CONCLUSION.
The days and weeks flew by like hours, and Marion found herself
surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and one of the acknowledged belles of
the season. Balls, parties, receptions, matinées, and formal calls took
up all her time, and what with lying abed in the morning to make up for
her late hours, the days were fairly turned into night, and night into
day. Mrs. Berkley remonstrated as she saw her daughter drifting farther
and farther out on the sea of fashionable society, but it was now too
late; she could not refuse all the invitations that were showered upon
her, and those that she would have been glad to decline, her father
would not allow her to, for fear of giving offence. She had at first
made a struggle to keep up her French and German, but at last gave it up
as useless, for if she had no engagement for those hours, she was too
tired and worn out by her dissipation to attend to them properly.
Rachel felt extremely sorry to be obliged to tell her uncle that his
prediction had proved true; that Marion's time was too much occupied
with balls and parties for her to attend the lessons; but she added a
saving clause, to the effect that when Lent put an end to the extreme
gayeties of the season, Marion would be glad to join them.
"If she wishes to join us then, well and good," said Dr. Drayton; "but
Rachel, I want you to fully understand, that you must never ask her to
do so; she must come back to us as she left us, of her own free will."
Marion felt far from satisfied with the life she was leading. At first
it was very delightful to find herself so much admired; to know that the
honor of her hand for the "German" was sought days in advance by the men
who were considered the bright, particular stars of the fashionable
world; to have hardly a day go by that did not bring her an exquisite
bouquet, or basket of flowers; never go to the theatre or opera that
several young exquisites did not come to her seat for a chat between the
acts! Oh, it was very delightful indeed; and for a while she thought she
had never been so happy in her life. But only for a while; she grew
tired at last of hearing the same things said to her night after night,
over and over again; she knew she was wasting her life; the precious
moments and hours that would never come again. Her health, too, began to
give way under this constant dissipation. She had frequent dull
headaches, and could not keep herself from being irritated at trifles
that she would never have noticed before. Even her father began to
complain that "she was going out almost too much; he never had a quiet
evening at home, and as for her music he had not heard her touch the
piano for weeks."
Just about this time she received a letter from Mme. Béranger. She wrote
in a bright, happy strain, giving an account of what was going on at the
school, alluding with a little conjugal pride to the beneficial
influence which M. Béranger exerted over the scholars, and the respect
which he inspired, not only from them, but from Miss Stiefbach also.
She concluded by saying:--
"And now, my dear Marion, I am going to speak of yourself, a
subject about which I know very well you do not care to have much
said; but you will bear it patiently I feel sure from your old
teacher, who says with truth, that, dear as all her scholars have
been to her, none ever came so near, so completely won her love, as
you have done.
"I wanted to tell you, before the close of school last autumn, how
much I rejoiced in the victories which I saw you were daily gaining
over yourself; but the opportunity never seemed to arrive when I
could do so without appearing to force myself upon you.
"It would make you happy, I know, if you could hear yourself spoken
of as I am almost daily in the habit of hearing your name mentioned
by one or more of the scholars, in the kindest, most affectionate
terms.
"It is a good thing when a girl leaves school carrying with her the
love and admiration of her school-mates, and leaving behind her
nothing but regret that she is no longer there to join in their
studies, or lead them in their fun and frolic.
"Now you have done with school-days, and it is very probable that
many of your school-mates you may never meet again; you will form
new friends wherever you go, and to a certain extent owe some
duties to society; but I cannot imagine you as among the class of
young ladies, who, the moment the doors of the school-room close
behind them, consider their education finished, and so straightway
give up all sensible occupations, and fritter away their time in
fashionable dissipation. I have seen too much of you, understand
your nature too well, to believe you capable of such folly; but
temptations of various kinds will come to you in the future, as
they have come in the past, and the same sense of right, the same
determination to conquer yourself, which helped you to overcome the
faults of your girlhood, will strengthen and sustain you in your
endeavors to attain a pure, noble womanhood.
"But I fear you will think I am writing you a sermon, and that I
have forgotten that you have passed from under my authority, but
'the spirit moved me,' and so I have spoken; if I have said more
than I ought, forgive me, and take it kindly from your old Miss
Christine.
"My sister wished to be kindly remembered to you, and my husband
says: Faites mes amitiés à Mlle. Berkley. Good-by, my dear,
"From your true friend,
"CHRISTINE BÉRANGER."
Marion's conscience smote her as she read the letter, and thought how
far short of all Mme. Béranger had hoped she would be, of all she had
determined for herself, was the life she was now leading. Day by day
she became more and more discontented with herself, as she saw how
completely she had given her time to what her teacher had rightly
called, "fashionable dissipation."
Lent at last arrived, and Marion, although not an Episcopalian, welcomed
it with delight, for now there would be few if any, large parties, and
she would have a chance to rest. She was determined to commence a course
of history; practise at least two hours a day, and, if Rachel proposed
it, commence again her French and German, in which her friend had made
such astonishing progress as to make Marion thoroughly ashamed of
herself. But, much to Marion's surprise, Rachel did not propose it,
neither did Dr. Drayton, before whom she had mentioned several times how
sorry she was to find herself so far behind Rachel. She thought it very
strange that the doctor did not again offer to teach her with his niece,
and resolved, if she could ever manage to humble herself sufficiently to
ask a favor of him, she would tell him herself she wanted to rejoin the
class.
An opportunity offered itself sooner than she had expected. The doctor
had a fine baritone voice, and was extremely fond of music. Rachel, as a
general thing, was able to play his accompaniments for him, but now and
then he bought a new song too difficult for her to manage, and he often
brought them, at Mr. Berkley's suggestion, for Marion to play for him.
One evening he made his appearance with a piece of music in his hand,
and said, as he shook hands with her:--
"Miss Marion, I have a song here that is most too much for Rachel: will
you do me the favor of playing the accompaniment?"
"Yes," replied Marion, as she took the music, and glanced over it; "on
one condition."
"And that is?" said the doctor.
"That you will let me come back to the French and German readings."
"Are you quite sure you want to come?" asked the doctor, looking down
upon her, and speaking very much as he would have done to a naughty
child.
"Very sure," replied Marion, almost provoked with herself for not being
able to say the contrary.
"Very well then, come," said the doctor, in a lower tone, as he arranged
the music for her. "You must want to very much, if you would be willing
to ask it as a favor from me."
Marion bit her lips and said nothing. She had intended to make it appear
that she was granting the favor; but the doctor had reversed the order
of things. The next day the old studies were commenced, and Marion took
hold with a will, determined to conquer all difficulties and put herself
by the side of Rachel. She was at first extremely mortified to find how
many mistakes she made, and how much she had forgotten; but the doctor
was more patient than ever before, and she soon made great improvement.
Of late Marion had seen very little of Mr. Thornton, and now that she
was not going about so much, she began to miss his bright, pleasant
face, and many little attentions: and as Saturday after Saturday went
by, and he did not make his appearance with Fred, as he had formerly
been so often in the habit of doing, she asked her brother what had
become of him. Fred's answer was, that "Thornton was cramming like
blazes; he meant to leave college with flying colors."
At first Marion felt a little chagrined that he could so soon have
forgotten her, and had half a mind to write him a charming little note,
inviting him over to spend Sunday; but she knew it would only be holding
out a prospect of encouragement which she never really meant to give
him, and so she refrained.
Summer at last arrived, and the Berkleys and Draytons were making
preparations for spending it among the White Mountains. Fred had urged
them to stay for "Class-day," as Arthur Thornton graduated this year;
but Marion's unusually pale cheeks told too plainly that either the
dissipations of the winter, or some other unexplainable cause, had made
a deep inroad on her health, and her parents were glad to get her away
from the city.
Florence's father had married again, and had taken a cottage at the
beach for the summer; so she had declined Rachel's invitation to again
make one of their party.
They travelled slowly through the mountains, stopping for days at a time
at whatever place seemed to them as particularly pleasant. It was too
early for the great rush of fashionable visitors, and they enjoyed
themselves the more on that account.
After having spent several weeks in this manner, they settled down for
the rest of the summer at a little hotel unknown to fame, and rarely
visited except by pedestrians and artists wandering about in search of
the most beautiful views.
Marion had by this time entirely regained her strength, and could climb
about the mountains, and take as long walks as any of the party; but
still she did not seem the same as in former days. Her father and mother
did not notice the change, for with them she was always as gay as ever,
and they were perfectly happy to see her so well,--slightly tanned with
the summer's sun, and a bright color always glowing in her cheeks.
But Rachel wondered what had come over her, for when they were alone she
seemed so much more quiet and preoccupied, that her friend could hardly
realize it was the same Marion Berkley she had known at school. The
doctor, too, silently noticed her altered manner, and had his own
opinion as to the cause.
One day towards the close of summer, Marion was sitting on a little
piazza, which belonged exclusively to the private parlor used by their
party. A book was in her lap, but her hands lay idly on its open pages,
as she sat lost in a reverie, from which she was roused by Dr. Drayton
as he came round the house, and stood holding a letter over her head,
exclaiming, "See what I have for you, Miss Marion! Can you tell the
writing from here?"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Marion, in a delighted tone, reaching up her hand
to take it; "it's from Florence. Do let me have it."
"Not until you promise me," said the doctor, holding the letter out of
her reach, "that you will tell me how you honestly feel about the most
important piece of news this letter contains."
"I promise," said Marion, smiling. "It will probably be that her new
mamma has given her a lovely picture, and she is the dearest mamma in
the world."
"Never mind what it is," said the doctor; "you have promised;" and he
leaned against the pillar opposite Marion, apparently engaged in reading
a letter which he had held open in his hand during their conversation,
but in reality furtively watching the expression of her face, for he
knew what news the letter contained, and wanted to judge of its effect
upon her.
She read on, smiling to herself as Florence went into ecstasies over the
kindness of her new, darling mamma. Then suddenly an expression of
intense surprise passed over her face, which was succeeded by one which
it would be difficult to define, as the letter dropped into her lap, and
she sat looking straight before her, but evidently seeing nothing, and
entirely forgetful of the doctor's presence.
"Poor child!" he thought, as he watched the tears slowly gathering in
her eyes; "it has come at last, and she so young! It is cruel in me to
watch her; but I _must_ know how deeply it affects her."
Suddenly Marion sprang up with the letter in her hand, and was running
through the long parlor-window, when the doctor called to her:--
"Miss Marion, have you forgotten your promise?"
"No, indeed!" answered Marion, without looking round. "Stay there; I'll
be back in a moment."
Dr. Drayton put his letter in his pocket, and folded his arms across his
breast as he leaned against the pillar, like Marion looking straight
before him, but seeing nothing. "If she can hide her wounds so bravely,
cannot I do the same?" thought he; "it would be too cruel for me to make
her tell me herself; I can at least spare her that." He was so lost in
thought, that Marion had again stepped on to the piazza, and stood
beside him before he was aware of her presence.
"Now, doctor," she said, startling him by the brightness of her tone,
"I'm ready to be questioned. There _was_ quite an important piece of
news in the letter."
"You need not tell me," he said very gently, "I know it already."
"And how did you know it?" asked Marion, in a disappointed tone of
voice. "I was to be the first one told, and then _I_ was to tell
Rachel."
"Your letter was delayed probably, and mine from Fred, written the next
day, when every one knew it, came in the same mail."
"But you don't seem a bit glad," said Marion. "_I_ am perfectly
delighted."
He looked down at her silently for a few moments. Could she be acting?
He would put her to the test.
"Miss Marion, I _will_ hold you to your promise; you said you would tell
me honestly how you felt about this piece of news."
"And so I will," replied Marion, surprised at his serious manner. "Mr.
Thornton is as fine a young man as I know, and has always been a good
friend of mine. When I tell you that I think him in every way worthy of
Florence, you may know that is the highest compliment I can pay him; and
I am perfectly delighted they are engaged."
"And this is on your honor?"
"On my honor," answered Marion, looking up at him with her clear,
truthful eyes.
"I believe you," he said; "but forgive me if I ask why, feeling so, the
tears should have come into your eyes when you read the letter?"
"Dr. Drayton," cried Marion, her face flushing, "it was too bad of you
to watch me! It is cruel in you to ask me."
"I know it is cruel," he answered; "but nevertheless I _must_ ask you."
"I will tell you," replied Marion, hurriedly, "or you will misunderstand
me. Florence and I have been very, very dear friends; we have loved each
other all our lives, as I think few girls rarely do love; there has
never been a cloud between us that was not soon cleared away; and when I
first read that she was engaged to Arthur Thornton, I could not help
feeling a little bit of sorrow, in spite of my greater joy, to think
that now she would have some one to take my place away from me. But that
feeling is all gone now--or will be soon," she added, choking down a
sob, that would come in spite of her.
"Marion," he almost whispered, as he bent over her, "are you sure you
never loved Arthur Thornton?"
"Very sure," answered Marion, not daring to raise her eyes, and blushing
crimson as he for the first time called her by name.
He bent lower still, and was about to lay his hand upon her arm, when
Rachel rushed through the parlor-window, exclaiming, "Uncle Robert,
Marion can't marry Mr. Thornton, if she wants to ever so much, and I
want my diamond ring!"
"The six months are past," replied her uncle.
"I don't think that's fair, do you, Marion?" But Marion had slipped
away, and was nowhere to be seen.
A few evenings later the three were sitting on the piazza, enjoying
their last night at the mountains. Mr. and Mrs. Berkley had retired
early, so as to feel bright and fresh for their homeward journey the
next day, but the rest had declared their intention of sitting up to
watch the moon, as it went slowly down behind the distant hills.
"Rachel," said Dr. Drayton, as he threw away his cigar, "how should you
like to go to Europe next spring?"
"Like it!" exclaimed Rachel, clasping her hands with delight. "I should
be perfectly happy!"
"Well, I thought so," replied her uncle, "and I am going to take you."
"O Uncle Robert! you are too good! Marion, isn't that splendid?"
But before Marion could answer, Dr. Drayton went on, as if he had not
heard Rachel's remark. "Of course, it will not do for you to go
travelling over Europe with only me."
"Take Mrs. Marston!" exclaimed Rachel, determined to surmount all
difficulties; "take Mrs. Marston; she's just the one!"
"Oh, no!" replied her uncle, in a very decided tone; "she wouldn't do at
all; she's too old. I've been thinking about it for some time; you want
a young person, and so I am going to get married."
"O Uncle Robert!" cried Rachel, jumping up, and taking hold of his arm;
"don't get married! please don't! I'd rather never go to Europe as long
as I live, than to have you do that!"
"I am sure you are very kind indeed," replied her uncle, "to give up
your pleasure on my account; but really I don't see as I can very well
help being married now, for I've asked the lady, and she said yes."
"O uncle! uncle! to think of your getting married just for the sake of
having some one to go to Europe with me! It's dreadful!"
"Yes, dear, I think it would be, if that were the case; but to tell you
the truth I am very much in love with the lady myself."
"Then I shall hate her!" exclaimed Rachel, dropping her uncle's arm,--"I
know I shall hate her!"
Marion had been sitting perfectly quiet during this conversation, with
her back turned towards the speaker; she now rose, and attempted to pass
by Dr. Drayton into the parlor; but he caught her with both hands, and
turned her round towards his niece, saying, as he did so, "Allow me,
Rachel, to introduce you to your future aunt; if you don't love her for
my sake, try to for her own; she's worth it."
Rachel stood in speechless astonishment, and Marion, also, could not
utter a word.
"This is a pretty state of things, I must say," said the doctor.
"Rachel, won't you kiss your Aunt Marion?"
"Kiss her!" exclaimed Rachel, finding her voice, and throwing her arms
round Marion's neck; "I thought I loved her before, but _now_ I shall
fairly worship her! I never was so happy in my life!"
"Nor I either," whispered Marion, very softly.
"But I don't understand it," cried Rachel, still in a state of
bewilderment. "I never thought of such a thing. I thought you didn't
like Marion at all, Uncle Robert."
"I know it, my dear, and she thought the same; but I have satisfied her
to the contrary, and I guess I can you."
"Ah! Uncle Robert," said Rachel, archly, "I guess I _shan't_ have the
handsomest diamond-ring at Bigelow's; I suppose Marion has that."
"No, she has not," replied the doctor, lifting Marion's left hand, on
which Rachel could see in the moonlight a heavy, plain, gold ring.
"What!--not diamonds?"
"No," replied the doctor, as he held the hand in both his own; "my wife
shall have all the diamonds she wants, but this ring must be plain
gold."
"Are you satisfied, Marion?" asked Rachel.
Marion gave a quick glance up at the doctor, then looked at Rachel, as
she answered, "Perfectly."