"LEFT, BUT NOT ALONE."
"I WILL help you with the work, Marion," said Mrs. Campbell, coming
down after having put her hat away and changed her dress.
"Thank you, Aunt Christian; I can do it myself," answered Marion,
proudly. "Since it is all I am considered fit for, I may as well give
myself to it."
Mrs. Campbell took no notice of this remark; but going into the
milk-room, she began putting away the milk which Alick and the hired
man were bringing in.
"In Scotland, now, it would be you and I who would be milking," said
she to Marion as she came out with a pile of pans in her hands.
"Milking there is work for lassies, and not for men. Baby and I used
always to milk in my mother's time; don't you remember, Alick?"
"Marion doesn't like to milk," said Alick. "Either she thinks it
beneath her dignity, or else she is afraid of the cows, I don't know
which."
Alick spoke playfully, but his words hurt still more Marion's already
wounded vanity—her feelings, she would have said. She did not say a
word, but went about her work in sulky silence, till Miss Baby came out
of the sickroom with some dishes in her hands.
"Well, Marie dear, how are you getting on?" said she, pleasantly.
"Well enough," answered Marion, shortly, not to say rudely.
"You heard that Therese was better? Have you had a pleasant afternoon?"
"I don't know—yes, I suppose so. Everybody seemed to think it was very
nice, so I suppose it was," said Marion.
"My dear child, what is the matter?" asked Christian, seeing that
Marion was just ready to cry.
"Nothing, Aunt Christian," answered Marion, "only I am so tired I don't
know what I am about." Marion's voice failed.
"There! Never mind the work," said Aunt Baby. "Go and sit down with
Therese. She is asleep now, and won't notice if you go in softly. The
minute she wakes or shows signs of waking, come and call me."
"I don't know about that arrangement, Barbara," said the doctor,
doubtfully. "Marion, be sure you call me the moment she stirs. Above
all, don't let her say a word; watch her every minute, and the moment
she shows signs of waking, call me."
"Uncle Duncan thinks I am a fool, as every one else does," said Marion
to herself as she took her seat by the bedside. "Just as if I had never
done anything for sick people!"
To do Marion justice, she was always ready to help in cases of sickness
and was in general a very good nurse, but she did not quite appreciate
the importance of the present occasion, and she was thinking more
of herself than her patient. Therese slept very quietly for nearly
an hour. Then she opened her eyes and fixed them on Marion with a
wondering and puzzled expression. Marion did not observe her, being at
that moment deeply engaged with the heiress of McGregor.
Presently Therese spoke.
"Why, Marion, is that you!" said she quite calmly. "How did you come
here?"
Now was the time for Marion to have shown that calmness and presence
of mind which the heiress of McGregor had just been exercising, under
circumstances of the utmost danger. But somehow the calmness and
presence of mind were not at hand just then, and she could not think of
anything to say, except, in a scared tone,—
"Hush, Therese! you must not speak a word; go to sleep again."
"Why, what is the matter?" said Therese, in a wondering tone and
looking about her. "This is not my room. Where am I?" Then, as memory
began to come back, "Oh, what has happened? I am sure there is
something dreadful; what is it?"
"There is nothing dreadful at all," answered Marion, in a tone of
authority, "and nothing has happened. You must not say a word."
"But I am sure something is the matter," said Therese, raising her hand
to her head. "It was something about mother. They said she had gone
away; or was it that she was burned up in the house? Marion, why don't
you answer me?"
"You will know all about it when you are better," said Marion, a
good deal alarmed, but maintaining her ground; "you must not ask any
questions now. Lie down and try to go to sleep again; your mother is
here all right."
"Then call her, do call her, and let me see her!" cried Therese.
"Mother, mother, why don't you come?"
Thoroughly frightened, Marion did at last what she ought to have done
at first; she called her uncle.
Doctor Duncan entered the room and went to the bedside.
"Hush, my dear child!" said he, in calm tones. "Be quiet, and then I
will explain the matter to you. Your mother is not here, so there is no
use in calling her."
"Marion said she was here," said Therese.
"Marion was wrong; she is not here, but I hope she is quite safe and
well. We have no reason to think anything else. You have been, and are,
very sick, but I hope you will soon be better, if you do as you are
bid. When you are so, you shall hear all that there is to tell. Marion,
go and tell your Aunt Barbara to bring the broth I asked her to have
ready, but don't come back yourself."
Marion did her errand, and then went up to her room and burst into a
flood of tears, though to save her life she could not have said exactly
what she was crying about. Mortification, wounded vanity, perhaps
a little fatigue, and—tell it not of a heroine!—a little too much
plum-cake and cream tart, all contributed to her tears.
Presently there was a knock at the door, and Aunt Christian entered.
"Duncan thought you would like to know that Therese has fallen quietly
to sleep again," said she.
"I'm sure I am very glad," answered Marion, rather ashamed to
accept the consideration after the hard thoughts she had just been
entertaining of her uncle. Then, recurring to herself, as usual, "I
suppose Uncle Duncan thinks it is all my fault?"
"He thinks you should have called him, as he told you," answered
Christian. "Why didn't you?"
"I thought I could just as well manage her myself, and so I could if
she had not been so unreasonable."
"We don't expect people in her circumstances to be anything but
unreasonable," answered her aunt. She was silent a moment, and then
said, "Marion, suppose we try to arrive at the bottom of this matter."
"I don't know what bottom there is to arrive at," said Marion, rather
unwillingly. "It turned out just as it always does. I tried to be
useful, and I am blamed and despised for it. That is all. I ought to be
accustomed to such treatment by this time, but I am not, and I never
shall be."
"One thing at a time, Marie. I don't know that any one has despised
you. You were blamed, and I think justly."
"Yes, there it is. I am always in fault, whatever happens. I did the
best I knew how, and that was all I could do."
"There was the trouble, Marion. You should not have tried to do
anything except just what you were told. Duncan told you expressly to
watch her and call him the moment Therese showed signs of waking. Could
you not have done that?"
"I thought I could manage her myself."
"But why should you wish to 'manage her' yourself? It was not your
place to 'manage.' Marion dear, I do think you would feel better if you
would see and own where you were in the wrong."
"Oh, of course I am in the wrong. You need not tell me that. I think I
must be an absolute fool. I might be sure something would go wrong with
Therese if I had anything to do with her," sobbed Marion, giving way to
a fresh burst of tears. "I wish I was out of the way, I am sure."
"I would not say that if I were you," said her aunt, gravely. "If
you should be wrong about that, if you should make a mistake there,
it might not be so easily set right, perhaps. Moreover, Marion, I
am afraid you are not speaking the truth even to yourself. It is
not that you think yourself a fool, but that you think you are very
superior to the people around you, and that they do not appreciate your
superiority. Is not that the trouble?"
"You don't in the least understand me," said Marion, feeling more and
more aggrieved.
"But now tell me, Marie, why didn't you call your uncle, as he told
you?"
"I didn't notice that Therese was awake till she spoke," confessed
Marion, at last.
"But you should have known, my dear. You were told to watch her every
minute."
"Well, I meant to, but I got thinking of something else, and then I
thought I could manage well enough, and I was vexed at Uncle Duncan for
thinking I couldn't do as well for Therese as Aunt Baby," said Marion,
coming to the truth at last.
"Then, you see, it was just as I told you. You were thinking too much
about yourself, and feeling angry that any one, even one so much older
as Aunt Baby, should be considered your superior. My dear child, as
long as you allow yourself in such a spirit as that, you will never
have any peace either within or without."
"Well, I can't bear to be despised."
"Is it despising a girl of fifteen to think that she is not equal
in judgment and experience to a woman of forty? It would be very
unreasonable to expect any such thing."
"I shall never have any comfort or be any comfort to anybody in the
world," said Marion, crying again. "If my father had lived, it would
have been different, but nobody feels for me or cares for me. My
mother has deserted me for a stranger, and there is nobody to love or
sympathize with me."
"Marion, you are 'sinning your mercies,' as my father says," said her
aunt. "There is not a girl in the United States who has a better home
or kinder friends than you have."
"I thought you would feel for me when you came," continued Marion,
between her sobs, "but you and Uncle Duncan are just like all the rest.
You look down on me and despise me."
"You certainly are not going on in a way to make me respect you at
present," replied Mrs. Campbell. "I must confess I am disappointed in
you."
Mrs. Campbell turned to leave the room.
"Please don't go, Aunt Christian. Oh, I am so miserable!"
"I don't see any occasion for any misery, Marion. What is all the
trouble about? Think it over now, and tell me without any exaggeration
what the matter is. You did wrong about Therese, and might have
occasioned great harm, but we hope none has been done. That matter is
easily disposed of."
"I don't see how."
"Simply, my dear, by owning that you were in the wrong, and then
thinking no more about it. What next?"
Marion did not know, only "she was very unhappy, and all she did was
wrong, and—"
"Now, Marie, what do you mean by that?" interrupted her aunt. "You
don't mean to say that you believe all you do to be wrong because
you won't acknowledge that you were to blame even in one particular?
However, I see there is no use in talking. I advise you to go to bed
and get rested, and to-morrow perhaps you will see matters differently.
Good-night. I must go to bed myself, so that I can relieve Sister Baby
at two o'clock."
"I suppose there is no use in my offering to do anything?" said Marion.
"Why, you are hardly in a state to be of much use just now, my dear,
and the case is rather too serious to be left to a young nurse like
you—no offence to your skill. I think the best thing you can do is to
say your prayers and go to bed and to sleep as soon as possible, that
you may be ready to help in the morning."
Marion went to bed, but not to sleep.
Aunt Christian's plain dealing had torn a little hole in the veil of
self-conceit which usually enveloped her, and as she reviewed her
conduct for the last few hours she could not help seeing that she had
been wrong. Still, her repentance was not of a healthful kind. It
was not the fact that she had sinned in indulging uncharitable and
undutiful thoughts, in disobedience and self-conceit, which distressed
her, but that she had fallen in the estimation of her uncle and aunt.
"Aunt Christian said she was disappointed in me, so she must have
expected a good deal. How silly I have been! If I had only called Uncle
Duncan the first minute! But then it was not only that. I was cross, I
know, about doing the work. And I needn't have cried and made such a
fuss afterward. I don't care. I can't help it now, but I mean to let
them see to-morrow that I can do something and be of some use."
And with this resolution Marion at last fell asleep.
Marion had fully meant to be up very early and do all the work before
her aunt was awake, but her wakeful night made her sleepy; and when she
came down, she found breakfast all ready.
"Why, Aunt Barbara, why didn't you call me?" she exclaimed.
"You were so tired last night I thought I would let you sleep,"
answered Aunt Baby. "There was very little to do."
Marion was vexed; but remembering her resolution, she swallowed her
vexation and asked, "How is Therese?"
"Very much better, we hope. She has no fever and is quite rational and
composed. Uncle Duncan thinks there is no reason why she should not get
well if she has no new shock. Mrs. Tremaine has sent word that she is
coming up to stay with Therese to-day, and Fanchette Beaubien is with
her already."
"Did Therese know her?"
"Oh yes, and was glad to see her. She was a little agitated at first,
but Fanchette was so calm and sensible that she soon grew quiet again.
Call grandfather, my dear, and let us have our breakfast."
Therese improved steadily after she once took the turn, and in the
course of the week she was able to sit up, and even to come out into
the common sitting-room. She was very docile and thankful, but sad and
absent-minded, and it was evidently hard for her to interest herself in
anything.
She was established one day in an arm-chair in the sitting-room with
some light, pretty work in her lap and a pile of stereoscopic pictures
on the table at her side. Marion was at school and all the family were
busy in their several ways. Therese was not sorry to be left alone.
They were all so kind to her that she felt as if she were ungrateful
not to be interested, and it was very hard work to care for anything
just now. She leaned back in her chair with closed eyes, and presently
tears came starting out from under the long black lashes.
"Tired, lassie?" said old Hector, sitting down beside her and laying
his broad hand on hers.
"Not—not so very," answered Therese.
"You are getting better very fast."
"Yes, I suppose so," Therese answered, but somewhat languidly, as if
she did not feel much interest in the question.
"Are you not glad to get well?" asked the old man.
Therese answered, after a little pause of consideration, as it seemed,
"I am willing to get well."
"Is that as far as you can get, poor lassie? That is hardly right for a
young thing like you."
"I'm afraid it is," answered Therese, with rather a wintry smile. "I
am not ungrateful, indeed, Mr. McGregor; I feel how kind every one has
been to me; but I feel so left, so alone, as if I had no more place and
nothing to do. Everybody is very good, but nobody seems to need me."
"I think I understand," said Hector McGregor. "You have always made
your poor mother your chief object, and now she is gone, you feel as if
you had nothing more to do."
"That is just it," said Therese, roused and interested and greatly
comforted by the old man's quick comprehension of her trial. "Mother
has always been in my thoughts. When I have earned money, it has been
for her. When anything nice was given me or anything pleasant happened,
half the pleasure was in telling her about it or saving it to share
with her. It was just the same with what I learned, and I was always
thinking of the time when we could have a little home together, and now
it is all taken away."
"And is that the worst of it?" asked Hector, gently. "Don't say any
more unless you like, my child, but I am an old man, and perhaps it may
lighten your poor heart to talk to me. Isn't there something harder
still?"
"Yes, indeed," said Therese. "It does seem so hard that, after all,
mother should have gone and left me; for, Mr. McGregor, I have been a
dutiful child as far as I knew how. I loved mother beyond all things,
and now she has gone and left me for that man who never did her
anything but harm. I can't help feeling hard and bitter toward her, not
if I try ever so much.
"There is another thing that I suppose ought not to trouble me, but
it does," continued Therese, after a little pause, "and that is the
disgrace. I never minded it—I never thought much about it before. But
now it seems as if I should never dare to look anybody in the face
again. I feel as though I should like to go clear away from every one
who has ever known me or heard of my father and mother. You know Miss
Perkins was here yesterday; and when she and Miss Baby were out in the
garden, I heard her say to Miss Baby, 'Of course Mrs. Tremaine will
not want her again, after she has been mixed up in such a disgraceful
affair. I wonder you should keep her. I think the poorhouse is good
enough for her.'"
"Miss Perkins is not worth minding," said Hector. "If you are going to
let your peace be blighted by the breath of such as she, my lass, you
will never have any, for you will find that kind of people everywhere.
Now, have we got to the bottom of the trouble?"
"I believe so."
"Well, my lamb, I'll not deny that they are great and sore troubles to
fall on a young thing like you, but I think there is 'balm in Gilead'
for them all. As to your being disgraced, we may as well call the thing
by its right name. You must just make up your mind not to be cast down
by that. It is a cross, and it is to be borne, as other crosses are
borne, by the help of God's grace; and being thus borne, you may make
it into a blessing. Really good people will not think less of you for
your misfortunes, but there are those who rejoice in iniquity of all
sorts, and such will be ready to cast up your parents' sins against
you, specially if you go wrong.
"But if you resolutely and steadily do your duty, the matter will soon
be overlooked and forgotten, or only remembered to your credit. Above
all, don't let it embitter you. That was the great mistake your poor
mother made, to my thinking."
"I know," said Therese; "she would not go to church, or even to the
village to see her mother, because she said everybody looked down on
her, and said, 'There goes Tone Beaubien's wife.' And now I suppose
they will say, 'There goes Tone Beaubien's daughter.'"
"Never mind if they do. There used to be an old college in
Aberdeen—Marischal * College it was called—with these words carved over
the door:
"'They have said—
What said they?
Let them say!'
"That was the motto of the auld earls Marischal lang syne, and it is
a good one for you now. 'Let them say!' Resolve that you will make a
character for yourself, and that will be the best way to make people
forget your poor father and mother's faults."
* Pronounced Marshall.
"If I thought I could do that!" said Therese, brightening.
"I am quite sure you can. As to your mother's leaving you for your
father, I suppose the poor thing reasoned in this way: 'Therese doesn't
need me. She has her grandfather and grandmother, and plenty of friends
besides, to care for her, while my poor husband has nobody. I am only a
trouble and disgrace to her, but I can be a help and comfort to him.'
Mind, I don't say she was right, but I presume she thought she was."
"I see," said Therese; "but she might have known that I did not think
her a trouble."
"My lass, to tell you the truth, I think your mother's mind was warped
by her afflictions. She was not insane, but she was unsettled in her
mind; she lived by herself and brood over her misfortunes till she had
no power to see things as they are."
"That is true," said Therese, sighing; "but, after all, Mr. McGregor,
it does not seem to alter the fact. She has always been my object, and
now she is gone, and I have no other."
"And you a Christian?" said the old man, simply.
Therese started. "I don't understand," said she.
"You are a Christian, Therese, are you not—not only a Christian in
name—everybody in this country is that—but you love your Saviour and
desire to serve him?"
"Yes, I do," said Therese, in a low tone, but without any indecision.
"I wish I loved him a great deal more than I do, though."
"Well, my lammie, does not that give you an object in life? And ought
you to feel wholly alone when you have such precious promises:
"'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and
through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee.'
"'If a man love me, he will keep my words: and my Father will love him,
and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him.'
"'Who hath the Father and the Son
May be left, but not alone.'
"And since he permits you to work for him, what greater object do you
want than that of promoting God's glory and honour, and the spread of
his kingdom among men?"
"It seems too good to be true—too great and glorious for one like me,"
said Therese, in a low voice; "it seems like presumption."
"Never think that, Therese, never think that all the promises, yea, all
the power and goodness and riches and love of your Heavenly Father,
are not as much for you as for anybody else in the world. Live for
him, and give yourself to him, and he will give himself to you. You
may, I dare to say you will, have many and sore battles to fight with
loneliness and discouragement and temptations, for you are not one of
those over whom the troubles of this world pass the easiest. But always
remember that He is on your side, and that you are fighting for him.
Pray for and try to cultivate a sense of his love and his constant
presence—believe me, it is a thing to be cultivated; make a daily
renewal of your consecration to him, and make every sorrow and every
temptation, yea, and every sin and failing, drive you nearer to and not
away from him. Now, I have tired you out with this long screed of talk,
and the doctor will be scolding in his conceited fashion.
"He is a real Campbell, yon lad—not that I have anything against the
Campbells; they were good friends to our folk langsyne."
"You have not tired me one bit," said Therese; "you have done me a
great deal of good. Thank you ever so much."
"You look better this evening," said Doctor Campbell, when he came in
to see Therese.
"I am better," answered Therese.