Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
Heiress of McGregor.—Frontispiece.
The prayer meeting.
THE
HEIRESS OF McGREGOR;
OR,
LIVING FOR SELF.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.
AUTHOR OF
"IRISH AMY," "COMFORT ALLISON," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS,"
"NELLY; OR, THE BEST INHERITANCE," "TWIN ROSES,"
"ETHEL'S TRIAL," "ON THE MOUNTAIN," "RHODA'S EDUCATION,"
"THE TAME TURTLE," ETC.
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PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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NEW YORK: NOS. 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
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WESCOTT & THOMSON HENRY B. ASHMEAD
Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada. Printer, Philada.
CONTENTS.
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CHAPTER
[II. TONE BEAUBIEN'S DAUGHTER]
[IX. "FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW"]
[XVI. "OVER IN THE JONES DISTRICT"]
THE HEIRESS OF McGREGOR.
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[CHAPTER I.]
THE HEIRESS OF McGREGOR.
THE heiress of McGregor walked slowly up the valley, absorbed in sorrowful thoughts, till a turn of the path brought to her view the baronial mansion of her forefathers. In other words, Marion McGregor, going home from school, came in sight of her father's house. The first expression was the way in which Marion would have liked to describe her progress; the latter was more in accordance with the stern, prosaic facts of the case.
Strictly speaking, it was not exactly true, either, for neither house nor farm belonged to the McGregor family, though they had lived there so many years that the house was always known as the McGregor place. It was part of a large estate which covered at least half of Holford county. A great Scotch nobleman had bought an immense tract of wild land in those parts very soon after the Revolution, and most of it remained in the hands of his grandson. It was partly improved and let on long leases as farming and grazing land, though there were still large tracts of mountain and forest which had never been touched by man.
On one of these leased farms, in a substantial though very plain and homely brick house, lived three generations of McGregors. These were, first, old Hector McGregor, the grandfather, who had come over from Scotland and taken the lease nearly fifty years before. He was a stout, hale old man, with blue eyes that were still bright and limbs which were still strong and able to carry him "to kirk and market," though he was fast approaching his ninetieth year. Then came a son and daughter, Alick and Barbara, and then a granddaughter, Marion. Alick was a widower and had no children; of the rest, one son was a minister in Minnesota, and another daughter the wife of a Syrian missionary. Barbara had never been married, and at fifty-five was not likely to be so. It was not for want of opportunity, for there had never been a prettier girl in Holford county than Baby McGregor, as her father in Scotch still called her. She had received more than one "grand offer," but Baby had put all her suitors courteously but firmly aside, and waited, first with the patience of hope, then with patient despair, and at last in the sure and certain hope of a glorious resurrection, for one who went away to sea and never came home any more.
Few people save her father and brothers knew or guessed that Barbara had ever had any romance in her history. She was a bright, active, stirring housewife, ready to lend a hand in all her neighbours' real sorrows and difficulties, but, it must be confessed, a little too apt to be impatient of unnecessary worries, borrowed troubles, and sentimental woes. All of these she classed together under the general name of "fashes," and treated with more contempt than was absolutely necessary or desirable. She loved her own family dearly, and was ready to lay down her life every day and all day long in their service, but her great favourites were unquestionably her youngest sister, Christian, wife of the Reverend Doctor Campbell of Beyrout, Syria, and her niece, Marion. Both of these she had brought up; and as is usual with persons of her temperament, she loved them all the more for the trouble they had given her.
Marion was the child of another daughter, Eileen—or, as her father and sister called her, Eiley—McGregor. Eiley was even handsomer than Barbara, and she had been much more unfortunate. She made an ill-assorted marriage when she was quite too young to have been wedded at all, and found a worse disappointment in her marriage than Barbara had done in her bereavement. She married a man who, with a good education and some talents, had neither sense nor principle—a man who was too proud to work at what he contemptuously termed "menial occupations," meaning thereby any sort of honest hard work, but who was not too proud to let his wife labour hard at anything she could get to do to support herself and the child. His trade was that of a painter, and he might have done very well at the business, especially as he had some taste for the ornamental part of his profession. But he wanted to be an artist and a poet, though Nature had intended him for neither, and he neglected the work which might have supported his family to paint bad pictures which nobody would buy, and write worse verses which nobody would publish, much less pay for.
He died at last of fever, leaving his wife alone, with her one little girl, in Coaltown, in Pennsylvania, without money or acquaintance. Here she was found by a certain Mr. Van Alstine who had a great leather manufactory out in the hemlock woods, and engaged as a companion and housekeeper for his ailing wife. Eiley lived with Mrs. Van Alstine, nursed her, and took care of her children till the lady died, and the family was broken up for a time. Then she came home. She was still Eiley McGregor, for her husband had been a faraway cousin of the same name.
But after two years Mr. Van Alstine grew weary of living alone and having his children scattered, so he got them together once more and came to ask Eiley to be a mother to them. After some doubts and misgivings, Eiley consented. Mr. Van Alstine would gladly have taken Marion into the bargain, but old Hector had grown very fond of the little girl and begged to keep her, and so it was settled for the time.
The arrangement had never been altered. Mrs. Van Alstine had been married thirteen years, and had two boys of her own besides a host of step-sons, but Marion remained with her grandfather, and had never even paid a visit to Hemlock Valley, where her mother lived. Mrs. Van Alstine had been twice at home during the time, and kept up a close correspondence with her own family; but every time anything was said about claiming Marion, Aunt Barbara begged off. It was a pity to take Marion from Miss Oliver's school, where she was doing so well. It was a long journey. Eiley had her hands full already, and it was not good for a girl to be the only one among such a throng of lads. In short, Barbara had her way in this, as she did in most family matters. And Marion remained at the old red house, which she would have liked to turn into an ancient baronial mansion or a frowning Gothic pile.
The heiress of McGregor was in need of comfort, for a very unromantic misfortune had befallen her. She had been kept after school to finish her arithmetic lesson. Never in all her reading had Marion come across a similar instance of persecution. True, Adeline had been confined in an old castle, but that carried its own consolation with it. Amanda had escaped from her persecutors by jumping from a window into the arms of a faithful retainer in a boat (no very dangerous feat, judging from the illustration, since the boat needed only to be turned crosswise to bridge the stream completely). But as Adeline turned up in the very next chapter dressed in white and playing on the harp, it was to be presumed she was not greatly the worse. But to be kept after school—kept in like any little school-girl or boy to do a set of sums (examples had not yet invaded Miss Oliver's school) which she could easily have accomplished in thirty minutes!
No wonder Marion was in need of consolation. She had not found much satisfaction, either, in that fit of sulks in which she had indulged.
Miss Oliver waited for her exactly one half hour, then she said with decision,—
"I cannot wait for you any longer, Marion. You might easily have finished your lesson in half an hour if you had chosen to apply yourself, but I cannot let you waste your time as well as my own. You can go now, but you must not come to school again till your lesson is done and written out."
So saying, Miss Oliver dismissed Marion with small ceremony, locked the school-house and went to sewing-society.
As Marion turned the corner of the hill which hid her father's house from the village, she came upon a girl of her own age who seemed to have just risen from a stone by the wayside and was lifting a somewhat heavy and cumbrous basket. She was a thin, dark child with black hair which curled and twisted out of the sober braid in which its owner had tried to confine it, which made little rings round her face and neck and caught the brim of her hat. She had heavy black eyebrows which nearly came together over her nose, and very dark eyes which were independent in their way and could laugh merrily when all the rest of the face was composed to a demure calmness. She was plainly dressed, but everything she had on, from her slightly washed-out calico frock to her little black straw hat, was worn with a certain air of spruceness, and even elegance.
"Oh, Marion, how glad I am! Now I shall have company part of the way," she exclaimed, in a high, clear voice and with something of a foreign accent. "But what has kept you so late? Our Kitty was at home nearly an hour ago."
Heiress of McGregor.
"Oh, Marion, how glad I am!"
Marion was usually fond of Therese, but she was in no mood for talking with any one just now, much less for giving an account of her tardiness. She would have preferred to go on indulging her day-dream to the end of her walk. Moreover, she felt it an injustice that Tom Beaubien's daughter should have such large black eyes and curling black hair, while her own eyes were blue and her hair straight and light brown.
"I was detained," she answered, rather stiffly; and then, more good-naturedly, she added, "Where are you going so late with your basket?"
"Home," answered Therese, gayly—"home to stay with mother till Monday. Mrs. Tremaine is good enough to spare me so long, and she has sent mother, oh, such a fine chicken pie and some apples."
"Mrs. Tremaine is very good to your mother, isn't she?" said Marion, not much interested, but willing to divert Theresa's attention from her own troubles.
"Indeed she is, and Miss Tilly and Miss Kitty as well. Oh, I should be so happy there, only for leaving mother alone all the week. If she would only move to the village! But no; she says she cannot live in a crowd."
"And you like living at Mrs. Tremaine's?"
"Yes, indeed, especially since I have begun lessons."
"Lessons!" repeated Marion. "I thought you were working?"
"And so I am. I help Mrs. Tremaine with the work and wait on Miss Tilly now she is lame, but I have plenty of time still. So I learn each day an arithmetic and a grammar lesson, and say them in the evening to Mrs. Tremaine, and I learn sewing of Miss Tilly, and Kitty and I read French together."
"French!" said Marion, in surprise.
"Yes; Mrs. Tremaine and Miss Kitty speak it like natives of Paris, and madame says it is a pity for me to lose my own tongue, because it may be of use to me some day, so Kitty and I speak it together, and sometimes we sing it as well."
"Really!" said Marion, rather sarcastically. "You will be quite accomplished. And don't you have any time to amuse yourself?"
"Oh yes, indeed. I work in the garden and embroider and play with the cats, for we have three cats, you must know, like Cadet Roussel;" and Therese began to sing like a bobolink the little child's song,—
"Charles Roussel, a trois grands chats."
"You are always in good spirits, Therese," said Marion, with a little sigh.
"Why, yes," answered Therese, simply; "why not? Every one is very good to me; and only that mamma will live here alone, I should be quite happy. If I could only be in two places at once, I should have nothing to wish for," she concluded, laughing merrily.
"But don't you really wish for anything that you can't get?"
"To be sure; plenty of things. I wish for a new dress for Sundays, and a new roof to our house, which leaks dreadfully up-stairs sometimes; and when I pass the book-store and Whitaker's, I wish for new story-books and chocolates. And I wish—oh, I wish so much—that I could go to school to dear Miss Oliver."
"I don't think you would find that such a very great privilege," said Marion, in rather an injured tone, for Miss Oliver was not in her good books just now. "Miss Oliver knows enough, I dare say, but—However, there is no use in talking; she is pope in Holford just now, and it is high treason to say a word against her, but she isn't the teacher I should go to if I had my choice. I think she is very unsympathetic and tyrannical."
A shrewd little smile passed over Therese's averted face. She had a pretty good guess as to the cause of Marion's detention, but her instinctive good manners prevented her alluding to the matter.
"I would so like to go to school," said she, shifting her basket from one arm to the other; "and every one allows that Miss Oliver is a good teacher. But here we are at your door; or gate, rather. Good-night, Marion, and pleasant dreams." And Therese walked gayly on singing her little French song.
"How bright she is! It is a shame she should not go to school if she wants to go so much. I think Miss Oliver might take her for nothing, or Mrs. Tremaine might send her. I am sure she is rich enough. If I had as much money as they, I would seek out all the poor girls of talent, and educate them in the way best fitted to bring out their capacity. I would give Therese a musical education, and then she might come out and succeed, like Jenny Lind or Sontag, and I would sit in my private box and enjoy it all—her success and her gratitude. Oh, it would be lovely!"
Thus mused Marion as she walked up the lane which led to the back door of the McGregor place. And all the time it never occurred to her that she might have conferred a present and a very substantial benefit on Therese by helping her carry her heavy basket.
"You are late, lassie," said Miss Baby, kindly, meeting her at the door and relieving her of her books and basket. "What kept you so long?"
"I had something to do after school," answered Marion, blushing a little as she felt that this was not exactly a true account of the matter.
"Did you go to the post-office?"
"No; I was so late, and I thought Uncle Alick would have been down."
"You might know he would not be down in time for the mail without calling for you," said Miss Baby, "and it would not have taken ten minutes to run round by Whitaker's. And your grandfather's medicine; did you get that?" Then, as Marion made no reply, "Oh, Marie, that is too bad; when you came right by the doctor's door, and I gave you such a charge about it. What were you thinking of?"
Now, Marion remembered exactly what she was thinking of when she passed Doctor Gate's door, and it did not make her tone any more amiable as she answered,—
"In the first place Aunt Barbara, my name isn't Marie, and I don't choose to be called so, as I have told you before. I am sure I am sorry I forgot the medicine, but I don't see any need for making such a fuss. Grandfather can't be suffering for medicine as long as he is able to go out and plant corn."
"He will cough all night if he does not have it," was Miss Baby's reply; "and you know how Uncle Alick misses his paper in the evening. The long and short of it is, Marion, you must get the supper ready and take care of the milk while I go down with old Ball after the medicine and paper."
"Go down where?" asked Alick, who had just come in.
Miss Baby explained the matter.
"That will you not to-night," said Grandfather McGregor, who had heard the whole story from the outer kitchen, where he had been washing his face and hands. "Ball is lame and you are tired, and it is coming on to rain. I can want my drops and Alick his paper better than we can afford to have you laid up with the rheumatic fever again. Marie, my woman, you must take mare tent another time. You're no a child the day, and you must put away childish things."
Grandfather McGregor's lightest word was law in the household, and Miss Baby at once abandoned her purpose and set about getting supper.
"Well there, child! Don't stand brooding. What's done can't be undone, and what's undone can't be done, more's the pity," said she, seeing Marion was still standing with her hat on looking out of the window. "You must be more careful another time, for it vexes the gude father to have to fault you, and I'm sure you don't want to do that. Go and get ready for your supper."
"Yes, that's all she thinks of, supper, dinner, and breakfast, breakfast, dinner, and supper, the year round," thought Marion as she went to her room. "Never a bit of feeling, never a bit of sympathy, for me. All that goes to Aunt Christian. Oh, if I had only had her chance, what would not I have done? She lives to some purpose, but I—Oh, how wonderful are the decrees of providence!"
Marion did not imagine that she was failing to make use of the chances that came in her way or that there was any want of sympathy in her forgetting the medicine which would ensure her grandfather a good-night's rest, or in omitting to call for the paper which formed for her hard-working uncle almost his only evening's amusement.
She took her books when the lamp was lighted, and in less than an hour she had her lesson learned, copied, and ready for Miss Oliver's inspection. Then she took her knitting, but often let it fall into her lap as she gazed into the fire. Wood was cheap and plenty in Holford, and Hector McGregor would always have a fire on the hearth of the little parlour where he spent his evenings whenever the weather was cool enough to allow it.
"I wish I could take French lessons," said she at last. French was not in the course at Holford school, though Latin was.
"You seem to have lessons enough, and more, than enough, already, I should say," remarked Miss Baby, who had taken down the chessboard and was setting out the men. "I thought Miss Oliver did not give lessons to be learned out of school?"
"She doesn't usually, but this was extra work," replied Marion, finding a good deal of trouble in picking up a stitch. "But why can't I take lessons, Aunt Barbara? There is Therese Beaubien reading French with Kitty Tremaine every day, and singing French songs, and all."
"French comes natural to Therese," said Miss Barbara, "and so it does to Kitty Tremaine for that matter. She was born in Paris, I have heard say, and I know they take French papers, for she gave me some to send Christian."
"Well, I think it is a pity if I can't have as many advantages as Tone Beaubien's daughter."
"You should not speak in that slighting way, Marie," said her grandfather. "Therese is a nice little lass, and it is not her fault that she had not a better father. I hope nobody casts it up to the child."
"I am sure I don't," said Marion. "And there was Aunt Christian, too. She has had French lessons and music, and what not, and now she is in Scotland, and her husband is a cousin of a duke, and I dare say he will call on them."
Grandfather McGregor laughed outright, a very unusual thing for him.
"Oh, lassie, little ye ken. Doubtless the duke will speak to your cousin Duncan if he comes in his way, for I dare say he's a fine gentleman, like most of his forbears, but to call on him! You might as well expect the queen herself."
"Well, anyhow, Aunt Christian is going all over the world and seeing everything, and I never have a chance."
"Indeed, Marie—Well, there, child! I won't say it again if I can help it. I think you have a good many," said Miss Barbara.
"But can't I take French lessons, grandfather?" persisted Marion.
"No, child, not now," answered her grandfather, kindly but decidedly. "If harvest comes in well, and we get a good price for the butter, we'll see what can be done, but now I can't take on any new expense. I'd like to please you, child, but it's just impossible. What have you there, Baby?"
"The chessmen, father. I am trying to make Alick rut up his chess against Duncan and Christian come home. You know Duncan was always so fond of chess."
"It's odd we don't hear again," said the old man. "I dare say they are on their way home. Marie, woman, there's a chance for you. Get your aunt to teach you chess. It is a fine game, and good mental discipline, they say. Take care, man Alick; look out for your knight with yon queen. Look on now, Marie, and you'll see a fine battle."
But Marion would not be interested. She worked away at her knitting in sullen silence till bedtime and went to bed thinking herself very ill used.
"There goes her father over again," said Alick to his sister when Marion left the room, "always missing the present chance, always going to do some great thing or other when something else happens, and doing nothing in the mean time."
"Oh, she is but a child still, and you must have patience with her," said Miss Barbara. "She does vex me sometimes, as she did to-night, but she'll mend as she grows older, you'll see."
"I hope I shall, but there is small chance of her mending so long as she cannot see a fault in herself. Things don't often mend simply by growing older."
"Wild kittens make solemn cats," quoted Miss Barbara, who never liked to hear any one find fault with Marion. "I mean to let her have French lessons if I can, seeing her heart is set on it, but I will talk the matter over with Miss Oliver first."
"Did she say that Tone Beaubien's daughter had gone home?" asked Alick. "I hoped Mrs. Tremaine would keep her. She is a likely lass."
"I believe she has only gone home to stay over Sunday. I wonder if her father will ever come back?"
"I have my suspicions that he has been back, if he is not looking about now," said Alick, in a low tone.
"He would never dare to show himself, surely?"
"Not openly, of course, but I am very much mistaken if I did not see him up on Blue Hill yesterday when I was looking for the colt. He has grown a beard if it was he, but the upper part of his face is not easily changed."
"You must be careful, Alick," said his sister, anxiously. "You know he owes you a special grudge."
"Never fear," said Alick, lightly. "He values his neck too much to run any risks or make any stir in these parts."
"I wonder whether his wife knows it?"
"There is no telling. I have sometimes thought there might be some reason for her preferring to live by herself in that lonesome place."
"I think she is very honest," said Miss Barbara. "You know she has worked for us a great deal, and beyond her crabbed, unsocial ways, I have never seen a fault in her. You could hardly call it a fault that she is faithful to her husband, wretch as he is. I am sure I hope he will not come back for all their sakes, and especially for that of the child."
[CHAPTER II.]
TONE BEAUBIEN'S DAUGHTER.
JUST at the corner of the McGregor farm a narrow green road branched off from the main track and led upward among the hills. It was so little used that the short grass nearly covered it, and the melting snows and rains had so gullied and washed the track that any wheeled carriage less strong than a lumber-wagon would have been in great danger of being wrecked. At first the road was bordered by stone walls showing their age by the mosses and lichens which spotted them. Higher up the boundary vanished altogether on one side, and on the other turned into an ancient fence of pine and hemlock stumps, such as one often sees in New England, the worn and bleached but imperishable roots rising above the blackberry and clematis vines which covered the lower part like the bones of antediluvean monsters.
On that side was a stony pasture the sight of which would have made Western-bred cows give up life in despair, but from which, nevertheless, came many a sturdy cheese and roll of fragrant butter. On the other side was first a tripping, chattering brook, then a narrow strip of wood largely made up of black spruce, and behind this a high rocky wall, steep as the side of a house most of the way, though here and there a gap and a narrow, hard-beaten path showed that the sheep had found a way to climb the barrier.
Into this road Therese Beaubien turned and walked rapidly along, singing as she went till the steepness of the ascent and the weight of her basket made it necessary to economize her breath.
It was a lonely place enough; but Therese had no fears. She had travelled it ever since she could remember, and oftener alone than in company. She did start and look round rather fearfully once at a sudden and unaccountable rustle in the bushes near the road, but laughed at her own fears, as nothing appeared to justify them.
"If a bear should come out upon me, I would appease him with the chicken pie, as Fifine appeased the lions with the mutton in the fairy-tale," said she to herself; "but, after all, it is a lonesome place, especially in winter, when the wind howls through the spruces and hemlocks and among the rocks. I do wish mother would move down to the village."
As she spoke, she came in sight of a little red house, very small in itself and looking smaller by contrast with the enormous mass of stone under the shelter of which it was built. Tiny as it was, it looked in good repair and comfortable. There was even some cultivation about it in the shape of a small garden and a very little field of potatoes and corn. Two or three apple trees grew about the house, but they were old and neglected. The little house was such as one often sees in remote situations in Vermont and New Hampshire, where one is tempted to think the first settlers sought out the most dreary and unpromising situations. There was nothing at all remarkable about it, except that all the lower windows were provided with strong wooden shutters.
Even in the June evening both doors and windows were closed. It was not a cheerful-looking home, but Therese seemed to feel her spirits revive at the sight of it, and she quickened her steps. She opened the door softly, intending to surprise her mother. If she succeeded, the surprise did not seem to be an agreeable one. There was nobody in the front room, nor in the little bedroom which opened from it, but as Therese went forward to the door which opened into the little back kitchen she was met by her mother with the words, spoken in a tone of evident consternation,—
"You unlucky child! What has brought you home to-day?"
Therese was certainly very much taken aback, but she was familiar with her mother's moods; and besides, she thought she understood at once the cause of Mrs. Beaubien's evident discomposure:
"Don't be alarmed, mother. I know what you are thinking of, but I have not lost my place. On the contrary, they want me to stay all summer. But Mrs. Tremaine said I must consult you about the matter, and so she let me come for a little visit, and I am to stay till Monday."
By this time Mrs. Beaubien seemed to have recovered her presence of mind.
"She is very good, I am sure. I hope she has not put herself to inconvenience in the matter?" said she, trying to speak in her usual tone.
"Oh no; she said she did not mind. See what she has sent you. And only think, mamma! She has paid me seventy-five cents a week instead of fifty for all the time I have been there. So I have half as much again as I expected, and I have brought it home to you."
"You should not have done that," said her mother. "Better leave it in madame's hands. She is a good lady, and will advise you how to lay it out to the best advantage."
"I thought you would take it and buy yourself a new dress for Sunday," said Therese, evidently disappointed.
"No, no, child! What have I to do with Sunday? Well, there! Never mind. You are a good girl to think of me; but you need clothes more than I. Run up-stairs and see the new kittens."
Therese did as she was bid. She certainly did brush away a tear or two from her long black lashes as she bent over the kittens' basket and fondled the old cat.
She had been looking forward to her visit all the week long and making her little preparations for it, but she could not help seeing that her coming was unwelcome and ill-timed from some reason that she could not understand—that her mother was not glad to see her and wished her away. But she did not feel it as another girl would have done. She had been used to humouring her mother's dark moods ever since she could remember, and to seeing them come and go without any apparent cause. A cloud had overhung the little red house ever since she could recollect. She had learned not to be surprised when it lowered even deeper than usual, and to be thankful when it lifted ever so little.
There was in Holford a colony of French Canadians who had emigrated from the neighbourhood of Quebec and settled in that place, forming a suburb of the little village, called Frenchtown. They were a harmless set, not given to the hard work and close economy of their neighbours, but rather favourites than otherwise, from their good-nature and kindly ways. The women kept house and were called on to wash or cook when extra help was needed; some of the girls went to service or worked in the woollen mills or the cheese factories. The men helped in harvest and planting-time, practiced various little handicrafts, and hunted in the great woods of the Callum estate. The elders among them were nominal Roman Catholics, but the younger people had been got into Sunday schools and Bible classes, and not a few were church members.
Among these people the Beaubien family decidedly took the lead in respectability and thrift. One daughter had married a well-to-do farmer, another had a milliner's shop, in which she succeeded so well as to bring much custom from the neighbouring towns. One of the boys had cleared a farm for himself on the mountain side, and was doing well upon it, and the others were all recognized as respectable if not very industrious citizens.
But there was one black sheep in the flock. Antoine—or, as he was usually called, Tone—Beaubien was one of those boys who seem to love evil for its own sake, and at twenty-one he was a thorough outlaw. He had been in jail for various small robberies more than once, and was very strongly suspected of the graver offences of sheep stealing and passing counterfeit money. At twenty-five he was doing somewhat better. He worked with his father at his trade of harness and saddle making, in which the old man excelled, and was tolerably sober and steady, with the exception of an occasional spree, and now and then an absence of two or three months, when nobody knew of his whereabouts.
The prettiest and one of the steadiest girls in the settlement was Rose Duval, old Gabriel Duval's only child. Great was the amazement when it was discovered that she was being courted by Tone Beaubien, and that she was determined to marry him. In vain was every obstacle thrown in her way. In vain did Gabriel Duval forbid him the house. In vain did the Beaubiens themselves, who loved Rose dearly, tell her of Tone's character and warn her of the risk she ran. The wilful girl would have her way.
On one of Tone's periodical disappearances, Rose disappeared also, and came back with him at the end of three months just in time to see her father buried. Old Gabriel willed his daughter the little house and the land belonging to it as her portion, and there Tone and his young wife took up their abode. For a while things seemed to go well with them. They had the necessaries and a good many of the luxuries of life. Tone was often absent for weeks at a time, and his wife said he went as a sailor on the lake; but as these absences came quite as often in winter as in summer, very few people believed the story.
At last matters came to a climax. An old gentleman who had drawn a large sum of money from the Holford bank was shot down and robbed on his way home by three men. He lived long enough to give an account of the matter, and named Tone Beaubien as one of his assailants. Tone tried to prove an alibi but unluckily Alick McGregor swore to seeing him twice on the very day of the murder in the neighbourhood of his own house. Tone was committed for trial, but in some way or other he escaped, and was never seen in Holford again.
Nobody even suspected Rose of any share in her husband's misdeeds, and the people of Holford were as kind as she would allow them to be. Both her mother and her father-in-law would have taken her home, but she refused their offers, and lived alone with Therese in the old house under Blue Hill, having as little as possible to do with any one. She went out to work for the two or three farmers who lived within walking distance, and cultivated her potato-patch and garden ground with her own hands.
One of the hereditary arts of the French settlers was the making of a peculiar kind of fine basket-work. Rose took up this trade and made improvements on it. She sent her wares to a neighbouring city, where she got good prices for them, and in these ways she supported herself and her little girl.
Such was the cloud which overshadowed Therese Beaubien's entrance into life, and certainly it was a heavy one. Nevertheless, Therese managed to find a good deal of sunshine. Her health was perfect; her mother was sometimes affectionate, and never positively unkind. Though Rose herself never entered the door of either her mother or her father-in-law, she allowed Therese to visit both. The little girl stayed weeks and months with kind, cheerful old Grandfather Beaubien and her grandmother Duval.
Her aunts Lenore and Fanchette taught her to sew and knit, to make lace with the needle—another hereditary employment of the Beaubien family—and made much of her in all sorts of ways. Grandmother Duval taught her to read the Bible both in French and English—for she was a Protestant and well educated—and gave her many lessons in morals and manners.
The village children were usually kind when she encountered them though, now and then, when any quarrel arose, she met with the spiteful taunt, "I don't want to play with Tone Beaubien's girl! What can you expect of Tone Beaubien's daughter?"
Therese loved her mother with overflowing affection, but it was not strange that she liked to escape from the shadow of poor Rose's moody sorrow and the loneliness of the old house to the bright kitchen and cheerful ways of Grandfather Beaubien's household. As she grew up, she could not avoid coming to the conviction that her mother preferred living alone. It was hard to think so, but there was no escape from it; and therefore Therese was not surprised when her mother one day informed her that she was to go and live with Mrs. Tremaine in the village:
"Miss Tilly is lame, and the lady wishes some one to wait on her and to help in the work. She is an excellent lady and will be kind to you."
"I am afraid that grandfather will not be pleased," said Therese, rather doubtfully. "He said he wished me to live with him and be his girl when you did not want me."
"I do not choose that you shall live upon your grandfather's bounty," answered Mrs. Beaubien, with the stern anger she always showed whenever Therese manifested any will of her own. "Do you mean to set up for yourself against me so soon?"
"No, mother," answered Therese, humbly; "I am sure I shall like living with Mrs. Tremaine."
"Like it or not, you go there to-morrow."
"But, mamma, why cannot I stay with you? I would much rather. I can help you with the baskets and keep the house and read to you sometimes. Why should I leave you here alone all winter in this dreary place? Please let me stay with you, and I will be as contented as a little mouse."
With one of her sudden changes of mood, poor Rose caught the child in her arms and covered her with kisses and tears:
"You are my own darling and the light of my eyes, but, dear child, I must send you away. You must learn many things which I cannot teach you, and there are other reasons which I cannot explain. You will often come to see me, and no doubt madame will let you go to grandfather's, for she has been a good friend to the family at all times. Be a good girl, obey the lady in all things, learn all you can, and doubtless you will always have friends."
Therese said no more in opposition, for she saw there was no use in it, and with her usual cheerfulness, she at once turned her eyes to the bright side of the picture: "I dare say I can go to church and Sunday school every Sunday."
"No doubt. Madame has always taught in the school ever since she came to the place, and she is very religious."
"And I can draw books from the Sunday school, and the school library if I live in the district. Aunt Lenore does so; and I know Miss Kitty has plenty of story-books. Oh yes, I shall be very happy."
And very happy Therese undoubtedly was. She had lived at Mrs. Tremaine's all winter, and Mrs. Tremaine had no mind to part with her. But Therese often felt her heart go out with a great yearning toward her solitary mother, and as the spring came on, she felt drawn toward the woods and the rocky pasture she knew so well. She had come home to consult her mother as to her staying with half a hope that she might remain. That hope had vanished already, and she could not help shedding a few tears over its disappearance; but she soon wiped them away and prepared to make the most of her visit.
Mrs. Beaubien, too, seemed to wish to make up for her cool welcome. She exerted herself to talk more than usual, asked the news in the village, and was interested to hear that Aunt Madeline had a new baby girl, and Uncle Claude insisted on calling it Michelle, after Grandfather Beaubien. Still, she seemed somewhat absent, and Therese once or twice thought she seemed to be listening.
"What are you listening to, mother?" she asked at last. "I don't hear anything."
Mrs. Beaubien started: "I thought I heard a noise among the hens. The foxes have carried off two or three lately. Come, daughter, you had better go to bed; you have had a long walk, and must be tired."
Therese was not unwilling to go to bed, for she was really very tired. "Are you not coming too?" she asked.
"Not just yet; I have a bit of work to finish. But I will not have you sit up. Go to bed and to sleep."
Therese hesitated a minute, and then took courage:
"Miss Kitty has given me a French Testament, and I promised her I would read a little every night. May I read to you?"
"Yes, child, if you like."
Therese read the parable of the sower, and then prepared for bed.
"I will come before long," said her mother. "Sleep sound, and don't mind if you hear me moving about."
Therese did sleep sound, but some time in the night she thought or dreamed that she heard people talking in subdued tones, and that some one said rather roughly,—
"Nonsense! I must have the money, and she can get more. You can make excuses enough."
Presently she was waked by some sound like the closing of a door, and by her mother coming to bed.
"Are you not very late?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.
"Rather; my work took more time than I thought. There! Go to sleep again."
All day Saturday Mrs. Beaubien found excuses for keeping Therese close by her side, and Therese, though a little disappointed at losing her run in the pasture, yet rejoiced too much in her mother's unwonted mood of softness not to make the most of her opportunities.
"Does your grandfather ever say anything about your father?" asked Mrs. Beaubien at last.
Therese was astonished. She had never heard her mother mention her father before. She hesitated.
"Yes, I see," said her mother. "They have all tried to set you against him."
"No, indeed, mother," answered Therese, eagerly. "Grandfather told me to say a prayer for father whenever I said my prayers, and I always do."
"And was that all?"
"He said father was led away by bad company and by drink, and he made me promise never to touch a drop of drink."
"Keep that promise, whatever you do," said her mother, earnestly. "If grandfather had always been of that mind, things might have been very different with us."
"Grandfather said that too," observed Therese. "Mother, do you think I shall ever see my father?"
"No, child, never," answered Mrs. Beaubien; "and, Therese, you must never mention his name. Try to make a good name for yourself, so that every one may forget whose daughter you are. That is the best you can do for your poor father."
"I can pray for him, mamma," said Therese, softly. "Grandmother Duval said once that wherever he had wandered, he could not go out of God's sight, and therefore he could not go out of the reach of his children's prayers. Oh, mother, I wish you would go to see her sometimes. Why don't you?"
"She does not want to see me, child."
"Indeed, dear mother, she does," said Therese, eagerly. "She always asks so many questions about you when I go to see her, and she always prays for you morning and evening. Oh, if you would only go, you would see."
Mrs. Beaubien shook her head:
"No, no, Therese; I shall never set foot in Holford village again; but when you go to see my mother, tell her I wish I had been a better daughter to her, and ask her to give me her blessing and her prayers; and be you a kind and dutiful child to her, for she was always the best of mothers to me."
"Yes, dear mother," said Therese, inwardly rejoiced at even this symptom of relenting, and at once beginning to build various castles in the air as to the possibility of bringing her grandmother and her mother together once more.
"And then mother and grandmother will live together in the village, and mother will go to church. Oh, it will be lovely."
Sunday morning came, and with it an end of Therese's visit.
"I think you had better set out for the village as soon as you have done your breakfast," said Mrs. Beaubien. "I don't like to have you miss your Sunday school; and besides, if you stay till afternoon, you may not be able to go at all, for I think we shall have a storm. And, Therese, if you don't mind—if you can leave me part of that money—"
"I will leave you all of it, dear mother. Perhaps you are right about the storm," said Therese, peering out of the window. "I can see every tree and bush on old Haystack."
"Let me comb and braid your hair for you," said Rose as Therese began her preparations. "See, I will curl it for once as I used to wear mine when I was a little girl."
Much pleased, Therese submitted to the curling.
When she had finished, Mrs. Beaubien cut out a thick black curl from the beautiful mass.
"There! I will keep that for myself and give you a keepsake in return," said she. She put her hand into her pocket and drew out an old-fashioned gold miniature setting containing on one side a pretty picture of a young lady in the dress of Louis XIV.'s time, and on the other a place for hair. The picture was attached to a hair chain, which she threw over Therese's neck.
"That has been in our family for centuries, and has always belonged to the oldest daughter," said she. "It shall be yours now. I have braided a chain of my own hair for it. Show it to mother and she will tell you its history. Now I am going to walk down with you as far as the stone step."
The stone step was a kind of stile leading over the wall into Hector McGregor's pasture.
"I must go no farther," said Mrs. Beaubien, when they had reached this place. "When shall you come home again?"
"Next Saturday, perhaps. Good-bye, mother."
Rose Beaubien caught her child in her arms and silently kissed her over and over again. Then, hastily withdrawing herself, she walked quickly back without once turning round.
When Therese went to bed that night, she missed her little French Testament. "It is very odd; I am sure I put it in my pocket when I finished reading. I must go up and get it some day this week."
There was a thunder-storm in the evening, as Rose Beaubien predicted. Just as it rolled away, a man and woman came down the Blue Hill road.
"Wait for me here a few minutes," said the man to his companion as they came to the stile. "I have forgotten something it won't do to leave behind me."
"Be sure you leave all safe," said the woman. "Had I not better go back with you?"
"No, stay where you are; you will have walking enough, and more than enough," replied her companion, not unkindly. "I will not be gone long, and I will leave all safe, never fear."
He went back to the house, entered it, and seemed to be busy for some minutes striking a match and lighting a lamp. Then he came out, closed the door, and rejoined his companion.
"Have you left all safe?"
"Yes, safe enough, never fear. Come on; we must be far from this by morning."
[CHAPTER III.]
AUNT CHRISTIAN.
SATURDAY passed at the McGregor farm, as Saturdays usually pass in New England, in getting ready for Sunday. All that could be cooked was cooked, and some extra dainties prepared, for Miss Baby, though she made her Sunday a day of rest, did not choose to have it a fast-day.
"Don't you mean to go to the village to-day, Alick?" asked his sister at dinner.
"No, I think not. I have some tinkering to do about the barn, so I asked Bryant to bring the mail."
"I'll go down and bring up the mail, Uncle Alick," said Marion. "I don't mind the walk a bit, and I dare say Aunt Baby has some other errand."
"That I have, but I don't see how you can go very well this afternoon," said Miss Baby. "You want your new dress to-morrow, you know, and there is the band to be put on the skirt and the fringe on the basque."
"Oh dear! Always something in the way whenever I want to do anything!" said Marion, impatiently.
"You can't say I put the fringe in your way at least, Marie woman," said her aunt, smiling. "You know I did not like it at all; but now you have calculated for it, the dress cannot be finished without it. However, you can wear your gray merino or your new gingham if the day should be warm."
"I think you might sew it on for me."
"I have my own to finish. However, I dare say my old one will serve me once more."
Marion had the grace to feel ashamed of her proposition:
"You want yours more than I do mine, if anything. No, I will stay and finish it. I'm sure I wish I had never bought the old fringe. I dare say it is all out of fashion, and that is the reason it was so cheap. Now, you needn't say 'I told you so,' Aunt Baby. It is vexatious enough without that."
"Marie, my lass, you must not speak to your auntie Baby in that way," said old Hector, gravely. "It ill becomes one of your age to be so fretted."
Grandfather was the one person in the household of whom Marion stood in awe, and she subsided into a sulky silence, which she maintained till Alick came in with the letters.
"Any for me, Uncle Alick?" said Marion, jumping up.
"Not this time; but one from Christian, Baby, and post-marked New York. Bryant says Whitaker told him it came yesterday."
"From Christian! Then they have landed. Why, yes. This was written day before yesterday, and—Why, Alick!"
"Well, what?"
"Christian says, 'We shall leave here Friday night; and if all goes well, we shall be at home Saturday by the afternoon train.'"
"The afternoon train is in half an hour ago."
"I should not wonder if they had come already," said Baby. "They may be waiting down at the village this minute."
"I will hitch up and go down directly," said Alick. "They must think it very strange that nobody came to meet them. Don't you want to go, Marie?"
A minute before, Marion had decided that every one was going to blame her because she had forgotten to call at the post-office, and had made up her mind to bear the reproaches in mournful silence. So she naturally found it rather provoking to be offered a ride instead. However, she was too much excited to sulk just now.
"I don't think I will, Uncle Alick; Aunt Baby will want some help," said she, amiably enough.
"Well, then, run and call grandfather and give him the news, and then go up and open the windows of the east room and put on the sheets that hang on the foot of the bed," said Miss Baby. "Make the room look pretty and neat, and I will see to matters down here."
Marion went to work with both zeal and judgment, for she was by no means wanting in sense when she could condescend to "give her mind to small details," as she expressed it, or, in other words, to mind what she was about. She made up the bed neatly with the white home-made linen which Aunt Baby had been airing for a week, supplied the wash-stand with water and clean towels, and put a nosegay of sweet spring flowers on the table. When she had finished, she surveyed her work with no very satisfied expression. Many people would have thought the room an inviting one, but not so Marion. The home-made carpet on the floor, the old-fashioned, high-post bedstead with its chintz hangings, the high, round-fronted bureau with a desk at the top, were all dreadfully old-fashioned and shabby in her eyes.
"I wish we ever could have anything like anybody else," said she to herself. "How these old things will look to Aunt Christian after all she has seen! I do think grandfather might open his purse far enough to buy some new furniture. The Bryants are not so well off as we are, and they bought new furniture for their front rooms, up-stairs and down."
She went down to the wide, cool kitchen, which was always the dining-room in the warm weather, and found the tea-table already prepared with a set of bluish-white china painted with little bunches of roses and forget-me-not. The saucers, large and deep, and the little round cups without handles, showed the date of their manufacture. Miss Baby was in the milk-room skimming cream and making other hospitable preparations, and a delicious odour of cooking came in from the back kitchen.
Marion uttered an angry exclamation:
"Now, that is too bad, to set the table in the kitchen; I declare, I won't have it so."
She at once began to reverse the arrangement when her grandfather came in:
"What are you doing, lass?"
"I am going to set the table in the parlour," answered Marion; "I don't think Uncle Duncan and Aunt Christian will want to eat in the kitchen."
"If Uncle Duncan and Aunt Christian don't like the ways of their father's house, they can go elsewhere," said the old man. "You are too upsetting, Marion; let the table be where it is."
"At any rate, I mean to take off that horrid blue earthenware and put on the white china set Mr. Van Alstine sent us," said Marion; and she hastened to accomplish her purpose while she had the kitchen to herself.
A shrewd smile passed over Miss Baby's face as she observed the change, but she made no remark.
The white china was like other white china, neat and pretty, but nothing more. Marion, however, surveyed it with great satisfaction, and, the change accomplished, she grew more amiable.
"I wonder whether Uncle Duncan will look as I expect?" said she as she stood watching from the window which commanded the road.
"That depends upon what you expect," said Miss Baby. "I have not seen Duncan Campbell in fourteen years; but when he was last here, he looked very much like the duke of Callum that then was."
"Is he really related to the duke, aunt?" asked Marion.
"Oh yes, I suppose so; all the Campbells are of one clan."
"It is odd that he should have married Aunt Christian, I think."
"Not odd at all, my lass," said old Hector. "There has been many an intermarriage between the two clans in old time. The Campbells were aye friends to our clan, and gave them shelter and protection when they were chased from their own lands and hearths in the days of Rob Roy that you have heard of."
"Those were splendid days to live in," said Marion, with enthusiasm; "a man's life was worth something in those days."
"Do you think so? I don't. I should not like to get up some fine morning and find out that the Shadbury folk had come over and carried off all my cows, and very likely burned my barns into the bargain, and, on the whole, I would rather raise sheep than steal them. But here come our friends at last—a welcome sight."
"Like the duke! Then, of course, Uncle Duncan is tall and majestic; dukes always are, I think," said Marion to herself as she hurried to the door.
Alas for her romance! There was Uncle Alick holding the horses, and a lady being helped down by a somewhat small, very wiry, and determined-looking little gentleman, with—could it be? Yes, it was—with red hair and a flowing red beard. Could that be Uncle Duncan? There was no doubt about it. She had hardly picked herself up, so to speak, after such a prodigious mental tumble, when she was folded in the arms of the lady.
"And this must be Marion, I am sure, from her likeness to Eiley. You all call her Marie, I hope."
"Sometimes," said Miss Barbara. "Eh, children, you have been a weary while away. I began to think you never were coming."
"And what did we think, Sister Baby, when we landed at the Holford station and found nobody to meet us?" said Doctor Campbell. "I thought we gave our letter plenty of time."
"That was an accident. The letter came yesterday, but nobody happened to go to the post-office," said Alick. "I met them just at the turn of the road, Baby, trudging along in doleful style."
"Aweel, 'All's well that ends well' however," said Miss Baby. "Run up to the east room, Christie, my bairn, and get ready for your supper. I am sure you must want it."
"How homelike it all seems here!" said Christian when they were seated around the table and old Hector had asked a fervent blessing on their meeting. "I was afraid you would have taken to 'chamber sets' and other view-fangled devices. It seems so cosy to see the old chintz hangings and dark furniture just as I left it."
"Na, na," said the old man. "Ye 'll find no new fashions here, my woman, not so long as I am to the fore."
"But, Baby, I do miss one thing," said Christian as she took her cup. "Where is the dear old china, the bonny wee cups? I thought you would have them out to celebrate our return, as you used to do our birthdays. I hope nothing has happened to them, for, forbye they were our grandmother's, that old china is priceless, just now."
"Well, you see, Mr. Van Alstine sent Marie the white china in a present, so she naturally likes to show it," answered Miss Baby. "The wee cups are all safe and sound, and you shall have them for your breakfast, with your own basin for your porridge. I have never let any one eat porridge from your basin, though we have them for breakfast every morning.* But perhaps you have forgotten how to eat oatmeal?"
* Both "porridge" and "broth" are plural nouns in Scotch, and take plural verbs and pronouns.
"Hoot, toot!" said Doctor Campbell, laughing. "Have we not just come from 'the land o' cakes'?"
Meantime, Marion sat blushing scarlet at her own stupidity. What could she have been thinking of? Of course the old china was the most elegant. Did not Mrs. Tremaine so value the few bits she possessed of it as to give them the most honoured place in the china cupboard? How could she have been so stupid! And how lucky that no one knew of her blunder but Aunt Baby, who had turned it off so cleverly! What would Aunt Christian have said if she had only known? And so she sat in silence, vexed and uncomfortable, while the others laughed and chattered broad Scotch, and even Gaelic, which, however, nobody could speak fluently but Hector and Duncan Campbell.
"Oh, and you must know we met Mr. Van Alstine and Eiley in New York."
"No! Where did you find them?"
"Came plump upon them the first thing before we had been ashore an hour," said Doctor Campbell. "Van Alstine had come up to see about some disembarkation of Southern hides or other savoury commodities of that nature. He seems a fine fellow."
"He is a fine fellow," said Alick. "And how did you think Eiley was looking?"
"Uncommonly well—far better than I ever saw her before," answered the doctor.
"Yes, she looks like her own old self before—before Duncan remembers her," said Christian, seemingly altering the construction of her sentence on a second thought. "I have a letter and a parcel for you in my bag, Marie. You have never been to visit your mother in her new home, I believe?"
"No, ma'am."
"And Mr. Van Alstine has never found time to visit us but once," said old Hector. "Then I was very much pleased with him. He seems a kind, sensible man, and makes Eiley a good husband, though I often think she must have a heavy handful with all yon lads, and not a lass among them to help her."
"It is very nice sitting over the supper-table this fashion," said Alick; "but if Christian and Duncan are to have their trunks to-night, I must go after them, though what any one wants of so much luggage I cannot guess."
"Hoot, toot, man Alick! Ye have no seen the half yet. Think how many presents we had to remember. I wanted to have brought you a pair of leather-eared, white-eyed Syrian goats, but I could find no convenient way to pack them. I will go with you and help you load up."
"Your parcel is in my bag, Marie. I thought you would want to see it directly," said Aunt Christian. "Baby is older, and can wait for hers. The letter is from your mother, the present from your father."
Marion's curiosity was too much excited to allow her to take her usual offence at hearing Mr. Van Alstine called her father. To her credit be it said, however, she glanced over the letter before touching the parcel. Joy of joys! The box contained a plain and simple but pretty gold hunting-case watch and chain.
"A watch! A real live watch!" exclaimed Marion. "And such a beauty! Look, Auntie Baby."