Читать книгу Marjorie's Canadian Winter -- A Story of the Northern Lights - Agnes Maule Machar - Страница 5

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A few days after that Marjorie brought in her father’s letters to the sitting-room, where he had begun to write again, though he was not as yet allowed to leave the house. One of the letters bore a Canadian postage stamp, and the postmark of Montreal, and was addressed in the well-known flowing handwriting of her aunt, Mrs. Ramsay. Another was addressed in her Aunt Millie’s familiar hand, and Marjorie carried them in with eager expectation, for such letters were generally common property. But instead of reading them to her at once, as he usually did, Mr. Fleming merely opened them eagerly, and after a hasty glance over their contents, resumed his writing.

“Well, father dear,” said Marjorie, in a disappointed tone, “aren’t you going to tell me what Aunt Millie says? May I read her letter?”

“Not just now, dear,” he replied, and Marjorie noticed that his hand was trembling a little; “you shall read both letters in the evening, when I have time to talk to you about them. But I can’t do that just now.”

Marjorie went off to school, feeling a little hurt, and wondering why her father couldn’t at least have let her read her dear Aunt Millie’s letter, when he knew how eager she always was to hear from her. However, she knew her father always had a good reason for anything that seemed strange to her, so she trusted him now. But the day seemed a long one, and after school she made haste to learn her lessons before tea, so that after tea she might be ready as soon as her father was at leisure.

He did not write or study in the evenings yet, and when Marjorie sat down beside him, and told him that her lessons were over, he seemed quite ready for their talk.

“I have a great deal to talk to you about, my child,” he said, throwing his arm lovingly about her, “and the sooner I begin the better—now, I didn’t want you to read those letters this morning, because I wanted to tell you first what they were about, and I didn’t feel ready to do it then. Marjorie darling, your Aunt Mary most kindly invites you to come and spend the winter with her in Montreal.”

“But, father dear, I couldn’t go away and leave you,” exclaimed Marjorie in bewilderment.

“My dear child, I am afraid that I must go and leave you—for a while,” he said sadly. “No, don’t be frightened, dear; the doctor thinks I am getting on nicely; but I have had a severe shake, and he thinks it would not be prudent for me to risk staying here through the winter. He strongly recommends me to go South, and your Aunt Millie is most anxious that I should go to her, for part of the winter, at any rate. Mr. Fulton and I have been talking the matter over, and he too endorses the doctor’s advice. I can still carry on some of my work in connection with the office, even there. And as I shall probably take a voyage among the West India Islands, I can write some articles that will be of use both to the office and to myself. I should have liked very much to take you with me, dear; but there are several reasons against that, besides the additional expense. It would be a serious interruption to your studies just now, and you would find it very hard to settle down after it. Then your Aunt Mary has always been anxious to see more of you, and that you should get to know your cousins, and I know it will be much the best thing for you to be under her care for a while. It will be the next thing to having your own mother, dear.”

Marjorie had listened without a word, so far too much stunned by all these unexpected announcements to say a word. She could scarcely realize at first, all that such a plan involved. But as it gradually dawned upon her that a long separation from her father was really inevitable, her head sank down on his shoulder and a burst of tears came to her relief.

“Don’t suppose it isn’t hard for me, too, darling,” said Mr. Fleming, tenderly stroking her hair. “But I am older than you, and have had more experience in submitting to what must be; and then a few months don’t seem so long to me to look forward, as when I was your age. But I am quite sure you’ll have a very happy winter and that you’ll soon learn to love your aunt and cousins, and my dear old friend Ramsay.”

And then he went on to tell her stories of things that had happened when they were at college together, showing his friend’s goodness and kindness of heart, and also his love of fun, and before long Marjorie had almost forgotten her first broken-hearted feeling, and was smiling over her father’s narrative of his own bewilderment when he first woke up to the fact that Ramsay actually preferred his sister Mary’s society to his own!

“I can tell you, Marjorie,” he said, “it was one of the severest snubs I ever got in my life, and how old Ramsay did enjoy it; and Mary, too, after she got rid of her first shyness.”

Mr. Fleming and Marjorie talked a long time over all the arrangements that had to be considered. He had a good opportunity for letting his house furnished for a year, and as he and Marjorie always spent part of the summer in some quiet country quarters, he thought it best to avail himself of the chance. Rebecca would remain in the house to look after things, and could get on very well with the old gentleman and his wife who were to take the house. And Mr. Fulton had a friend who was going to Montreal, and who could be Marjorie’s escort, so that her aunt need not take the long journey, as she had offered to do, in order to take Marjorie North.

“But Robin, father!” said Marjorie, suddenly looking down at the shaggy little terrier. “We can’t leave poor Robin in the house. He would break his heart.”

“Oh! that reminds me that you haven’t read your Aunt Mary’s letter yet. I told her about Robin, and how unwilling I knew you would be to leave him behind—as she would have been herself indeed. And she says: ‘By all means let Marjorie bring “Robin Adair.” He will find a warm welcome from all the family, including our big, good-natured Nero, who will patronize him with the greatest satisfaction.’ Now read the letter for yourself, and see if you don’t think you will love your Aunt Mary just as much as your Aunt Millie, when you come to know her as well.”

So Marjorie sat down to read her aunt’s letter in which, after expressing the pleasure with which she would receive her niece, she went on to predict how much Marjorie would enjoy the novel experience of a Canadian winter, the sleighing, tobogganing, snow-shoeing, and last, not least, the wonderful sights of the winter carnival. “The children are wild about outdoor sports,” she said, “and I am sure the exercise and fun will be very good for Marjorie, for when I saw her I thought that, like yourself, she read and studied too much, and lived too dreamy and solitary a life.”

Mrs. Ramsay had paid her brother a short visit, on the occasion of their youngest sister’s marriage, and Marjorie could not but be attracted by her motherly manner and genuine kindliness. She was her father’s “common-sense sister,” as he used to call her, and he had frequently told her how her happy tranquillity of disposition had often been a true solace in his youthful troubles. He knew that the influence of her calm, bright Christianity and active, practical life would be very good for his impulsive and rather dreamy Marjorie, and this more than half reconciled him to the parting which he dreaded almost as much as she did. And it was pleasant, also, to think that his friend Ramsay should know and love his little girl, of whom he was secretly very proud, and whom he knew his old classmate would appreciate.

The next few days were very busy ones. Dr. Stone was anxious to get his patient off just as soon as possible, and there were many preparations to be made. Rebecca, who at first almost cried her eyes out at losing “the master and Miss Marjorie, not to mention poor little Robin,” yet was glad to stay by the old house, was almost buried in the boxes she was packing, and the garments she was sorting and putting to rights. Marjorie and she made a careful inventory of the contents of the house, a task which made Marjorie feel herself of much use, as she carefully wrote down her list in a neat memorandum book. Mr. Fleming went into the city when the weather was fine enough, and made his arrangements at the office and elsewhere. One of his pleasantest errands was to leave Marjorie’s half-eagle—neatly put up as it had been planned—in the hands of the “angel” he had met on that November day, when his illness had begun. She looked ill, herself, and Mr. Fleming felt sure that the little gift of money would be a real boon to her, if she would only use it in procuring comforts for herself. But he could not charge her to do this, for he merely performed the part of a messenger, only saying to her that he had been asked to hand her the package, and then at once coming away without waiting for questions.

Mr. Fleming’s own papers had all to be arranged and put away, and very soon the house began to wear the strange and comfortless look characteristic of a transition period, and the disappearance of the things that most mark the individuality of the inhabitants.

At length, the last evening had come, and Rebecca with very red eyes, had carried away the tea-tray for the last time. The fire burning brightly, alone seemed unchanged, but the room otherwise looked very bare and formal. Even Robin seemed to feel the difference, and watched Marjorie and her father with a wistful expression, as if he wanted very much to know what could be the matter. All the preparations were made and the boxes packed, for both travelers were to start on the morrow, within an hour or two of each other. Marjorie sat down on her low chair by the fire with some sewing, glad to have something to do as an outlet for her restlessness. She was trying to finish—before leaving—one of the flannel garments she had undertaken to make for the Dorcas Society.

“You’ve been sadly interrupted in your good intentions, dear,” said her father, smiling at her determination to finish her work at the last moment.

“Yes, papa. Oh! doesn’t it seem a long time since that evening you read me the ‘Northern Lights’!” she exclaimed. “But Rebecca says she’ll do the rest, and it’ll be all the same to the Dorcas. If I’d only known we were going away, I might have worked more when you were ill, but somehow I couldn’t settle down then.”

“No, dear; you have hardly learned that amount of self-control yet. But you are going to be a brave girl to-morrow, are you not? You won’t make it harder to part with you?”

Marjorie shook her head, but her lips quivered, and her father hastened to less dangerous ground.

“I hope, my child, you will try to feel as if your cousins were brothers and sisters. I am sure they will want to be good to you.”

“Yes, father, but I hope they don’t hate Americans.”

“Why, Marjorie, what put that into your head?”

“Well, you know, father,” said Marjorie, “that little girl we met at the Glen House last summer? She came from Montreal, and her name was Ada West.”

“A pretty, fair-haired little damsel, very vain and silly? Yes, I remember her; rather a spoilt child, I imagine,” replied Mr. Fleming.

“Well, she always used to say she hated Americans, and their ways; and that she never wanted to have anything to do with them.”

“Why! she seemed to have quite a fancy for you, notwithstanding.”

“Oh! she insisted that I wasn’t really an American—she called it ‘Yankee.’ But I told her I was a real American, and that my mother’s great, great, great-grandfather came over in the Mayflower, and that my grandfather died fighting in the war, and that I was proud of being an American, and never wanted to be anything else.”

“Well, dear, I want you to love your native country and believe in it. And you know I am a naturalized American and love your mother’s country as much as my own Scotland. But where did we all come from in the first place?—your great, great, great-grandfather as well as your father? But there is no reason why the children of the same mother should hate each other, because they live on different sides of a river, or because some have been longer in America than others. I don’t suppose Miss Ada knew what the Mayflower was.”

“No, she said she didn’t know, and didn’t care.”

“Yes, I thought so. These violent dislikes and prejudices are generally signs of thoughtless ignorance. And the rich, self-indulgent people one is apt to meet at such places are not the best people to take as specimens of any country. People often make this mistake about Americans. But your cousins are not like that, I know very well. Your Uncle Ramsay has too big and noble a heart to allow such prejudices in his family. How well I remember how he and I used to hurry down Princes Street in the mornings, to get the latest news of the American War, when we were Edinburgh students, and the battles he helped me to fight with the fellows who were so down on the North then; and the beautiful letter he wrote me when he heard that I was going to marry the daughter of a true, brave patriot who had fallen in that terrible yet heroic war—heroic on both sides, as every one can afford to admit now.”

Marjorie’s eyes glistened, for she had always been proud of this unknown soldier-grandfather; indeed she was, perhaps, privately guilty of a little ancestor worship.

“But remember, Marjorie, no one can truly love his country, who hates any other.”

Marjorie looked surprised, and inclined to question this strange proposition.

“I know some people call it loving their country, when they abuse and attack others,” continued Mr. Fleming, “but it is really only loving themselves. They love their country just because it is something that belongs to them, and when they lose their selfish interest in it, they soon show how deep is their love. You have read Coriolanus. Do you remember how when his pride and self-love were wounded, he turned against the country he had been so proud to serve—

“‘No more infected with my country’s love’—

and was only prevented by the entreaties of his wife and mother from destroying it? So Americans used to boast of their country; but when opposition of interest and opinion arose, they split into two parts, each for a time hating the other more than they could a foreign enemy. No, Marjorie! true love never hates, any more than heat can suddenly turn to cold. It must go on loving, though human love must grow less intense as it goes farther from home. And true patriotism, in seeking the real good of its country, must seek the good of all others, too. Even an old heathen poet could write the noble line:

“‘I am a man, and I hold nothing human as foreign to me.’

“And my country’s poet has sung, more sweetly still:

“‘Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will, for a’ that,

That man to man, the world o’er,

Shall brothers be an’ a’ that.’

That is true patriotism and true cosmopolitanism or, rather—for that is a very long word—true brotherhood.”

“Why, I never thought of that before,” said Marjorie, thoughtfully.

“No, dear, you could hardly be expected to have thought yet, of all the things we older folks have had time to think about. But don’t forget it, dear. It may save you from getting into silly and vulgar and unchristian disputes. And, Marjorie, one thing more let me say. The root of true brotherhood is, to know and love our Heavenly Father. If we do that, we can’t hate any of his children. One of the things that has taught me to know him, was my growing, deepening love for you! I came to feel that that love could only come from the source of all love, as of all life. Marjorie, whatever you do, let no one make you believe anything but that God is Love; and, just because he is Love, seeking to save us from sin, our worst enemy, but always loving us with a tender, faithful, untiring love, infinitely more tender than any human love, which can only faintly reflect his.”

“Yes, father dear,” said Marjorie. “I’ll always remember that when I think of you.”

“And remember too, darling, that no part of your life should be lived apart from God. People divide life far too much into ‘religious’ and ‘secular’ things. But our life touches God at all points, and must do so save in wrong. In your lessons and daily interests, yes, even in your amusements, you come in contact with things that are God’s, and can live always in the sense of his presence, if you seek to do so. When you have not me to come to, take all your troubles and difficulties to your Heavenly Father. If you can’t do that, be sure there is something wrong, and go to him to set it right. This will save you from many mistakes and much unhappiness, and will show you that the true nobility and beauty of life lies in living it as seeing him who is invisible. I don’t want your path to him to be so long and thorny as mine has been. And remember too, that we know him best in the tenderness and truth—the ever present love of him who was ‘bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh’; our Elder Brother.

“You know those lines from my dear old Whittier, that I have read to you sometimes:

“‘That all our weakness, pain and doubt

A great compassion clasps about.’

And these others, from his ‘Miriam,’ that I have learned to say from my own heart:

“‘We search the world for truth; we cull

The good, the true, the beautiful,

From graven stone and written scroll,

From all old flowerfields of the soul;

And, weary seekers of the best,

We come back laden from our quest,

To find that all the sages said

Is in the Book our mothers read,

And all our treasures of old thought

In his harmonious fullness wrought

Who gathers in one sheaf complete

The scattered blades of God’s sown wheat,

The common growth that maketh good

His all-embracing Fatherhood.’

“As you grow older you’ll understand that better, and love the lines, as I do, for their own sake. And now, my dear child, it’s getting late, and we have to be up early. So now we won’t say another word but good-night.”

There was a long, fervent embrace, and then they parted, trying not to think how long it would be before they could say “good-night” again.