Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: _Heiress of McGregor.—Frontispiece._
The prayer meeting.]
THE
HEIRESS OF McGREGOR;
OR,
LIVING FOR SELF.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.
AUTHOR OF
"IRISH AMY," "COMFORT ALLISON," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS,"
"NELLY; OR, THE BEST INHERITANCE," "TWIN ROSES,"
"ETHEL'S TRIAL," "ON THE MOUNTAIN," "RHODA'S EDUCATION,"
"THE TAME TURTLE," ETC.
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PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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NEW YORK: NOS. 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
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————————————————— ————————————————
WESCOTT & THOMSON HENRY B. ASHMEAD
Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada. Printer, Philada.
CONTENTS.
——————
CHAPTER
I. THE HEIRESS OF McGREGOR
II. TONE BEAUBIEN'S DAUGHTER
III. AUNT CHRISTIAN
IV. SUNDAY
V. LONG TALKS
VI. "WHERE CAN SHE BE?"
VII. THE MISSION MEETING
VIII. "LEFT, BUT NOT ALONE"
IX. "FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW"
X. GOING AND STAYING
XI. "THE CLEAR CALL"
XII. THE JOURNEY
XIII. HEMLOCK VALLEY
XIV. LIFE IN THE WOODS
XV. MRS. GERTRUDE
XVI. "OVER IN THE JONES DISTRICT"
XVII. IN MOTHER'S ROOM
XVIII. THANKSGIVING
XIX. WINTER IN THE VALLEY
XX. ROCK BOTTOM
XXI. WORK AT ROCK BOTTOM
XXII. "IT WON'T DO"
THE HEIRESS OF McGREGOR.
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CHAPTER I.
THE HEIRESS OF McGREGOR.
THE heiress of McGregor walked slowly up the valley, absorbed in
sorrowful thoughts, till a turn of the path brought to her view the
baronial mansion of her forefathers. In other words, Marion McGregor,
going home from school, came in sight of her father's house. The first
expression was the way in which Marion would have liked to describe her
progress; the latter was more in accordance with the stern, prosaic
facts of the case.
Strictly speaking, it was not exactly true, either, for neither house
nor farm belonged to the McGregor family, though they had lived there
so many years that the house was always known as the McGregor place.
It was part of a large estate which covered at least half of Holford
county. A great Scotch nobleman had bought an immense tract of wild
land in those parts very soon after the Revolution, and most of it
remained in the hands of his grandson. It was partly improved and let
on long leases as farming and grazing land, though there were still
large tracts of mountain and forest which had never been touched by man.
On one of these leased farms, in a substantial though very plain and
homely brick house, lived three generations of McGregors. These were,
first, old Hector McGregor, the grandfather, who had come over from
Scotland and taken the lease nearly fifty years before. He was a
stout, hale old man, with blue eyes that were still bright and limbs
which were still strong and able to carry him "to kirk and market,"
though he was fast approaching his ninetieth year. Then came a son and
daughter, Alick and Barbara, and then a granddaughter, Marion. Alick
was a widower and had no children; of the rest, one son was a minister
in Minnesota, and another daughter the wife of a Syrian missionary.
Barbara had never been married, and at fifty-five was not likely to
be so. It was not for want of opportunity, for there had never been a
prettier girl in Holford county than Baby McGregor, as her father in
Scotch still called her. She had received more than one "grand offer,"
but Baby had put all her suitors courteously but firmly aside, and
waited, first with the patience of hope, then with patient despair, and
at last in the sure and certain hope of a glorious resurrection, for
one who went away to sea and never came home any more.
Few people save her father and brothers knew or guessed that Barbara
had ever had any romance in her history. She was a bright, active,
stirring housewife, ready to lend a hand in all her neighbours' real
sorrows and difficulties, but, it must be confessed, a little too
apt to be impatient of unnecessary worries, borrowed troubles, and
sentimental woes. All of these she classed together under the general
name of "fashes," and treated with more contempt than was absolutely
necessary or desirable. She loved her own family dearly, and was ready
to lay down her life every day and all day long in their service,
but her great favourites were unquestionably her youngest sister,
Christian, wife of the Reverend Doctor Campbell of Beyrout, Syria, and
her niece, Marion. Both of these she had brought up; and as is usual
with persons of her temperament, she loved them all the more for the
trouble they had given her.
Marion was the child of another daughter, Eileen—or, as her father
and sister called her, Eiley—McGregor. Eiley was even handsomer
than Barbara, and she had been much more unfortunate. She made an
ill-assorted marriage when she was quite too young to have been
wedded at all, and found a worse disappointment in her marriage than
Barbara had done in her bereavement. She married a man who, with a
good education and some talents, had neither sense nor principle—a man
who was too proud to work at what he contemptuously termed "menial
occupations," meaning thereby any sort of honest hard work, but who was
not too proud to let his wife labour hard at anything she could get to
do to support herself and the child. His trade was that of a painter,
and he might have done very well at the business, especially as he had
some taste for the ornamental part of his profession. But he wanted to
be an artist and a poet, though Nature had intended him for neither,
and he neglected the work which might have supported his family to
paint bad pictures which nobody would buy, and write worse verses which
nobody would publish, much less pay for.
He died at last of fever, leaving his wife alone, with her one little
girl, in Coaltown, in Pennsylvania, without money or acquaintance. Here
she was found by a certain Mr. Van Alstine who had a great leather
manufactory out in the hemlock woods, and engaged as a companion and
housekeeper for his ailing wife. Eiley lived with Mrs. Van Alstine,
nursed her, and took care of her children till the lady died, and the
family was broken up for a time. Then she came home. She was still
Eiley McGregor, for her husband had been a faraway cousin of the same
name.
But after two years Mr. Van Alstine grew weary of living alone and
having his children scattered, so he got them together once more
and came to ask Eiley to be a mother to them. After some doubts and
misgivings, Eiley consented. Mr. Van Alstine would gladly have taken
Marion into the bargain, but old Hector had grown very fond of the
little girl and begged to keep her, and so it was settled for the time.
The arrangement had never been altered. Mrs. Van Alstine had been
married thirteen years, and had two boys of her own besides a host of
step-sons, but Marion remained with her grandfather, and had never
even paid a visit to Hemlock Valley, where her mother lived. Mrs. Van
Alstine had been twice at home during the time, and kept up a close
correspondence with her own family; but every time anything was said
about claiming Marion, Aunt Barbara begged off. It was a pity to take
Marion from Miss Oliver's school, where she was doing so well. It was
a long journey. Eiley had her hands full already, and it was not good
for a girl to be the only one among such a throng of lads. In short,
Barbara had her way in this, as she did in most family matters. And
Marion remained at the old red house, which she would have liked to
turn into an ancient baronial mansion or a frowning Gothic pile.
The heiress of McGregor was in need of comfort, for a very unromantic
misfortune had befallen her. She had been kept after school to finish
her arithmetic lesson. Never in all her reading had Marion come across
a similar instance of persecution. True, Adeline had been confined in
an old castle, but that carried its own consolation with it. Amanda had
escaped from her persecutors by jumping from a window into the arms of
a faithful retainer in a boat (no very dangerous feat, judging from
the illustration, since the boat needed only to be turned crosswise
to bridge the stream completely). But as Adeline turned up in the
very next chapter dressed in white and playing on the harp, it was
to be presumed she was not greatly the worse. But to be kept after
school—kept in like any little school-girl or boy to do a set of sums
(examples had not yet invaded Miss Oliver's school) which she could
easily have accomplished in thirty minutes!
No wonder Marion was in need of consolation. She had not found much
satisfaction, either, in that fit of sulks in which she had indulged.
Miss Oliver waited for her exactly one half hour, then she said with
decision,—
"I cannot wait for you any longer, Marion. You might easily have
finished your lesson in half an hour if you had chosen to apply
yourself, but I cannot let you waste your time as well as my own. You
can go now, but you must not come to school again till your lesson is
done and written out."
So saying, Miss Oliver dismissed Marion with small ceremony, locked the
school-house and went to sewing-society.
As Marion turned the corner of the hill which hid her father's house
from the village, she came upon a girl of her own age who seemed to
have just risen from a stone by the wayside and was lifting a somewhat
heavy and cumbrous basket. She was a thin, dark child with black hair
which curled and twisted out of the sober braid in which its owner had
tried to confine it, which made little rings round her face and neck
and caught the brim of her hat. She had heavy black eyebrows which
nearly came together over her nose, and very dark eyes which were
independent in their way and could laugh merrily when all the rest of
the face was composed to a demure calmness. She was plainly dressed,
but everything she had on, from her slightly washed-out calico frock to
her little black straw hat, was worn with a certain air of spruceness,
and even elegance.
"Oh, Marion, how glad I am! Now I shall have company part of the way,"
she exclaimed, in a high, clear voice and with something of a foreign
accent. "But what has kept you so late? Our Kitty was at home nearly an
hour ago."
[Illustration: _Heiress of McGregor._
"Oh, Marion, how glad I am!"]
Marion was usually fond of Therese, but she was in no mood for
talking with any one just now, much less for giving an account of her
tardiness. She would have preferred to go on indulging her day-dream
to the end of her walk. Moreover, she felt it an injustice that Tom
Beaubien's daughter should have such large black eyes and curling black
hair, while her own eyes were blue and her hair straight and light
brown.
"I was detained," she answered, rather stiffly; and then, more
good-naturedly, she added, "Where are you going so late with your
basket?"
"Home," answered Therese, gayly—"home to stay with mother till Monday.
Mrs. Tremaine is good enough to spare me so long, and she has sent
mother, oh, such a fine chicken pie and some apples."
"Mrs. Tremaine is very good to your mother, isn't she?" said Marion,
not much interested, but willing to divert Theresa's attention from her
own troubles.
"Indeed she is, and Miss Tilly and Miss Kitty as well. Oh, I should
be so happy there, only for leaving mother alone all the week. If she
would only move to the village! But no; she says she cannot live in a
crowd."
"And you like living at Mrs. Tremaine's?"
"Yes, indeed, especially since I have begun lessons."
"Lessons!" repeated Marion. "I thought you were working?"
"And so I am. I help Mrs. Tremaine with the work and wait on Miss Tilly
now she is lame, but I have plenty of time still. So I learn each day
an arithmetic and a grammar lesson, and say them in the evening to Mrs.
Tremaine, and I learn sewing of Miss Tilly, and Kitty and I read French
together."
"French!" said Marion, in surprise.
"Yes; Mrs. Tremaine and Miss Kitty speak it like natives of Paris,
and madame says it is a pity for me to lose my own tongue, because it
may be of use to me some day, so Kitty and I speak it together, and
sometimes we sing it as well."
"Really!" said Marion, rather sarcastically. "You will be quite
accomplished. And don't you have any time to amuse yourself?"
"Oh yes, indeed. I work in the garden and embroider and play with the
cats, for we have three cats, you must know, like Cadet Roussel;" and
Therese began to sing like a bobolink the little child's song,—
"Charles Roussel, a trois grands chats."
"You are always in good spirits, Therese," said Marion, with a little
sigh.
"Why, yes," answered Therese, simply; "why not? Every one is very good
to me; and only that mamma will live here alone, I should be quite
happy. If I could only be in two places at once, I should have nothing
to wish for," she concluded, laughing merrily.
"But don't you really wish for anything that you can't get?"
"To be sure; plenty of things. I wish for a new dress for Sundays, and
a new roof to our house, which leaks dreadfully up-stairs sometimes;
and when I pass the book-store and Whitaker's, I wish for new
story-books and chocolates. And I wish—oh, I wish so much—that I could
go to school to dear Miss Oliver."
"I don't think you would find that such a very great privilege," said
Marion, in rather an injured tone, for Miss Oliver was not in her good
books just now. "Miss Oliver knows enough, I dare say, but—However,
there is no use in talking; she is pope in Holford just now, and it is
high treason to say a word against her, but she isn't the teacher I
should go to if I had my choice. I think she is very unsympathetic and
tyrannical."
A shrewd little smile passed over Therese's averted face. She had
a pretty good guess as to the cause of Marion's detention, but her
instinctive good manners prevented her alluding to the matter.
"I would so like to go to school," said she, shifting her basket from
one arm to the other; "and every one allows that Miss Oliver is a good
teacher. But here we are at your door; or gate, rather. Good-night,
Marion, and pleasant dreams." And Therese walked gayly on singing her
little French song.
"How bright she is! It is a shame she should not go to school if she
wants to go so much. I think Miss Oliver might take her for nothing, or
Mrs. Tremaine might send her. I am sure she is rich enough. If I had
as much money as they, I would seek out all the poor girls of talent,
and educate them in the way best fitted to bring out their capacity. I
would give Therese a musical education, and then she might come out and
succeed, like Jenny Lind or Sontag, and I would sit in my private box
and enjoy it all—her success and her gratitude. Oh, it would be lovely!"
Thus mused Marion as she walked up the lane which led to the back door
of the McGregor place. And all the time it never occurred to her that
she might have conferred a present and a very substantial benefit on
Therese by helping her carry her heavy basket.
"You are late, lassie," said Miss Baby, kindly, meeting her at the door
and relieving her of her books and basket. "What kept you so long?"
"I had something to do after school," answered Marion, blushing a
little as she felt that this was not exactly a true account of the
matter.
"Did you go to the post-office?"
"No; I was so late, and I thought Uncle Alick would have been down."
"You might know he would not be down in time for the mail without
calling for you," said Miss Baby, "and it would not have taken ten
minutes to run round by Whitaker's. And your grandfather's medicine;
did you get that?" Then, as Marion made no reply, "Oh, Marie, that is
too bad; when you came right by the doctor's door, and I gave you such
a charge about it. What were you thinking of?"
Now, Marion remembered exactly what she was thinking of when she passed
Doctor Gate's door, and it did not make her tone any more amiable as
she answered,—
"In the first place Aunt Barbara, my name isn't Marie, and I don't
choose to be called so, as I have told you before. I am sure I am sorry
I forgot the medicine, but I don't see any need for making such a fuss.
Grandfather can't be suffering for medicine as long as he is able to go
out and plant corn."
"He will cough all night if he does not have it," was Miss Baby's
reply; "and you know how Uncle Alick misses his paper in the evening.
The long and short of it is, Marion, you must get the supper ready and
take care of the milk while I go down with old Ball after the medicine
and paper."
"Go down where?" asked Alick, who had just come in.
Miss Baby explained the matter.
"That will you not to-night," said Grandfather McGregor, who had heard
the whole story from the outer kitchen, where he had been washing his
face and hands. "Ball is lame and you are tired, and it is coming on to
rain. I can want my drops and Alick his paper better than we can afford
to have you laid up with the rheumatic fever again. Marie, my woman,
you must take mare tent another time. You're no a child the day, and
you must put away childish things."
Grandfather McGregor's lightest word was law in the household, and Miss
Baby at once abandoned her purpose and set about getting supper.
"Well there, child! Don't stand brooding. What's done can't be undone,
and what's undone can't be done, more's the pity," said she, seeing
Marion was still standing with her hat on looking out of the window.
"You must be more careful another time, for it vexes the gude father to
have to fault you, and I'm sure you don't want to do that. Go and get
ready for your supper."
"Yes, that's all she thinks of, supper, dinner, and breakfast,
breakfast, dinner, and supper, the year round," thought Marion as she
went to her room. "Never a bit of feeling, never a bit of sympathy, for
me. All that goes to Aunt Christian. Oh, if I had only had her chance,
what would not I have done? She lives to some purpose, but I—Oh, how
wonderful are the decrees of providence!"
Marion did not imagine that she was failing to make use of the
chances that came in her way or that there was any want of sympathy
in her forgetting the medicine which would ensure her grandfather a
good-night's rest, or in omitting to call for the paper which formed
for her hard-working uncle almost his only evening's amusement.
She took her books when the lamp was lighted, and in less than an
hour she had her lesson learned, copied, and ready for Miss Oliver's
inspection. Then she took her knitting, but often let it fall into her
lap as she gazed into the fire. Wood was cheap and plenty in Holford,
and Hector McGregor would always have a fire on the hearth of the
little parlour where he spent his evenings whenever the weather was
cool enough to allow it.
"I wish I could take French lessons," said she at last. French was not
in the course at Holford school, though Latin was.
"You seem to have lessons enough, and more, than enough, already, I
should say," remarked Miss Baby, who had taken down the chessboard and
was setting out the men. "I thought Miss Oliver did not give lessons to
be learned out of school?"
"She doesn't usually, but this was extra work," replied Marion, finding
a good deal of trouble in picking up a stitch. "But why can't I take
lessons, Aunt Barbara? There is Therese Beaubien reading French with
Kitty Tremaine every day, and singing French songs, and all."
"French comes natural to Therese," said Miss Barbara, "and so it does
to Kitty Tremaine for that matter. She was born in Paris, I have heard
say, and I know they take French papers, for she gave me some to send
Christian."
"Well, I think it is a pity if I can't have as many advantages as Tone
Beaubien's daughter."
"You should not speak in that slighting way, Marie," said her
grandfather. "Therese is a nice little lass, and it is not her fault
that she had not a better father. I hope nobody casts it up to the
child."
"I am sure I don't," said Marion. "And there was Aunt Christian, too.
She has had French lessons and music, and what not, and now she is in
Scotland, and her husband is a cousin of a duke, and I dare say he will
call on them."
Grandfather McGregor laughed outright, a very unusual thing for him.
"Oh, lassie, little ye ken. Doubtless the duke will speak to your
cousin Duncan if he comes in his way, for I dare say he's a fine
gentleman, like most of his forbears, but to call on him! You might as
well expect the queen herself."
"Well, anyhow, Aunt Christian is going all over the world and seeing
everything, and I never have a chance."
"Indeed, Marie—Well, there, child! I won't say it again if I can help
it. I think you have a good many," said Miss Barbara.
"But can't I take French lessons, grandfather?" persisted Marion.
"No, child, not now," answered her grandfather, kindly but decidedly.
"If harvest comes in well, and we get a good price for the butter,
we'll see what can be done, but now I can't take on any new expense.
I'd like to please you, child, but it's just impossible. What have you
there, Baby?"
"The chessmen, father. I am trying to make Alick rut up his chess
against Duncan and Christian come home. You know Duncan was always so
fond of chess."
"It's odd we don't hear again," said the old man. "I dare say they are
on their way home. Marie, woman, there's a chance for you. Get your
aunt to teach you chess. It is a fine game, and good mental discipline,
they say. Take care, man Alick; look out for your knight with yon
queen. Look on now, Marie, and you'll see a fine battle."
But Marion would not be interested. She worked away at her knitting in
sullen silence till bedtime and went to bed thinking herself very ill
used.
"There goes her father over again," said Alick to his sister when
Marion left the room, "always missing the present chance, always going
to do some great thing or other when something else happens, and doing
nothing in the mean time."
"Oh, she is but a child still, and you must have patience with her,"
said Miss Barbara. "She does vex me sometimes, as she did to-night, but
she'll mend as she grows older, you'll see."
"I hope I shall, but there is small chance of her mending so long as
she cannot see a fault in herself. Things don't often mend simply by
growing older."
"Wild kittens make solemn cats," quoted Miss Barbara, who never liked
to hear any one find fault with Marion. "I mean to let her have French
lessons if I can, seeing her heart is set on it, but I will talk the
matter over with Miss Oliver first."
"Did she say that Tone Beaubien's daughter had gone home?" asked Alick.
"I hoped Mrs. Tremaine would keep her. She is a likely lass."
"I believe she has only gone home to stay over Sunday. I wonder if her
father will ever come back?"
"I have my suspicions that he has been back, if he is not looking about
now," said Alick, in a low tone.
"He would never dare to show himself, surely?"
"Not openly, of course, but I am very much mistaken if I did not see
him up on Blue Hill yesterday when I was looking for the colt. He has
grown a beard if it was he, but the upper part of his face is not
easily changed."
"You must be careful, Alick," said his sister, anxiously. "You know he
owes you a special grudge."
"Never fear," said Alick, lightly. "He values his neck too much to run
any risks or make any stir in these parts."
"I wonder whether his wife knows it?"
"There is no telling. I have sometimes thought there might be some
reason for her preferring to live by herself in that lonesome place."
"I think she is very honest," said Miss Barbara. "You know she has
worked for us a great deal, and beyond her crabbed, unsocial ways, I
have never seen a fault in her. You could hardly call it a fault that
she is faithful to her husband, wretch as he is. I am sure I hope he
will not come back for all their sakes, and especially for that of the
child."