CHAPTER VIII.

"LEFT, BUT NOT ALONE."

"I WILL help you with the work, Marion," said Mrs. Campbell, coming down after having put her hat away and changed her dress.

"Thank you, Aunt Christian; I can do it myself," answered Marion, proudly. "Since it is all I am considered fit for, I may as well give myself to it."

Mrs. Campbell took no notice of this remark; but going into the milk-room, she began putting away the milk which Alick and the hired man were bringing in.

"In Scotland, now, it would be you and I who would be milking," said she to Marion as she came out with a pile of pans in her hands. "Milking there is work for lassies, and not for men. Baby and I used always to milk in my mother's time; don't you remember, Alick?"

"Marion doesn't like to milk," said Alick. "Either she thinks it beneath her dignity, or else she is afraid of the cows, I don't know which."

Alick spoke playfully, but his words hurt still more Marion's already wounded vanity—her feelings, she would have said. She did not say a word, but went about her work in sulky silence, till Miss Baby came out of the sickroom with some dishes in her hands.

"Well, Marie dear, how are you getting on?" said she, pleasantly.

"Well enough," answered Marion, shortly, not to say rudely.

"You heard that Therese was better? Have you had a pleasant afternoon?"

"I don't know—yes, I suppose so. Everybody seemed to think it was very nice, so I suppose it was," said Marion.

"My dear child, what is the matter?" asked Christian, seeing that Marion was just ready to cry.

"Nothing, Aunt Christian," answered Marion, "only I am so tired I don't know what I am about." Marion's voice failed.

"There! Never mind the work," said Aunt Baby. "Go and sit down with Therese. She is asleep now, and won't notice if you go in softly. The minute she wakes or shows signs of waking, come and call me."

"I don't know about that arrangement, Barbara," said the doctor, doubtfully. "Marion, be sure you call me the moment she stirs. Above all, don't let her say a word; watch her every minute, and the moment she shows signs of waking, call me."

"Uncle Duncan thinks I am a fool, as every one else does," said Marion to herself as she took her seat by the bedside. "Just as if I had never done anything for sick people!"

To do Marion justice, she was always ready to help in cases of sickness and was in general a very good nurse, but she did not quite appreciate the importance of the present occasion, and she was thinking more of herself than her patient. Therese slept very quietly for nearly an hour. Then she opened her eyes and fixed them on Marion with a wondering and puzzled expression. Marion did not observe her, being at that moment deeply engaged with the heiress of McGregor.

Presently Therese spoke.

"Why, Marion, is that you!" said she quite calmly. "How did you come here?"

Now was the time for Marion to have shown that calmness and presence of mind which the heiress of McGregor had just been exercising, under circumstances of the utmost danger. But somehow the calmness and presence of mind were not at hand just then, and she could not think of anything to say, except, in a scared tone,—

"Hush, Therese! you must not speak a word; go to sleep again."

"Why, what is the matter?" said Therese, in a wondering tone and looking about her. "This is not my room. Where am I?" Then, as memory began to come back, "Oh, what has happened? I am sure there is something dreadful; what is it?"

"There is nothing dreadful at all," answered Marion, in a tone of authority, "and nothing has happened. You must not say a word."

"But I am sure something is the matter," said Therese, raising her hand to her head. "It was something about mother. They said she had gone away; or was it that she was burned up in the house? Marion, why don't you answer me?"

"You will know all about it when you are better," said Marion, a good deal alarmed, but maintaining her ground; "you must not ask any questions now. Lie down and try to go to sleep again; your mother is here all right."

"Then call her, do call her, and let me see her!" cried Therese. "Mother, mother, why don't you come?"

Thoroughly frightened, Marion did at last what she ought to have done at first; she called her uncle.

Doctor Duncan entered the room and went to the bedside.

"Hush, my dear child!" said he, in calm tones. "Be quiet, and then I will explain the matter to you. Your mother is not here, so there is no use in calling her."

"Marion said she was here," said Therese.

"Marion was wrong; she is not here, but I hope she is quite safe and well. We have no reason to think anything else. You have been, and are, very sick, but I hope you will soon be better, if you do as you are bid. When you are so, you shall hear all that there is to tell. Marion, go and tell your Aunt Barbara to bring the broth I asked her to have ready, but don't come back yourself."

Marion did her errand, and then went up to her room and burst into a flood of tears, though to save her life she could not have said exactly what she was crying about. Mortification, wounded vanity, perhaps a little fatigue, and—tell it not of a heroine!—a little too much plum-cake and cream tart, all contributed to her tears.

Presently there was a knock at the door, and Aunt Christian entered. "Duncan thought you would like to know that Therese has fallen quietly to sleep again," said she.

"I'm sure I am very glad," answered Marion, rather ashamed to accept the consideration after the hard thoughts she had just been entertaining of her uncle. Then, recurring to herself, as usual, "I suppose Uncle Duncan thinks it is all my fault?"

"He thinks you should have called him, as he told you," answered Christian. "Why didn't you?"

"I thought I could just as well manage her myself, and so I could if she had not been so unreasonable."

"We don't expect people in her circumstances to be anything but unreasonable," answered her aunt. She was silent a moment, and then said, "Marion, suppose we try to arrive at the bottom of this matter."

"I don't know what bottom there is to arrive at," said Marion, rather unwillingly. "It turned out just as it always does. I tried to be useful, and I am blamed and despised for it. That is all. I ought to be accustomed to such treatment by this time, but I am not, and I never shall be."

"One thing at a time, Marie. I don't know that any one has despised you. You were blamed, and I think justly."

"Yes, there it is. I am always in fault, whatever happens. I did the best I knew how, and that was all I could do."

"There was the trouble, Marion. You should not have tried to do anything except just what you were told. Duncan told you expressly to watch her and call him the moment Therese showed signs of waking. Could you not have done that?"

"I thought I could manage her myself."

"But why should you wish to 'manage her' yourself? It was not your place to 'manage.' Marion dear, I do think you would feel better if you would see and own where you were in the wrong."

"Oh, of course I am in the wrong. You need not tell me that. I think I must be an absolute fool. I might be sure something would go wrong with Therese if I had anything to do with her," sobbed Marion, giving way to a fresh burst of tears. "I wish I was out of the way, I am sure."

"I would not say that if I were you," said her aunt, gravely. "If you should be wrong about that, if you should make a mistake there, it might not be so easily set right, perhaps. Moreover, Marion, I am afraid you are not speaking the truth even to yourself. It is not that you think yourself a fool, but that you think you are very superior to the people around you, and that they do not appreciate your superiority. Is not that the trouble?"

"You don't in the least understand me," said Marion, feeling more and more aggrieved.

"But now tell me, Marie, why didn't you call your uncle, as he told you?"

"I didn't notice that Therese was awake till she spoke," confessed Marion, at last.

"But you should have known, my dear. You were told to watch her every minute."

"Well, I meant to, but I got thinking of something else, and then I thought I could manage well enough, and I was vexed at Uncle Duncan for thinking I couldn't do as well for Therese as Aunt Baby," said Marion, coming to the truth at last.

"Then, you see, it was just as I told you. You were thinking too much about yourself, and feeling angry that any one, even one so much older as Aunt Baby, should be considered your superior. My dear child, as long as you allow yourself in such a spirit as that, you will never have any peace either within or without."

"Well, I can't bear to be despised."

"Is it despising a girl of fifteen to think that she is not equal in judgment and experience to a woman of forty? It would be very unreasonable to expect any such thing."

"I shall never have any comfort or be any comfort to anybody in the world," said Marion, crying again. "If my father had lived, it would have been different, but nobody feels for me or cares for me. My mother has deserted me for a stranger, and there is nobody to love or sympathize with me."

"Marion, you are 'sinning your mercies,' as my father says," said her aunt. "There is not a girl in the United States who has a better home or kinder friends than you have."

"I thought you would feel for me when you came," continued Marion, between her sobs, "but you and Uncle Duncan are just like all the rest. You look down on me and despise me."

"You certainly are not going on in a way to make me respect you at present," replied Mrs. Campbell. "I must confess I am disappointed in you."

Mrs. Campbell turned to leave the room.

"Please don't go, Aunt Christian. Oh, I am so miserable!"

"I don't see any occasion for any misery, Marion. What is all the trouble about? Think it over now, and tell me without any exaggeration what the matter is. You did wrong about Therese, and might have occasioned great harm, but we hope none has been done. That matter is easily disposed of."

"I don't see how."

"Simply, my dear, by owning that you were in the wrong, and then thinking no more about it. What next?"

Marion did not know, only "she was very unhappy, and all she did was wrong, and—"

"Now, Marie, what do you mean by that?" interrupted her aunt. "You don't mean to say that you believe all you do to be wrong because you won't acknowledge that you were to blame even in one particular? However, I see there is no use in talking. I advise you to go to bed and get rested, and to-morrow perhaps you will see matters differently. Good-night. I must go to bed myself, so that I can relieve Sister Baby at two o'clock."

"I suppose there is no use in my offering to do anything?" said Marion.

"Why, you are hardly in a state to be of much use just now, my dear, and the case is rather too serious to be left to a young nurse like you—no offence to your skill. I think the best thing you can do is to say your prayers and go to bed and to sleep as soon as possible, that you may be ready to help in the morning."

Marion went to bed, but not to sleep.

Aunt Christian's plain dealing had torn a little hole in the veil of self-conceit which usually enveloped her, and as she reviewed her conduct for the last few hours she could not help seeing that she had been wrong. Still, her repentance was not of a healthful kind. It was not the fact that she had sinned in indulging uncharitable and undutiful thoughts, in disobedience and self-conceit, which distressed her, but that she had fallen in the estimation of her uncle and aunt.

"Aunt Christian said she was disappointed in me, so she must have expected a good deal. How silly I have been! If I had only called Uncle Duncan the first minute! But then it was not only that. I was cross, I know, about doing the work. And I needn't have cried and made such a fuss afterward. I don't care. I can't help it now, but I mean to let them see to-morrow that I can do something and be of some use."

And with this resolution Marion at last fell asleep.

Marion had fully meant to be up very early and do all the work before her aunt was awake, but her wakeful night made her sleepy; and when she came down, she found breakfast all ready.

"Why, Aunt Barbara, why didn't you call me?" she exclaimed.

"You were so tired last night I thought I would let you sleep," answered Aunt Baby. "There was very little to do."

Marion was vexed; but remembering her resolution, she swallowed her vexation and asked, "How is Therese?"

"Very much better, we hope. She has no fever and is quite rational and composed. Uncle Duncan thinks there is no reason why she should not get well if she has no new shock. Mrs. Tremaine has sent word that she is coming up to stay with Therese to-day, and Fanchette Beaubien is with her already."

"Did Therese know her?"

"Oh yes, and was glad to see her. She was a little agitated at first, but Fanchette was so calm and sensible that she soon grew quiet again. Call grandfather, my dear, and let us have our breakfast."

Therese improved steadily after she once took the turn, and in the course of the week she was able to sit up, and even to come out into the common sitting-room. She was very docile and thankful, but sad and absent-minded, and it was evidently hard for her to interest herself in anything.

She was established one day in an arm-chair in the sitting-room with some light, pretty work in her lap and a pile of stereoscopic pictures on the table at her side. Marion was at school and all the family were busy in their several ways. Therese was not sorry to be left alone. They were all so kind to her that she felt as if she were ungrateful not to be interested, and it was very hard work to care for anything just now. She leaned back in her chair with closed eyes, and presently tears came starting out from under the long black lashes.

"Tired, lassie?" said old Hector, sitting down beside her and laying his broad hand on hers.

"Not—not so very," answered Therese.

"You are getting better very fast."

"Yes, I suppose so," Therese answered, but somewhat languidly, as if she did not feel much interest in the question.

"Are you not glad to get well?" asked the old man.

Therese answered, after a little pause of consideration, as it seemed, "I am willing to get well."

"Is that as far as you can get, poor lassie? That is hardly right for a young thing like you."

"I'm afraid it is," answered Therese, with rather a wintry smile. "I am not ungrateful, indeed, Mr. McGregor; I feel how kind every one has been to me; but I feel so left, so alone, as if I had no more place and nothing to do. Everybody is very good, but nobody seems to need me."

"I think I understand," said Hector McGregor. "You have always made your poor mother your chief object, and now she is gone, you feel as if you had nothing more to do."

"That is just it," said Therese, roused and interested and greatly comforted by the old man's quick comprehension of her trial. "Mother has always been in my thoughts. When I have earned money, it has been for her. When anything nice was given me or anything pleasant happened, half the pleasure was in telling her about it or saving it to share with her. It was just the same with what I learned, and I was always thinking of the time when we could have a little home together, and now it is all taken away."

"And is that the worst of it?" asked Hector, gently. "Don't say any more unless you like, my child, but I am an old man, and perhaps it may lighten your poor heart to talk to me. Isn't there something harder still?"

"Yes, indeed," said Therese. "It does seem so hard that, after all, mother should have gone and left me; for, Mr. McGregor, I have been a dutiful child as far as I knew how. I loved mother beyond all things, and now she has gone and left me for that man who never did her anything but harm. I can't help feeling hard and bitter toward her, not if I try ever so much.

"There is another thing that I suppose ought not to trouble me, but it does," continued Therese, after a little pause, "and that is the disgrace. I never minded it—I never thought much about it before. But now it seems as if I should never dare to look anybody in the face again. I feel as though I should like to go clear away from every one who has ever known me or heard of my father and mother. You know Miss Perkins was here yesterday; and when she and Miss Baby were out in the garden, I heard her say to Miss Baby, 'Of course Mrs. Tremaine will not want her again, after she has been mixed up in such a disgraceful affair. I wonder you should keep her. I think the poorhouse is good enough for her.'"

"Miss Perkins is not worth minding," said Hector. "If you are going to let your peace be blighted by the breath of such as she, my lass, you will never have any, for you will find that kind of people everywhere. Now, have we got to the bottom of the trouble?"

"I believe so."

"Well, my lamb, I'll not deny that they are great and sore troubles to fall on a young thing like you, but I think there is 'balm in Gilead' for them all. As to your being disgraced, we may as well call the thing by its right name. You must just make up your mind not to be cast down by that. It is a cross, and it is to be borne, as other crosses are borne, by the help of God's grace; and being thus borne, you may make it into a blessing. Really good people will not think less of you for your misfortunes, but there are those who rejoice in iniquity of all sorts, and such will be ready to cast up your parents' sins against you, specially if you go wrong.

"But if you resolutely and steadily do your duty, the matter will soon be overlooked and forgotten, or only remembered to your credit. Above all, don't let it embitter you. That was the great mistake your poor mother made, to my thinking."

"I know," said Therese; "she would not go to church, or even to the village to see her mother, because she said everybody looked down on her, and said, 'There goes Tone Beaubien's wife.' And now I suppose they will say, 'There goes Tone Beaubien's daughter.'"

"Never mind if they do. There used to be an old college in Aberdeen—Marischal * College it was called—with these words carved over the door:

"'They have said— What said they? Let them say!'

"That was the motto of the auld earls Marischal lang syne, and it is a good one for you now. 'Let them say!' Resolve that you will make a character for yourself, and that will be the best way to make people forget your poor father and mother's faults."

* Pronounced Marshall.

"If I thought I could do that!" said Therese, brightening.

"I am quite sure you can. As to your mother's leaving you for your father, I suppose the poor thing reasoned in this way: 'Therese doesn't need me. She has her grandfather and grandmother, and plenty of friends besides, to care for her, while my poor husband has nobody. I am only a trouble and disgrace to her, but I can be a help and comfort to him.' Mind, I don't say she was right, but I presume she thought she was."

"I see," said Therese; "but she might have known that I did not think her a trouble."

"My lass, to tell you the truth, I think your mother's mind was warped by her afflictions. She was not insane, but she was unsettled in her mind; she lived by herself and brood over her misfortunes till she had no power to see things as they are."

"That is true," said Therese, sighing; "but, after all, Mr. McGregor, it does not seem to alter the fact. She has always been my object, and now she is gone, and I have no other."

"And you a Christian?" said the old man, simply.

Therese started. "I don't understand," said she.

"You are a Christian, Therese, are you not—not only a Christian in name—everybody in this country is that—but you love your Saviour and desire to serve him?"

"Yes, I do," said Therese, in a low tone, but without any indecision. "I wish I loved him a great deal more than I do, though."

"Well, my lammie, does not that give you an object in life? And ought you to feel wholly alone when you have such precious promises:

"'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee.'

"'If a man love me, he will keep my words: and my Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him.'

"'Who hath the Father and the Son May be left, but not alone.'

"And since he permits you to work for him, what greater object do you want than that of promoting God's glory and honour, and the spread of his kingdom among men?"

"It seems too good to be true—too great and glorious for one like me," said Therese, in a low voice; "it seems like presumption."

"Never think that, Therese, never think that all the promises, yea, all the power and goodness and riches and love of your Heavenly Father, are not as much for you as for anybody else in the world. Live for him, and give yourself to him, and he will give himself to you. You may, I dare to say you will, have many and sore battles to fight with loneliness and discouragement and temptations, for you are not one of those over whom the troubles of this world pass the easiest. But always remember that He is on your side, and that you are fighting for him. Pray for and try to cultivate a sense of his love and his constant presence—believe me, it is a thing to be cultivated; make a daily renewal of your consecration to him, and make every sorrow and every temptation, yea, and every sin and failing, drive you nearer to and not away from him. Now, I have tired you out with this long screed of talk, and the doctor will be scolding in his conceited fashion.

"He is a real Campbell, yon lad—not that I have anything against the Campbells; they were good friends to our folk langsyne."

"You have not tired me one bit," said Therese; "you have done me a great deal of good. Thank you ever so much."

"You look better this evening," said Doctor Campbell, when he came in to see Therese.

"I am better," answered Therese.