M. Béranger bit his lip fiercely under his mustache; Miss Christine became suddenly very much interested in something out in the back yard; and the school-girls were obliged to resort to open books and desk-covers to conceal their amusement.
Marion alone remained cool and collected, looking at Miss Stiefbach as if to ask if she had said enough.
Miss Stiefbach's face was scarlet, and she shut her teeth tightly together, striving for her usual composure. The sudden turn of Marion's apology, which placed her in such a ridiculous light, had completely disconcerted her, and she knew not what to do or say.
If Marion's eyes had twinkled with mischief; if there had been the slightest tinge of sarcasm in her tone, or of triumph in her manner, Miss Stiefbach would have thought she intended a fresh insult; but throughout the whole her bearing had been unusually quiet, ladylike, and polite. There was no tangible point for her teacher to fasten on, and, commanding herself sufficiently to speak, Miss Stiefbach merely said, "It is enough; you may go to your seat."
Even then, if Marion's self-possession had given way, she would have been called back and severely reprimanded. But it did not; she passed all her school-mates, whose faces were turned towards her brimming with laughter and a keen appreciation of the affair, with a sort of preoccupied air, and, taking her books from her desk, followed M. Béranger into the anteroom.
At recess the girls with one impulse flocked round her, exclaiming, "Oh! it was too good; just the richest scene I ever saw."
"What do you mean?" coolly replied Marion.
"Why!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, an unencouraged admirer of Marion's, "the way you turned the tables on Miss Stiefbach."
"Indeed, Sarah, you are very much mistaken; I simply apologized to her for a great piece of rudeness."
And Marion turned away and ran upstairs to her own room, where Florence and Julia were already giving vent to their long pent-up feelings in only half-suppressed bursts of laughter.
As Marion made her appearance it was the signal for another shout; but she only replied by a quiet smile, which caused Julia to ejaculate in her most earnest manner, "I declare, Marion, you don't look a bit elated! If I had done such a bright thing as you have, I should be beaming with satisfaction."
"Well, Julia, I don't think Ihavedone anything so very smart. To be sure I have had my revenge, and the only satisfaction I've got out of it is to feel thoroughly and heartily ashamed of myself."
"Marion Berkley, you certainlyarethe queerest girl I ever did see," exclaimed Julia.
But Florence, who knew her friend best, said nothing, for she understood her feelings, and admired her the more for them.
Marion had been determined to make her apology such as would reflect more absurdity on her teacher than on herself, and in that way to have her revenge for what she rightly considered her very unjust punishment. She had succeeded; but now that her momentary triumph was over, she sincerely wished that it had never occurred.
The next day she went to Miss Christine, and told her just how she felt about it, and that, if she advised her to do so, she would go to Miss Stiefbach and ask her forgiveness. But Miss Christine told her, that, although she heartily disapproved of her conduct, she thought nothing more had better be said about it, for Miss Stiefbach had only been half inclined to believe that Marion couldintenda fresh impertinence.
And so there the matter ended; but Marion could never fully satisfy her own conscience on the subject.
She wrote a long letter to her mother, telling her the whole thing from beginning to end; and received one in reply, gently, but firmly, rebuking her for her conduct.
But the next day came four pages from her father, full of his amusement and enjoyment of the whole matter, and highly complimenting her on what he called "her brilliant coup d'état."
No wonder Marion's better nature was sometimes crushed, when the inward fires which she longed to extinguish were kindled by a father's hand.
"O girls, the new scholar has come!" shouted little Fannie Thayer, as she bounced into the library one afternoon, where some of the older girls were studying.
"Do hush, Fannie!" exclaimed her sister Julia; "you do make such an awful noise! Of course you've left the door open, and it's cold enough to freeze one. Run away, child."
"But, Julia," remonstrated Fannie, as her sister went on reading without taking any notice of her communication, "you didn't hear what I said,—the new scholar has come."
"What new scholar?" inquired Florence Stevenson, looking up from her book. "This is the first I have heard of any."
"Why, don't you know?" answered little Fannie, glad to have a listener. "Her name is—is—Well, I can't remember what it is,—something odd; but she comes from ever so far off, and she's real pretty, kind of sad-looking, you know."
"What in the world is the child talking about?" broke in Marion. "Who ever heard of Miss Stiefbach's taking a scholar after the term had begun?"
"I remember hearing something about it, now," said Julia. "The girl was to have come at the beginning of the quarter; but she has been sick, or something or other happened to prevent. I believe she comes from St. Louis."
"I wonder who she'll room with; she can't come in with us, that's certain," said Marion, with a very decided air.
"Why, of course she won't," replied Florence; "we never have but two girls in a room. Oh! I know, she will go in with little Rose May; see if she doesn't!"
"Well, I tell you, I am sorry she's come!" ejaculated Marion. "I hate new scholars; they always put on airs, and consider themselves sort of privileged characters. I for one shall not take much notice of her."
"Why, Marion," exclaimed Grace Minton, "I should think you would be ashamed to talk so! She may be a very nice girl indeed. You don't know anything about her."
"I don't care if she is a nice girl. She ought to have come before. It will just upset all our plans; the classes are all arranged, and everything is going on nicely. There are just enough of us, and I say it is a perfect bother!"
"I really don't see why you need trouble yourself so much," broke in Georgie Graham, who was always jealous of Marion, and never lost an opportunity of differing with her, though in a quiet way that was terribly aggravating. "I don't believe you will be called upon to make any arrangements, and I don't see how one, more or less, can make much difference any way."
The entrance of Miss Christine prevented Marion's reply, and she immediately took up her book and became apparently absorbed in her studies.
"O Miss Christine," they all exclaimed at once, "do tell us about the new scholar." "Is she pretty?" "Will she be kind to us little girls?" "How old is she?" and many other questions of a like nature, all asked in nearly the same breath.
"If you will be quiet, and not all speak at once, I will try and tell you all you want to know. The name of the new scholar is Rachel Drayton. She is about sixteen, and I think she is very pretty, although I do not know as you will agree with me. She seems to have a very lovely disposition, and I should think that after a while she might be very lively, and a pleasant companion for you all; but at present she is very delicate, as she has just recovered from a very severe illness brought on by her great grief at the death of her father. They were all the world to each other, and she was perfectly devoted to him. She cannot yet reconcile herself to her loss. He has been dead about eight weeks. Her mother died when she was a baby, and the nearest relation she has is her father's brother, who is now in Europe. Poor child! she is all alone in the world; my heart aches for her."
Miss Christine's usually cheery voice was very low and sad, and the tear that glistened in her eye proved that her expressions of sympathy were perfectly sincere; if, indeed, any one could have doubted that kind, loving face. As she ceased speaking, there was a perfect silence throughout the room, and those who had felt somewhat inclined to side with Marion felt very much conscience-stricken.
Marion, however, continued studying, not showing the slightest signs of having had her sympathies aroused.
Miss Christine continued: "I hope, girls, you will be particularly kind to Miss Drayton. She must naturally feel lonely, and perhaps diffident, among so many strangers, and I want you all to do everything in your power to make it pleasant for her. You in particular, Marion, having been here longer than any of the others, will be able to make her feel quite at home."
"Indeed, Miss Christine, you must excuse me. You know taking up new friends at a moment's notice, and becoming desperately intimate with them, is not my forte."
"Marion," replied Miss Christine, in a quiet, but reproving tone, "I do not ask you to become desperately intimate with her, as you call it, or anything of the kind. I merely wish you to show her that courtesy which is certainly due from one school-girl to another."
Marion made no reply, and Miss Christine sat down and commenced talking to the girls in her usual pleasant manner. It was her evident interest in everything which concerned them, that made her so beloved by her pupils.
They all knew that they could find in her a patient listener, and a willing helper, whenever they chose to seek her advice; whether it was about an important, or a very trifling matter.
There was some little bustle and confusion as the girls laid aside their books, and clustered round Miss Christine with their fancy-work, or leaned back in their chairs, glad to have nothing in particular to do.
"Miss Christine!" exclaimed little Rose May, "I do wish you would show me how to 'bind off.' I keep putting my thread over and over, and, instead of taking off stitches, it makes more every time. I think these sleeves are a perfect nuisance. I wish I hadn't begun 'em!"
"Why, you poor child," laughingly replied her teacher, "what are you doing? You might knit forever and your sleeves would not be 'bound off,' if you do nothing but put your worsted over. Who told you to do that?"
"Julia Thayer did; she said knit two and then put over, and knit two and then put over, all the time, and it would come all right."
"Now, Rose, I didn't!" exclaimed Julia. "I said put your stitch over, you silly child! I should think you might have known that putting your worsted over would widen it."
"I know youdidn'tsay put your stitch over," retorted Rose; "you just said put over, and how was I going to know by that? I think you're real mean; you never take any pains with us little ones; I don't—"
"Hush, hush, Rose! You must not speak so," said Miss Christine, laying her hands on the child's lips; then, turning to Julia, she said, "If you had taken more pains with Rose, and tried to explain to her how she ought to have done her work, it would have been much better for both of you."
"Well, Miss Christine, she came just as I was thinking up for my composition, and I didn't want to be bothered by any one. As it was, she put all my ideas out of my head."
Miss Christine's only reply was a shake of the head and an incredulous smile, which made Julia wish she had shown a little more patience with the child.
"There, Rose," said Miss Christine, as the little girl put the finishing touch to her sleeves, "next time you will not have to ask any one to show you how to 'bind off.' Your sleeves are very pretty, and I know your mother will be glad her daughter took so much pains to please her."
Rose glanced up at her teacher with a bright smile, and went skipping off, ready for fun and frolic, now that those troublesome sleeves were finished. But she had hardly reached the hall when she came running back, saying, in a most mysterious sort of stage-whisper, "She's coming! she's coming downstairs with Miss Stiefbach! Rebecca what's-her-name; you know!"
The girls looked up as Miss Stiefbach entered the room, and, although they were too well-bred to actually stare at her companion, it must be confessed that their faces betrayed considerable interest.
Rachel Drayton, the "new scholar," was between sixteen and seventeen; tall and very slight; her eyes were very dark; her face intensely pale, but one saw at once it was the pallor of recent illness, or acute mental suffering, not of continued ill-health.
She was dressed in the deepest mourning, in a style somewhat older than that generally worn by girls of her age. Her jet-black hair, which grew very low on her forehead, was brushed loosely back, and gathered into a rough knot behind, as if the owner was too indifferent to her personal appearance to try to arrange it carefully.
As she stood now, fully conscious of the glances that were surreptitiously cast upon her, she appeared frightened and bewildered. Her eyes were cast down, but if any one had looked under their long lashes, they would have seen them dimmed with tears.
Accustomed all her life to the society of older persons, no one who has not experienced the same feeling can imagine how great an ordeal it was for her to enter that room full of girls of her own age. To notice the sudden hush that fell upon all as she came in; to feel that each one was mentally making comments upon her, was almost more than she could bear. If they had been persons many years older than herself, she would have gone in perfectly at her ease; chatted first with this one, then with that, and would have made herself at home immediately.
Unfortunately the only young persons in whose society she had been thrown were some young ladies she had met while travelling through the West with her father. They had been coarse, foolish creatures, making flippant remarks upon all whom they saw, in a rude, unladylike manner, and from whom she had shrunk with an irresistible feeling of repugnance. No wonder her heart had sunk within her when she thought that perhaps her future companions might be of the same stamp.
Miss Christine noticed her embarrassment at once, and kindly went forward to meet her, saying as she did so, "Well, my dear, I am glad to see you down here; I am not going to introduce you to your companions now, you will get acquainted with them all in time; first I want you to come into the school-room with me and see how you like it."
And she took her hand and led her through the open door into the school-room beyond; talking pleasantly all the time, calling her attention to the view from the windows, the arrangement of the desks, and various other things, until at last she saw her face light up with something like interest, and the timid, frightened look almost entirely disappear; then she took her back into the library.
As they went in, Florence Stevenson, who stood near the fireplace, made room for them, remarking as she did so, "It is very chilly; you must be cold; come here and warm yourself. How do you like our school-room?"
"Very much; that is, I think I shall. It seems very pleasant."
"Yes, it is pleasant. It's so much nicer for being papered with that pretty paper than if it had had dark, horrid walls like some I've seen. What sort of a school did you use to go to?"
"I never went to school before; I always studied at home;" and poor Rachel's voice trembled as she thought of the one who had always directed her studies; but Florence went bravely on, determined to do her part towards making the new scholar feel at home.
"Well, I'm afraid you will find it hard to get used to us, if you have never been thrown with girls before. I don't believe but what you thought we were almost savages; now honestly, didn't you feel afraid to meet us?"
"It was hard," replied Rachel; but as she glanced up at the bright, animated face before her, she thought that if all her future companions were like this one she should have no great fears for the future.
Most of the scholars had left the room; the few who remained were chatting together apparently unconscious of the stranger's presence, and as Rachel stood before the fire, with her back to the rest of the room, and Florence beside her talking animatedly, she was surprised to find herself becoming interested and at ease, and before Miss Christine left them the two girls were comparing notes on their studies, and gave promise of soon becoming very good friends.
When Marion left the library, she went directly to her room, locked the door, and threw herself on the seat in the window in a tumult of emotion. Paramount over all other feelings stood shame. She could not excuse herself for her strange behavior, and she felt unhappy; almost miserable. "Why did I speak so?" she asked herself. "Why should I feel such an unaccountable prejudice against a person I never even heard of before? I thought I had conquered all these old, hateful feelings, and here they are all coming back again. I don't know what is the matter with me. It is not jealousy; for how can I be jealous of a person I never saw or heard of before in my life? I don't know what it is, and I don't much care; there aren't four girls in the school that like me, and only oneIreally love, and that's dear old Flo. She's as good as gold, and if any one should ever come between us I pity her! I'll bet anything though, that she is downstairs making friends with that girl this minute."
This thought was not calculated to calm Marion's ruffled feelings, and she sat brooding by the window in anything but an enviable mood.
She was still in this state of mind when the tea-bell rang, and hastily smoothing her hair she went downstairs.
It chanced that just as she entered the dining-room Rachel Drayton and Florence came in by the opposite door. Florence was evidently giving Rachel an account of some of their school frolics, though in an undertone, so that Marion could not catch the words, and her companion was listening, her face beaming with interest. No circumstance could have occurred which would have been more unfavorable for changing Marion's wayward mood.
Coming downstairs she had been picturing to herself the unhappiness and loneliness of the poor orphan, and she had almost made up her mind to go forward, introduce herself, and try by being kind and agreeable to make amends for her former injustice; for although she knew Miss Drayton must be entirely unconscious of it, she could not in her own heart feel at rest until she had made some atonement.
No one could have presented themselves to a perfect stranger,—a thing which it is not easy for most persons to do,—with more grace and loveliness than Marion, if she had been so inclined, for there was at times a certain fascination about her voice and manner that few could resist.
She had expected to see a pale, sickly, utterly miserable-looking girl, towards whom she felt it would be impossible to steel her heart; and she saw one, who, although she was certainly pale enough, seemed to be anything but miserable, and above all was evidently fast becoming on intimate terms with her own dear friend Florence.
That was enough; resolutely crushing down all kindly feelings that were struggling for utterance, she took her seat at the table as if unconscious of the stranger's existence. Miss Stiefbach sat at the head of one very long table, and Miss Christine at another, having most of the little girls at her end; while Marion sat directly opposite with Florence on her right. Without changing this long-established order of things, Miss Christine could not make room for Rachel by the side of Florence as she would have liked, and the only place for her seemed to be on Marion's left, as there were not so many girls on that side of the table. Hoping that such close proximity would force Marion to unbend the reserved manner which she saw she was fast assuming, Miss Christine, before taking her own seat, went to that end of the table and introduced Marion to Rachel, laughingly remarking that as they were the oldest young ladies there, they would have to sustain the dignity of the table.
This jesting command was certainly carried out to the very letter of the law by Marion.
She was intensely polite throughout the meal, but perfectly frigid in the dignity of her manner, which so acted upon poor Rachel, that the bright smiles which Florence had called forth were effectually dispelled, and throughout the rest of the evening she was the same sad, frightened girl who had first made her appearance in the library.
When Marion knelt that night to pray, her lips refused to utter her accustomed prayers. It seemed hypocrisy for her, who had so resolutely made another unhappy, to ask God's blessings on her head, and she remained kneeling long after Florence had got into bed, communing with herself, her only inward cry being, "God forgive me!"
But how could she expect God would forgive her, when day after day she knowingly committed the same faults?
Sick at heart, she rose from her knees, turned out the gas, and went to bed, but not to sleep; far into the night she lay awake viewing her past conduct.
She did not try to excuse herself, or to look at her faults in any other than their true light; but, repentant and sorrowful though she might be, she could not as yet sufficiently conquer her pride to ask pardon of those she had openly wounded, or to contradict an expressed opinion even after she regretted ever having formed it.
Poor child! she thought she had struggled long and fiercely with herself; she had yet to learn that the battle was but just begun.
"Oh, dear!" yawned Grace Minton, "how I do hate stormy Saturdays!"
"So do I!" exclaimed Georgie Graham; "they are a perfect nuisance, and we were going up to Aunt Bettie's this afternoon."
"Who's we?"
"Oh, 'her royal highness' for one, and your humble servant for another; Sarah Brown, Flo Stevenson, and Rachel Drayton,ofcourse. By the way, how terribly intimate those two have grown! I don't believe 'her highness' relishes their being so dreadfully thick."
"What in the world makes you call Marion 'her highness'?" said Grace.
"Oh, because sheisso high and mighty; she walks round here sometimes as if she were queen and we her subjects."
"No such thing, Georgie Graham!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, who came in just as the last remark was made, and knew very well to whom it alluded; "she doesn't trouble herself about us at all."
"That's just it; she thinks herself superior to us poorplebeians."
"Stuff and nonsense! You know you're jealous of her, and always have been."
"Oh, no!" replied Georgie, who, no matter how much she might be provoked, always spoketoany one in a soft purring voice. "Oh, no! I'm not jealous of her; there is no reason why I should be. But really, Sarah, I don't see why you need take up the cudgel for her so fiercely; she always snubs you every chance she gets."
Sarah tossed her head, blushing scarlet; for the remark certainly had a good deal of truth in it, and was none the less cutting for being made in a particularly mild tone.
"Well, at any rate," said Grace Minton, for the sake of changing the subject, "I think Rachel Drayton is lovely."
"Lovely!" exclaimed Georgie, "she's a perfect stick! I don't see what there is lovely about her, and for my part I wish she had never come here."
"Seems to me the tune has changed," broke in Sarah. "I thought you were one of the ones who were so down on Marion Berkley for saying the same thing."
"Oh, that was before I had seen her," replied Georgie, not at all disconcerted.
"In other words, you said it just so as to have an opportunity to differ with Marion," retorted Sarah. "I really believe you hate her!"
"Sarah, how can you get so excited? it is so very unbecoming, you know," purred Georgie. Sarah flounced out of the room too indignant for speech, and just as she was going through the hall met Marion, who was in an unusually pleasant mood.
"See, Sarah, it is clearing off; we shall have a chance for our walk, I guess, after all."
"Do you think so? It will be awful sloppy though, won't it?"
"No, I don't believe it will; besides who cares for that? We are not made of sugar or salt."
"How many are going?" asked Sarah.
"I don't know exactly; let me see." And Marion counted off on her fingers. "You for one, and I for another; that's two. Miss Drayton and Florence are four. Grace Minton, if she wants to go, five; and Georgie Graham six."
At the mention of the last name, Sarah gave her head a toss, which was so very expressive that Marion could not help laughing, and exclaimed, "Oh, yes! you know 'her royal highness' must allow some of theplebeiansamong her subjects to follow in her train."
Sarah laughed softly. "Did you hear?" she whispered.
Marion nodded, and just at that moment Georgie came out of the room where she had been sitting. "What was that you said, Marion, about 'her highness'?" she asked. "Did you think that the title applied to yourself?"
"I shouldn't have thought of such a thing, Georgie, if I hadn't overheard your remarks, and of course I could not but feel gratified at the honorable distinction."
"How do you know it was meant for an honorable distinction?"
"How can I doubt it, Georgie, when it was bestowed upon me by such an amiable young lady as yourself? Now if it had been Sarah, I might have thoughtshesaid it out of spite; but of course when Georgie Graham said it, I knew it was intended as a tribute to my superiority;" and Marion made a provokingly graceful courtesy.
"There is nothing like having a good opinion of one's self," replied Georgie.
"But you see you are mistaken there, Georgie; it was you who seemed to have such a high opinion of me. You know I didn't claim the greatness,—it was 'thrust upon me;'" and Marion, satisfied with that shaft, turned on her heel, and opening the front door went out on to the piazza, followed by Sarah, who had been a silent but appreciative witness of the scene.
Georgie Graham shut her teeth, muttering in anything but her usual soft tones, and with an expression in her eyes which was anything but pleasant to see, "Oh, how I hate you! But I'll be even with you yet!"
The shower which had so disconcerted the whole school was evidently clearing off, and there was every prospect that the proposed plan of walking to Aunt Bettie's directly after dinner might be carried into execution.
Aunt Bettie, as all the school-girls called her, was a farmer's wife, who supplied the school with eggs, butter, and cheese, and during the summer with fresh vegetables and berries.
She lived about two or three miles from the school, on the same road, and the girls often went to see her. She was fond of them all, although she had her favorites, among whom was Marion; and she always kept a good supply of doughnuts, for which she was quite famous, on hand for them whenever they might come.
The sun kept his promise, and before dinner-time the girls were all out on the piazza, getting up an appetite they said, although that was not often wanting with any of them.
The party for Aunt Bettie's numbered eight,—Rose May and Fannie Thayer having begged Marion to ask permission for them to go,—and they all set out for their walk in high spirits. Although Marion treated Rachel with a certain degree of politeness, she never spoke to her unless it was absolutely necessary, and then always addressed her as Miss Drayton, although every other girl in school had, by this time, become accustomed to familiarly call her Rachel. Florence had done everything in her power to draw Marion into their conversation at table, but seeing that she was determined not to change her manner, she thought it best to take no more notice of it, as by doing so it only made it the more apparent to Rachel that Marion had no intention of becoming better acquainted with her.
Rachel had been there but a short time, and already Marion began to feel that Florence was turning from her for a new friend. This was not really the case, and Florence, who knew Marion's feelings, was secretly very much troubled.
She loved Marion as deeply and truly as ever; but she could not turn away from that motherless girl, between whom and herself an instinctive sympathy seem to have been established, arising from the loss which they had each felt, and which naturally drew them closer to each other. Florence had never known her mother, but the loss was none the less great to her; she felt that there was a place in the heart that none but a mother's love could ever have filled, and no matter how bright and happy she might feel, there was at times a sense of utter loneliness about her which she found hard to dispel.
Rachel seemed to turn to her as her only friend among that crowd of strangers, and she could not refuse to give her her friendship in return, even at the risk of seeing Marion for a time estranged from her; for she trusted to Marion's better nature, hoping that in the future she would not be misjudged, and that all might be made pleasant and happy again.
And so to-day for the first time since they had been to school together, Florence and Marion were taking their Saturday afternoon walk with separate companions. Marion had Rose May by the hand, while she told Sarah Brown to take care of little Fannie. Florence and Rachel were directly in front of her, and she knew that they would have been happy to have had her join in their conversation. In fact, they spoke so that she could hear every word they said; but she occupied herself by telling Rose a story of such remarkable length and interest as to perfectly enchant the child, who exclaimed as they reached the farm-house, "O Marion, you do tell the best stories; I really think yououghtto write a book!" Marion laughed, but had no chance to answer, for at that moment the door opened and Aunt Bettie appeared upon the threshold.
"Wall, gals, I be glad to see ye; this is a sight good for old eyes!"
"Did you expect us, auntie?" asked Marion.
"Spect yer, child! why, I been a-lookin' for yer these three Saturdays past! What you been a-doin' that's kept yer so long?"
"Well, nothing in particular; but you see the term has only just begun, and we've hardly got settled."
"Oh, yes, honey, I know; I haint laid it up agin yer. But who's this new one?—yer haint introduced me."
As Marion showed no inclination to perform the ceremony Florence presented Rachel, remarking that she was a new scholar from the West. But Aunt Bettie's keen eyes took in at a glance the deep mourning apparel, and her kind heart at once divined its cause; and she exclaimed with great heartiness as she took Rachel's hands in her own rough palms, "Wall, child, you couldn't 'a come to a better place than Miss Stiffback's, and you couldn't 'a got in with a better lot o' girls; take em as they come, they're about as good a set as I knows on!"
"O Aunt Bettie!" exclaimed Florence; "flattering, as I live! I wouldn't have believed it of you."
"Not a bit of it, child; just plain speakin', a thing that never hurt anybody yet, according to my notion. But come in, gals; come in, you must be tired after your long walk, and the tin box is most a-bustin' its sides, I crammed it so full."
The girls laughed, for they all knew what the tin box contained, and were only too ready to be called upon to empty it.
They all seated themselves in the large, old-fashioned kitchen, with its low ceiling and tremendous open fireplace, surmounted by a narrow shelf, on which was displayed a huge Bible, and a china shepherdess in a green skirt and pink bodice, smiling tenderly over two glass lamps and a Britannia teapot, at a china shepherd in a yellow jacket and sky-blue smalls; being, I suppose, exact representations of the sheep-tenders of that part of the country.
Aunt Bettie bustled in and out of the huge pantry, bringing out a large tin box filled to the top with delicious brown, spicy doughnuts, and a large earthen pitcher of new milk.
"There, gals," as she put a tray of tumblers on the table, "jest help yerselves, and the more yer eat, why the better I shall be suited."
"Suppose we should go through the box and not leave any for Jabe; what should you say to that?" asked Marion.
"Never you mind Jabe; trust him for getting his fill. Eat all yer want, and then stuff the rest in yer pockets."
"Oh, that wouldn't do at all!" exclaimed Marion; "you don't know what a fuss we had about those Julia Thayer carried home last year! Miss Stiefbach didn't like it at all; she said it was bad enough bringing boxes from home, but going round the neighborhood picking up cake was disgraceful. She never knew exactly who took them to school, for Julia kept mum; but I don't think it would do to try it again."
"Wall, I think that was too bad of Miss Stiffback; she knows nothin' pleases me so much as to have you come here and eat my doughnuts, and if you choose to carry some on 'em to school, what harm did it do? She ought to remember that she was a gal once herself."
"Oh, mercy! auntie, I don't believe she ever was," ejaculated Marion. "She was born Miss Stiefbach, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if she wore the same stiff dresses, and had the same I'm-a-little-better-than-any-body-else look when she was a baby."
"Wall, child, she's a good woman after all. You know there aint any of us perfect; we all hev our faults; if it aint one thing it's another; it's pretty much the same the world over."
"You do make the best doughnuts, Aunt Bettie,Iever eat," declared Fannie Thayer, who was leaning with both elbows on the table, a piece of a doughnut in one hand, and a whole one in the other as a reserve force.
"Wall, child, I ginerally kalkerlate I ken match any one going on doughnuts; but 't seemed to me these weren't 's good as common. I had something on my mind that worrited me when I was mixin' 'em, and I 'spose I wasn't quite as keerful as usual."
"Ifyoudon't call these good,Ido!" ejaculated Miss Fannie. "Why, I just wish you could have seen some Julia made last summer. She took a cooking-fit, and tried most everything; mother said she wasted more eggs and butter than she was worth, and herdoughnuts!—Ugh! heavy, greasy things!"
"She must 'a let 'em soak fat!" exclaimed Aunt Bettie, who was always interested in the cookery question; "that's the great trouble with doughnuts; some folks think everything's in the mixin', but I say more'n half depends on the fryin'. You must hev yer fat hot, and stand over 'em all the time. I allers watch mine pretty close and turn 'em offen with a fork, and then I hev a cullender ready to put 'em right in so't the fat ken dreen off. I find it pays t' be pertickeler;" and Aunt Bettie smoothed her apron, and leaned back in her chair with the air of one who had said something of benefit to mankind in general.
"But where is Julia?" she asked after a short pause. "Why didn't she come?"
"Oh, I forgot!" exclaimed Fannie; "she sent her love to you, and told me to tell you not to let us eat up all your doughnuts this time, because she'll be up before long and want some. She had a sore throat, and Miss Stiefbach thought she had better not go out."
"I'm sorry for that," replied Aunt Bettie; "I hope she aint a-goin' to be sick."
"Oh, no, it aint very bad. Julia thinks it's nothing but cankers; she often has them."
"Wall, it's always best to be on the safe side, any way," said Aunt Bettie; "you tell her she needn't be afraid about the doughnuts; I'll have a fresh batch ready agin the time she comes."
The business of eating and drinking so occupied the girls' attention, that they did not enter into conversation as readily as usual; and after the first flush of excitement at meeting her young friends and dispensing her hospitality was over, Aunt Bettie, too, subsided into a quiet, subdued manner, which was quite foreign to her usual brisk talkativeness.
She sat in her high-backed rocking-chair, looking at the girls over her silver-bowed spectacles, with a sad, musing expression, as if the sight of them called up some unhappy thought.
This unusual restraint on the part of their hostess communicated itself in a certain degree to her visitors, though they did not themselves remark the cause of their silence, and their visit was made shorter than usual.
It was Marion who first made the move to go; and although Aunt Bettie pressed them to remain she did not urge it with her accustomed eagerness.
They had got just beyond the bend of the road which hid the old farm-house from view, when Marion exclaimed, "You run on, Rose, with the others; I believe I left my gloves on the table; don't wait for me, I'll catch up with you;" and before Rose could beg to go back with her, she had turned round and ran off up the road. She ran quickly, but noiselessly along, and was back to the farm-house in a few moments, and was surprised to find Aunt Bettie sitting on the door-step with her head buried in her hands. Going up to her, she found her weeping as if her heart would break.
"Aunt Bettie!" she said, in her gentlest tones, "Aunt Bettie! It's only Marion. What is the matter? I thought you seemed worried about something, and came back to see if I couldn't help you; can't I?"
"Oh, dear!" sobbed the poor woman. "It may be dreadful wicked of me, but the sight of you young things, all lookin' so bright and happy, did make me feel awful bad, for I couldn't help thinking o' my own darter Jemimy."
"Why, what is the matter with her, auntie? Where is she?"
"The Lord knows, dear, I don't. Not a blessed word hev I heerd from her it's going on eight weeks. I've writ, and Jabe he's writ, but we haint had a sign of an answer, and I'm afraid she's dead, or perhaps wus;" and the poor woman rocked herself back and forth, completely overcome by her grief.
"But, auntie," said Marion, laying her hand gently on the good woman's shoulder, "don't you see there are forty things that might have happened to prevent your hearing from her? You know a girl that lives out can't always find time to write as often as she would like. Besides, she may have got a new place, and in that case might not have received your letters."
"I thought o' that, child, and the last letter Jabe writ he directed to the care of Miss Benson, the woman that keeps the intelligence office; but that's two weeks an' more ago, and I haven't heerd a word. You see, Miss Marion, there aint a better-hearted gal livin' than my Jemimy, but she got kinder lonesome and discontented-like a livin' way off here, and took it into her head she'd like the city better. She allus was a high-sperrited gal, and 'twas dull for her here, that's a fact; but I wish to the Lord I'd held my own and hadn't let her gone; for there's awful places in them big cities, and my gal's pretty enough to make any one look at her. I dunno, child, but I can't help feelin' somethin' dreadful's happened to her."
"O auntie, you must not get discouraged so easily. I thought you were one of the kind who always looked on the bright side of things," said Marion in a cheerful tone.
"Wall, dear, I do ginerally; but this has just keeled me right over, and I don't seem to know where I be. You see I haint got any one in the city as I ken call upon to help me. I don't know a soul in the place I could get to hunt her up. Sometimes I think I'll go down there; but where's the use? I should be like a hen with her head cut off in such a great, strange place as Boston."
"Well, auntie, I'll try my best to help you. I tell you what I'll do: you give me Jemima's address, and I'll write to my mother, and get her to look her up. She has to go to those offices very often after servants, and like as not she might stumble right on her. Now cheer up, auntie, for I feel just as if we should find her;" and Marion passed her hand over Aunt Bettie's wrinkled forehead and gray hair as tenderly as if she were her own mother.
Aunt Bettie looked at Marion with the tears still glistening in her eyes, and a sad smile on her face, as she said:—
"Marion Berkley it aint every gal as would take so much trouble for an old creetur like me, even if she noticed I was sad and worried. You've comforted a poor, old woman who was most broken-hearted. May the Lord bless you for it, an' I know he will."
Marion smiled up at the tender, old face that looked down at her, while her own flushed with pleasure at the words of commendation.
It was a pity that there were no unobserved witnesses of the scene; for Marion Berkley, cold and haughty, apparently indifferent alike to the praise or blame of those around her, was a very different person from this gentle girl. Her whole soul was shining through her eyes; all her haughtiness, pride, and coldness had fallen from her, and she stood almost like one transfigured, her face beaming with the light which makes the plainest face seem almost divine,—that of pure, disinterested sympathy for the sufferings and troubles of a fellow-being.
For a moment there was silence between the two, while the tears rolled down both of their cheeks; but Marion dashed hers away, as she exclaimed in a cheery voice:—
"Come, auntie, it is getting late, and I must be off; so get me the address, please."
"To be sure, child! How thoughtless I be! I'll get it for yer right away;" and Aunt Bettie went into the house with something of her usual briskness, and returning, brought out a scrap of paper, on which was written in a stiff, cramped, school-boy hand this direction:—
"Miss Jemima Dobbs,In Kare of Mis Benson,Number 22 Eest Crorfud Street,Boston."
"Miss Jemima Dobbs,In Kare of Mis Benson,Number 22 Eest Crorfud Street,Boston."
Marion could hardly repress a smile of amusement at the remarkable orthography; but remembering that in Aunt Bettie's eyes it was a perfect monument to the glory of her son Jabe, she made no comments, and folding it up, tucked it carefully away in her purse. Then, with a bright, encouraging smile, she said good-by to Aunt Bettie, and hurried off down the road.
It was much later than she thought, and as the days were rapidly growing shorter, it was quite dusk, and the girls were entirely out of sight and hearing.
But her thoughts kept her company on her long walk, and all the way home she was turning over in her mind the probabilities and improbabilities of her mother's being able to find the young, unknown country girl in a large city like Boston.
Miss Christine had begun to feel quite anxious about her by the time she arrived, and Florence met her in the hall with a hearty caress, to which she responded with her old warmth.
"Why, you dear, old thing!" exclaimed Florence; "what has kept you so long? It must have been forlorn walking home at this hour."
"Oh, I did not mind it; I had something to think of," replied Marion, as she pulled off her muddy rubbers before going upstairs. "I'll tell you by and by; I must run up and get ready for supper."
That night, after they got to bed, Marion gave Florence a synopsis of her conversation with Aunt Bettie, and told her of her plan of writing to her mother for assistance.
"Well," said Florence, "I think it was real good of you to think of it. What a queer girl you are! I knew we didn't have quite as jolly a time as usual up there, but I never noticed there was anything the matter with Aunt Bettie; and if I had I don't believe it would have occurred to me to go back and comfort her. O Marion!"—and she threw her arm over her friend's shoulder,—"how much good there is in you! Why won't you let it all come out?"
"I don't think there was anything particularly good in that. You see there was no virtue in my being kind to the poor, old thing, because I could not help it. If there had been any hateful feelings to overcome, or any wounded pride to interfere, I probably should not have done it."
"I'm not so sure of that, Marion. You do conquer yourself sometimes."
"Not often, dear," Marion replied, with a little, nervous, forced laugh. "It is too much trouble. Good-night, I must go to sleep."
But it was long before sleep came to Marion. She laid perfectly still, so as not to disturb Florence, but the small hours found her still awake. She had been for some time thoroughly dissatisfied with herself, and the thought that she had been of some comfort to any one was indeed pleasant to her; but she would not attribute to herself credit that did not belong to her.
It was just as she had said to Florence; she could not help being kind to the poor old woman in her trouble; she had obeyed the promptings of her naturally warm heart. It had been an impulsive action, not one in which a disagreeable duty had been plainly pointed out for her to follow; and she determinedly put aside all feeling of self-satisfaction. She knew that if Rachel Drayton had made a similar appeal to her kindness and sympathy, her heart would have been resolutely closed against her, and she would not have spoken a single encouraging word.
This thought thrust itself upon her again and again. She tried to put it from her, but it was no use; she could not evade it. She told herself that she was ridiculously conscientious; that this girl had no claims upon her; and that she had done all that Miss Christine asked of her; treated Rachel politely and courteously; but she knew that her politeness had been cold and formal, and her courtesy less kindly than she would bestow upon a beggar at the door. But she said to herself, Florence makes up for all my deficiencies. This bitter thought, in various forms, had rankled in her breast day and night. She had often said that nothing could ever make her jealous of Florence; their affection had been too lasting, too much a part of themselves, for either to suspect the other of inconstancy; and now she was the first to doubt.
But the last words of Florence, as they talked that night, came back to her, and she remembered the fond embrace and the earnestness of her voice as she besought her to act her real self.
Should she doubt that generous heart, that had shown its love for her in a thousand ways, because, when it was appealed to by a fatherless, motherless girl, it had responded with all the warmth of its true, generous nature?
No, she could not do it; she felt that it was only another reason for loving her more, and tears of shame and sorrow filled her eyes, as, bending over in the darkness, she pressed a kiss upon the lips of her sleeping companion.
Her unjust suspicion of her friend vanquished and conquered forever, her thoughts gradually wandered back to Aunt Bettie, and with her mind full of plans and projects in her behalf, she at last fell asleep.
Sunday morning came bright and clear, but very cold, and many of the girls made their appearance in the library, shaking and shivering, as if they had never before experienced a northern winter.
"Gracious me!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, "I'm almost frozen. My room is as cold as a barn! My cheeks are as blue as a razor, and my nose looks like a great cranberry. Do let me get near the fire, Georgie; you're keeping the heat off of every one."
Georgie made way for her, quietly remarking, as she did so:—
"Well, Sarah, I must say the cold is not very becoming to your style of beauty; your nose and hair together ought to heat this room."
"You needn't say anything, Miss Graham; you're not so killing handsome yourself that you can afford to make fun of others!" hotly retorted Sarah.
It was a notable fact that these two could never come together without a passage-at-arms. Grace's quietly hateful remarks always excited Sarah to a most unmitigated degree, and she could not seem to learn by experience that the only way to silence her was to take no notice of them; and their disputes were often great sources of amusement to the other girls.
Georgie, tall and rather distingué-looking, although not pretty, with her quietly assured manner even when she knew herself beaten, and her hypocritically soft tones, was almost always more than a match for Sarah, who never could hide her feelings no matter what they were and who always retorted as sharply and spitefully as she could. She was a warm-hearted little thing, as honest and true as she was impulsive, and Georgie's quiet, deliberate hatefulness was more than she could bear.
If there was one subject on which Sarah was more sensitive than another it was her hair. It was a rich, reddish-yellow; very thick, long and curling, and any artist would have looked upon it with admiration; but it was the bane of Sarah's existence. When she was a little girl it had been really red, but time had softened its shade, and many a Parisian belle might have envied Sarah its possession. Sarah could see no beauty in it, for at home she was often greeted by the name of "carrot-top," and "little red hen;" and once when she got into a very excited argument with her brother, and stood shaking her head at him with the long curls which she then wore, flying about her shoulders, he had run out of the room, shouting as he got well out of reach:—
"I say, Sal! how much would you charge to stand on Boston common nights, and light the city? Your head would save all the expense of gas!"
You may be pretty sure it did not take Georgie Graham long to find out Sarah's weakness, and so the poor child's bane was still kept before her even at school, where there were no troublesome brothers.
She resolutely brushed out her long curls, and braided them into soft, heavy braids, winding them round and round at the back of her head until it looked like a great golden bee-hive; but she could not keep the front from rippling into soft, delicate waves; or the short hairs from twisting themselves into numberless little curls, which all the crimping-pins and hot slate-pencils in the world could not imitate. This hair which Georgie Graham so affected to despise was in reality a great object of her admiration, and she would have gladly exchanged it, with its usual accompaniments of glowing cheeks and scarlet lips, for her own sallow skin and scanty, drabbish-brown locks. But I have made a digression; let us return to our group in the library.
"What are you two quarrelling about this lovely Sunday morning?" asked Florence Stevenson as she and Marion came into the room together.
"Oh, we were not quarrelling," replied Georgie. "Sarah was only remarking that her cheeks were as blue as razors and her nose like a cranberry, and I agreed with her,—that was all."
"Yes," exclaimed Sarah, "and I told you you weren't killing handsome, and I dare say you agreed with me, though you didn't say so. But there is one thing certain, if the cold makes frights of both of us, it makes Marion look like a beauty!" and Sarah's eyes sparkled mischievously.
Georgie only shrugged her shoulders and elevated her eyebrows, as she replied, "Chacun à son gout."
"But it doesn't happen to be your "gout," does it, Georgie?" good-naturedly replied Marion, who knew very well that Sarah's admiration of herself was thus publicly exhibited solely for the sake of annoying Georgie.
"Come, girls, let's declare peace, or at least a 'cessation of hostilities;' it's a shame to commence the day with quarrels;" and Florence knelt down on the rug between the two girls, looking up at them with a smile that it would have been hard for any one to have resisted.
Directly after this Miss Stiefbach entered, and all were quiet as she read the morning prayers, and they joined in the responses.
By ten o'clock the girls, with the exception of Julia Thayer, whose throat was still troubling her, and Grace Minton, who was suffering from a sick headache, were on their way to church. They did not walk in a regular procession like so many convicts on their way to prison, but each chose her own companion, and the walk was enlivened with pleasant conversation. It so chanced that Marion and Georgie Graham were together, not by choice of either party, but because they both happened to come downstairs a little late, and the others had already got into the street as they came out the front door. Florence Stevenson, Miss Christine, and Rachel Drayton were all walking together, and Georgie, observing this, thought it would be an excellent opportunity for making Marion thoroughly uncomfortable.
"It seems to me," she began, "you and Florence are not quite so fond of each other as you used to be; or is it that she is not so fond of you?"
"I don't think there is any difference on either side," quietly replied Marion, determined not to lose her temper, or be led into saying cutting things of which she would have to repent.
"Oh, if you think so, I suppose it is all right; but I don't believe there's a girl in the school who hasn't noticed how Florence has left you to run after Rachel Drayton."
Marion resolutely kept silence, and Georgie, thinking that her shots had not taken effect, continued: "I don't see what there is about that girl, I'm sure, to make Flo fancy her so much; she certainly isn't pretty, and she's awfully lackadaisical."
"I think she is very pretty," replied Marion; "and the reason she seems lackadaisical is because she is not strong."
"I thought you did not like her," said Georgie, "you certainly have not troubled yourself much to entertain her."
"I do not see as that is any reason why I should not think her pretty, or why I should not see that she is quiet, because she is not only weak, but very homesick and sad."
"Why, really, Marion, I had not any idea you had taken enough notice of her to see all that. What a farce you must have been acting all this time, to seem so indifferent when you werereallyso deeply interested!"
"If that is so, Georgie," replied Marion, as she looked her companion steadily in the face, "I have been a better actress than you, for you play your part so badly that the little boys in the amphitheatre might see into the plot in the first act. I advise you to try another rôle."
Georgie opened her eyes in pretended astonishment; but she knew very well what Marion meant, and that her intentions of tormenting her companion were fully understood. But that fact did not prevent her from saying in a gently insinuating tone: "Now, Marion, don't be provoked, butdon'tyou think that Florence is rather turning the cold shoulder on you?"
"No, Miss Graham, I do not," emphatically replied Marion, and for at least five minutes Georgie said nothing. "I wonder!" she at last exclaimed, "if Rachel Drayton is rich. I think she must be, for although there is no style to her clothes, and she is of course very dowdy-looking, still everything she has is made of the most expensive material, and you know nice mourning costs awfully. Just look at her vail now; see how long it is, and of the heaviest crépe; but she looks like a ghost under it! I don't believe but what she is rich."
"Well, Georgie," replied Marion, with the slightest possible curve of her lip, "I can satisfy you on that point. Sheis quitewell off; her father left about two millions, and with the exception of a few legacies of two or three hundred thousand or so, mere trifles to her, she will have it all; you see she is pretty well provided for."
"Two millions!" exclaimed Georgie, startled out of her usual composure; "two millions! why, I hadn't any idea of it."
"No, I thought not," dryly replied Marion.
"But, Marion, are you sure? How did you know it?"
"I heard Miss Stiefbach tell Miss Christine so the day Miss Drayton came here."
"And you've known it all this time!" ejaculated Georgie, who could not get over her astonishment.
"Yes," replied Marion, "I've known it all this time, and actually haven't toadied her yet; aren't you surprised?" and Marion's voice had, by this time, assumed its most coolly sarcastic tones, and her eyes flashed scorn and indignation upon her bewildered companion.
"I wonder if Florence Stevenson knew it. I suppose of course she did," musingly remarked Georgie.
"No, she did not," sharply retorted Marion; "and she doesn't know it now, I'm sure."
"Well, I don't know what to make of it!" replied Georgie in an annoyed tone; "an heiress in school and no one to know it!"
"Don't you think her prettier than when you first saw her?" exclaimed Marion, in such cutting, sarcastic tones that even Georgie winced; "and her pale face, I'm sure you think there is something very distingué about that, set off by her 'heavy, expensive crépe;' and then I know you must think that there is something decidedly aristocratic about her 'lackadaisical' manner;" and Marion gave a little bitter laugh, expressing quite as much scorn as her words.
At that moment, they entered the church porch, and Georgie made no reply, only too glad of an excuse for silence.
Miss Stiefbach's scholars occupied the first six pews from the front; three on each side of the broad aisle. Miss Stiefbach sat at the head of one, with five of the youngest girls, and Miss Christine, on the opposite side, also had some of the smaller girls with her, while the rest of the scholars occupied the pews in front of their teachers.
As Marion entered the church, and the girls quietly took their places and knelt in prayer, the solemn stillness of the place struck painfully upon her. She could not so soon shake off all outward impressions, and the cutting words which had passed her lips, just as she entered that holy place, were still ringing in her ears.
She had risen that morning, her mind still filled with the pleasant thoughts which had lulled her to sleep, and with good resolutions for the future. She felt glad that it was Sunday, for she thought she was in the mood to be benefited by the sacred influences of the day.
But where now were her good resolutions? She had yielded to the first temptation; she had broken the vows made on her knees that morning, and she was utterly disheartened and discouraged.
She knelt with the rest, her head bowed as if in prayer, but her mind in a wild confusion of anger, shame, and remorse; but the anger died, leaving nothing but the saddest, most wretched thoughts of all; the sense of utter failure; of continued shortcomings, of broken resolutions and disregarded vows, made sacred by the time and place of their utterance.
She thought she was wicked because she could not pray, because her thoughts would not become composed, quiet, and peaceful, like the place and hour, and she knelt on, her hands clasped tightly together, and her head pressed down into them, the only cry that could silently shape itself into words, breaking from her heart in very agony of doubt and despair: "O God, help me! O God, save me from myself!"
And who shall say that it was not enough? That that cry, coming from the depths of a heart distressed, remorseful and repentant for errors that to many would seem but trifles, did not reach the ear of Him who, bending in mercy and love, sees into the hearts of all; reads the very secrets of their souls; and to all who sincerely put their faith in Him surely, sooner or later, sends them His consolation and peace? As the others rose from their knees Marion was recalled to herself, and rising with the rest, she opened her prayer-book and joined in the service, which had just then commenced.
Mrs. Berkley had requested, when Marion entered Miss Stiefbach's school, that no sectarian influences should be brought to bear upon her daughter's mind. She wished that her child should follow her own inclinations and the dictates of her own conscience in religious matters, for she understood her well enough to know that she would not blindly follow any faith without first feeling sure that she clearly comprehended and sincerely believed all that its doctrines taught. The influences which of course continually surrounded, although in a quiet, unobtrusive way, were not without their effect. She loved the service of Miss Stiefbach's church, and joined in it heartily. It seemed to her that it brought her nearer to God if she knelt the first thing when she entered the church and asked his blessing on her head. Not that silent, heartfelt prayers could not be uttered anywhere and in any position; but it seemed to her as if there, on her knees, in the place sacredly dedicated to his worship. God did not seem so far off—as if she could more earnestly and fervently supplicate him.
There was much in the service which she could not believe and accept as it was intended it should be accepted; but she interpreted it as her own heart dictated. The greater part, however, she believed and repeated with reverence, and a feeling which could never come to her in her own church; for there the intense simplicity and almost business-like manner of conducting the service, struck harshly upon her sensibilities; and she missed the participation in the prayers and responses which seemed to draw her out of herself, and raise her thoughts above their common level, even into the presence of the most High.
But to-day the holy words, the prayers and selections had no power to calm her troubled spirit; she tried to fix her thoughts upon the sermon, and not let them wander to dwell upon her own troubles; but it was no use; her mind was still in bitter confusion when she left the church.
As she went down the path, Georgie, who seemed to have forgotten her previous discomfiture, if not the subject of their conversation, joined her and began plying her with fresh questions about Rachel Drayton. Marion did her best to evade her remarks, but Georgie would not let her alone, until, thoroughly exasperated and provoked beyond endurance, she exclaimed shortly:—
"Georgie, I do wish you'd hold your tongue! I'm sick of your questions; do let me alone!"
"Dear me!" replied Miss Georgie, "you were very communicative this morning; but it's not very strange that you should be rather annoyed, considering Rachel has taken your best friend away."
An angry retort rose to Marion's lips, but she controlled herself sufficiently to keep from uttering it; although the expression of her face warned Georgie that she had said quite enough, and the two continued their walk in silence.
Having received permission from Miss Stiefbach, Marion set off immediately after dinner for the All Saints' church, and as the services began a half hour before St. Mark's she had her walk all to herself; nor was she sorry for this, for she did not feel like talking to any one.
She was early; hardly any one was in the church, and without waiting for the sexton to show her into a pew, she took the very front one, knowing that it was almost always unoccupied. The hymns were read by the clergyman of the parish; a good, earnest man, and one who in the homes of the poor, and by the bedsides of the suffering and dying was often seen, and most sincerely loved; but he had not the gift of preaching; he rarely made his sermons go home to the hearts of his hearers, and Marion felt disappointed when she saw him; she had hoped to hear some one else.
Her surprise and pleasure was great, when Mr. More stepped forward and announced that Mr. B., who had been pastor of that church fifteen years before, would preach for them that day.
The minister came forward, and bowing his head, remained for a moment in silent prayer; when he lifted it again Marion felt as if she had seen the face of an angel, so holy, peaceful, and patient was its expression. He was a very old man; his hair hung long and white about his shoulders; and as the beams of the afternoon's sun fell upon it, it gleamed with a light which was almost unearthly, spiritualizing and sanctifying that beautiful old face, until it seemed to many as if he were speaking to them from the very gates of heaven. His sermon was short but impressive; the gentle pathos of his voice, and the earnestness of his manner, were felt by all who heard him. Bending over the pulpit as he closed his discourse, his voice fell into a soft, musical cadence, which though very low reached the most remote recesses of the church, and stretching out his arms as if he would have taken each one by the hand and led them to the haven where he had found rest and peace, he exclaimed, or rather entreated:—
"O my friends! look down into your own hearts, and read each one of you what is written there; pride, wilfulness, sin in many forms. Man's greatest enemy is self. But who has said, 'He that conquereth himself is greater than he that taketh a city'?—Jesus! Jesus the Saviour, who came to wash out all our sins; to give us strength for the struggles and trials which come to us all; to teach us patience, humility, and charity.
"Each one in this world, young or old, has his sorrows to bear; his temptations to resist; his victories to gain; and to each one it seems sometimes as if everything was darkness and desolation; the blackness of night surrounds them on every side; darkness! darkness everywhere! no light, no hope, no guide. Look up, my friends! look up! not to the darkness; but above it, beyond it, to where Christ stands, ready, ay, more than ready. He comes to meet you, his eyes beaming with compassionate love, his hands outstretched. Grasp those hands, hold fast and firm; they, and they alone, can lead you through storm and darkness, through sorrow and fear; until kneeling at last in perfect peace and happiness you shall behold the face of your Father in heaven."
Then followed the Lord's Prayer; but Marion could not take her eyes from that holy face. It seemed to her as if every word had been uttered for her alone; as if the speaker had looked down into the secrets of her heart and had tried to give her comfort and consolation.
And this was partly true. As Mr. B. leaned forward and cast his eyes over the congregation they fell upon the face of that young girl, looking up at him with a longing, wistful, tearful glance that startled him. For many years he had been settled over a fashionable society in New York, where he often felt that the words he uttered were but as "seed sown by the wayside" or "on stony ground;" but there was no mistaking the earnestness of that face, over which was spread an expression which it pained him to see in one so young; for he knew that her trials, whatever they were, were but just begun, and thinking of the years of struggling that would probably come to her, his heart yearned over her in deepest sympathy. With the thought of her uppermost in his mind he gave out the closing hymn; two verses only. Marion had heard them often before, but their depth and meaning never came to her so fully as now:—