MARION'S REPENTANCE.
No time had been mentioned for the continuance of Marion's visit; and
coming as she had from the busy life of the school, where every minute
had its allotted task, Thanksgiving week was hardly over before she
began to be very homesick. In vain she strove against it, and by every
pleasant device in her power tried to make her visit pleasant to her
aunt. Even the short November days seemed to her endless, and the
evenings had only the early bedtime to make them endurable.
On her first coming, she had told Aunt Betty the day the vacation was
over, and evidently she was expected to stay until then; but on the
morning of the seventh day she became desperate, and for want of any
other excuse hit upon one that would be most displeasing to her aunt.
"You don't like to have me study my Greek here, Aunt Betty," she said;
"and, as I must review it before the term begins, I think I had better
go back now."
Aunt Betty put her steel-bowed spectacles high up on her nose, and,
after looking at her silently for a moment, said,--
"I don't take no stock in your Greek."
Marion laughed good-naturedly. "If you only would let me read it to
you," she said, "you would like it as well as I do; it's so soft and
beautiful."
"What's the matter with your Bible? Isn't that good enough for you?"
"But, Aunt Betty, you don't understand."
But Aunt Betty did understand enough to be very sure she did not want
Marion to go, so she turned abruptly on her heel, and hid herself in
the depths of the pantry.
Marion stood for a moment undecided what to do, then, seeing that if
she would go that day she had very little time to lose, she went
up-stairs, packed her valise, and the next time she saw her aunt was
ready for her journey back.
The prospect of a mile walk through the half-broken roads, up steep
hills, and down into drifted valleys, would have shown Marion the
difficulties had she been a New Englander; but as she was not, her
courage did not fail in the least when, without a word more, or any
sign of a good-by from Aunt Betty, she opened the door, letting in a
cold she was a stranger to, and went out into it.
Of that walk she never liked to speak afterwards. Many times she
stopped, almost but not quite willing to return; tired, half-frozen,
and unhappy that her rest had terminated unpleasantly, yet so very,
very homesick that she seemed driven on to the station,--if to reach
it were a possibility.
Fortunately for her, when she had reached the last half she was
overtaken by a man driving an empty wood-cart, who stopped and asked
her if she "didn't want a lift?" From what this saved her, no one
could ever know.
In the mean time, Aunt Betty, with her eyes dimmed--but she did not
know it was by tears--had watched her through a slit in a green paper
window-shade.
Until she left the door, she did not believe she could do so foolish a
thing as to attempt the walk to the station on such a morning; but
when she saw her step off so courageously down the narrow foot-path,
she began to have misgivings.
Notwithstanding her tears, the sight seemed to harden instead of
soften her heart. "If the gal will go, go she will," she said aloud,
with some unforgiving wags of her head. "She's stuck full of obstinacy
as her father was afore her." And by this time Marion was hidden from
her sight by the deep snow-banks, and she turned from the window into
her lonely kitchen with a heavy heart.
Marion, safely back in the academy, had, like Aunt Betty, her own
troubled thoughts.
She found only Helen there among the scholars, and every teacher away
but Miss Ashton, who evidently had not expected her back so soon.
Regular school duties did not begin until Tuesday of the next week,
and now it was only Wednesday night. She might have remained in Belden
a day or two longer, and then left with her aunt's approval.
What kind of a return had she made to her aunt for her kindness?
Marion's room, that she had thought of with so much longing as she sat
in the farm kitchen, had lost its charm. She was very willing to
believe it was because her room-mates were not there, and the fast
falling darkness prevented her from seeing from her window the winter
view, which even the grand old mountains that she had left behind her
did not make her value less.
Self-deception was not one of Marion's faults; she grew so quickly
regretful for what had happened, that when Miss Ashton came to her
door, troubled by the girl's tired look on her arrival, she found her
with red eyes and a swollen face.
"Tell me all about it," she said, taking no notice of her tears, but
turning up the gas to make the room more cheerful.
"What has gone wrong? Wasn't your aunt glad to see you? Are you sick?
Fancy I am mother, and tell me the whole story."
She took Marion's hand in hers, drew the young girl close to her, and
stroked the bonnie brown hair with a loving mother's touch.
"It's all my blame," said Marion, her voice trembling as she spoke.
"My aunt was as kind as she could be, but it was so lonely, and"--with
a smile now--"so noisy there."
"Noisy!" repeated Miss Ashton.
"Yes, ma'am; there were ghosts and rats and mice; the very house
groaned and shook, and the wind came howling down from the mountains,
and all the windows rattled."
Miss Ashton only laughed; but when Marion went on to tell the story of
her leaving the house against her aunt's wishes, she looked very
sober.
She had no knowledge of Aunt Betty's circumstances, surroundings, or
character, but she knew well the nature of country roads during a New
England winter. She thought from Marion's own account that her
homesickness had made her obstinate and unreasonable, and that her
coming away must have been a source of anxiety to her aunt, while she
was unable to prevent it.
"Marion," she said at last, "didn't you think more of yourself than of
your aunt?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Marion unhesitatingly.
"And to be selfish is always?"
"Mean. Don't say another word please, Miss Ashton."
"I am sure, Marion, in the future you will be more careful. It is such
an easy thing to wound and worry those about whom we should always be
thoughtful. If I were you, I would not let a mail go out without
carrying a note to your aunt, telling her of your safe arrival here,
and of your regrets for what has happened. It's always a noble thing
to say 'I'm sorry,' when one has done wrong."
The next mail took the following letter:--
MY DEAR AUNT,--I am going to write you to-night, to tell you two
things. One is, that I am safely back again at the academy, and
the other, that I think it was both inconsiderate and unkind for
me to leave you as I did, when I saw you thought I had better
stay with you. I am ashamed and grieved that I did not do as you
wanted me to. I hope most sincerely you will forgive me and
forget it.
I cannot easily forgive myself, and I am sure I shall never
forget all your kindness to me, or the nice time we had with the
bright warming-pan and the crisp pop-corn, or the wonderful
mountains all wrapped in their ermine mantles.
Please forgive, and love your ashamed niece,
MARION PARKE.
Aunt Betty's correspondence amounted sometimes to two letters a year,
so this penitent letter of Marion's remained in the post-office until
the postmaster found a chance to send it to her. By that time, what
she had suffered from anxiety had made her unable to cope with the
perils of the winter before her, and she often said to the few
visitors who came in to see her, "I've dropped a stitch I can never
take up again," but never a word of blame for Marion did she speak;
indeed, she had come to love the young girl so well, that it is
doubtful whether, even in her heart, she harbored one hard thought
toward her.
The letter finished, Marion's conscience gave her less uneasiness. No
thought had she of the suffering her selfish action had occasioned.
The visit had, after all, many pleasant memories, and for her only
beneficial results. There had come to her from her repentance and Miss
Ashton's kind reproof, a lesson, if not new, at least impressive, of
the necessity of thinking of others more than of one's self.
She could not see her Greek Tragedy without a smile, indeed, she went
so far as sometimes to think that its reception in the old kitchen of
the farmhouse had given her a greater avidity for its study.
On the whole, this winter visit was by no means a lost one; and when
Saturday brought more of the scholars back, and the term began, she
was fully ready for it.
On Sunday morning Nellie, feeling lonely and sick, had come to
Marion's room. Marion made a nice bed for her on her sofa, and sat by
her side bathing her hot, aching head, now and then reading to her.
Toward night she complained of her throat; fearing Miss Ashton would
send her to the nurse if she were told of it, she would not let Marion
go to her, but begged to stay where she was so piteously that Marion
gladly consented, asking leave of the teacher, but not mentioning
Nellie's sickness.
The consequence was, that the disease progressed rapidly, and when
morning came she was too sick even to object to the nurse, who,
surprised and bewildered, sent for Miss Ashton at once.
Dr. Dawson, the physician of twenty years' academical sickness, being
summoned, pronounced it a case of diphtheria, and ordered Nellie's
removal to the rooms used as a hospital, and Marion's separation from
the rest of the school, as she had been exposed to the same disease.