hector McGregor, overhearing the whisper; "I shall be proud of such a family of fine lads and lasses."
"And are the aunts and uncles ours too?" pursued Dotty, who liked to have everything explained.
"You may call them so, my dear."
Gerty and Asahel had promised to spend Thanksgiving with some of Gerty's friends. Their absence was borne with resignation. Everybody was sorry to miss Asahel, but Gerty was not a pleasant element in the family party, and in fact was apt to be the "gravel in the pudding," as grandfather would have said.
All the rest agreed admirably. The Campbells and Mrs. Andrews met like old friends, for she had worked in Persia, while the Campbells had been in Syria and Turkey. They had once spent a few hours together in Constantinople and knew many of the same people. Any one who has witnessed a similar meeting can guess at the kind of conversation which took place.
Doctor Campbell was at once claimed as their own special property by the middle boys, introduced to their precious collections of plants, stones, and woods, and taken into counsel as to the best method of arrangement. The doctor liked nothing better, and not only entered into the subject zealously, but contributed some valuable specimens to the cabinet and promised more.
For a while Aunt Baby could think of nothing but her thin, pale-faced, languid darling, so changed from the bright, rosy girl she had sent away six months before. The rest of the family thought Marion looked much better, as indeed she was, but to Aunt Baby's eyes she seemed passing rapidly away to the silent land.
"But she really is a great deal better, Baby," said Eiley, beginning to feel as if she had not been anxious enough about Marion. "She comes to tea every day now, and often to dinner, and she is able to do a great deal more than she was. If you had seen her a month ago, you would appreciate the difference."
But Aunt Baby had not seen her a month ago, and could hardly think that Marion was able to have all those great boys and that bouncing lass Betsy in and out of her room all day long. She seemed to feel Betsy's red cheeks an affront by the side of Marion's pale ones and to resent the activity of her motions, whilst Marion was confined to a cautious progress from her room to the dining-room or from one sofa to another.
Thanksgiving was always a great day at the valley. The week before, all the turkeys in the neighbourhood were bought up by Van Alstine & Overbeck. A carload, more or less, of raisins, apples, and canned peaches came up from New York, and the morning before the feast there was a solemn distribution to all the factory, saw-mill, and farm hands of all these good things. The peaches were always greeted with great enthusiasm, for, whatever else grew in Hemlock Valley, peaches obstinately refused to flourish.
"They were just like real, fresh peaches," said the people; and I suppose they thought so.
Marion was not able to attend the distribution, as she had hoped, but she heard all the particulars from the boys. She was keeping herself very quiet that she might be able to go to dinner next day.
On Thanksgiving morning a short service was held in the chapel, which everybody attended. According to custom, Mr. Van Alstine made a short address recounting the principal events of the past year in the little settlement. Henry played the harmonium, and there was some excellent singing, and then a general handshaking all round.
Then everybody went to dinner, and had, as Frank said, as good a time as they knew how. Twenty persons sat down to dinner in the long dining-room, all members of one family save Doctor and Mrs. Fenn, whose two soldier-boys were away, one in New Mexico, the other in Montana.
The dinner was nice enough to put an end to all Aunt Baby's long-cherished misgivings as to Eiley's housekeeping qualifications. The feast indeed seemed perilously extravagant to her Scotch-New England notions of thrift and economy. There was so much silver and glass and china and napery, all of the best, and such rich cakes and puddings and preserved fruits and jugs of solid cream, that she confided to Christian that she hoped they were not living beyond their means.
"Oh, I don't believe they are," said Christian, who had seen entertainments on a good deal larger scale than her sister. "I don't believe Mr. Van Alstine is the man to go beyond his means."
Marion was able to sit up to dinner, and afterward to lie back in her reclining-chair in the drawing-room, listening now to the conversation between the two doctors, now to Aunt Baby's home gossip about the farm and the village and old friends and schoolmates, and again to her grandfather telling Scotch stories to the children.
"It has been a lovely Thanksgiving," said Betsy when the party broke up; "hasn't it, Marion?"
And Aunt Baby, listening for the answer, was glad to hear Marion say, with a heartiness which there was no mistaking,—
"Yes, indeed; I think it has been the pleasantest Thanksgiving I ever spent in my life."
CHAPTER XIX.
WINTER IN THE VALLEY.
"I SEE no reason why you should not get quite well, but you must have patience and be particularly careful not to try your strength or to strain yourself in any way."
Such was Doctor Campbell's verdict on Marion's case after a long consultation with Doctor Fenn and a particular examination of the patient.
"And about these lessons, now?" said Aunt Baby, who always entertained a lurking suspicion of lessons as inimical to the health of children in general. "Don't you think Marion is doing rather too much head-work?"
"What does Marion think?"
"I don't think it hurts me," said Marion, "not unless I work too long."
"And do you often work too long?"
"Sometimes," Marion admitted. "Betsy is so anxious to get on and I am so interested that I forget."
"But you must not forget," said the doctor. "If you do, I shall forbid them altogether."
"Oh, don't, please, Doctor Fenn," pleaded Marion. "The days seem so long and tiresome when I have nothing to do but to think how uncomfortable I am, and it is such a comfort to know that I am getting on in my studies."
"But if it hurts you, Marie dear," said Aunt Baby, anxiously. "What think you, Duncan?"
"I am inclined to think the lessons are rather beneficial than otherwise," said Doctor Campbell, "always provided they are not carried too far. My own opinion is that sick people often suffer for the want of interests outside of themselves."
"I agree with you there," said Doctor Fenn. "I have two patients in the village this minute with whom I can do nothing, and I believe they might both be cured if they could be brought to take a hearty interest in some object outside of their own cases and their own cellars and pantries."
"Then you think I may go on with my lessons?" asked Marion.
"In moderation," answered the doctor. "But you must promise to work by the clock, and leave off at the moment, whether you are tired or not. I shall talk to Master Betty myself."
The doctor had come across the name of "Master Betty" in his reading, and delighted in teasing Elizabeth Margaretta by applying it to her.
"Now, tell me really and truly, my dear, do you like these lessons, or do you only work at them for the sake of that tall lass of Mrs. Overbeck's?" asked Aunt Baby when she and Marion were alone together. It was hard for her, remembering Marion's past school-days, to think that she took pleasure in lessons for their own sake.
"Indeed, aunty, I do," answered Marion. "I like the lessons themselves, and I like to help Betsy; and besides, I have wasted so much time that I don't want to lose any more. Oh, Aunt Baby, if I had my life to live over again, how different it should be!"
"We may all say that, my lamb."
"But every one is not so silly as I was," said Marion, who was longing to make a clean breast of it. "Aunt Baby, do you know I used to think, when I was at home, that the reason I did not get on any better was because I was so superior to everybody about me?"
"I had a good guess at it," said Aunt Baby, smiling. "Girls are not such absolute mysteries to their elders as they are fain to believe. I dare say it has been good for you to live more with young people of your own age."
"And don't you think they are nice boys, Aunt Baby?"
"Indeed I do, my dear. A finer or better managed set of lads I never saw together, and your grandfather says the same. And Betsy is a nice lass too, I must allow, though a thought—well, I'll not say just masculine, but boyish."
"You see she has always lived with boys," said Marion. "Cousin Helen says it is the object of her life to make a girl of Betsy. But she isn't coarse, Aunt Baby, not really, nor the boys, either. They are all good, but I think Bram is the best, if there is any best."
"It is very good in you to say so, and he the cause of your misfortune," said Aunt Baby.
"Bram the cause of my misfortune?" said Marion, raising herself up. "Why, Aunt Barbara, what do you mean? Bram had nothing to do with it. Nobody was to blame, only the rains which had loosened the ground."
"Well, there! Don't excite yourself, child. It was Gerty that told me," said Aunt Baby. "She said that it was all caused by Bram's carelessness and giddiness, and—what grieved me most of all—on a Sabbath evening."
"Oh, Gerty! I forgot she had been over," said Marion, sinking back, as if the matter were explained. "I dare say she told you a fine story."
"Tell me yourself how it was, then."
Marion repeated the story, and Aunt Baby was satisfied.
"It was a very different tale she told me. I thought her a nice young woman; but if that is her sort, the less we have to do with her, the better."
"Oh, well, Gerty is Gerty, and we all know her," said Marion. "I suppose there must needs be one contrary feather. I was the contrary feather when I was at home, wasn't I, Aunt Baby?"
"Well, I do not deny but you were a bit trying at times, but you were always my own darling, for all."
"That was because you were so good yourself. But now tell me about the girls. Row does Therese get on?"
"Very finely, I hear. Miss Oliver says she is as good a pupil as she has ever had in the school, and she is a great comfort to the old lady."
"I dare say. I wonder if Therese ever regrets that she did not go with Mrs. Tremaine?"
"Very likely she may think of it sometimes—it would hardly be human nature not to do so—but I don't believe she ever regrets it. I think, too, that Therese has some new idea in her head which reconciles her to the change in her plans. She and Aunt Christian have had a great many long talks together. If old Madame Duval is taken away, I should not wonder if Therese goes back with them."
"That ought to have been my part," said Marion, with a sigh. "But there is no use in thinking of it now. And how does Lizzy Gates flourish? She has only written to me once since I came away."
"She is much the same Lizzy, only I think she improves in her manners. She is not so headlong as she was. And you must know that Eliza Bridgeman has left Miss Wilkins."
"Oh, I am so glad! I always believed Miss Wilkins used her horribly."
"Indeed she did. Eliza got sick at last—so sick that the old woman was scared and called in Doctor Gates, and by questioning and examination, he got at the truth. Such overwork and under-feeding! The poor thing fairly suffered from cold and hunger."
"Didn't the doctor fly out? I should like to have heard him."
"Indeed he did, then, especially when Miss Wilkins tried to buy his silence. He went straight to the poor-master and had Eliza taken away and her indenture cancelled, and there was such an excitement that Miss Wilkins had to leave town for a while."
"And must you really go home next week?" asked Marion.
"I think so, my dear. You see it is very hard for Uncle Alick to be there alone, or at least with nobody but Donald and his wife, and I can see that grandfather is growing impatient, though he has enjoyed his visit very much. We have been here two weeks already."
"I am afraid you will have a hard, dull winter," said Marion; "I think you should have some one to help you."
"I was thinking of taking that same Eliza Bridgeman. The poor thing has no home, and she needs some one to care for her."
The next week grandfather and Aunt Baby went home, greatly regretted by all the children. Doctor and Mrs. Campbell were to stay some time longer. Christian was glad of rest and quiet after all the visiting she had gone through, and the doctor wished to write up his book and to observe Marion's case more closely. He was established in Marion's former room, and shut himself up for several hours daily, walking and riding with the boys and girls the rest of the time.
Betsy's eyesight improved so far that she was able to take up her music again in moderation. She still did her Latin and French with Marion, however, and they were both gainers by the arrangement. As Marion's health improved so that she could sit up, she began to work at her drawing a little, and to find great pleasure in it. The little ones, among whom Betsy classed Hector and Rob, to the great indignation of the clansmen, were regularly in school five hours a day. Frank began reading medicine with Doctor Duncan, and Bram worked diligently at Greek with Harry, who was not to go back to college till spring.
Mrs. Van Alstine and Mrs. Overbeck kept house, sewed, and took care of their poorer neighbours for work, and embroidered wonderful and gorgeous camp-chairs for diversion, and all seemed quietly settled for the winter.
But nothing ever is settled in this world. Just after the Christmas holidays, Aunt Eugenia was found dead in her chair. She had been as well as usual. Marion had been with her all the morning, and only left her for half an hour, to find on her return that the old lady was no longer there.
It was a very severe day when she was buried. Henry took cold, and was so much worse that both the doctors advised his removal to a warmer climate with all speed. There was a good deal of talk as to who should go with him, but he was evidently so desirous of having his mother that the matter was so arranged. Mr. Van Alstine was to go as far as New York and see the travellers on the steamer; but when all was settled, Mr. Overbeck put in another proposal. It was a great while since Mr. Van Alstine had taken a holiday; why should not that gentleman do so now, when he could be spared so much better than in summer? So it was decided after another day's consideration, and the travellers departed leaving Mrs. Andrews to keep house, with the help of Aunt Christian and Marion.
"We shall have a dreadful dull time, with father and mother and Harry all gone," said Hector the first evening that the diminished family were collected in the drawing-room.
"It will be perfectly horrid," added Rob, who always echoed Hector.
"It will be neither dreadful nor horrid, my countrymen," said Uncle Duncan; "we are going, on the contrary, to have a very agreeable and entertaining time."
"I should like to know how," said Rob, who was the baby and a good deal inclined to resent his mother's absence as a personal injury to himself.
"Well, in the first place, we are going to put on an extra pound or two of steam in all our lessons."
"Rob is going to learn to spell in words of two syllables," said Frank, in allusion to Robin's orthographical weakness.
"And Frank is going to learn to shut the doors after him," retorted Rob Roy.
"Exactly; and we are all going to put our best foot foremost in everything. Then we 'men-folks,' as Maggy calls us, are going to take numerous long walks in various directions. Then we are going to have some lectures in the school-house, illustrated with my new magic-lantern, so soon as Cousin Helen and Marion have finished painting the slides, in which lectures I propose to give an account of my travels and magnify my own doings as much as possible, as Gerty says all missionaries do, you know."
"Good!" said all the boys together.
And Frank added, "I'm afraid the school-house won't hold the people, though."
"Then we'll make a lecture-room of the new horse-barn," said Bram. "Go on, Uncle Duncan. What else?"
"What else? Why, we are to read story-books, and play all the games that ever were heard of, and crack bushels of walnuts and butternuts, and roast and boil kettlefuls of chestnuts."
"And make molasses candy and caramels and cornballs," said Rob, eagerly.
"Yes, if Maggy will let us; and to conclude, we are all to be as amiable and good-natured and cheerful as we know how. Seriously, my young folks, don't let us sit down deliberately to have a doleful time, but, on the contrary, make up our minds to do the very best we can for ourselves and each other."
"And by way of making a beginning, let Rob ask James to crack a panful of butternuts," said Mrs. Andrews.
The doctor's programme was pretty well carried out. Mrs. Andrews and Marion painted the slides for the magic-lantern, which was exhibited with great success, both in the valley, at Ivanhoe, and at Rock Bottom, rather to the scandal of Gerty, who wondered Doctor Campbell could condescend to make himself a showman and amuse children. But Doctor Campbell was consoled for the sacrifice of his dignity, if indeed he needed any consolation, by the fact that two flourishing missionary societies were formed, one at Ivanhoe, the other at Rock Bottom.
One day Marion proposed that they should also get up one at Hemlock Valley.
"But who would be members?" asked Bram, to whom, as usual, she first confided her scheme. "There would be nobody but ourselves."
"Well, we make up a pretty good number—eight of us here and five at Amity's. If we each give a cent a week there is—Thirteen times fifty-two is—"
"Six dollars and seventy-six cents."
"Then there are the Barretts—I think they would join in—and old Mr. and Mrs. Hollenbeck, and Chris and his wife and their children. Oh yes; you'd see we should have quite a good many members to start with, and more would come in. Anyhow, let's talk to Aunt Christian about it when we get her alone. We won't say anything to the others at first."
"You feel very differently about missions from what you did when you first came here, don't you?" said Bram, after a little silence, in which he worked diligently at his wood carving, while Marion elaborated the trappings of a magnificent camel, a design for one of the new slides which she was constantly adding to the famous lantern. "Don't you remember how I used to tease you asking you questions about what you had heard from your aunt? You used to be downright vexed at me."
"Because I had nothing to tell," returned Marion.
"But I don't see how you could help it, living with them as you did."
"You would if you knew how silly I was in those days."
"I say! Don't call my sister silly, if you please."
"Well, I was silly—a self-conceited, ridiculous simpleton," persisted Marion, vehemently dabbling her brush in the water-glass. "Bram, I would not tell you for anything how I used to spend hours and hours in dreaming of the great things I would do, and how I would be admired and looked up to. Oh, it just makes me provoked enough to box my own ears."
"That's a very unchristian frame of mind."
"Never did any one get such a taking down as I did after I came here," continued Marion. "I thought I was going to be so good and so condescending, and help you in your lessons, and mother in her housekeeping."
"Well, you had never seen us, and of course you couldn't tell what we were like," said Bram. "I don't see anything so bad in that. Look at my elephant; isn't he fine?"
"Awe inspiring—no less," replied Marion. "I think he looks a good deal like old James in the face. What is he for?"
"Dot's birthday. You know he is in love with elephants ever since he rode on one in New York, so Frank and I mean to construct a team for him. I wish you and Betsy would put your heads together and make some—What do you call the fellows that ride upon them?"
"Mahouts. We'll see what can be done. The worst of it is that I keep finding myself falling back into the old ways again all the time," continued Marion, reverting to her first subject.
"Everybody does that, I suppose," said Bram.
"Do you really think so?" asked Marion, doubtfully.
"I really do. I remember once talking to old Father Hollenbeck about that very thing, and he said to me,—
"'My son, I should have considerable doubt of the spiritual condition of anybody who never had any battles to fight. I should be afraid that he was either in league with the enemy or asleep on his post.'"
"But if our inclinations were all right?"
"Then we should be ready for heaven, I fancy. How should we take up the cross in that case? We are to deny ourselves and take up the cross daily, you know. How are elephants' toes? Do they show in front?"
This important point being settled, Marion went on:
"It always seems to me as if the emphasis in that sentence ought to be on the other word: 'Deny himself.' That is the hard saying for me. I have always lived so to and for myself."
"I am sure you don't now; you look out for everybody. I don't know what we should do without you this winter."
"Well, I do try not to be selfish, but I'm afraid that very often when I think I am doing for others, it is only self-seeking at the bottom."
"I'll tell you what, Marie: I think it is possible to be self-seeking in that very way," said Bram, shrewdly. "I mean in thinking too much about one's own spiritual state. Don't you know how Uncle Duncan scolded Harry for getting into the habit of feeling his pulse and watching his breathing? He said it was the very worst thing for him."
"But don't you believe in self-examination?"
"Yes, at proper times. But I don't believe in taking every thought and action to pieces and looking at it through a magnifying-glass; as I read in one of Uncle Duncan's books the other day:
"'Sanctify all thy doings with a general good intention, and there leave them.'
"See how bright the sun has come out! Don't you want to wrap yourself up and let me take you down to the store and over to Abner Angel's? I have an errand over there, and it is just a nice ride."
CHAPTER XX.
ROCK BOTTOM.
THE missionary society was successful. The scheme was propounded to the teachers first, and met with only as much opposition as brought out Doctor Campbell in a sermon, in which he brought up one after another all the ordinary objections to missionary work and disposed of them in a very satisfactory manner. The children entered into the matter with enthusiasm, and, so far from the general interests of the school suffering, they evidently gained.
Marion's health continued very delicate all through the cold weather; but when spring came on, she seemed to take a sudden start, and improved very rapidly. She gained strength and flesh, suffered less pain, and was able to go about the house and to walk out. Nobody who has not tried it knows the expansion of heart felt by an invalid who first gets out in the spring after a winter's long confinement.
Marion thought nothing could ever have been so beautiful as the starting leaves, the bunches of hepaticas, spring beauties, and trailing arbutus which the boys brought her. She got herself well laughed at for declaring that there were no ferns in Holford, or if there were, they did not come up with such dear little fuzzy, curly heads.
"Well, all I can say is that I must have got a new pair of eyes, then, for I am sure I never noticed them," said Marion, defending herself good-humouredly.
"'There fell from his eyes as it had been scales,'" quoted Uncle Duncan, in a low voice.
"But didn't you have any botany classes in school?" asked Frank, in whose mind ignorance of botany implied ignorance of all things worth knowing in this world.
"Oh yes; Miss Oliver and some of the older girls used to make great times over flowers, and so on. But somehow I never cared for botany; it seemed to me all hard words. The truth is, I don't think I paid any more attention to any of my lessons than I could help in those days."
The last of April brought home the travellers. Harry was quite himself again, and both Mr. and Mrs. Van Alstine much benefited by the long rest and freedom from care. It was very delightful to have the whole family at home once more, but it did not last long.
Gerty claimed Marion's promise to come and make her a long visit. She promised to take every care of her, and urged, with some show of reason, that the change of air and scene would be very good for Marion after her long confinement.
"I hate to have you go, Marion," said Bram, who was still Marion's special friend among the boys. "Honestly, now, do you like it yourself?"
"Honestly, Bram, I am not in love with it."
"Then why do you go?"
"That is a wise question, Master Abraham. Because I promised."
"Well, that was before you were sick."
"I know that, but I am well now, or nearly so. And besides, Gerty wants me, and I can't help feeling sorry for her. I don't believe, from what Mrs. Landon says, that she has much society."
Mrs. Landon was the minister's wife in Rock Bottom, who had been over to call upon Marion.
"It is her own fault, then, for there are plenty of nice people in Rock Bottom."
"And besides, Bram, as I said before, a promise is a promise, and you know very well you wouldn't think it right for me to break mine; now, would you?"
"Well, no, I suppose not," answered Bram, fairly pushed to the wall. "Anyhow, you needn't stay very long."
"No; I don't propose to live there, as I did once. Bram, do you remember our talking about that the night I fell over the cliff? What a goose I was!"
"I don't believe you will 'influence' Gerty—not much," said Bram. "She isn't that kind."
"I don't think I shall try. I haven't forgotten what you said about letting our light shine steadily, instead of holding it up and waving it about."
"But you won't stay long?" persisted Bram.
"No longer than I must in decency."
And with that Bram was obliged to be content.
He drove Marion over to Rock Bottom in the little carriage, taking a somewhat roundabout road to show her certain favourite points of view which she had not yet seen, and arrived at Rock Bottom about six in the evening.
It was a very pretty little village, built just where a small stream came down from the hills and ran across a narrow, fertile plain to the river. The Susquehanna here broke into a rapid, adding much to the beauty, but not greatly to the healthfulness, of the place, for it is a fact that rapids in such great rivers are great promoters of agues.
Asahel's house was a very good one, large and roomy, though old-fashioned, with a hipped roof and dormer windows, and a heavy, wide portico at the front. The house stood back from the street, and was shaded by some large and beautiful trees.
"What a pretty place!" said Marion.
"Isn't it? Father bought it of old General Van Deusen's heirs on purpose for Asahel, but Gerty doesn't like it because it is so old-fashioned. She wanted father to build it all over and make a Mansard roof."
"Horrid!" said Marion, regarding with an artistic eye the deep angles and shadows on the old mossy roof.
"It was a great deal prettier before it was altered—the nicest old deep-red brick colour—but Gerty never liked it, so father painted it for her."
"How good he is to her! I don't believe I would have done it."
"Well, you see, he has to oppose her so many times that I think he makes it a principle to please her if he can. Here she comes now. Well, Gerty, here we are, you see."
"Yes, I see we are here," answered Gerty, coming forward to meet her guests. "I expected you this morning, Marion. Pray how long have you been on the road?"
"Only since two o'clock," answered Marion. "Bram took me round to show me the view from Tom's Hill and the big hollow. I hope you haven't waited for us?"
"The clock struck six as we came by the church," said Bram. "There's your bag, Marion, and your other things, and the trunk will be over before long. I'll put up the horse, Gerty, and then go over and meet Asahel if he hasn't come."
"Really, that is cool in Bram. I think he might wait for an invitation before he quarters himself on me in such an unceremonious fashion. But come, Marion, and take off your bonnet. I am sure you must be very tired."
"I am rather tired," Marion admitted. "It is the longest ride I have taken yet, but I enjoyed every bit of it."
"It was very inconsiderate on the part of Bram. Hadn't you better have your tea up here? I can send it as well as not. Just put on your wrapper and lie down, and Mary shall bring you a nice supper."
"Oh dear, no!" replied Marion, laughing at the idea. "I am above all that now, I assure you, and I shall enjoy my supper a great deal more down-stairs. Only let me wash my face and brush my hair, and I shall be all right."
"But I am sure you would enjoy your supper more if you had it quietly on the bed. I think it is a real luxury when one is tired," persisted Gertrude. "Don't you think so?"
"No, I can't say I do," replied Marion, completing her preparations in a hurry to put an end to the discussion. "I used to once, I believe, but I have eaten so many meals on the bed this winter that I think in future I shall prefer to take them while walking, like some Eastern monks that Uncle Duncan was telling us about. I am ready, Gerty, I believe."
Gerty looked dissatisfied, but she could not well say any more, and they went down-stairs, to find Asahel and Bram waiting for them in the parlour.
The room was more handsomely furnished than that at Hemlock Valley, but Marion thought it was not so pleasant or homelike in its aspect. She missed the tables made for use, the books meant to be read, and not looked at, the working materials and newspapers, all signs of pleasant occupations. The only table in Gerty's parlour was a marble one ingeniously contrived to be of no use whatever, and all the books visible were decorously set up in rows on the bottom of the what-not.
Asahel greeted Marion warmly. He was the handsomest of all the handsome family, but his face had a worn, patient look which belonged to none of the others.
"I tried to have Marion stay up-stairs, but she thought she must come down to show that she was not entirely overcome with her long ride," said Gerty.
"Are you so very tired, Marie?" asked Bram, anxiously.
"Oh no," answered Marion, gayly; "it is only Gerty's extra care for me. I don't think I am more tired than a night's rest will cure."
"And in that uneasy little buggy, with that fidgety, hard-pulling pony," continued Gerty; "but I suppose Father Van Alstine would not spare any of the other horses. Well, here is Jenny to say that tea is ready. Put on another plate, Jenny. Mr. Van Alstine's brother will stay to tea."
"To tea!" said Asahel. "You don't mean to go back to-night, Bram?"
"No," answered Bram, quietly. "I can't possibly go back to-night, but I can go down to the parsonage if my stay here is an inconvenience to Gerty. I dare say Tom Landon will make room for me."
"You will do nothing of the sort," said Gerty. "Don't be so dreadfully touchy, Bram. I thought you had got over that."
Bram made no answer.
Gerty led the way to the supper-room, and having made everybody thoroughly uncomfortable, laid herself out to be as amiable and gracious as she knew how to be.
"What time shall you go to-morrow, Bram?" asked Marion, taking advantage of a minute or two when she had him to herself.
"As early as I can conveniently get away. I wish you were going back with me. Hadn't you better?"
"Oh no; I must make my visit out. But you must all write and come over and see me when you can. I dare say I shall be dreadfully homesick. Bram, do you think Asahel looks well?"
"Not a bit. He's being worried out of his life about this iron business, I know. She never gives up any notion she once takes into her head."
"You won't go before breakfast?"
"Oh no; I have no notion of being driven that way. Besides, she doesn't mean half of it. It is only that she has fallen into that provoking way of talking. I hope you won't be sick, that's all. Why didn't you tell me you were growing tired?"
"But I am not so very tired. It is all nonsense. I shall be all right in the morning."
Gerty herself took Marion up to her room, and was hospitably anxious about her accommodation:
"I hope you will find everything comfortable here. This room was all furnished new this spring. I don't pretend to be so very literary or accomplished as some people, but I do hope I am a good housekeeper. You see the windows all have mosquito-netting nailed over the outside. I tried to make Mother Van Alstine do that, but I never could. I can't bear to have my house overrun with flies."
"Mother always has frames to put in the windows," said Marion.
"Oh yes, I know, but some one is sure to forget; and then there are the flies. I saw as many as half a dozen the last time I was at mother's, early as it is. Don't you think this furniture is in better taste than that Father Van Alstine bought in New York last year?"
"It is very pretty," said Marion.
"Oh, I see you mean to be non-committal; perhaps that is the best way, situated as you are. You can't be too careful. I found that out, I assure you. Do you think this bed will be soft enough for you? It has the best Tucker springs, but I can get you a feather bed."
"I have slept on a spring mattress all winter," said Marion.
"Oh, but I assure you Tucker springs are considered much more agreeable and wholesome. I wonder if Dr. Campbell does not know that? Just see how elastic they are!"
"I am sure they are very nice," said Marion, feeling as if any bed would be welcome.
And at last, after having displayed the superior excellences of the dressing-bureau, the wash-stand, and the rocking-chair to anything at the valley, Gerty said "Good-night."
Marion, thoroughly weary, said her prayers, asking for special grace to suit her new circumstances, and went to bed to dream that she was trying to drive a pony across the Susquehanna on a spring bed, which formed the only bridge.
The next morning her trunk came, and Bram took his leave.
For a week or two, as Bram had predicted, Gerty was very kind and polite to her visitor. She took her out to drive every pleasant day, and made a delightful expedition to Coaltown, and from there to visit several localities of interest.
It was at Coaltown that the first real offence was given. Marion was looking from the window of the hotel upon the street while Gerty rested on the sofa before dinner. Suddenly the air was pervaded by an unearthly noise, as of a hundred elephants all gone melancholy mad and all howling at once.
Marion put her hands to her ears:
"What is that horrible din?"
"That's the steam-gong," said Gerty, with the air of one doing the honours. "It can be heard nine miles."
"I should think it might be heard nine hundred," said Marion; "and do look, Gerty! What are these?" As the street suddenly became filled with an immense crowd of black, demoniac-looking figures, each bearing a small lighted lamp on his forehead.
"What are they?" asked Marion, in wonder. "They look like demons of the pit."
"That is just what they are—demons of the coal-pit," said Gerty, laughing. "They are the coal-miners, child; there are ever so many mines in the city."
"But how many lame people there are among them!" said Marion. "See, there is a man with one leg, and there is another; and oh what a horrid scar that poor cripple has on his face!"
"Yes, they are always getting hurt," said Gerty, indifferently. "Not a week passes that some of them are not killed, or crippled for life."
"What a dreadful thing!" said Marion.
"A great deal of it comes from their own carelessness, they say. Not but there are unavoidable accidents, of course. What with the furnaces and engines, and the dozens of railroad tracks, people are always being killed."
"How horrid!" said Marion, shuddering. "It would be as bad as living in the front of an army. I am glad I don't live in Coaltown."
"Then you think you wouldn't like to live here?" asked Asahel from the balcony outside, where he was enjoying a cigar.
"No, indeed," answered Marion; "I don't fancy living where locomotive engines are allowed to run loose in the streets as they do here. I think the noises are quite dreadful."
"But up where we went this afternoon there are no noises and no engines," said Gerty, her colour rising a little.
"No, it was pretty; but still, you know, you would have to come down very often. After all, I suppose I may be prejudiced against Coaltown, though it is my native place, you know," Marion added, smiling.
"Your native place!" repeated Asahel. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I was born here. Why, surely you knew that. But mother had pretty hard times here, I suppose; anyhow, she dislikes the place very much."
"What were you thinking of, Asahel? Don't you know Mrs. Van Alstine went from here to be cook or nurse—which was it?—to your mother?" said Gerty.
"Housekeeper," said Marion, trying to speak quietly, though her blood tingled.
"And a great blessing she was," said Asahel.
"Oh, housekeeper, was it? Well, it must be admitted that she succeeded in keeping the house very effectually," said Gerty, with her peculiar little laugh—"a good deal better than her mistress did. Asahel, why don't they call us to supper? Oh, here they come."
Nothing could exceed Gerty's amiability at the table and during the evening. "I never bear malice," she was wont to say of herself; "I say my say, and that is the end of it—"
That is, having stabbed her antagonist with a poisoned knife, she was quite ready to forgive and even to pet him afterward. She was wont on these occasions to assume an air of solicitous kindness and affection which did not make the sufferer any more comfortable under the smart of his wounds. She talked to Marion, was very careful that she should be helped to the best of everything; and when they went out for a little shopping expedition after tea, she insisted on buying for Marion a pretty collar and necktie which she admired.
If Marion had "followed her impulses" as the heiress of McGregor took pride in doing, she would have thrown the parcel into the street. But she did not. She certainly accepted the present somewhat coolly, and with an internal resolution that she would bestow some present of equal value on Gerty at the very first opportunity. But she had too much respect and pity for Asahel to quarrel with Gerty if she could help it. She had a hard struggle with herself after she went to her room before she could be sure that she had forgiven the offence.
"If she had insulted me, I should not have minded so much, but to speak so of mother, and such an unprovoked insult! Only for distressing Asahel, I would go home to-morrow. But there is no use in thinking about that. Oh, if I could only forget it! But I can't do that, either, and I can't make myself forgiving as I know I ought to be. Oh, help me to do right. Help me to forgive as Thou hast so often forgiven me."
It was a long time before Marion could sleep, but she did at last, and woke to find that the work she could not do, had been done for her. The rest of the journey was very pleasant, and Marion could write to Bram with a good conscience that she had enjoyed it very much.
But as time went on, Marion began to grow homesick. She was very lonely. She missed the great family at the valley—the boys with their various interests, Betsy with her odd speeches and her various and vehement expressions of opinion on all possible subjects, the Overbeck little ones, always in and out. Above all, she missed the kindly, genial atmosphere of home, where everybody tried to add to the general happiness, where the pleasure of one was the happiness of all, and nobody took delight in the annoyance of another. Teasing had always been made a high crime and misdemeanour in the Van Alstine family code. Nor was this all she missed. Since Marion had fairly waked up from her long day-dream and began to live outside of herself, her mind had taken a great start. She had learned especially to appreciate intelligent conversation, and she had enjoyed a great deal of it during last winter.
Gerty had no lack of either intelligence or education, but she did not care for the things that the people at Hemlock Valley cared for—the things which made up life to the Campbells and Mrs. Andrews and the boys. She took no interest in books, none in her husband's business. She cared for nothing but talking about people. Every one of her acquaintances was pitilessly attacked and ruthlessly dissected. She contrived to know more about the private affairs of all the people in the village than Marion could have supposed possible, especially as she seemed to have very little to do with them.
Marion wondered at this. She had heard a good deal about the pleasant society at Rock Bottom, and as the days went on she was rather surprised that they had so few calls. Mrs. Landon and her daughters came to see Marion directly. She was a kind, gracious, motherly woman, and the girls were pleasant and cultivated, and Marion spent a day with them and found them very agreeable companions. Emily had a taste for drawing, and was working at it by herself. Marion was glad to be able to help her. She had a genuine and unusual talent for art, and under Mrs. Andrews's tuition, she had made remarkable progress in water-colour painting and sketching from nature. She found it very pleasant to go out sketching with Emily, and in the ravine above the town and down on the bank of the river they found abundance of studies. Marion, however, did not go as often as she would have liked, because Gerty complained of being left alone.
"I thought you had a good deal of society here?" said Marion, innocently, one day to Emily when they were out sketching together, "making a study" of the end of the old gray tannery and the bank on which it leaned.
"So we do," said Emily. "I don't believe there is a place of the size in the State where you will find more pleasant people than in Rock Bottom."
"So I heard, but I don't see many of them. We hardly ever have any calls."
Emily dabbled her brush very fast in her water-glass, and her cheeks turned very pink:
"Well, the truth is, Marion, your sister is no favourite here. She doesn't mean any harm, I dare say, but you know her way of talking; and the long and the short of it is, she has made so many unkind speeches and said so many hard things that she has offended almost every lady in the place."
"What a pity!" said Marion. "Take care, Emily; you are working that up too much. Let it dry till the rest is done, and then you can glaze it if you like."
"It isn't that Mrs. Van Alstine isn't kind in one way," continued Emily; "she is always ready to do for the sick and to give to the poor, but she spoils it all with her speeches. If you knew how she talks about father! It is no thanks to her that we are here now."
"I do know," said Marion; "but, Emily, she doesn't mean half of it. It is a foolish way of talking she has got into. Then she is not at all well: she has very bad headaches; and besides, I think she has some trouble that she does not tell of; and the discomfort makes her irritable."
"Poor thing! I am sure I am sorry for her," said Emily; "but you see, Marion, other people don't know these things, and they can't be expected to make allowances, as you do. Besides, to tell you the truth, it is not only that Mrs. Van Alstine says sharp things. She says scandalous things that get repeated and make trouble, and she talks from one to another. I have wanted to tell you this, though it doesn't seem just the thing, either," continued Emily, greatly endangering the "keeping" of her stump in her confusion and earnestness. "I thought you would think it very strange that so few people in the church called on you."
"It did seem odd, but then, you know, I don't know much of the world," said Marion. "I never lived anywhere but at Holford and in the valley. Everybody was very sociable at Holford, and I think Aunt Barbara was a very great favourite. And in the valley, you know, there are only ourselves. But I am sorry for Gerty."
"And so am I, and so is mother, but we can't help her much. We visit her and ask her to our house, but we can't make other people do so. Look, Marion; is that right?"
"Very nice indeed," pronounced Marion, inspecting the sketch; "I think it is quite wonderful for a first attempt."
"And I am sure yours is beautiful," exclaimed Emily. "I wouldn't have believed any one could make such a pretty picture of a tannery."
"I thought it would please Asahel," said Marion. "Do you mind waiting while I touch these leaves again? No; on the whole I won't. Come, Emily; let's pack up the traps and go home."
CHAPTER XXI.
WORK AT ROCK BOTTOM.
MARION stayed at the parsonage to tea, and had a very nice visit.
When she got home, she found two or three letters waiting for her from Hemlock Valley, and one from Lizzy Gates at Holford. The first tones of Gerty's voice told her what she was to expect.
"You are highly favoured in the line of letters, certainly," said Gerty. "What do they find to waste so much time and paper upon?"
"Oh, there is a great deal both of time and paper at Hemlock Valley," said Marion, gayly; "and I like to hear all the news."
"What news is there to tell?"
"Well, the tabby-cat has presented her owner with two tortoise-shell kittens, and Emma's doll Eugenia Stanley has met her death by being eaten up by Meg's puppy, and Mrs. Chris Hollenbeck has a baby girl. I believe those are the most important items of information, only father and Bram are coming over some time next week. And Lizzy Gates tells me all the Holford news about the girls. Oh, there is plenty to tell. See here, Asahel: come and look at my sketch and see if you know what it is meant for."
"The tannery, of course," said Asahel, coming to look at the sketch. "How natural it looks, with the tree over the end and that bit of the bridge coming in! Well, I never thought you would do as much as that, Marion. Your pictures look like real live things. It is worth while to take drawing-lessons if one can succeed in that style. See, Gerty, what a pretty picture Marion has made of the tannery."
"I can't say I see any great beauty in it—no disrespect to Marion," said Gerty, languidly glancing at the picture. "I dare say it is well done for water-colours, but I don't think much of them, anyway; and what is the use of taking so much trouble to make a picture of what one can see every day?"
"It is good study," said Marion; "and besides, the colours are very nice. The old gray building comes out so pretty against that bank of red rock and earth. At home the rocks are all cold and gray, not warm, as they are here."
"I shouldn't think there could be much difference in the temperature—at least in summer," said Asahel, innocently.
Marion laughed, "It isn't the temperature, it is the colour. Our rocks are all gray."
"Marion is doing the artist—don't you understand?" said Gerty. "She has read in a book that red things are warm, or perhaps dear Cousin Helen told her. I must say I don't think it in the best taste to talk so much paint-shop, especially considering that—"
"Well, that what?" asked Marion, looking full at her.
Gerty did not answer directly, but as Marion quitted the room to put away her painting things, she heard Gerty say in a tone which was evidently meant to catch her ear,—
"That her father was a worthless, drunken, dissipated sign-painter. If I were Marion, I'd do anything but paint."
Marion hastened up to her room and locked herself in. She had learned how to conquer now, but it was not always without a struggle. She prayed for grace to forgive and to be patient.
And then, to divert herself, she took out all her letters and read them over. They told her plenty of home and Holford news.
Lizzy was a delightful correspondent, and forgot nothing. Emily Sibley had gone out West to teach, and Mary McIntyre had come into her place, to her great delight. Matty McRae had gone away to boarding-school. Therese was doing admirably, and everybody liked her. They had a French club which met twice a week and talked only French, except when they talked Latin. And herewith Lizzy presented some specimens of Latin and French sentences over which Marion had a hearty laugh, which did her more good than a great many tears.
When she had finished the letters, she leaned back in her chair, absorbed in thought. Was it only a year since she had been a member of Crocker school? Her cheeks turned hot as she went back and remembered how she had wasted her time and employed her thoughts over visions of grandeur and magnificence—of the wonderful things she was to accomplish while she was letting precious time and opportunity pass by her unimproved.
"Oh dear! If I could only have them back!" she sighed. "But Cousin Helen was right. There is only just so much time, anyhow; and if we waste it, we never can find it again. And to think how I abused Aunt Baby's kindness and forbearance! I don't think I need resent Gerty's speeches when I remember how I used to speak to Aunt Baby."
"Don't you mean to come down, Marie?" called Gerty from the bottom of the stairs.
"No, I believe not," Marion answered, trying to speak exactly as usual. "I am pretty tired with my walk, and I think I will get off my things and lie down. Don't come up, Gerty; I don't want anything."
But Gerty insisted on coming up, and was exceedingly kind and solicitous that Marion should have everything comfortable, while Marion tried to accept the kindness and not to think of the tabby-cat playing with a mouse.
Gerty was certainly more trying than she had been. She was not at all well, and had been over to see the doctor at Coaltown. The doctor said Mrs. Van Alstine needed tonics, and had prescribed certain bitters to be taken before meals, and a glass of strong porter or whisky and water after dinner. Gerty was not averse to the medicine. She usually went to bed for a long nap after dinner, and often did not get up till tea-time.
Marion at first thought little of the matter, but by and by she began to be uneasy, and ventured on a remonstrance:
"Don't you think you take rather too much whisky, Gerty? I don't believe you feel as well for it. You seem to have a headache almost every morning."
"That is the reason I need it, child; it helps me every time. There! Don't be alarmed, Marion. I know you think I am going to turn out a drunkard like a wicked woman in a Sunday school book, but there is no danger."
Gerty spoke good-naturedly, and Marion was rather glad she had ventured, especially as Gerty omitted her dose next day, and for two or three succeeding days. She was very fretful and harder than ever to get on with, but Marion bore all patiently, and tried her best to be agreeable. But the amendment did not last.
Gerty went over to Coaltown, and returned with a new set of medicines and directions from the doctor. The next day Gerty did not get up to tea. Marion went to her room to call her, and found her in a dead sleep, with flushed cheeks and parched lips. Marion bent over to kiss her awake, but drew back disgusted and horrified. There was no doubt of the facts of the case: Gerty was dead drunk. She had taken an overdose of the "medicine," and this was the result.
"Oh how glad I am that Asahel is not at home!" was Marion's first thought.
Her next was of how to screen Gerty. She carefully closed the blinds and the door, and came out just in time to meet Mary coming in.
"Mrs. Van Alstine is asleep," said she. "I don't think I will wake her. You can make some fresh tea for her when she wakes up."
"And indeed, then, I can't, miss," answered Mary. "I've to go home and see my sister with her sick children, and Jane has gone to bed with a headache too."
"Then I will," said Marion. "Never mind, Mary; you needn't wait. Go to see your sister, and I will take care of the table."
"And it's yourself that's the nice young lady," said Mary, who was as Irish as the cove of Cork, and very good-natured and obliging. "I wouldn't give you the trouble, only for the children. I'll have everything convanient and make up the fire before I go."
Marion had not much appetite for her lonely meal, but she drank her tea and put away the silver, and then went into Gerty's room again.
She was wide enough awake now, and suffering from a horrible sick headache with all its attendant discomforts. She was sure she was going to die, and would have Marion send for the doctor directly.
"Humph!" said Doctor Noble, whose tongue was not under much better government than Gerty's own, and who had, besides, an old grudge to revenge. "It isn't very hard to see what is the matter. Doctor Smith's patients are very apt to have such attacks. You'll do well enough, only don't take quite so much next time."
Marion sat up with Gerty nearly all night. In the morning she was better, but really sick and miserable enough to be grateful for Marion's care.
"Did any one see me—Mary or any one?" she asked.
"No; I took care of that," said Marion.
"That was clever in you. Of course it was an accident. I hope Doctor Noble will hold his tongue."
"I should not think he would be likely to speak of it," said Marion.
"He may tell his wife, though; and if he does, every one will know it. They will be glad enough to get a handle against me. Marion, whatever you do, don't tell Asahel."
"Of, course not," answered Marion; "but, Gerty, I do wish you would leave off that stuff altogether. I'm sure it is not good for you. Just see how miserable you are this morning, and you grow thin every day."
"Oh, that is only because I took too much. I shall be more careful another time, but I can't leave it off all at once, after taking it so long."
"So long!" repeated Marion, startled. "How long? It isn't so very long since you went to Doctor Smith the first time."
"Yes, but then I used it a little before that. I used to take it when I was a girl, before I was married, till mother got scared and made me promise that I would never touch whisky again without the advice of a physician. I did not for a long time, but I felt so weak and miserable that I know I needed it. I tried to get Doctor Fenn or your uncle to recommend it, but they wouldn't. So finally I began it without any prescription, but I didn't feel really easy till I got Doctor Smith's word for it. But I won't be so careless again, I promise you."
Marion was forced to be content; but, it was not long before the same thing happened again, also when Asahel was away for a day and night. Again Marion screened and covered up and watched. Again Gerty was sorry and declared that it was an accident. She certainly did not thrive on Doctor Smith's treatment. She grew thin and pale, querulous and suspicious.
Jane, the housemaid went away, and Marion found her hands full enough of work between nursing Gerty, keeping house, and presiding at the table when, as too often happened, Gerty was unable to appear. Tanners are famous for having company. They sleep, dine, and sup at each other's houses as a matter of course; and Marion never knew that she might not have two or three strange gentlemen and ladies to entertain at dinner and tea. She could not tell whether or not Asahel was aware of the true cause of Gerty's attacks, but she felt that the subject was one to which she could not venture to allude. She felt her position to be an awkward and trying one. Certainly it was very different from any ever occupied or contemplated by the heiress of the McGregors, being one where she had a great deal of hard work and annoyance with very little credit.