Chapter VI: The Music Teacher

THE triumphant death of the eldest daughter was followed by marked religious improvement in the family. Both Mr. and Mrs. Asbury publicly confessed their faith in Christ. The family altar was erected with this inscription, "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."

Marion, too, received a new impetus in her chosen work,—the work of a soul-winner.

"I want to be a missionary," was her reply to her uncle, when he was urging her to remain permanently in his family. "I have already begun to make many projects for the poor in New York City."

"But, Marion, you are too young, too attractive, to go alone among the poor."

"Don't say too attractive, uncle. I want to be as attractive as possible. Understand me," she added, laughing, with a visible heightening of color, "I want to be loved and trusted; and I thank God that I am—am not repulsive in appearance. Too young I certainly am to go alone; and that is why I have kept dear old Hepsey. Aunty thinks me obstinate, incorrigible, because I don't dismiss the poor old creature, as she calls her, and have a fashionable French maid. Dear aunty! I'm afraid she would think me a fit subject for the lunatic asylum if she knew where Hepsey and I go."

"I'm afraid, Marion, that I shall have to agree with Mrs. Williamson that you are a little wilful. Put yourself in my place, and ask yourself whether it would be right for me to consent to your going into those infected regions in New York. You might catch small-pox, or cholera, or something dreadful."

She caught his arm, and gave it a loving squeeze, then with an arch glance in his face, exclaimed, "You ought to praise me for telling you all this. I have never told Uncle nor Aunt Williamson. But seriously, uncle, I haven't a particle of fear. The sanitary arrangements in a city like New York are excellent. I love life too well, and I have too great a work in it to put myself in danger. Besides, I have the earnest approval of dear Helen. I talked with her more freely than I ever did with any one, and she, standing on the border land between this life and the next, with Heaven's own light on her, said,—

"'Go on, Marion. Yours is a blessed work. God will protect you in it.' Oh, how that benediction has encouraged me!"

What could Mr. Asbury answer to such pleading?

And so Marion had gone on, from step to step, till Mr. Williamson was fain to resign his ward to other and firmer hands. Her aunt, having exhausted all the adjectives in her denunciations, and having informed her thousand and one friends that her niece was a bigoted fanatic, who, if permitted, would convert their house into an asylum for paupers, coolly turned her back upon her, entirely ignoring her existence.

In consequence of all this, Marion's twenty-first birthday found her in apartments of her own, with Hepsey for her confidential adviser; not satisfied, as her aunt explained, with a life of luxurious refinement, such as befitted her wealth and position in society, but actually engaged as music teacher in Madame La Vergne's institute.

This last step, indeed, had been earnestly protested against by her Uncle Asbury, and she was obliged to bring all her powers of coaxing, arguing, and pleading to bear upon him before he would yield a reluctant consent.

"These young girls are just entering life," was her concluding plea, "without either chart or compass to guide them. They will by and by exert a powerful influence either for good or evil. In no other way can I so readily gain an influence over them. If I can win only one of them to higher aims in life, will it not be worth the effort?"

Even Mrs. Asbury expostulated with her niece. "You are free," she urged, "to go into any society you please, and you surely can find young ladies quite as much in need of good influences as those connected with Madame La Vergne's school. You will, when too late, perhaps, find it very irksome to be confined to certain hours."

"Now aunty, dear, don't you turn against me. I have thought so much of this plan, and my conscience approves, but I want your approval also. Well, I may as well confess it; there are certain reasons why I want to influence these particular girls, two of whom are in danger. They were my pets when I was their schoolmate, and think I have already gained their confidence."

"After all that is said," resumed Mr. Asbury "you have power to do as you please. You are absolutely your own mistress, with an independent fortune, but—"

Marion drew up her queenly form and for an instant looked seriously displeased, but quickly recovering herself, said, "I'm sure, uncle, you do not mean to hurt me. You and aunty are all I have who really and truly love me, so if you positively refuse your consent to my devoting a few hours in a day to an employment which is congenial to me, with the hope of being useful to two motherless girls, I will relinquish my project."

Mr. and Mrs. Asbury glanced at each other as Marion quietly left the room, when with a laugh the gentleman said,—

"What a way the girl has of carrying all before her. She must try her plan, I suppose. I wonder who those two girls are."

And Marion did try it. How well she succeeded in her efforts for their good will be revealed in the pages of our book. Her life was a busy one. Often, when she retired to rest, both body and brain were weary, and yet she was very happy. In her own home she tended her flowers and fed her birds with a song on her lips. She met her friends with a smile so sweet, joyous, and free from care that they envied her. Naturally, she was overflowing with fun; indeed, her vivacity, her quickness at repartee, made her the life of any circle, and her company, while she resided with her uncle, was sought by the young of both sexes.

It was not her intention to exclude herself wholly from society, but she was resolute in her determination not to become a slave to fashion, the degrading effects of such slavery having, even at her age, been forced on her notice.

"I never saw any one who enjoyed life more than Miss Howard," was the remark of an old gentleman, after watching her at a musical party. She was surrounded by a group of young people to whom she was relating a story, the arch expression on her face bringing into play all her dimples. Gradually one and another, some advanced in life, drew nearer, eager to share in the enjoyment. Perceiving this, Marion skilfully drew her story to a close, and engaged others in conversation, asking questions, and showing herself so anxious to please that a half-hour passed most delightfully.

"Singular being," muttered Mr. Lambert, an irascible old man who had been introduced to her. "Not a word of scandal, thirty-five minutes, and no gossip. Pshaw! Fact, no talk about religion either. A strange fanatic that."

Stranger still, perhaps, that the old man persistently lingered in the neighborhood of Miss Howard, leaning forward to catch every word, drinking in the musical ripple of laughter, which Marion's friends used to call one of her greatest charms, watching the pure, fresh countenance, the merry, earnest eyes, until the ice about his heart began to thaw. When they parted, to no one's surprise more than to his own, he extended his hand, and gave hers a warm pressure as he said,—

"I am glad that I have met one who has no trouble."

"I am an orphan," responded Marion, tears suddenly dimming her eyes, "but I have a dear Father who is so very good to me."

"You do love life then, even though your parents have left you."

There was a touch of sarcasm in his voice which made her pity him.

"Oh, yes; I am very happy to be alive. There is so much to be done. I envy nothing so much as the leisure hours some do not know what to do with. Yes, it is good to live."

"What can you find to employ other people's leisure beside your own?"

She gave one quick, earnest glance into his face, paused a moment, and then answered,—

"I try to make others happy."

She was turning away when he caught her hand, and with a strange twitching around his mouth, said,—

"You seem to be in earnest. I, who doubt every one, find it hard to doubt you. If you mean that you try to help the poor, you will find it a thankless task. It doesn't pay." There was intense bitterness in his tone.

"But, my dear sir, that is because you go to the wrong paymaster. He has promised that even a cup of cold water given for His sake shall receive its reward."

"Poor man! Doubting every one, endured only for the sake of your money; how I pity you," was Marion's reflection, as she drove swiftly with Hepsey beside her. "I wish I could give you a lesson in true happiness. I'll try!"