CHAPTER XVI.

"OVER IN THE JONES DISTRICT."

THE days passed on into weeks, and still Gerty stayed on at the valley.

Mr. Van Alstine utterly refused to agree to the change of plans which Asahel, or rather Gerty, had so greatly desired, but to soften his refusal as much as possible, he had voluntarily proposed to put the house in which Asahel lived in better order, and especially to paint it inside and out. Mrs. Van Alstine invited Gerty to stay while this work was going on, and Gerty accepted the invitation and remained two weeks at the valley, Asahel going back and forth and coming home for Sunday.

Gerty certainly did not make the house any pleasanter by her presence. It was not that she did anything so very much out of the way, beyond a little meddling, which Eileen overlooked and Maggy treated with by no means silent contempt. But her tongue was a perpetual annoyance. She had the most exquisite knack of saying little disagreeable things, of enlarging upon disagreeable subjects, of running against people's tenderest feelings and strongest prepossessions, and then wondering how they could be so weak as to be hurt.

For instance, she entertained Mrs. Van Alstine and Marion a whole morning with reading an account of one who fancied himself a poet and made himself ridiculous thereby. She enlarged on the uselessness of foreign missions and the idle, self-indulgent lives led by missionaries, for the benefit of Mrs. Andrews, who, however, silenced her by an array of facts and figures which she was not at all prepared to answer. She knew that all three of the ladies at the valley hated gossip, and she regaled them with all the scandals of Rock Bottom and Coaltown collectively. All this was not done inadvertently.

All her life long, Gerty's tongue had been the dread of friends and enemies alike. She was well aware of her powers, and took as much pleasure in exercising them as other women do in needlework or music. Nothing was sacred from her attacks, not a weakness of old or young among her acquaintances escaped notice or comment. There was no enthusiasm which she could not and would not turn into ridicule, no cause she could not decry, no self-sacrifice or self-devotion for which she could not find some unworthy motive or in which she did not see some folly.

And yet Gerty was not without her good qualities. She was always ready to visit the poor and sick, she was an admirable and economical manager, and she denied herself many personal luxuries that she might have money to give to some poor cousins. But her tongue, that unruly evil, poisoned all.

Marion, who had begun by thinking Gerty an abused angel, was thoroughly disenchanted before the term of Gerty's visit was ended, and that although Gerty was more civil to her than to any other member of the family. Indeed, a change was coming over Marion which she could not explain, but which made her very unhappy. It was nothing new for her to be discontented with those around her and to wish herself anywhere but where she was, but now the dissatisfaction seemed to be transferred to herself. She began to have doubts of her own superiority to all about her. She saw how far she was behind her brothers in attainments. She began to see how much she was inferior to them in real goodness. When she turned for comfort to her religious exercises, she found they had no comfort to give. Her prayers were unreal and utterly lifeless, and she could not keep her attention fixed upon them. It scared her to discover how often she went on with a form of good words, even composing sentence after sentence of prayer, while her heart was far away among the vanities in which she had lived so long. She tried to betake herself to her old reveries, but they gave her no pleasure even while she indulged in them. Hungry and thirsty, her soul fainted in her, yet she would not cry unto the Lord in her trouble that she might be delivered from her distress, but strove vainly—and oh, how vainly!—to find her way out by herself.

"Are you good for an expedition, Marie?" asked Frank, one Sunday at dinner.

They had had their ordinary services in the chapel, followed by Sunday school, and were sitting down to the usual Sunday dinner, which, though mostly cold, was as dainty a repast as heart could wish.

"An expedition! Yes, of course; I suppose so," answered Marion, who, under the tuition of Stanley and the boys, was learning to be a good deal of a woods-woman. "Where do you mean to go, and when?"

"This afternoon, and up through the valley and along the bank of Cedar Run to the Jones school-house. Is that too far for you?"

"Oh no. But it is Sunday," said Marion, puzzled.

"Well, isn't it proper to go to prayer meeting on Sunday?"

"Oh! Why, yes, of course. Yes, I should like it very much."

"Good! We'll start about half-past three, to give ourselves plenty of time, and take the saw-mill road through the woods and along the banks of the run. It will be bright moonlight coming home, you know; and you and Stannie were saying only yesterday that you wanted to be in the woods at night."

"But what is this meeting, that you are going so far for it? Anything out of the common?" asked Gerty.

"Nothing at all, only as being a meeting in the Jones district, which has been rather uncommon of late years," answered Bram. "Coming home yesterday, we stopped at Abner Jones's house for a drink; and as dinner was ready, of course they made us stay. So Harry began to talk to them about coming over to chapel, and they made the usual excuse of its being too far. Then Harry asked:

"'Suppose there was a meeting held in the school-house, would anybody come?'

"And they seemed very much pleased, and agreed to give notice to all the neighbours round about. So on talking the matter over, we concluded that some singing would add to the interest of the occasion and show that we were in earnest ourselves, and so we concluded to ask the girls to join in—or, if you like it better, to invite the young ladies to participate. And there you have the story in a nutshell."

"But who is to conduct this meeting?" asked Gerty, not without suspicion that Bram was mystifying her.

"Why, Harry, of course. Who else?"

"Oh, excuse me. I didn't suppose that kind of thing was in Harry's line at present but perhaps it is as well to begin in season."

"It has been very much in my line the last year, I assure you," said Harry. "Three of our men have kept three different meetings going ever since the beginning of last term. One was six miles away, and the man whose turn it was, used to ride about as gallant a steed as Old Gray. Only for the name, I really think it would have been less trouble to walk."

"Where did you get this horse of yours?" asked Mr. Van Alstine, with a glance at Asahel.

"Oh, we hired him of an old couple who thought him a compound of all the virtues ever put into a horse's skin—Bucephalus and Pegasus too, for aught I know."

"I suppose that was the origin of the story Gerty heard about your hiring horses to ride out of town Sunday afternoons," said Mr. Van Alstine.

Gerty coloured and cast a glance at her husband which spoke volumes, but she did not say a word.

Henry smiled and the rest looked indignant.

"I should like to know—" began Frank; but Henry stopped him:

"No, you wouldn't, doctor. Believe me, the knowledge wouldn't afford you the slightest pleasure. It is nothing new. Somebody told the same story to prex—I beg your pardon, mother; I mean our respected president. The next time I rode out, he was standing at his own gate.

"He stopped me and said gravely, 'Van Alstine, I doubt the propriety of your riding that horse to-day; it seems to me to be unnecessary labour. Don't you think it would be less trouble to walk?'"

"I suppose he knew where you were going?"

"Of course; we told him all about it before we began, and asked his advice. Please excuse me, mother; I want to look out some hymns. Will you help me, girls? We must set out at half-past three, you know."

"I wish we could go," said Hector, speaking for himself, as usual.

"You shall next time," said his brother; "but it would be rather too much Van Alstine if we all went. We should fill the school-house all by ourselves."

"You shall go with me," said Mr. Van Alstine; "I am going over to see old Mrs. Hollenback. Chris told me yesterday the old lady was worse and would not last long."

At half-past three all were ready, the girls, in short dresses and stout boots, looking very pretty under their shady hats, the boys with a parcel each of hymn-books, and pockets filled with cards and tracts for the children.

They had a charming walk through the woods and up the little stream known as the Cedar Run. It was a favourite exploit to scramble up the rocky bed and between the high banks through which the stream forced its way, but to-day they kept to the road, which ran on the top of the cliff. Arriving in good time, they found the school-house well filled.

"How shall we get in?" asked Marion, in a low voice. "We shall be regularly crowded."

"So much the better," answered Harry. "It is always a great point gained to have people sitting close together. It is regularly dispiriting to have a meeting in a room that is twice too large. But you'll find more room than you think. The men always stand outside till service begins."

The house was certainly well filled, but the girls found tolerably comfortable places by the open window. Harry took his place on the platform, behind the teacher's table, looking even more youthful than usual. He bent his head for a time in silent prayer, and Marion saw that both the boys and Stanley were engaged in the same way. A curious feeling of hushed expectation came over her such as she had never felt before; and for once forgetting herself, she prayed earnestly that Harry might have the help he needed. It was one of the few prayers that Marion had ever uttered which had no reference to herself.

Presently, Harry stood up and opened the meeting by giving out a familiar hymn. Without a moment's hesitation, Stanley's clear, cultivated voice struck up the tune. The boys fell in and were joined by one and another of the congregation, till at last the singing became general. Then Harry read a chapter from the gospel and offered a prayer.

"How composed he is!" said Marion to herself. "He does not seem to think of himself at all. I wonder if that is the reason?"

After the second hymn, Harry invited some one to speak. There was a little silence, and then an old farmer arose and said a few words relative to the chapter which had been read. He was followed by another, and then came another prayer. Then came one of those silences which are so much dreaded by some conductors of meetings, but which often seem to me to be fuller of meaning and of refreshment than any spoken words. It was broken by the voice of a man from near the door:

"I wish the friends here would pray for me. My wife's a Christian woman, and so is my poor girl. I thought I was a Christian myself once, but—" His voice grew husky and broke. "Anyhow, I was taught to believe that prayers brought down blessings, and I want you all to pray for me and poor Mary."

There was another short silence, which was broken this time, to Marion's surprise, by Bram. His prayer was short and to the point. The first speaker followed, and then Stanley began singing "Alas, and did my Saviour bleed?" to the old sacred tune of "Ortonville." (Will any tunes have the same sacredness to the coming generation that these old tunes have to us?)

The man who had asked for prayers had his head bowed on his hands, and was sobbing like a child.

Frank whispered to Marion that he was Clarke, the barker, to whose sick wife his father had sent a nurse the day before.

Marion could not sing. She listened to the tune with feelings such as she had never known before. How gloriously Stanley sung, as if she felt every word! Others joined in. Tears fell down rugged faces, and many sobbed aloud besides the poor afflicted husband, but Marion, though she felt utterly lonely and miserable, could not cry. She was as one shut out. She seemed to herself to have no part in the matter. There was an aching pain at her heart which she did not understand. She had come prepared, as she said to herself, to support Henry by her presence and throw all her influence on the right side. She had even entertained serious thoughts of speaking herself.

Her mother, Amity, and Mrs. Andrews all did so in the little social prayer meeting in the valley. She had even decided on her subject and turned it over in her mind on the way, arranging several neat and effective phrases. But now she felt that she could not have spoken a word. She wished the meeting would come to an end, and yet she dreaded the conclusion.

At last, however, all was over, and the meeting was broken up.

She was standing by herself, apparently looking at a red vine clambering up the rough side of an old hemlock, when she was joined by Bram.

"Where is Harry?" asked Marion.

"Oh, he is going to stay and sit up at Clarke's to-night," said Bram. "They think the poor woman may not live till morning, and Clarke is all but beside himself. He seemed to cling so to Harry that finally Harry said he would stay with him, so you will have to be content with the escort of the middle boys, as Betsy used to call Frank and me. You won't be afraid, will you?"

"Afraid!" said Marion, absently. "Of what? Oh, of going home with you and Frank? No, of course not."

"Well, come on, then. Frank and Stannie, have gone ahead, to stop and inquire for some other family where they have a case of sickness, but we shall come up with them; or if we don't, it's no great matter."

"Well, how did you like the meeting," said Bram after they had walked a little way in silence.

"I thought it was very interesting," said Marion. "I am glad Harry is going to be a minister. I am sure he will make a good one."

"Yes, we all think so," said Bram. "He has had a bent that way ever since he was a little fellow."

"Why don't you ever take part in the meetings down in the chapel?" asked Marion, presently.

"Oh, because—Well, there are plenty of older people, you know, and I don't seem to be needed, so I would rather keep still and listen. But it was different to-night, and I felt so sorry for poor Clarke. But why didn't you, if it comes to that? You didn't even sing."

"I couldn't," answered Marion, shortly. "I didn't seem to have any voice, or any heart, either," she added, presently. "I seemed to feel as if I was outside of the whole concern, as if I had no business there—as if—" Marion's voice was choked and died away.

"Well, as if what, Marie dear?" asked Bram, gently. "Don't tell me if you don't want to, but perhaps you might feel better if you did. Say out what is in your mind."

"I felt as if there was somebody present that every one saw and I was trying to see and hear, but couldn't," said Marion, at last. "I can't express it any better than that."

"I understand," said Bram.

"Bram, tell me one thing," said Marion, "and please don't be affronted or think I mean to be unkind: when you made that prayer, were you thinking of how it sounded or what people would think about it?"

"No, not after the first minute," said Bram. "I was just a little scared at the sound of my own voice at first, but not afterward."

Marion sighed, but said no more, and they walked on in silence a few minutes, till Bran said,—

"Marie, I am sorry you are going away. What makes you go?"

"Well, Gerty wants me, and she seems to be so lonely; and if I can do her any good—"

"All right," said Bram. "I hope you are not going because you are not happy at our house; are you?"

Marion took a sudden resolution, perhaps, born of her late emotion:

"I'll tell you just why I do go, Bram, only please don't tell any one. It's just like this: I thought when I came here that I was going to be of great use and do ever so much good, but I haven't done one bit, only made myself ridiculous and made everybody despise me, and I think I would rather go away and begin somewhere else."

"Begin what?" asked Bram.

It was a very simple question, but somehow Marion found she had great difficulty in answering it.

"Well, begin—begin doing good—begin—Well, you know, Bram, if I should do ever so well now, I couldn't ever have any influence after all that has happened. Nobody would have any respect for me, after all the mistakes I have made."

"I don't exactly know what mistakes you mean, Marie. To be sure, it was rather a blunder to burn up Frank's scientific woodpile, but it was no such great matter, after all. And besides, don't you expect to make any mistakes where you are going?"

"I suppose I shall," said Marion, in a choked voice. "I thought it would be all so different when I came here—that I was going to be so good and have such a Christian influence in the family. And I did try to. And there is Stanley, who never seems to think about what sort of an example she is setting. She can do anything with Betsy, and—"

"Don't you think perhaps you have thought too much about influence and example, and so on?" said Bram, after a little.

"I don't know," answered Marion, doubtfully. "You know the Scripture says, 'Let your light so shine before men.'"

"Yes, I know; we are to 'let' it shine, not make it shine. You see, if it is a real light, it will shine anyhow, and there is no need to hold it up and wave it about. That is the way with Stanley. Her light shines all the time, softly and steadily, because it is a real light and must shine by its very nature. Father says she is one of the most consistent Christians he ever knew. She never seems to think about herself at all."

Somehow these few words seemed to throw a very strong light upon Marion's troubles: "She never seems to think of herself at all! And I think of nothing else."

They walked along a little way, and then Bram said abruptly,—

"After all, Marion, I am sorry you are going away. We have always wanted a sister so much, and it has been very pleasant having you here. And besides, between ourselves, I'm afraid you won't find it very comfortable living with Gerty. I don't want to say anything against her—she's Asahel's wife and my sister-in-law—but you must see for yourself."

"I know," said Marion. "I thought she was lovely when I met her on the cars and when she first came here. But I have promised, you know, Bram, and I can't get out of it now if I wished it ever so much. A promise is a promise."

"To be sure. You are not obliged to stay, and she is certain to treat you well for three or four weeks. But, Marie, about this matter of Christian influence. I wish you would talk to Harry; I don't think you have got the right notion about it."

"Sometimes I think I am not a Christian at all, Bram."

"Well, then, begin and be one now. What hinders?"

"I don't suppose any one would believe me."

"Well, what if they didn't? It isn't that you want. Don't you know what was said about the Pharisees—that they loved the praise of men more than the praise of God? That was their great hindrance."

Marion was silent. It seemed as if Bram was bent on showing her all her own worst weaknesses and follies. Had not "the praise of men" been her chief object all her life thus far?

Bram seemed to think he had said enough, and then began on a different topic:

"Marion, do you know your uncle Campbell's present address?"

"Red Wing, Minnesota," answered Marion. "I had a letter from Aunt Christian only yesterday. Why?"

"Do you suppose Doctor Campbell would think it a liberty if I should write and ask him about some things I would like very much to know?"

"Of course not," answered Marion. "He would be very much pleased, I am sure. He thinks anybody who wants to hear about missions must be all right."

"I thought we should hear a great deal about them from you," pursued Bram. "Didn't your uncle and aunt talk about their work?"

"Yes, but I was in school and had my lessons and my work, you know, and Therese was at our house all the time almost."

But in her heart she felt ashamed of these excuses when she made them, for she knew that they were false. She knew that her attention had been so constantly occupied with her own day-dreams that she had no thought to bestow on the cause of missions.

"But I am sure Uncle Duncan will like to hear from you," she continued, hastily. "I think you will suit each other exactly. He is very fond of botany and natural history, and he is an excellent man and very agreeable. Yes, I know you will like him and he will like you."

"That is a compliment, certainly," said Bram. "And your aunt?"

"Aunt Christian is mother over again, only a little sharper."

"Then I know I shall like her," said Bram. "Hark!" he continued, after a few moments' silence. "Don't you hear the waterfall? How sweet it sounds!"

"The water must be high, I should think," said Marion. "How near is it? I wonder if we could get a glimpse?"

"It is just under our feet. The bank hangs over a little. Take care, Marie! Don't go too near the edge."

But the caution came too late. Marion had stepped to the edge to get a view of the little waterfall, and leaned over, holding fast by a small tree which grew close by.

"I am holding on," said she. But even as she spoke, the ground gave way under her feet, and she and the tree went together down the steep, rough bank. It was fully fifty feet from where she had been standing to the bottom of the rocky ravine.

Bram stood still in horror a moment, then he gave a long, loud whistle, and sprang to the edge.

"Marion, Marie!" he called.

"All right," answered a voice from below. "I am not much hurt, Bram, but I am stuck in a tree and can't stir."

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Bram, fervently. "Keep quite still, dear. Frank will be here in a minute, and then we will see what can be done."

"What's the matter?" asked Frank, coming up with Stanley, considerably out of breath. "We have been walking slow and waiting for you ever so long. Where's Marie?"

"She has fallen over the bank," answered Bram; "but she has answered, so she is not killed. You have the lantern, haven't you?"

Frank produced the pocket-lantern, opened and lighted it.

Bram held it over the bank, but the distance was too great for the little wax taper, and he could see nothing.

He called again:

"Marion, can you see us?"

"I can see the light," answered Marion; "but I am afraid to move, the tree shakes so."

She evidently made an effort to speak distinctly and cheerfully, but there was suffering as well as terror in the sound of her voice.

The brothers hastily consulted together.

"It will never do to try to go down here," said Bram; "we shall only send the stones down on her. Where is the nearest place?"

"The Cat Stairs," said Stanley.

Bram shook his head.

"Not in the dark."

"But you might hang the lantern round your neck, as you did the basket the other day," suggested Stanley. "If you could get down to her, you might encourage her to hold on. Then I could run back to James Tanner's and bring the boys, and Frank could go on to the saw-mill and do the same after he had seen you down the stairs."

"That's the best plan, depend upon it," said Frank. "Marie, can you hold on a little longer? Bram is trying to come down to you, and Stannie is going after help. Can you hold on?"

"I'll try. Yes, I think I can, if the tree don't break; but don't let Bram hurt himself. If one of you could hold the light so that I could see it."

"Bram will have to take it to see his way down the stairs, I'm afraid, but I'll stay and talk to you, if that will do."

"No, no; help Bram; never mind me."

Bram scrambled halfway down the steep descent; then he turned and came back.

"Dizzy, old fellow?" asked Frank as he saw his pale face.

"No, but it's no use; I can't get near her. She is hanging someway in that broken hemlock right over the fall. Where's Stannie?"

"Gone back to Tanner's. I believe I had best do as she said, and run on to the mill."

Almost with the words Frank sprang away.

Bram leaned over as far as he dared, holding the lantern down:

"Can you see the light, Marie darling?"

"Yes," was the answer.

"Frank has gone to the saw-mill for help, and he will soon be back. Keep up good courage, dear."

"Bram, if I should fall, if they shouldn't get me up alive—"

"We shall, please God; but what then?"

"Will you tell mother and father that I am sorry I have given them so much trouble, and write the same to Aunt Baby and grandfather? I have been very selfish and conceited all my life. I have lived in a kind of dream; I see it now. Oh, Bram, if I were only a Christian like you, I shouldn't be so afraid to die."

"Don't, don't, Marion! Oh, if I could only get down to you—only do you any good!"

"You do me good where you are. You 'let your light shine' now, Bram. Don't feel too bad, dear; it was nobody's fault. I don't think it was even my own, for I was holding on. Bram."

"Well, darling?"

"Pray for me, won't you? Oh, Bram, if I could only see Him!"

"He sees you, dearest Marie—believe me he does. Oh, turn to him. Just put yourself into his hands, can't you? Lean on him, and he will hold you safely all through. Can't you?"

"I'll try," said Marion, faintly. "Oh, I wish they would come."

"They are coming," said Bram, joyfully; "I see the lights. Yes, here comes Frank with the men from the mill. Now we shall be all right."

Frank came up with the three men from the saw-mill, and in the same minute, Stanley arrived with the two Tanner boys, fine, well-grown young men.

After some delay and a good deal of danger to herself and others, Marion was raised and set on firm land once more.

"How are you hurt?" asked Bram and Frank together.

"I don't think I am much hurt anyway; only scratched and twisted and tumbled about," said Marion, trying to laugh; but the laugh ended in a hysterical sob. And she dropped down on the ground, put her head on her hands, and fainted away.

"I'm afraid she is killed," said Bram.

"Oh no, I don't believe she is," said Stanley, cheerfully. "She is only overdone and frightened. Lay her down flat on the ground; she'll soon be better. How shall we carry her home?"

"We can bring a team up from the saw-mill directly," said James Tanner. "That will be the best way, I think."

The wagon was soon brought, and in another hour, Marion was at home and in her mother's bed, and Mr. Overbeck with his best horse on the way to Ivanhoe to bring the doctor.