“No, Jane had no desire for preserved plums; she only wanted to die; it was a cruel world, and she didn’t care, for her part, how soon she was out of it. Everybody was set against her. Mary did nothing but find fault, and as for Edward Clark—well, of course, some one would be slandering her to him next. The missionary himself might do it—ministers always must be meddling with other people’s business. She shouldn’t be surprised if Clark were even to believe that she didn’t care for him, but was disappointed that Captain Butler had demeaned himself into marrying that little good-for-nothing squaw, who had been chasing after him so long. In fact, such was her own opinion of human nature—she shouldn’t be astonished at anything, not even if the missionary, who had more silver on his head than he would ever get into his pocket, should fall in love with Mary.”
At this, Grandma was horrified. How could Jane think of anything so dreadful?—but then, poor child, she was out of temper, and said whatever came uppermost—of course, it meant nothing, and Jane must not think she was scolding again—nothing of the sort.
But Jane did think grandma was scolding. Perhaps it was right that she, a poor orphan, who had only one dear grandmother in the wide, wide world should have that grandmother set against her. This was her destiny, she supposed, and submission was her duty; she only hoped nobody would be sorry for it after she was dead and gone, that was all.
How long Jane Derwent might have kept up this state of martyrdom it is difficult to say, but just as she was indulging in another outbreak of sorrowful self-compassion, Mary came up from the cove, looking pale and concerned. She had been to call the missionary to breakfast, and found him bailing out his canoe, ready to start from the island. He had spoken few words in leaving, but the hands which touched her forehead, as he blessed her, were cold as ice. She felt the chill of that benediction, holy as it was, at her heart yet; the sorrow upon her face startled Jane into a little natural feeling. She forgot to torment that kind old woman, and condescended to approach the breakfast table without more tears.
“Where is the minister?—why don’t he come to breakfast?” inquired Mrs. Derwent, looking ruefully at the crisp little pile of potatoes left in the frying-pan. “I’ve had the table sot out a hull hour, and now everything is done to death. I wonder what on earth has come over you all!”
“The minister has gone away,” answered Mary, and the tears welled into her eyes as she spoke.
“Gone away! marcy on us! and without a mouthful of breakfast. Why, gals! what have you been a-doing to him? He ain’t mad nor nothing, is he?”
Mary smiled through her tears. The very idea of petty anger connected with the missionary seemed strange to her.
“Oh, grandma, he is never angry,” she said; “but he seems anxious and troubled about something.”
“Worried to death by them Injuns, I dare say,” muttered the granddame, with a shake of the head that made her cap-borders tremble around the withered face. “They’ll scalp him one of these days, for all the pains he takes.”