The heiress of McGregor

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Uncle Alick had taken occasion to abstract Marion's favourite volume from the Sunday school library, together with several others which did not meet with his approbation. Marion however, had gained possession of it and read it again and again, and the more she read it, the more resemblance she saw between the heroine and herself. Maria, the heroine, was brought up in the country by an uncongenial aunt and uncle, who wanted her to work—so was she. Maria had aspirations with which nobody sympathized, and longed to make for herself a career, and to accomplish some grand work for humanity—so did she. She spent hours in dreaming over this great work, which was sometimes the founding of a sisterhood, sometimes of a hospital, sometimes the writing of a book which should take then world by storm, but always something which should redound to the praise and glory of Marion McGregor.

There was one point, however, in which Marion could not bring herself to sympathize with her favourite heroine. Maria, in casting away the restraints and duties of her home, had also cast behind her, as the author expressed it, "the restraints and trammels of that narrow and oppressive theology in which she had been brought up."

Marion could not have done this, even if she had wished; and, to do her justice, she did not wish it. She had been religiously educated, and she was punctual in fulfilling certain religious duties. At times, indeed, she thought herself decidedly a Christian, because she had strong religious emotions; because her feelings were touched by some tale of self-sacrificing godliness, or her taste gratified by some fine sermon or piece of sacred poetry. She had a vague longing for something that she called "the higher life," because she had read the phrase in some book which pleased her, but she couldn't in the least define what she meant or wanted. But she was not willing to own even to herself that most of her life had been a mistake, that she had failed and was failing in almost everything. She would not own to herself, much less to her aunt and Miss Oliver, that she had been idle, selfish, and discontented; that she had made false excuses, and taken dishonest ways of helping herself out when her lessons were not learned or her exercises were not ready. She could not bring herself to own that she habitually disregarded the comfort and the feelings of others, while she expected everybody to consider her own. Above all, she could not bear to give up her darling day-dreams of wealth, splendour, and distinction. She would not take up the cross, and therefore she could not be a disciple. But she always hoped that a time would come when, as she said, "her hindrances would be removed," and it would be easy for her to become out and out a Christian. In the mean time her prayers and her Bible-readings kept her from drifting utterly away, and at least stored her memory with seeds of truth which might some time or other blossom and bear fruit.

Marion, as I said, was walking home from school in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. She had been kept after school, but only for a few minutes, while Miss Oliver kindly and sadly but forcibly warned her that unless the next three weeks showed a very decided amendment, her name must be erased from the roll of the Crocker school. Miss Oliver had not wasted many words.

"I shall not lecture you, Marion. I know that you dislike it and that it is utterly useless. You know your duty without my telling you. You know that you are wasting your time and opportunities, misusing your talents and injuring the school by your bad example. No words would make that any plainer to you than it is now, and I shall therefore spare my time and yours. You had no right to expect another warning but, because I love you and respect your family I give it you. You cannot honestly say that I have ever been unjust to you or that I have not given you every chance. I have bestowed as much labour on you as on any girl in the school, but I see that it is thrown away, and I cannot afford to throw it away any longer."

Miss Oliver's manner was not only serious but solemn, and Marion's heart was touched and her conscience stirred in spite of herself. She knew that Miss Oliver spoke only truth, and for a moment she thought she would say she was sorry and promise to do better; but she did not. While she was hesitating, Miss Oliver was called away and the chance was lost for ever.

"It is just as well," said Marion to herself. "Very likely she would say she didn't want any professions or something else like that, and besides I don't really believe she would dare turn me out, when Uncle Alick is one of the trustees. But I do mean to do better. I have been behindhand this week, that's a fact. Even Jane Dryer has got above me. Oh, dear! How I do wish I could get away from it all and begin new! Things have got so wrong that they will never come right. If I could begin in a new place, I know I should do better, but there is no use in it here where everything would be remembered against me."

As Marion came to the turn in the valley I have spoken of before, she met Therese and Kitty. Therese's face wore more of its old joyous expression than it had done since the day she discovered her mother's absence, and she and Kitty were chattering volubly in French.

"They think she has so much feeling," said Marion to herself. "I don't believe Aunt Christian would think so if she were to see her now."

"Oh, Marion, I was coming to meet you," said Therese, breaking off her conversation as she caught sight of Marion. "There is a letter for you at home. It came with one to Miss Baby, and I think it is from your father-in-law or your mother, because there is a written post-mark on the outside."