Marjory's apology.
"Fix in your minds—or rather ask God to fix in your minds—this one idea of an absolutely good God."—Kingsley.
Marjory did not sleep very much that night, her thoughts were so busy. The events of the day kept crowding in upon her, the story of the lights in the old wing, and running through all was the disquieting thought that to-morrow she must go to the baker's daughter and say that she was sorry. It seemed to Marjory that it would be very hard, and yet she felt sure that it was the right thing to do. Had not Mrs. Forester said so? and had not her own conscience told her so? Still, she dreaded the doing of it, for Marjory was proud as well as very shy, and Mary Ann's unkind words still rankled in her memory. She had yet to learn that the punishment of offences against us, great or small, lies in other hands than ours, and that absolute justice is watching over the affairs of men—that each action, good or evil, bears its own fruit. Thinking over Mrs. Forester's words, a dim realization came to her of that great truth, which, once grasped, brings calm trust and faith—the truth which promises that obedience to the voice of conscience keeps the soul in harmony with its Creator, so that outward circumstances cannot really harm or hurt. Marjory was but a young girl, with no experience, yet she knew this voice—she knew that obedience to it or disobedience meant either happiness or unhappiness inside herself, as she expressed it; but to-night, for the first time, she felt something of that trust in perfect justice which gives peace within, and she gradually began to lose the feeling of resentment against Mary Ann, and to feel that what she had to think of, and was responsible for, was her own behaviour—she must answer for her own thoughts and words.
She set out bravely the next day with Mrs. Forester and Blanche. Her heart beat very quickly as the carriage stopped at the post office.
"Why, Mary Ann, if this is no Hunter's Marjory in the carriage with thae new folks frae Braeside," exclaimed Mrs. Smylie to her daughter as she saw the party arrive. "After a' I telt the leddy yesterday too."
Marjory came into the post office alone.
"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Smylie," she said shyly. "Can I see Mary Ann?"
Mrs. Smylie did not return her greeting, and without looking up from the stamp desk called to Mary Ann.
"What is it?" cried Mary Ann from the parlour behind the shop.
"Come an' see," was her mother's reply. "I canna tell ye."
Mary Ann came sauntering into the shop. When she saw Marjory she stopped and stared.
"Hallo!" she said mockingly. "Want some more of what you had last time?"
Marjory flushed, and then with an effort, and speaking very quickly, she said,—
"I've come to say I'm sorry I called you an ugly name, but I think you were unkind in what you said."
"Do you suppose I care whether you call me names or not?" And the girl gave a hard laugh.
"No; but I care. I am ashamed of myself."
Mrs. Smylie looked on and listened, curious to see how the affair would end.
"You are a queer little kid," said Mary Ann. "Any one can see you haven't been to school. No girl in our school would come and eat humble pie like this. Well, I believe I did say a lot of stuff just to rub you up, and if you're sorry I'm sorry too, so we'll shake hands—eh?"
The girls shook hands, and Marjory, again saying good-afternoon to Mrs. Smylie, left the shop.
Mrs. Smylie replied by a nod. She was a little disappointed at the turn things had taken. She rather enjoyed having a grievance, and Hunter's Marjory and her "tantrums" had been a fertile subject for gossip during the last few days.
"Ye needna hae gien in sae sune," she remarked to her daughter when the carriage had driven off.
"That was my business," replied Mary Ann, with a toss of her head.
"Hoots, lassie, ye needna haud yer head sae high wi' yer mither. I was but thinkin' ye micht hae held it higher wi' yon chit."
"I'll never be like her, not if I live to be a hundred and go to fifty schools—so there." And Mary Ann banged out of the shop, leaving her mother silent with amazement.
Mary Ann had something to think about. She had been quite taken aback by Marjory's apology, and for a little while the real Mary Ann had shown herself. She was not a bad-hearted girl in reality, but she had been spoiled by those who should have known better; and although every now and then, at moments such as this, her better nature would assert itself, it was gradually becoming choked and crushed by selfishness, conceit, and carelessness. Marjory had been inclined to envy the baker's daughter her privileges, but in reality Mary Ann was to be pitied rather than envied, for she had no one to guide and help her. Her parents' chief care was that she should be better dressed and better educated than her neighbours. This they felt they could accomplish; and having done so, they were content, and satisfied that they had done their duty by their daughter.
The days were full of pleasure for Marjory and Blanche. When the garden had been thoroughly explored, there were many beautiful places for Marjory to show her friend. She must go to the woods, to the moors, and to the loch. Dr. Hunter had a pretty little sailing-boat, and Marjory was an expert sailor, and was allowed to go out on fine days by herself, though never without permission, in case she should be overtaken by a sudden storm. The doctor made a study of the weather day by day, and was able to foretell it to a certain extent. Sometimes, on a day which looked to Marjory to be quite fine, he would forbid her going on the loch, and she would find that he had been right.
The days were not long enough for all the delights the girls would have crowded into them. Marjory always remembered the first Sunday after her meeting with the Foresters. It came round in due course, and she did not greet it with much pleasure at first.
First of all came clean clothes, and amongst them a stiffly-starched petticoat. This was one of Marjory's pet aversions. It crackled as she walked and made her feel self-conscious. Then there was the best frock to be put on, which always seemed several degrees tighter than the everyday ones. Then came breakfast, an hour later on Sundays, to distinguish it from week days. Another distinguishing mark was the absence of the usual porridge and the presence of a plate of drop scones, a favourite dainty of Marjory's which Lisbeth always made for Sunday.
Dr. Hunter always devoted himself to his niece on Sunday mornings. He did not usually have much to say at breakfast during the week, but on Sundays he always made a point of inquiring about her doings, her garden, her pets, her sewing, and anything else he could think of. He always came down in his black clothes, and they had a slight odour of camphor, which the careful Lisbeth used to preserve them from moths. Marjory ever afterwards associated the smell of camphor with Sunday mornings at Hunters' Brae. The doctor, like Marjory, never wore his best clothes unless he felt absolutely obliged to, and sometimes for months together they only came out once a week. There was camphor in Marjory's wardrobe too, but she was careful to keep as many bags of lavender as she could amongst her clothes, to fight the camphor, as she told Lisbeth; and on the whole the lavender had the best of it.
Seated at the breakfast-table, Marjory always knew what was coming. As soon as they each had a cup of coffee and something to eat, the doctor would say, "Well, Marjory, how's things?"
It was always the same question, and it usually received the same answer. Marjory would feel very shy and awkward, and say, "All right, thank you," and nothing more. She never could think of anything that she felt would be interesting to her uncle. Week after week she would resolve to try to be less awkward, but when the time came it was usually only by a long list of questions that her uncle could get any information from her. On this particular Sunday morning she sat waiting for the inevitable question. It soon came. "Well, Marjory, how's things?"
Marjory made a valiant effort, and at last she gave her uncle a different reply. She looked up and said, "Better, thank you, uncle."
"Better, eh?" he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "That's good, if better can be good!"
"Everything's so different since Blanche came," Marjory went on, "and now that I'm going to have real lessons."
"It certainly has been an exciting week for you. First you quarrelled with that frizzle-pated Smylie girl, then with your old good-for-nothing of an uncle, then you met Blanche, then you made up your quarrels, Blanche came here, you went there, and so on." And the doctor smiled.
Marjory answered the smile, thinking how nice her uncle looked when he smiled, and wishing that he would do it oftener.
The smile was simply a response to her own effort in trying to understand her uncle better. She had been blaming him for his seeming indifference to her, when in reality she herself had been very much at fault. Of late the doctor had begun to feel that it was no use trying to win Marjory's confidence, she seemed to keep herself so aloof from him; but since she had faced him in the study, first like a little fury demanding to be sent to school, then pale and trembling, asking for his pardon, he had felt that he knew something more of the real Marjory, and he, too, had determined to try to preserve this better understanding.
Soon after breakfast they started off to church. It was a walk of about a mile, and Marjory and the doctor always went together. Silky always knew when Sunday came round. He would sit quite still by the gate and watch them with serious, longing eyes, but he never offered to accompany them. He made it a rule, however, to go to meet them on the way back. He always sat waiting by a certain milestone, and as soon as they turned the bend of the road beyond it, he would go bounding towards them, frisking and wagging his tail, and barking excitedly.
The walks to church were not altogether pleasant ones for Marjory, as a rule. Her best clothes were always rather a worry to her, and she was obliged to wear gloves. Lisbeth was in the habit of seeing them start off. She took great pride in the doctor's appearance on the "Sawbath," and surveyed him critically from the crown of his shining silk hat to the sole of his well-polished boots. She never failed to set Marjory's hat straight, to give sundry little pats to her frock, and to what she called "sort" her hair. Marjory wore it in a plait all the week, but on Sunday it was allowed to hang at its will, and Lisbeth loved to see the wavy black mass which reached to the girl's waist, though she would not for worlds have told Marjory so, in case it might encourage her in the sin of vanity!
Another bugbear of Marjory's was the little bag which Lisbeth always insisted upon her carrying. Everybody had a bag for their books, she said, so Marjory must have one too; and Sunday after Sunday in they went, with a clean handkerchief and, it must be confessed, a sweetie. These sweeties were kept in a bottle in the study, of all places. It was never allowed to get empty, and Marjory often wondered if the doctor took them to church too. There was a certain moment, when the congregation was settling itself to listen to the sermon and there was a general rustling of clothes and clattering of feet, when the sweetie found its way to Marjory's mouth. She would begin by determining to make it last as long as the sermon, but, alas! it would become thinner and thinner, and finally disappear altogether before Mr. Mackenzie had got to "thirdly."
Besides the drawbacks of the best clothes and the bag there were usually many admonitions from her uncle, such as, "Marjory, turn out your toes. Hold up your head, child. Turn out your toes, I say," or, "O Marjory, do not swing that bag"—all very necessary, no doubt, but they had the effect of making the girl self-conscious. Thinking about her head, she would forget about her toes, and vice versâ, and her uncle would be apt to think that it was obstinacy on her part and to tell her so, and then there would be sullen silence till the church door was reached. But to-day it was not so. Half-way to church they joined the Foresters, and Marjory and Blanche walked together behind their elders, so that their deportment could not be criticised.
Blanche gave Marjory the cheerful news that as there was to be a children's service in the afternoon, Mrs. Forester was going to beg for Marjory to be let off writing the morning sermon if she wrote the afternoon one instead.
"I don't suppose uncle will say yes, though," objected Marjory.
"Oh yes, he will; people always do to mother."
"How different it would be!" sighed Marjory. "I'm sure I could understand it better if I didn't have to keep thinking about writing it out."
"And mother's going to ask Dr. Hunter to come to tea, and you will come home from church with us. Won't it be nice?"
"Yes; but I don't believe he will let me." Blanche's face clouded. "Oh," she said, disappointment in her tone, "why not?"
"I've never been out anywhere on Sunday."
"But this is different—it isn't like going to a party; and we have such nice Sundays, and I do want you to come. I love Sundays, and I always look forward to them; don't you?"
"No," replied Marjory candidly, "not much."
Blanche looked sympathetically at her friend.
"Well, of course yours don't seem to be quite so nice as ours; but you'll see they'll be different now."
Blanche was right. Mrs. Forester won the day, and to Marjory's intense satisfaction, as they went in at the churchyard gate her uncle told her that she need not write the morning sermon if she would do the afternoon one, and that she was to be allowed to go to tea at Braeside after the service.
The Heathermuir church was an old one; its pews were of the straight, high-backed kind, and once inside them their occupants could see little of their surroundings except the minister, whose desk was raised above the level of the floor. With no temptations to look about her, and relieved of her weekly task, Marjory gave her whole attention to Mr. Mackenzie, trying to understand his meaning instead of mechanically taxing her memory, parrot-like, with his words. She watched the noble old face with its lines of kindliness and patience, the eyes now liquid with pity for the sorrowful wrongdoer, now flashing with indignation as he spoke of the unrepentant and the careless, then softening again as he expressed the hope that their hearts might be touched, and the belief that they too would win forgiveness from a loving Father.
Parts of the sermon were not to be understood by a child such as Marjory—it was addressed to men and women—yet her eyes never left the preacher's face, the sweetie had been quite forgotten, and she carried away with her a mind-picture of a Being full of love, sorry when His children do wrong, just in His punishments, but all-forgiving when they are truly repentant and try to make amends.
In the afternoon Marjory sat in the Braeside pew with Mrs. Forester and Blanche. Again the preacher's theme was love—"the greatest thing in the world"—love to the Creator, and, through it, love to all His creatures great and small. The old man told how love can smooth rough places, can right wrong, can win battles; how love and kindness attract love and kindness in return, and how a loving thought, word, or action is never lost. The words she heard that day sank deeply into Marjory's mind. They were full of hope and encouragement for all, and she felt something of that spirit which prompted the poet to sing so joyously,—
"God's in His heaven; all's right with the world."
Service over, they walked back to Braeside. It was a pretty walk across a bit of moorland, through the heather and bracken, here and there a moss-grown rock, here and there across the path a tiny trickling stream with stepping-stones.
"Did you have to ask the doctor very hard to make him let Marjory come, mother?" asked Blanche as they walked along.
"Not very hard," replied her mother, smiling. "I explained to him that we always keep our Sundays quietly, enjoying the day of rest, but that at the same time we like it to be bright and happy; and when I told him that the pleasure of our friends' company would greatly add to the brightness and happiness, he said 'yes' for Marjory, and promised to come himself."
When they arrived at Braeside they found the doctor already there. Mr. Forester and he had established themselves under a shady tree on the lawn, both looking the picture of comfort, smoking their pipes, and talking together like old friends.
Marjory felt almost bewildered by the turn things had taken. Truly they were different, both for herself and for her uncle.
Tea was brought into the garden, and they all had it together, the girls waiting upon their elders. It was all so peaceful and happy that Marjory found it hard to tear herself away when the time came, but she consoled herself with the thought that there was to-morrow to look forward to now. Hitherto she had always disliked Monday. It was the day for the washing to be counted, for one thing, and Lisbeth was always rather flustered in consequence, although the counting of it was all she had to do, as a woman from the village came to do the actual washing. Then there was the sermon to write and her wardrobe and drawers to tidy. Lisbeth was very strict about the tidying. All these things gave Monday an atmosphere prosaic in the extreme in Marjory's opinion. Now it would be different; she could look forward to it because there would be Blanche to compare notes with. She would make haste and finish her duties, and then they could go off into the woods or on to the moor, as free as air, and with no one to interfere with them. She went to bed full of these plans, and feeling her heart overflowing with gratitude to the great and loving Father who had given her such happiness.