MISS WASPE GIVES GOOD ADVICE.
"Man's books are but man's alphabet.
Beyond and on his lessons lie--
The lessons of the violet,
The large gold letters of the sky,
The love of beauty, blossomed soil,
The large content, the tranquil toil."
JOAQUIN MILLER.
When Marjory reached home, finding that the doctor was still with her
uncle, she put Brownie into the stable, rubbed him down, and gave him a
good supper and much petting, which was highly approved of by the
affectionate little animal, for he rubbed his velvety nose up and down
Marjory's sleeve, as if to say, "Thank you; you are very kind."
Dr. Morison had got his patient into bed and comfortably settled there
by the time Marjory went back to the house. She lingered near the
bedroom door, so that she might catch him as he came out and hear what
he had to say. She thought he looked rather grave as he left the room,
but as soon as he saw her his face brightened, and he said
cheerfully,--
"Not so very bad. He must be kept very quiet, of course. I've told your
old woman what to do. I'll look in first thing to-morrow. How did it
happen?"
"I don't quite know," replied Marjory, afraid of a cross-examination,
"but I think he must have been trying some experiment."
"H'm!" said Dr. Morison. "Well, good-night, Marjory. Don't be
over-anxious; he'll do." And then, as if in answer to her unspoken
question, "You may go in and see him if you like."
Marjory went in, and found her uncle in bed, his head bandaged, and his
hands lying on a pillow in front of him and covered with wool dressings.
It made her feel, as she afterwards said to Blanche, quite faint and
fluttering inside to see him lying like that, so helpless. What could be
seen of his face was very pale, and his eyes looked unnaturally large
and bright.
Lisbeth was standing by the bed watching her master, on guard lest he
should move a muscle.
The doctor smiled as Marjory went towards him, and she stooped to kiss
him. He seemed very weak and soon closed his eyes.
Lisbeth fetched a chair, so that Marjory might sit beside him while she
went to the kitchen to prepare what was wanted, giving strict
injunctions that the patient must not move.
After a little while the doctor said in a low tone, "Marjory, did you
give me away?" a note of half-comic, half-pathetic inquiry in his voice.
"No, uncle; I only told Dr. Morison I thought you had been trying some
experiment, but I didn't say where. Nobody knows where I found you."
"Good little girl!" he said, closing his eyes again and smiling
contentedly. The thought that his den might have been discovered had
been worrying the doctor. Its secrecy had been one of its great charms
to the eccentric man, and the knowledge that it was no longer secret
would have been a real trouble to him.
He did not talk any more, and Marjory asked no questions, though she was
naturally very anxious to know exactly how the accident had happened.
Mr. Forester came up later in the evening to inquire how things were
going. Lisbeth had sent a message by the coachman who had come for
Marjory that there had been an accident to Dr. Hunter, and that she
would like Jean to come back at once unless she was very badly wanted.
Mr. Forester was very kind. He told Marjory how they had all missed her,
and promised that some day they would give another party expressly for
her. He did not tease her at all, and Marjory liked him better than she
ever had as yet. She could not have stood any teasing, poor child, after
all she had been through. The sight of her uncle, injured as he was,
hurt her sorely. She could not see suffering without feeling pain
herself, and it was a pale-faced girl, on the verge of tears, who
answered Mr. Forester's inquiries.
When Marjory went to her room her things for the party were still lying
on the bed. The sight of them struck a chill to her heart, for it made
her realize how little one can tell what a day may bring; how evening
may see changes undreamt of in the morning. The party which had seemed
all-important when she woke that day had dwindled away into nothing,
blotted out of sight by the happenings of the last few hours. Still, her
chief feeling was one of great thankfulness that the doctor thought her
uncle would get over this trouble; and that she had been of some use to
him was also a comforting thought. She fell asleep thinking how she
would try to nurse him and to take care of him until he was better.
When the doctor was able to talk more, he explained to Marjory that he
had been trying a dangerous experiment that day. He had heard the
dinner-bell ring, but was loath to leave his work, and in the end had
forgotten all about it, having become entirely absorbed in his
occupation. Something--perhaps a flaw in the glass--had caused one of
the tubes he was using to burst, and the chemicals burnt his hands. At
the sudden shock he started back, and in some way lost his balance and
fell, striking his head on a corner of the table and falling on to the
broken glass. He must have lost consciousness from the blow on his head,
and he could not tell how long he had lain as Marjory found him, but he
had felt so weak that every effort to rise made him faint again, and he
supposed he must have lain for a long time in a half-conscious
condition.
It was some weeks before he was quite himself again, and Marjory made a
most devoted nurse. She could hardly bear to leave him in case he might
want her when she was gone. Her feeling for him was a revelation to
herself, for she knew now that she really loved this uncle of hers whom
she had once thought to be hard and cruel and indifferent to her. She
considered him very much changed, but in reality the change was in
herself. Blanche's friendship, the kindness of the Foresters, Miss
Waspe's wise and careful teaching, had all combined to expand her really
warm and loving nature, which had threatened at one time to become
soured and warped for want of love's sunshine. Her uncle, as Mrs.
Forester had predicted on that memorable day in the plantation, had met
half-way any advances that she had made, and the result had been the
establishment of much happier relations between them. Now that he was
ill and dependent upon her, it was Marjory's delight to wait upon him,
and to fetch and carry for him, and her uncle was deeply touched by the
girl's whole-hearted devotion to him.
Marjory did not see so much of Blanche and the others after the doctor's
accident, for she did not join their expeditions, but she usually
managed to meet her friend once a day to exchange news. Herbert Morison
had now joined the company, and Alan was half inclined to resent this,
although the girls had made no objection. He came to see Marjory one
day--in fact, as soon as he thought he might venture to do so without
being in the way--and he freely expressed his opinion upon the subject
of the new member.
"It's all very fine," he said, "for Herbert to come tacking himself on
to my friends. I wasn't good enough for him before. He only makes an ass
of himself, and I'm sure Maud laughs at him. It all happened through him
going to the party. He said afterwards that she was ripping, and licked
all the others into fits; and now it's a new tie every day, and a polish
on his boots fit to dazzle you, so that he hates to get 'em muddy, and
always wants to go the easiest way everywhere. Rot, I call it. He asked
Maud yesterday if she liked his tie--silly booby!--and she said it was
useful as a danger-signal, cos you could see it a long way off. Crikey!
how red he got; and to-day he put on a very sad-looking gray one." And
Master Alan went off into fits of laughter at the recollection of his
brother's discomfiture.
"Oh, well," replied Marjory, always sorry for the man who is down, so
to speak, "he can see that Maud likes pretty things, and I suppose he
thought he was pleasing her."
"But that is just what I think is such rot," replied Alan emphatically.
"Why should a fellow try to please with his _ties_?" in a tone of
disgust. "He ought to _do_ things, and not be such a muff. Herbert
didn't use to be like that; he's got it from those beastly sixth
fellows. Course I know he's a good-looking chap. I don't mind saying so
to you, though I wouldn't to any of the fellows; 'tisn't the thing. I
shall never be like him; and of course the mater's awful proud of him."
There was just a suspicion of brightness in Alan's eyes just then which
Marjory did not fail to see, and she said quickly,--
"O Alan, I'm sure she's just as proud of you. Mothers are always proud
of their children."
"But I'm so short. She's always telling me I shall never be tall, like
Herbert," ruefully.
"But that doesn't matter a bit. Lots of little men get to be quite
famous. Think of Napoleon, and Moltke, and that dear German Emperor
Wilhelm--the old one, I mean. Miss Waspe said she saw the Kaiser Wilhelm
and General Moltke once when she was in Germany, and her recollection of
them is that neither of them was big; and anyway," she added
consolingly, "you're only fourteen, and you may grow a bit yet."
So Alan took comfort, for he had a high opinion of Marjory's wisdom.
"I say," he remarked, "I do think you know a lot, considering what a
short time it is since you began lessons. Fancy your knowing about those
men being small! I didn't." And he looked admiringly at Marjory.
"We have a rather nice lesson with Miss Waspe about famous men and
women, and she tells us stories about them, and describes them so
beautifully that I can see them quite plainly. It is so splendid to
think they were really alive and walked about just like ordinary
people."
Alan agreed, and there was a short silence. Marjory felt sure that the
boy had something else to say, for he seemed rather fidgety, and got up
and walked about the room, fingering things here and there, and clearing
his throat several times. She kept silent to give him an opportunity to
unburden himself. At last, rather red in the face, he said,--
"I say, you know, I felt beastly the other night when I heard about you
riding after father in the dark. If I'd only known, I would have done
it. It was awful rot me going to the party; I hated it when I knew."
"But I'm glad you went to the party. Blanche would have been very
disappointed if you hadn't gone."
There was still something else to come.
"I say, you'll let the Triple Alliance be on again next holidays, won't
you?" looking rather anxiously at Marjory.
"Yes, of course, and we shall have lots of fun." And Marjory's hearty
tone set all Alan's fears at rest.
The holidays came to an end. Maud and her mother went home, the Morison
boys returned to college, and Blanche and Marjory were to begin lessons
again.
Dr. Hunter was up and about by this time, and able to use his hands, so
that Marjory went back to her studies with a light heart.
When they had settled themselves in the schoolroom on the first day of
the new term, Miss Waspe said, "Now, children, I generally give what
Blanche calls a 'good talk' when we begin afresh, and I want to say a
few things to you to-day. If there is anything you want to know, tell
me, and I will try to help you if I can. First of all, I want you to
understand and to remember that you don't come here only to learn
lessons and repeat them. That is only a small part of your education,
and there is much besides. You have to learn to make the best of your
lives, to learn how to _live_; to be good girls, who will grow into good
women; to be true and honest, strong and fearless, thoughtful for
others--in fact, to be _gentlewomen_. All this is not easy--not nearly
so easy as learning a page of history, for instance, and then repeating
it to me. I want you to understand--and especially you, Marjory, who
have begun so-called lessons rather later in life than most girls--that
it is not the amount of information you possess and the studies you have
gone through that is the important thing; it is the way you have worked,
the sort of girl that you are, the life you are living, that matters. We
are beginning again to-day. Let us all do our very best, so that at the
end of the term we may have really gone forward. The lessons I have been
talking about are never finished; our education goes on as long as we
are alive. Now," with a bright smile, "my speech is done, and I hope it
hasn't been too long. It is your turn now. Have either of you any
problems for me?"
"I have," replied Marjory. "I want to know whether it is ever right to
tell a lie, or a kind of a one, for the sake of somebody else." And she
blushed very red.
Miss Waspe looked at her in surprise. Marjory had always seemed to her
to be so absolutely straightforward and honest that she could not
understand the reason for such a question.
"I don't believe in a 'kind of a lie,'" she replied, "A thing is either
true or untrue, and I don't think it could ever be right to tell an
untruth under any circumstances."
"Not if you can see quite well that if you tell this lie it will prevent
something bad happening to some one else?" asked Marjory appealingly.
"No," was the decided reply. "Tell the truth at all costs, and trust the
results to a higher power than yours. Wrong cannot make right."
Tears stood in Marjory's eyes, but she said no more, and Miss Waspe did
not question her. The truth was that ever since Marjory had told the man
in the plantation that "people" of the name of Shaw kept the Low Farm,
allowing him to think that the husband was at home, she had felt
uncomfortable about it. Certainly she had said it for Mrs. Shaw's sake,
to prevent a suspicious-looking person from going to the farm when its
mistress was alone; but she had not been able to silence her conscience,
and had at last determined to ask Miss Waspe what she thought. Her words
had only confirmed Marjory's uneasy feelings, and she could not give the
circumstances as an excuse without breaking her promise to the man.
"I've got a problem too," said Blanche, "and it's this: Is a secret a
proper secret if you tell only one person, and you are certain that
other person will never tell?"
The others laughed, and Miss Waspe said,--
"I don't quite know what you mean, dear."
Blanche explained. "Well, it's like this. I simply can't keep a secret.
I feel as if I shall burst if I don't tell somebody, so I always tell
mother, and then it's all right, and, of course, I never want to tell
anybody else. Do you think it is right for me to do that?"
Miss Waspe could not help smiling at this confession, and she replied,
"I think if you tell the person who wants to confide in you that you
must tell your mother, and the person still chooses to trust you with
the secret, then you are quite right to tell her."
"But supposing," argued Blanche, "that the person tells you the thing
before he or she says, 'Don't tell any one,' ought I to try to do
without telling mother? It would be an awful risk," she added solemnly.
"Well," replied Miss Waspe, "personally, I don't like secrets, except,
perhaps, about presents or pleasant surprises for people. I think I
should advise you, for the present, at any rate, to make the stipulation
that you be allowed to tell your mother anything and everything, but at
the same time you must learn to control yourself and keep your own
counsel so far as other people are concerned."
"I'll try," said Blanche, looking very solemn, "but I haven't much
hope."
After that the girls teased their good-natured governess with many other
"problems," as they called them, such as, "Whether would you choose to
be very pretty and very poor, or very rich and quite plain?" and
another, "Whether would you prefer to walk in a very fashionable place
with a person you love, who is so badly dressed as to attract attention,
or with a nicely-dressed person for whom you did not care so much?"
Miss Waspe rather encouraged the girls to give their opinions on all
sorts of subjects, as she liked them to think.
"Learn to think and to see," she would say. And one day she told them
how, when she was a girl, she had been made to learn some lines by
heart, which had helped her to begin thinking for herself. "I think they
frightened me into it," she said, laughing. "They were written by
Carlyle; you will know something of his works some day, I hope. This is
what he says: 'Not one in a thousand has the smallest turn for thinking;
only for passive dreaming, and hearsaying, and active babbling by rote.
Of the eyes that men do glare withal, so few can see.' It sounds rather
like a scolding, doesn't it? Well, I don't want you to be like that; I
want you both to think and to see, and you will find much happiness to
think about and many beauties to see."
Certainly Marjory's world had grown much wider and brighter by this
woman's thought. The romance and wonder of reality put before the girl
had opened up possibilities of interest in every direction to her who
was so eager to learn and so quick to see. To give an instance: it may
be remembered that in her days of loneliness Marjory had woven fairy
stories about the flowers and trees in the garden and the woods.
Knowledge had now replaced these fairy tales with facts far more
marvellous than any of her fancies had been.
These were happy hours spent in the schoolroom at Braeside. They never
became irksome to Marjory, but they made her long to see more of this
"great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world."
Two things were often in her mind at this time--the prophecy about the
dark-haired maiden, and the letter of which Mary Ann had told her. She
built many hopes upon that letter; night and day she prayed that her
father might be found and brought back to her.
The postman only came once a day to Hunters' Brae, and the letter-bag
was always taken straight to her uncle's study; so, although Marjory
watched carefully for any sign, she did not know whether a reply had
been received to that letter her uncle had sent to foreign parts.
One day, coming out of church, Mary Ann managed to whisper to her, "That
letter came back, so I expect your father's really dead."
This was a great blow to Marjory. She had hardly realized how much she
had hoped, and this bitter disappointment seemed to leave her nothing to
hope for. Still she refused to give up altogether, for there was just
the chance that the letter might not have been written to her father, as
Mary Ann had not actually seen the address on it. Marjory reasoned with
herself in this way, for she felt that her life would be strangely empty
without the hope of some day finding her father.