"FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW."
FROM this time a great change was observed in Therese; her health
improved rapidly; she was able to go about the house, and she soon
began to help here and there in household matters, and to wait not only
on herself but on other people.
Mrs. Tremaine had been suddenly called to New York on important
business, and she had closed her house, leaving Kitty with Mrs.
Parmalee, as she did not wish to take her out of school. Grandfather
Beaubien or old Madame Duval would gladly have taken Therese home, for
both the old people were fond and proud of their grandchild in their
different ways, but Doctor Campbell thought it would hardly be prudent
to expose Therese to the excitement of talking over family matters and
meeting family friends, and Miss Baby had invited her to remain till
Mrs. Tremaine's return.
Kitty came up to see her every few days, and the two girls had many
long talks together, sitting under the great elm tree, or walking by
the side of the brook in the meadow, or over the big wheel on which
Therese was a skilful and rapid performer, and which Kitty, was
learning to manage almost as well as herself. To Kitty, and to her
alone, Therese repeated her conversation with old Hector and its effect
on her own mind, and Kitty sympathized with and understood her.
The girls took some pains to include Marion in their walks and talks,
but without success. In truth, Marion was jealous. She had always
coveted an intimacy with Kitty, but Kitty did not respond. Kind and
obliging and ready to help Marion on all occasions, she did not however
care for those long, whispered conversations in which Marion delighted,
and she did not sympathize with Marion's grievances in school. Kitty
adored Miss Oliver, and thought the school perfect, and she rather
resented Marion's complaints as imputations on her friends.
Therese had much the same feeling for Kitty that Kitty had for Miss
Oliver, and moreover regarded the lot of a Crocker school-girl as one
of the most enviable which this world afforded. Then Kitty had done a
great deal for Therese, and naturally liked her on that account.
Marion was walking home from school in anything but a comfortable mood.
For a while, after Miss Oliver's warning, she had done much better,
greatly to the satisfaction of the teacher. But she had latterly become
careless again. The heiress of the McGregors was once more suffered
to intrude herself into the school-room, and her society was not
favourable to lessons. She had latterly come out in a new character.
Uncle Alick had taken occasion to abstract Marion's favourite volume
from the Sunday school library, together with several others which did
not meet with his approbation. Marion however, had gained possession
of it and read it again and again, and the more she read it, the
more resemblance she saw between the heroine and herself. Maria, the
heroine, was brought up in the country by an uncongenial aunt and
uncle, who wanted her to work—so was she. Maria had aspirations with
which nobody sympathized, and longed to make for herself a career, and
to accomplish some grand work for humanity—so did she. She spent hours
in dreaming over this great work, which was sometimes the founding
of a sisterhood, sometimes of a hospital, sometimes the writing of a
book which should take then world by storm, but always something which
should redound to the praise and glory of Marion McGregor.
There was one point, however, in which Marion could not bring herself
to sympathize with her favourite heroine. Maria, in casting away the
restraints and duties of her home, had also cast behind her, as the
author expressed it, "the restraints and trammels of that narrow and
oppressive theology in which she had been brought up."
Marion could not have done this, even if she had wished; and, to do
her justice, she did not wish it. She had been religiously educated,
and she was punctual in fulfilling certain religious duties. At times,
indeed, she thought herself decidedly a Christian, because she had
strong religious emotions; because her feelings were touched by some
tale of self-sacrificing godliness, or her taste gratified by some
fine sermon or piece of sacred poetry. She had a vague longing for
something that she called "the higher life," because she had read the
phrase in some book which pleased her, but she couldn't in the least
define what she meant or wanted. But she was not willing to own even to
herself that most of her life had been a mistake, that she had failed
and was failing in almost everything. She would not own to herself,
much less to her aunt and Miss Oliver, that she had been idle, selfish,
and discontented; that she had made false excuses, and taken dishonest
ways of helping herself out when her lessons were not learned or her
exercises were not ready. She could not bring herself to own that she
habitually disregarded the comfort and the feelings of others, while
she expected everybody to consider her own. Above all, she could not
bear to give up her darling day-dreams of wealth, splendour, and
distinction. She would not take up the cross, and therefore she could
not be a disciple. But she always hoped that a time would come when, as
she said, "her hindrances would be removed," and it would be easy for
her to become out and out a Christian. In the mean time her prayers and
her Bible-readings kept her from drifting utterly away, and at least
stored her memory with seeds of truth which might some time or other
blossom and bear fruit.
Marion, as I said, was walking home from school in a very uncomfortable
frame of mind. She had been kept after school, but only for a few
minutes, while Miss Oliver kindly and sadly but forcibly warned her
that unless the next three weeks showed a very decided amendment, her
name must be erased from the roll of the Crocker school. Miss Oliver
had not wasted many words.
"I shall not lecture you, Marion. I know that you dislike it and that
it is utterly useless. You know your duty without my telling you. You
know that you are wasting your time and opportunities, misusing your
talents and injuring the school by your bad example. No words would
make that any plainer to you than it is now, and I shall therefore
spare my time and yours. You had no right to expect another warning
but, because I love you and respect your family I give it you. You
cannot honestly say that I have ever been unjust to you or that I have
not given you every chance. I have bestowed as much labour on you as on
any girl in the school, but I see that it is thrown away, and I cannot
afford to throw it away any longer."
Miss Oliver's manner was not only serious but solemn, and Marion's
heart was touched and her conscience stirred in spite of herself. She
knew that Miss Oliver spoke only truth, and for a moment she thought
she would say she was sorry and promise to do better; but she did not.
While she was hesitating, Miss Oliver was called away and the chance
was lost for ever.
"It is just as well," said Marion to herself. "Very likely she would
say she didn't want any professions or something else like that, and
besides I don't really believe she would dare turn me out, when Uncle
Alick is one of the trustees. But I do mean to do better. I have been
behindhand this week, that's a fact. Even Jane Dryer has got above me.
Oh, dear! How I do wish I could get away from it all and begin new!
Things have got so wrong that they will never come right. If I could
begin in a new place, I know I should do better, but there is no use in
it here where everything would be remembered against me."
As Marion came to the turn in the valley I have spoken of before, she
met Therese and Kitty. Therese's face wore more of its old joyous
expression than it had done since the day she discovered her mother's
absence, and she and Kitty were chattering volubly in French.
"They think she has so much feeling," said Marion to herself. "I don't
believe Aunt Christian would think so if she were to see her now."
"Oh, Marion, I was coming to meet you," said Therese, breaking off her
conversation as she caught sight of Marion. "There is a letter for you
at home. It came with one to Miss Baby, and I think it is from your
father-in-law or your mother, because there is a written post-mark on
the outside."
"Well, good-night, girls. I must hurry home," said Kitty. "Therese,
mother says she shall expect you to-morrow." And she added a few words
in French, to which Therese responded and went on her way.
"I don't think Kitty is very polite to be talking French before me,"
said Marion, as they turned toward the red house.
"Oh, that was nothing. It only meant 'Rest well and have sweet dreams.'
It is a line from a French song that she sings," said Therese. "Kitty
wouldn't be rude for anything, I am sure."
"Why didn't she come to school this afternoon?" asked Marion.
"She was excused because her mother came home this morning and there
was a great deal to see to. Just think! Mrs. Tremaine has had some
money left her in France that she didn't expect the least in the world:
isn't that nice? I think it is such fun to have things come that you
don't expect."
"I think they are always having things left them," remarked Marion.
"There was that old lady who gave Kitty her furniture."
"Yes, but they did not get any money that time, only clothes and
furniture and books. Kitty told me so herself. She says she never can
have a new dress because she must wear out all Mrs. Leffington's old
ones."
"I don't think she need mind that so long as they are so handsome,"
said Marion. "I am sure I wouldn't complain if I had such merinos and
cloths for Sunday as Kitty wears to school."
"She doesn't complain, only in fun. She likes them better than new
ones. Her mother won't let her have the handsomest—the silks and
velvets and so on—because she says they are not suitable for a little
girl. Oh, I am so glad Mrs. Tremaine has come home, only she isn't
going to stay. I'll tell you something about that; only don't tell,
because perhaps she wouldn't care to have it talked about till it is
all settled. You know I told you that she had some property left her in
France."
"Well?" said Marion, much interested and forgetting her own troubles
for the minute.
"Well, a part of the property is a house in a town somewhere near
Paris; I can't think of the name, but it is a very pretty place, and
the house is a very nice house, only old-fashioned. I don't just
understand how it is, but by the way the will is made Mrs. Tremaine has
to live in the house a certain time, and so she is going to close her
house here and sail for France the last of August; and if grandfather
is willing, she is going to take me with her. Just think of that!"
"It is exactly like something in a novel," said Marion. "To go and live
in an old house in France, with the old furniture and everything! I
should think you would be ready to fly."
"It isn't settled yet, you know," said Therese. "But I am glad, for a
good many reasons. I am glad not to have to leave Mrs. Tremaine and
Kitty, whom I love dearly; and as things are, I am not very sorry to go
away from Holford, though every one has been very good to me."
"I am sure I wish somebody would take me away," said Marion. "I would
give anything to get away from the old place and never see it again."
"Oh, Marion, how can you, when you have such a lovely home!" exclaimed
Therese reproachfully. "You wouldn't want to go and leave your
grandfather and your aunt and uncle? I think they are the very best
people I ever saw."
Marion was saved the necessity of an answer by their arrival at the
door, where Aunt Baby stood waiting with a letter in her hand. There
were traces of tears in her eyes, an unwonted sight, but she welcomed
the girls cheerfully as usual.
"I have a letter for you, Marie," said she. "What kept you so long?"
"I had to stay to finish up something," answered Marion, giving her
usual excuse. "Where is the letter?"
"Here on the table."
Marion seized it eagerly.
"From Hemlock Valley!" said she, as she tore open the envelope. "I
wonder what has made mother write so soon again?"
"You will see when you read it."
Marion hurried through her letter, and then burst out—
"Oh, how splendid! How delightful! Just think, Therese Mr. Van Alstine
has an excellent teacher for his children and those of his partner Mr.
Overbeck, and he wants me to come and be educated with them. He says
the lady is very accomplished, and I shall have every advantage, and by
and by perhaps he will send me to boarding-school. Isn't that lovely,
and coming just now, too? When shall I go, Aunt Baby?"
But Aunt Baby had left the room, and it was Aunt Christian who answered
rather gravely:
"You are in a great hurry, Marion. It is not decided that you are to go
at all yet. Mr. and Mrs. Van Alstine refer the matter entirely to your
aunt and your grandfather. Nothing has been decided yet."
"Oh, but of course it will be settled so. It must be!" exclaimed
Marion. "Mother has a right to me if she wants me!"
"Some people might think Aunt Baby had some rights in the case, seeing
she has taken care of you almost ever since you were born," said Mrs.
Campbell.
"I don't think Aunt Baby ought to put herself in the way when the
change is so much for my advantage," said Marion. "She ought to
consider me and not herself altogether, I think."
"If she does consider herself, it will be the first time I have ever
known her to do such a thing," said Mrs. Campbell, considerably
provoked. "I think you had better go by all means, Marion, and perhaps
you may find that every change is not an improvement."
She left the room as she spoke.
Therese, with her usual tact, had withdrawn at the beginning of the
dialogue, and when Marion found herself alone she began to consider her
words as usual, and to reflect that Aunt Christian would think her very
heartless for being so ready to leave her home.
But her pleasure in the prospect before her was too great to allow her
to torment herself very long on that account. How splendid it would be!
She would be the only girl in a family of boys. That of itself would
be a distinction. She resolved at once that she would be a model only
sister. No doubt the boys were rough cubs, rude to each other, careless
and overbearing, if not absolutely unkind to their stepmother. Mr. Van
Alstine was a hemlock tanner as his father and grandfather had been
before him, and by consequence had lived in the woods all his life. Of
course he was an ignorant man, and his sons would be like him. There
would probably be a rude plenty, but no refinement or elegance: the
boys would sit with their hats on, eat with their knives, and put their
feet on the mantel-piece. She would be the refining and civilizing
influence which should support her feeble mother, conciliate the rough
father-in-law and convert by degrees this den of bears into a household
of gentlemen. She would support the teacher's authority, sympathize
with her trials and tastes and smooth the roughness of her way.
"And won't I be glad to tell Miss Oliver that I am not coming to school
any more! She thought she was going to turn me off, and now I shall
turn her off instead."
Such was the somewhat inconsistent conclusion to Marion's reflections,
but she saw no inconsistency. The career for which she had been sighing
had come to her unsought. She was going to have the new place and the
new "beginning" she had wished for, and to leave all her troubles
behind her.
Marion was leaning out of her window as she indulged in these pleasing
dreams, when she suddenly became aware that her case was being
discussed in the room below. It was not very dignified to listen, but
the temptation to know what her friends really thought of the project
was strong.
"I think myself the child had better go," said her grandfather. "The
truth is we have spoiled her here among us, and her faults are partly
ours."
"I have not meant to spoil her," said Miss Baby.
"No, you have meant to do nothing but what was right, I am sure, but
you have after all made yourself a kind of slave to Marion. You have
always taken every stick and stone out of her way; you have taken on
yourself all the work that was anyway hard or disagreeable, and left
to her only that which was light and easy. You have denied your own
tastes and fancies, that hers might be gratified; and worked far harder
than you ought in order that she might have time to study. We have all
done it, more or less, but you most of all. We have spoiled the child
among us, there is no denying it, and we ought not to expect her to be
grateful for the spoiling."
"You know I thought it would be better to keep Marion at home and at
work this summer," said Alick; "and something Miss Oliver told me
yesterday has confirmed me in my opinion. She says Marion has not done
well at all the last year, and that she is injuring the school by her
bad example. I thought to speak to Marion about the matter, but as she
is to go away so soon, perhaps it is not worth while."
"I dare say she will do better in a new place," observed Aunt
Christian. "A change of scene and circumstances often works wonders.
Marion seems to me to be bright enough."
"Miss Oliver says that is not the trouble; she says Marion will not
work."
"Perhaps she is a little unjust. Teachers do sometimes take dislikes to
particular scholars, there is no denying that. I know Miss Parsons did
to me."
"Yes, because you would ask inconvenient questions, which she could not
answer. I don't think that Miss Oliver is prejudiced against Marion,
however; she seemed to regret her conduct very much."
"It is only natural that Marion should like the prospect of a change,"
said Miss Baby. "I don't blame her for it at all. I suppose I have
waited on her and indulged her more than I ought. I am afraid Eiley may
do the same thing."
"The little fellow they had with them in New York seemed to be in
excellent order, I thought," remarked Doctor Campbell; "I should say
Van Alstine was not a man to be trifled with. He looks to me as if
he might rule with a pretty firm hand, and be rather alarming if one
rebelled. How many children are there?"
"Four or five boys at home and one married, besides a daughter who is
married to his partner, Mr. Overbeck."
"She is not his own, I believe, but either an adopted child or a
step-daughter," said Miss Baby; "she always calls Eiley 'Mother,'
and Eiley seems to like her very much. Fancy our Eiley being called
grandmother by a great girl fourteen years old!"
"I felt badly when I heard of Eiley's second marriage, but it has
certainly turned out very well, much better than her first unlucky
venture," observed Christian. "I see Marion has very exalted ideas of
her father. What has become of all the poor man's pictures?"
"They are all put away in the garret and locked up," answered Miss
Barbara. "I could not have them round; they were too dreadful. It
seemed the kindest thing to put them out of sight and out of mind."
"Well, bairns, it is quite time we were all abed," said old Hector. "I
think we have all decided rightly, and that it is best for the lassie
to go. If the arrangement does not answer, she can always come back.
Poor thing! She knows no more of what is before her than a chicken
before it chips the shell."
Marion withdrew from the window and hastily prepared for bed. She was
sure of going, that was one comfort. But to think that grandfather
should call her "a spoiled child," and think that Aunt Barbara had been
her "slave!"
"Perhaps they may find out the difference when I am gone," said she
proudly. "Perhaps when Aunt Baby finds she has all the errands and the
rest on her hands, she will know that she has not done everything, But
never mind, let her think so if it does her any good, poor soul! I dare
say it does look that way to her. People do so like to think themselves
abused, and it is a pity if she can't enjoy the privilege. I am sure I
won't do anything to destroy the illusion." So magnanimously resolved
Marion, who always bitterly resented being thought better off than her
neighbours.