"She is a brave woman," the doctor said to himself that night in his study; but Margaret was quite unconscious that his opinion of her had been raised instead of lowered, by the occurrences of the picnic party at the Glen.
CHAPTER XV.
A CHANGE.
This little mortification—and it really was one to Margaret's high spirit, owing to her anxiety to stand well in Dr. James's opinion—should have been a lesson to her to give up contradicting him, and opposing her own will to his, and for a time it was so; and yet that very wish to please, of which she was conscious and ashamed, made her often dispute with and appear to oppose him, when she would have liked to agree and do as he advised.
She began to realize something else, too, that had the effect of making her surround herself, as it were, with an armor of prickles and thorns; so that her intercourse with the doctor was far from peaceful or pleasant. She felt that the work she was doing among the poor was wholly with and for Father Barry; she was helping him, not Dr. James; and this, she felt, was the doing of the latter, and not without a reason. At first, when he had recommended her to take the priest as her adviser, she had felt a cooling of enthusiasm; still, having said she meant to persevere, she would not draw back.
It would have been sweet to her, she knew it now, to help the doctor; to be his friend, confidant, coadjutor; to feel that she was making his labor, which she revered and sympathized with, easier and pleasanter. But he had made that impossible; he had directed her to go to some one else for help, for counsel, for support, while he stood alone as before, and had never again applied to her for assistance for his patients, though she had once or twice asked if she could not relieve them. She understood the pride which prevented him from accepting her money, or placing himself under obligations to her. "He does not like me well enough to let me help him," she said to herself; and she soon abandoned all those efforts to make herself agreeable to him, which at first came so naturally to her.
The picnic lesson, therefore, though by no means forgotten, had ceased to influence her actions; and when the real spring-time came, with mild air, and young, fresh green, as May drew to its close and June was at hand, Margaret had managed to quarrel with Dr. James several times, and had made herself unhappy and him far from comfortable. He began to come less often to his old friend, Miss Spelman's, and to hear less of Margaret's plans and doings.
Miss Selina was much puzzled at the turn things were taking, and yet, when they disputed, she was half the time uncertain whether they were in fun or in earnest; and it did no good to remonstrate with Margaret; for the incomprehensible girl agreed with all she said, and acknowledged the doctor to be perfectly right.
The friendship with Martha Burney continued, however, and at her house Margaret always appeared to the best advantage, even before Dr. James. She seemed to stand somewhat in awe of her older friend, and was desirous to please; and besides, she had made a kind of agreement with herself that when she met the doctor there, she might allow herself to be as pleasant and conciliatory as her inclinations led her to be. She was in a peculiar frame of mind, and this curious compromise can be better described than explained.
In the mean time, old Mr. Burney gradually became more and more feeble; soon he lost his mind to such a degree as not to be able even to recognize his faithful daughter; and at last, early in May, he died. Margaret could not understand how Martha could grieve as she did at his loss; knowing his character and former misdoings, and seeing him a broken-down, witless old man, the daughter's sorrow seemed to her unreasonable; but when Martha talked of him as he was once, when his wife was living, handsome and brave and generous, the idol of those two fond women, it made her think of her own dear and noble father, lying alone in his quiet resting-place in the little Swiss graveyard, and she found she could give the sympathy and comfort which before were impossible.
His death made little apparent difference. Martha, after the funeral, went quietly on with her school duties, till she "could think of something more useful to do," she said; and her little household was as quiet and homely as usual, only, as it seemed to other people, much pleasanter. But Martha said,