Marjory's apology.
"Fix in your minds--or rather ask God to fix in your minds--this
one idea of an absolutely good God."--KINGSLEY.
Marjory did not sleep very much that night, her thoughts were so busy.
The events of the day kept crowding in upon her, the story of the lights
in the old wing, and running through all was the disquieting thought
that to-morrow she must go to the baker's daughter and say that she was
sorry. It seemed to Marjory that it would be very hard, and yet she felt
sure that it was the right thing to do. Had not Mrs. Forester said so?
and had not her own conscience told her so? Still, she dreaded the doing
of it, for Marjory was proud as well as very shy, and Mary Ann's unkind
words still rankled in her memory. She had yet to learn that the
punishment of offences against us, great or small, lies in other hands
than ours, and that absolute justice is watching over the affairs of
men--that each action, good or evil, bears its own fruit. Thinking over
Mrs. Forester's words, a dim realization came to her of that great
truth, which, once grasped, brings calm trust and faith--the truth which
promises that obedience to the voice of conscience keeps the soul in
harmony with its Creator, so that outward circumstances cannot really
harm or hurt. Marjory was but a young girl, with no experience, yet she
knew this voice--she knew that obedience to it or disobedience meant
either happiness or unhappiness inside herself, as she expressed it; but
to-night, for the first time, she felt something of that trust in
perfect justice which gives peace within, and she gradually began to
lose the feeling of resentment against Mary Ann, and to feel that what
she had to think of, and was responsible for, was her own behaviour--she
must answer for her own thoughts and words.
She set out bravely the next day with Mrs. Forester and Blanche. Her
heart beat very quickly as the carriage stopped at the post office.
"Why, Mary Ann, if this is no Hunter's Marjory in the carriage with thae
new folks frae Braeside," exclaimed Mrs. Smylie to her daughter as she
saw the party arrive. "After a' I telt the leddy yesterday too."
Marjory came into the post office alone.
"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Smylie," she said shyly. "Can I see Mary Ann?"
Mrs. Smylie did not return her greeting, and without looking up from
the stamp desk called to Mary Ann.
"What is it?" cried Mary Ann from the parlour behind the shop.
"Come an' see," was her mother's reply. "_I_ canna tell ye."
Mary Ann came sauntering into the shop. When she saw Marjory she stopped
and stared.
"Hallo!" she said mockingly. "Want some more of what you had last time?"
Marjory flushed, and then with an effort, and speaking very quickly, she
said,--
"I've come to say I'm sorry I called you an ugly name, but I think you
were unkind in what you said."
"Do you suppose I care whether you call me names or not?" And the girl
gave a hard laugh.
"No; but I care. I am ashamed of myself."
Mrs. Smylie looked on and listened, curious to see how the affair would
end.
"You are a queer little kid," said Mary Ann. "Any one can see you
haven't been to school. No girl in our school would come and eat humble
pie like this. Well, I believe I did say a lot of stuff just to rub you
up, and if you're sorry I'm sorry too, so we'll shake hands--eh?"
The girls shook hands, and Marjory, again saying good-afternoon to Mrs.
Smylie, left the shop.
Mrs. Smylie replied by a nod. She was a little disappointed at the turn
things had taken. She rather enjoyed having a grievance, and Hunter's
Marjory and her "tantrums" had been a fertile subject for gossip during
the last few days.
"Ye needna hae gien in sae sune," she remarked to her daughter when the
carriage had driven off.
"That was my business," replied Mary Ann, with a toss of her head.
"Hoots, lassie, ye needna haud yer head sae high wi' yer mither. I was
but thinkin' ye micht hae held it higher wi' yon chit."
"I'll never be like her, not if I live to be a hundred and go to fifty
schools--so there." And Mary Ann banged out of the shop, leaving her
mother silent with amazement.
Mary Ann had something to think about. She had been quite taken aback by
Marjory's apology, and for a little while the real Mary Ann had shown
herself. She was not a bad-hearted girl in reality, but she had been
spoiled by those who should have known better; and although every now
and then, at moments such as this, her better nature would assert
itself, it was gradually becoming choked and crushed by selfishness,
conceit, and carelessness. Marjory had been inclined to envy the baker's
daughter her privileges, but in reality Mary Ann was to be pitied rather
than envied, for she had no one to guide and help her. Her parents'
chief care was that she should be better dressed and better educated
than her neighbours. This they felt they could accomplish; and having
done so, they were content, and satisfied that they had done their duty
by their daughter.
The days were full of pleasure for Marjory and Blanche. When the garden
had been thoroughly explored, there were many beautiful places for
Marjory to show her friend. She must go to the woods, to the moors, and
to the loch. Dr. Hunter had a pretty little sailing-boat, and Marjory
was an expert sailor, and was allowed to go out on fine days by herself,
though never without permission, in case she should be overtaken by a
sudden storm. The doctor made a study of the weather day by day, and was
able to foretell it to a certain extent. Sometimes, on a day which
looked to Marjory to be quite fine, he would forbid her going on the
loch, and she would find that he had been right.
The days were not long enough for all the delights the girls would have
crowded into them. Marjory always remembered the first Sunday after her
meeting with the Foresters. It came round in due course, and she did not
greet it with much pleasure at first.
First of all came clean clothes, and amongst them a stiffly-starched
petticoat. This was one of Marjory's pet aversions. It crackled as she
walked and made her feel self-conscious. Then there was the best frock
to be put on, which always seemed several degrees tighter than the
everyday ones. Then came breakfast, an hour later on Sundays, to
distinguish it from week days. Another distinguishing mark was the
absence of the usual porridge and the presence of a plate of drop
scones, a favourite dainty of Marjory's which Lisbeth always made for
Sunday.
Dr. Hunter always devoted himself to his niece on Sunday mornings. He
did not usually have much to say at breakfast during the week, but on
Sundays he always made a point of inquiring about her doings, her
garden, her pets, her sewing, and anything else he could think of. He
always came down in his black clothes, and they had a slight odour of
camphor, which the careful Lisbeth used to preserve them from moths.
Marjory ever afterwards associated the smell of camphor with Sunday
mornings at Hunters' Brae. The doctor, like Marjory, never wore his best
clothes unless he felt absolutely obliged to, and sometimes for months
together they only came out once a week. There was camphor in Marjory's
wardrobe too, but she was careful to keep as many bags of lavender as
she could amongst her clothes, to fight the camphor, as she told
Lisbeth; and on the whole the lavender had the best of it.
Seated at the breakfast-table, Marjory always knew what was coming. As
soon as they each had a cup of coffee and something to eat, the doctor
would say, "Well, Marjory, how's things?"
It was always the same question, and it usually received the same
answer. Marjory would feel very shy and awkward, and say, "All right,
thank you," and nothing more. She never could think of anything that she
felt would be interesting to her uncle. Week after week she would
resolve to try to be less awkward, but when the time came it was usually
only by a long list of questions that her uncle could get any
information from her. On this particular Sunday morning she sat waiting
for the inevitable question. It soon came. "Well, Marjory, how's
things?"
Marjory made a valiant effort, and at last she gave her uncle a
different reply. She looked up and said, "Better, thank you, uncle."
"Better, eh?" he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "That's good, if
better _can_ be good!"
"Everything's so different since Blanche came," Marjory went on, "and
now that I'm going to have real lessons."
"It certainly has been an exciting week for you. First you quarrelled
with that frizzle-pated Smylie girl, then with your old good-for-nothing
of an uncle, then you met Blanche, then you made up your quarrels,
Blanche came here, you went there, and so on." And the doctor smiled.
Marjory answered the smile, thinking how nice her uncle looked when he
smiled, and wishing that he would do it oftener.
The smile was simply a response to her own effort in trying to
understand her uncle better. She had been blaming him for his seeming
indifference to her, when in reality she herself had been very much at
fault. Of late the doctor had begun to feel that it was no use trying to
win Marjory's confidence, she seemed to keep herself so aloof from him;
but since she had faced him in the study, first like a little fury
demanding to be sent to school, then pale and trembling, asking for his
pardon, he had felt that he knew something more of the real Marjory, and
he, too, had determined to try to preserve this better understanding.
Soon after breakfast they started off to church. It was a walk of about
a mile, and Marjory and the doctor always went together. Silky always
knew when Sunday came round. He would sit quite still by the gate and
watch them with serious, longing eyes, but he never offered to accompany
them. He made it a rule, however, to go to meet them on the way back. He
always sat waiting by a certain milestone, and as soon as they turned
the bend of the road beyond it, he would go bounding towards them,
frisking and wagging his tail, and barking excitedly.
The walks to church were not altogether pleasant ones for Marjory, as a
rule. Her best clothes were always rather a worry to her, and she was
obliged to wear gloves. Lisbeth was in the habit of seeing them start
off. She took great pride in the doctor's appearance on the "Sawbath,"
and surveyed him critically from the crown of his shining silk hat to
the sole of his well-polished boots. She never failed to set Marjory's
hat straight, to give sundry little pats to her frock, and to what she
called "sort" her hair. Marjory wore it in a plait all the week, but on
Sunday it was allowed to hang at its will, and Lisbeth loved to see the
wavy black mass which reached to the girl's waist, though she would not
for worlds have told Marjory so, in case it might encourage her in the
sin of vanity!
Another bugbear of Marjory's was the little bag which Lisbeth always
insisted upon her carrying. Everybody had a bag for their books, she
said, so Marjory must have one too; and Sunday after Sunday in they
went, with a clean handkerchief and, it must be confessed, a sweetie.
These sweeties were kept in a bottle in the study, of all places. It was
never allowed to get empty, and Marjory often wondered if the doctor
took them to church too. There was a certain moment, when the
congregation was settling itself to listen to the sermon and there was a
general rustling of clothes and clattering of feet, when the sweetie
found its way to Marjory's mouth. She would begin by determining to make
it last as long as the sermon, but, alas! it would become thinner and
thinner, and finally disappear altogether before Mr. Mackenzie had got
to "thirdly."
Besides the drawbacks of the best clothes and the bag there were
usually many admonitions from her uncle, such as, "Marjory, turn out
your toes. Hold up your head, child. Turn out your toes, I say," or, "O
Marjory, do not swing that bag"--all very necessary, no doubt, but they
had the effect of making the girl self-conscious. Thinking about her
head, she would forget about her toes, and _vice versâ_, and her uncle
would be apt to think that it was obstinacy on her part and to tell her
so, and then there would be sullen silence till the church door was
reached. But to-day it was not so. Half-way to church they joined the
Foresters, and Marjory and Blanche walked together behind their elders,
so that their deportment could not be criticised.
Blanche gave Marjory the cheerful news that as there was to be a
children's service in the afternoon, Mrs. Forester was going to beg for
Marjory to be let off writing the morning sermon if she wrote the
afternoon one instead.
"I don't suppose uncle will say yes, though," objected Marjory.
"Oh yes, he will; people always do to mother."
"How different it would be!" sighed Marjory. "I'm sure I could
understand it better if I didn't have to keep thinking about writing it
out."
"And mother's going to ask Dr. Hunter to come to tea, and you will come
home from church with us. Won't it be nice?"
"Yes; but I don't believe he will let me." Blanche's face clouded.
"Oh," she said, disappointment in her tone, "why not?"
"I've never been out anywhere on Sunday."
"But this is different--it isn't like going to a party; and we have such
nice Sundays, and I do want you to come. I love Sundays, and I always
look forward to them; don't you?"
"No," replied Marjory candidly, "not much."
Blanche looked sympathetically at her friend.
"Well, of course yours don't seem to be quite so nice as ours; but
you'll see they'll be different now."
Blanche was right. Mrs. Forester won the day, and to Marjory's intense
satisfaction, as they went in at the churchyard gate her uncle told her
that she need not write the morning sermon if she would do the afternoon
one, and that she was to be allowed to go to tea at Braeside after the
service.
The Heathermuir church was an old one; its pews were of the straight,
high-backed kind, and once inside them their occupants could see little
of their surroundings except the minister, whose desk was raised above
the level of the floor. With no temptations to look about her, and
relieved of her weekly task, Marjory gave her whole attention to Mr.
Mackenzie, trying to understand his meaning instead of mechanically
taxing her memory, parrot-like, with his words. She watched the noble
old face with its lines of kindliness and patience, the eyes now liquid
with pity for the sorrowful wrongdoer, now flashing with indignation as
he spoke of the unrepentant and the careless, then softening again as he
expressed the hope that their hearts might be touched, and the belief
that they too would win forgiveness from a loving Father.
Parts of the sermon were not to be understood by a child such as
Marjory--it was addressed to men and women--yet her eyes never left the
preacher's face, the sweetie had been quite forgotten, and she carried
away with her a mind-picture of a Being full of love, sorry when His
children do wrong, just in His punishments, but all-forgiving when they
are truly repentant and try to make amends.
In the afternoon Marjory sat in the Braeside pew with Mrs. Forester and
Blanche. Again the preacher's theme was love--"the greatest thing in the
world"--love to the Creator, and, through it, love to all His creatures
great and small. The old man told how love can smooth rough places, can
right wrong, can win battles; how love and kindness attract love and
kindness in return, and how a loving thought, word, or action is never
lost. The words she heard that day sank deeply into Marjory's mind. They
were full of hope and encouragement for all, and she felt something of
that spirit which prompted the poet to sing so joyously,--
"God's in His heaven; all's right with the world."
Service over, they walked back to Braeside. It was a pretty walk across
a bit of moorland, through the heather and bracken, here and there a
moss-grown rock, here and there across the path a tiny trickling stream
with stepping-stones.
"Did you have to ask the doctor very hard to make him let Marjory come,
mother?" asked Blanche as they walked along.
"Not very hard," replied her mother, smiling. "I explained to him that
we always keep our Sundays quietly, enjoying the day of rest, but that
at the same time we like it to be bright and happy; and when I told him
that the pleasure of our friends' company would greatly add to the
brightness and happiness, he said 'yes' for Marjory, and promised to
come himself."
When they arrived at Braeside they found the doctor already there. Mr.
Forester and he had established themselves under a shady tree on the
lawn, both looking the picture of comfort, smoking their pipes, and
talking together like old friends.
Marjory felt almost bewildered by the turn things had taken. Truly they
were different, both for herself and for her uncle.
Tea was brought into the garden, and they all had it together, the girls
waiting upon their elders. It was all so peaceful and happy that Marjory
found it hard to tear herself away when the time came, but she consoled
herself with the thought that there was to-morrow to look forward to
now. Hitherto she had always disliked Monday. It was the day for the
washing to be counted, for one thing, and Lisbeth was always rather
flustered in consequence, although the counting of it was all she had to
do, as a woman from the village came to do the actual washing. Then
there was the sermon to write and her wardrobe and drawers to tidy.
Lisbeth was very strict about the tidying. All these things gave Monday
an atmosphere prosaic in the extreme in Marjory's opinion. Now it would
be different; she could look forward to it because there would be
Blanche to compare notes with. She would make haste and finish her
duties, and then they could go off into the woods or on to the moor, as
free as air, and with no one to interfere with them. She went to bed
full of these plans, and feeling her heart overflowing with gratitude to
the great and loving Father who had given her such happiness.