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Title: Sophie Kennedy's experience
or, The stepmother
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Engraver: Nathaniel Orr
Illustrator: W. H. Thwaites
Release date: October 31, 2025 [eBook #77161]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: General Protestant Episcopal S. S. Union and Church Book Society, 1856
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOPHIE KENNEDY'S EXPERIENCE ***
Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: "I have nothing to forgive," said Sophie, cordially
taking Carrie's outstretched hand, and kissing her.]
Sophie Kennedy's Experience;
OR
THE STEPMOTHER.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION
AND
Church Book Society
637 BROADWAY.
1856.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by the
GEN. PROT. EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION and CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY,
in the Office of the Clerk of the United States' District Court for
The Southern District of New York.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
PREFACE.
——————
THE following story was written with a view of doing something, if
possible, towards overcoming the prejudice existing in the minds of
children and grown people against Stepmothers. It is the impression
of the writer that that most useful and sorely tried class of women
have hardly received fair play at the hands of authors, from the
times of Cinderella down to the present. No one will deny that it
is a very difficult station. To take at once the whole charge of a
family of children, usually after two or three years of unsettled
habits of indulgence and mismanagement—with an abundance of friends,
relatives, and acquaintances, all watching eagerly the conduct of the
new mamma, and ready to take fire at the first approach to energetic
government,—this is surely enough to tax to the uttermost the
principles and capacity of any woman, particularly when she is young
and inexperienced in the care of children.
It is the serious impression of the Author that about as many
stepmothers err on the side of indulgence as on that of strictness or
severity. Of course, unprincipled and foolish women are to be found
in this class as in every other; and in that case, it is usually hard
to tell which are the greatest sufferers, her own children or her
husband's.
It is the Author's desire that the present little book may make matters
easier for some good women who have assumed the charge of little ones
not their own. She hopes, too, that if it falls into the hands of
any young girl who has a second mother, it may lead her to consider
seriously whether she is not sometimes wanting in the respect and
obedience which her own mother would certainly have exacted. Should it
accomplish either of these ends, the Author's best wishes for it will
be fulfilled.
L. E. G.
ROCHESTER, N. Y., Oct. 10, 1855.
CONTENTS.
——————
CHAPTER
I. SCHOOL NEWS.
II. BETSEY.
III. THE NEW MAMMA.
IV. NEW STUDIES.
V. THE BAD COLD.
VI. THE WORDS OF THE TALE-BEARER.
VII. SOPHIE'S GREAT TROUBLE.
VIII. THE BABY.
IX. GAWKY ANNE.
X. CONCLUSION.
[Illustration: Sophie Kennedy's
EXPERIENCE]
SOPHIE KENNEDY'S
EXPERIENCE.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
SCHOOL NEWS.
IT was recess, and most of the girls in the middle department of Miss
Warner's school were gathered on the steps of the portico, as Laura
Bartlett, who had not been in school the first part of the afternoon,
made her appearance, evidently full of some great piece of information.
Laura was news-carrier in general to the school, and Harriet Reed had
in consequence given her the appellation of the "Daily Gazette." She
was in such a hurry to communicate her tidings that she ran up the
steps without holding up her dress, thereby gaining a serious stumble.
But her ardor was not damped in the least.
"Oh, girls!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "I have heard such a piece of
news. What do you think?"
"I think you have torn your dress nicely," said Harriet Reed.
"What is it, Laura, what is it?" exclaimed three or four voices. "Do
tell us what you mean."
"Guess," answered Laura, feeling herself very important. "You shall
guess, but you will never get at it, I know."
"I shall not try," said Harriet. "You will be sure to tell, if you are
let alone."
Harriet was the oldest of the party, except Greta Carroll. She was
a very sensible and steady girl, and had many good qualities. She
was very witty likewise, and amused herself quite too frequently by
laughing at her companions' faults and failings. Laura's eagerness
for gathering and retailing news was a special subject for Harry's
ridicule, and she often provoked her by refusing to listen to or credit
her stories. She was quite right in this instance, for Laura was too
eager to wait for the guesses of her schoolfellows. Out it came.
"Well—but you must never tell. Don't you think, Mr. Kennedy is going to
be married again—in three weeks!"
"What a wonderful piece of news!" exclaimed Harry Reed. "I heard it
three months ago—to Miss Allston."
"No, indeed, Miss Harry, you are out for once, for it is not Miss
Allston. He is not going to marry Miss Allston at all, but a cousin of
his first wife down in Virginia. So Sophie will have a stepmother."
"Poor little thing! It is too bad! So fond of her mother as she was
too!" said several of the girls at once.
"I wonder if she knows it," said Anne Weston.
"I don't suppose she does yet," returned Laura, "but it is certainly
true, and she will feel so bad. I declare it is right hard for her."
"I don't see why it is so hard," said Harriet. "I think it will be very
good for her."
"What is a stepmother, Harry?" asked little Emma Gaylord.
"A stepmother is—if Sophie Kennedy's father marries again, the new Mrs.
Kennedy will be her stepmother. She will not be her very own mother,
you see, but Sophie will have to obey her as if she were, and Mrs.
Kennedy will take care of her just the same."
"Then I should think Sophie would like it," said Emma innocently.
"Just as if she ever could be the same!" said Laura indignantly. "I
think it is too cruel. It shows how much he cared for his first wife,
any way."
"I would not talk so, if I were you, Laura," said Greta Carroll, who
had not spoken before. "I am sure Mr. Kennedy did love his wife, and at
any rate it is no business of—" Greta was going to say "yours," but she
altered her mind and said "ours."
"Sophie is so quick-tempered and has so much feeling, that I am afraid
it will not be very easy for her to get on with a stepmother," remarked
Carry Woodford. "I know her own mother had enough to do to manage her,
and of course a stranger I would not have the same patience with her,
nor feel for her the same."
"I know Lydia Mather's mother used to scold her like any thing,"
observed Martha Pierce. "But then she was the greatest torment that
ever was. I am sure she deserved it."
"Well, we shall see," said Laura, not observing that Sophie had come up
and was standing just behind her, "but I am sure Mr. Kennedy's new wife
will have her hands full with Sophie."
Harriet made her a signal to be silent, but it was too late, for
Sophie had caught the words. She was a pale pretty little girl about
twelve years old, with dark hair and large black eyes, and her general
expression was rather sad, not to say a little peevish. She was neatly
enough dressed, but there was a sort of unsuitableness in what she
wore, which showed that she had no older person to guide her choice of
apparel.
As she caught the words, "Mr. Kennedy's new wife," she turned as pale
as death, and would have fallen if Greta had not caught her in her arms.
"See what you have done by your tattling, Laura," said Harriet in a
very sufficiently sharp tone, assisting Greta to support Sophie. "Now
don't begin to cry, child, but run and get some water. Stand away—do,
girls! Let us take her into the dressing-room, Greta."
"I am better now," said Sophie faintly.
She was led and supported into the dressing-room by the two elder
girls, and Laura brought her a glass of water, and a bottle of
smelling-salts which she had borrowed at the next house.
"Thank you, Laura," said Harriet, repenting already of having spoken so
hastily. "Now if you will go up stairs and tell Miss Warner that Sophie
is not very well, and ask if Greta and I shall take her home—"
Laura was gone in a moment, and soon returned with the desired
permission.
Sophie did not speak a word on the way home, and bidding the girls good
night at the gate, she ran up stairs to her own room and locked herself
in. She laid down on the bed and tried to collect her thoughts a little.
"Mr. Kennedy's new wife!" Could it possibly be true? She tried to think
of every thing that could throw any light on the matter, and the more
she considered upon it, the more she felt as if it must be so. She
remembered that the house had been newly papered and painted lately,
and that her mother's room had been fitted up with new furniture and
curtains. She knew that her father had made several journeys lately
and expected to go from home again soon, and she had heard Nancy the
housekeeper speak of several things which must be done before his
return.
The more she thought of it, the more she felt as if it were true.
Sophie remembered her mother very well, for she was eight years old
when she died, and she had been very much with her. Her mother had
taught Sophie herself to read and write, and sew, and many other
things. They used to read the Bible together, and Sophie had been
carefully instructed by her in religious matters. Now she was going to
have a new mother—a stepmother! She felt as if she wanted to die.
Her ideas of stepmothers were derived from certain stories she had
read, and from the talk of the girls at school. Stepmothers, she
thought, were always cruel and hard-hearted. They always tyrannized
over the unfortunate children under their care, and made them work from
morning till night. Perhaps the lady would have daughters of her own,
and would care a great deal more for them than for her. She imagined
a hundred scenes in which she played the part of Cinderella or little
Margaret, and wept very heartily, partly over her coming sorrows and
partly over the memory of her own mother, so that at tea-time she was
ashamed to show her red eyes to her father. However, she bathed them in
rose-water, and washed her face, and then went down stairs, hoping that
her father would not observe that she had been crying.
But she could not keep her voice from trembling as she spoke, and the
evident constraint of her manner, so different from her usual freedom,
immediately attracted her father's attention. He asked her tenderly if
she were not well.
"Quite well, papa," she replied, with difficulty controlling her voice
sufficiently to speak.
"I am sure something is the matter, my love," said Mr. Kennedy
anxiously. "Come round to me, and let us see if we cannot find out the
difficulty." He put his arm round her as he spoke, and drawing her
close to his side kissed her.
Sophie had felt a moment before as if she never could say a word to her
father upon the subject which occupied her mind. But the caress, and
her habit of confiding every thing to him, overcame her reserve. She
burst into tears and sobbed as if her heart would break.
"Oh, papa, are you going to be married?"
"Who told you I was going to be married, Sophie?" asked Mr. Kennedy.
"I heard the girls at school talking about it to-day. Oh, papa, is it
true?"
"Quite true, my love," said Mr. Kennedy quietly.
Sophie turned away from her father, and wept more and more bitterly.
Her father tried to persuade her to listen to him quietly and stop
crying, but she would not be pacified, and the more he caressed and
soothed her the more she cried, until she became really hysterical. At
last seriously displeased with her, he called Nancy, and bade her take
Miss Sophie to bed.
Sophie rose and went away without saying a word to her father or
bidding him good night, the first time she had ever done such a thing
in her life. She followed Nancy up stairs and accepted her assistance
in undressing. As soon as she was in bed, Nancy, instead of taking away
the candle as usual, drew a chair and sat down by the side of the bed.
Nancy was a colored woman about fifty years old. She was tall and
large, and always dressed herself very neatly in a figured gingham or
calico, with a white apron, and a gay-colored handkerchief tied round
her head instead of a cap. She had come from Virginia with Sophie's
mother when she was married, and had always remained in the family.
Nancy was an excellent servant and a good Christian, and had taken care
of Sophie ever since she was born.
"Well, Miss Sophie," said she quietly, "now I should like to know what
all this is about. You seem to feel very bad about something, but I
haven't found out what it is. Maybe I can help you if I knew."
"No, you cannot, Nancy," said Sophie sobbing; "no one can help me."
"I'm not so sure of that," answered Nancy; "any way, I can try."
"Do you know what is going to happen, Nancy?" asked Sophie mournfully.
"Well—yes. I know something that is going to happen. Maybe it isn't the
same though."
"Papa is going to be married, Nancy!" with a fresh burst of grief.
"Well," said Nancy, "and why should you cry about that? I expect, Miss
Sophie," she continued, "you have been hearing the girls at school
talking some nonsense or other about stepmothers. Now, dear, don't you
go to believe a word of it. I know all about it. I have seen a good
deal of such things, and my belief is that stepmothers are oftener
too indulgent than not kind enough. I know how it was with your dear
grandma, my old Missus."
"Why, Nancy, was grandmamma a stepmother?"
"To be sure, child; didn't you know it? She married the old judge, your
grandpa, when your mamma was about six years old. And though she was as
good a woman as ever lived, she regularly spoiled her at first. It was
not till she got so there was no living with her, that she governed her
at all, and it came mighty hard at first I can tell you."
"I don't want any one to spoil me," said Sophie, "but I thought
stepmothers were always unkind to children."
"That's all nonsense," answered Nancy. "Do you suppose your good papa,
after being so kind to you all your life, and doing every thing in the
world for you, is going to turn cruel all at once, and bring some one
here on purpose to make you miserable? For shame, Miss Sophie!"
Sophie was silent for a few moments, and then said, "But, Nancy, my own
mamma is in heaven, and I don't want to forget her. I remember just how
she used to look and speak, and how she talked to me when she was sick,
and—" Sophie wept afresh at the remembrance of her mother.
And Nancy wiped the tears from her own eyes as she answered—
"Nobody wants you to forget her, child. You ought always to remember
her as long as you live. But that need not hinder you from loving your
new mamma, and trying to please her. She will be the last person that
will want you to forget her, I am sure."
"Do you know my new mamma, Nancy," asked Sophie.
"I haven't seen her since she was seventeen years old," said Nancy. "I
used to know her very well then. She is your mamma's own cousin, and
used to look very much like her, only her hair was darker and thicker,
and she was half a head taller. She used to play and sing beautifully,
and she could draw too, and paint beautiful large pictures."
"Perhaps she will teach me," said Sophie, to whom prospects seemed to
brighten decidedly.
"I expect she will teach you a great deal if you are willing to learn.
And besides, as I was going to tell you, she is your godmother, and you
were named after her."
"But I don't remember any thing about her, Nancy, and I always thought
I was named for my cousin Sophie."
"Well, so you are. She is your cousin and you were named for her. And
it would be strange if you did remember her, when you have not seen her
since you were six weeks old. I hope now, Miss Sophie," she continued
after a pause, "that you will be more reasonable, and not go into such
a fit another time. And above all, I hope you will be sorry that you
were so undutiful to your papa as not to bid him good night."
Nancy now took the candle and left the room, leaving Sophie to her
own reflections. They were of rather a mixed nature. She was greatly
comforted by the picture Nancy had drawn of her dreaded stepmother, and
surprised and delighted to learn, that she was the same as her cousin
Sophie—her dear godmamma, who had sent her a Bible and Prayer Book. She
was ashamed too to think how ungrateful she had allowed herself to be
in her thoughts and her conduct towards her kind father.
Then she remembered that she had not yet said her prayers. When her
mother lived, she had been very particular about her prayers and
reading the Bible, but since her death she had been left much to
herself, and had become, I am sorry to say, very negligent in such
matters. She got up to say her prayers now, however, with a feeling
that she really needed help and protection from her Heavenly Father, as
well as forgiveness for her sins. Just as she had finished, she heard
her father come into his room.
Hastily slipping on her shoes and her little dressing-gown, she went
softly and tapped at his door. He opened it, and stood still, looking
somewhat surprised at seeing Sophie, for it was now quite late.
"Is any thing the matter, Sophie?" he asked.
"No, papa," said Sophie softly; "I only came to say good night."
"Good night, my daughter," said Mr. Kennedy kindly. He bent to kiss
her, and as he did so, she whispered in his ear, "I am very sorry,
papa."
"We will talk about the matter to-morrow, Sophie," replied her father.
"It is time you were asleep now. Good night, my love."
Sophie crept back to her bed with her heart much lighter, and was soon
fast asleep.
CHAPTER II.
BETSEY.
LITTLE Emma Gaylord had been sitting very still for almost half an
hour: a very long while for her, for she was a very lively talkative
little girl, and was not often quiet long at a time.
"What are you thinking about, Emma?" asked her mother.
"About stepmothers, mamma," said Emma slowly.
"And what about them? What set you to thinking about stepmothers?"
"The girls in school were talking this afternoon about Sophie Kennedy
having a stepmother, and they seemed—some of them at least—to think
that it would be very hard for her, but Harry Reed said she thought it
would be a good thing."
"Very good, my dear," said her mother. "I am glad Harry is so sensible."
"Who is Harry Reed, Emma?" asked Miss Tilden. "I did not know you had
any boys in your school."
"Harry Reed is not a boy, aunt Eliza," said Emma laughing; "she is
a very nice girl indeed. Her name is Harriet, but she has a cousin
Harriet who is called Hatty, and Harriet Howe is always called Haly; so
the girls, and her father too I believe, call Harriet Reed, Harry."
"Did Sophie say any thing about her new mamma, Emma?" asked Mrs.
Gaylord.
"No, mamma, she did not have a chance. I do not think she knew of it
until she heard the girls talking about it. Then she turned pale and
almost fainted away, and when she got better, Harry and Greta took her
home. And when Miss Warner heard of it, she scolded Laura Bartlett
for talking about it at all. Why do people think that stepmothers are
always unkind, mamma?"
"I hardly know, my love. It is an old prejudice."
"Do you think stepmothers unkind, mamma?"
"No, Emma, I have known several who were very kind. But they have to
govern their children sometimes like other people, and as children
do not like to be governed, they are apt to think themselves cruelly
treated."
"There are people, however," remarked Miss Tilden, "who can never be
just to other people's children."
"Such persons are not very often just to their own children," said Mrs.
Gaylord.
"I do not know," answered Miss Tilden. "There was cousin Louisa. She
never could allow that any one else's children were either good or
pretty; nay, she was often really offended at hearing them praised, and
I do not know that she was unjust to her own."
"Unless you call it injustice to make them useless to themselves and
torments to all around them. Between misgovernment and no government I
never saw a family of children more thoroughly spoiled."
"Then, mamma," said Emma, "you do not think Sophie's mother will be
unkind to her?"
"No, Emma, I presume not. I think perhaps it will be rather hard for
Sophie to come into regular habits of obedience and industry, and that
her mother will have to be rather peremptory with her sometimes, but
that will be the greatest kindness."
"To be sure," said Emma, "Sophie does just as she pleases now, and
Nancy does every thing for her. She does not know how to sew as much as
I do, I know, for I can mend my own stockings, and I heard Sophie say
that Nancy always made and mended all her clothes."
"And I suppose," said Miss Tilden, "you would like to have a Nancy to
make and mend all your clothes, would you not?"
"No, aunty, I like to sew very well, when I do not go to school."
"Some one is knocking at the side door, Emma," said Mrs. Gaylord. "I
think Jane has gone out. Run and see who it is."
"It is two poor women, mamma, that want to see you very much," said
Emma re-entering. "Jane has taken them into the kitchen to sit down."
Mrs. Gaylord went out to see the people who had called, and Emma busied
herself with her favorite Hans Andersen's storybook. Presently her
mother returned.
"There is a woman in Front-street in great distress, Eliza. She has two
children sick—one badly burned, and they are strangers in the city.
I think I will take Jane and go round immediately to see what can be
done."
"Are you not afraid to go there in the evening, sister?"
"Oh, no," said Mrs. Gaylord smiling. "I know all the people in the
block where they live. Nothing has ever yet happened to me, though
my visiting duties have led me into some strange places. They may be
suffering very much, and I shall not feel easy to wait till morning.
There is not the least danger I assure you, my dear," she added, seeing
that her sister looked uneasy. "I know both the women well who have
come for me. So good night, my daughter: you must be in bed before I
return."
"You have no school to-day, have you, Emma?" said Mrs. Gaylord next
morning at breakfast.
"No, mamma: why?"
"I should like to have you go with me and see the poor little girl
in Front-street. She is just about your age, and you can perhaps do
something for her. I wish you would run over directly and see if Mr.
Kennedy is willing to let Sophie go with me; I have a particular reason
for wishing it. If she will accompany us, I will call for her about
ten."
Sophie was at home, and pleased with the idea of going, and they set
out together, Emma carrying a little basket full of old linen and other
such matters. When they reached the common stair which led up to the
room, Sophie shrunk back as if she were rather afraid.
Mrs. Gaylord observed the motion and said, "There is nothing to fear,
Sophie. I believe none but respectable people live in this block."
"How many more stairs are there, mamma?" inquired Emma laughing, as
they reached the top of the second long flight. "Do your people live in
the moon?"
"Not quite, Emma; there is only one flight more. What would you do if
you were obliged to carry every drop of water you used up all these
stairs?"
"Then why do people live here, mamma?"
"Because the rents are low, and the rooms when you are once in them are
warm and light. But here we are at last. I will knock at the door."
At the second knock, a faint voice said "Come in."
Mrs. Gaylord opened the door, and they entered the apartment. It was a
small room with an old cooking-stove in it, and two or three equally
old chairs. A rickety table made of rough boards and a broken cradle
were all the furniture. Some attempt had evidently been made to clean
up the floor, but without much success, and the windows were darkened
with dirt. On a bed made up on the floor in the corner lay a little
girl about Sophie's age, but rather smaller. Her face was bound with an
old handkerchief, and one of her hands was also tied up in a bundle of
rags. A baby about eight months old lay in the cradle fast asleep. The
poor child seemed pleased at the sight of Mrs. Gaylord, and held out
her left hand to shake hands with her. Mrs. Gaylord took one of the old
chairs, and sat down beside her.
"How do you do, to-day, Betsey?"
"I had a bad night, ma'am," said Betsey in a soft, pleasant voice. "And
this morning I was so bad that mother went for a doctor, but I feel
better now. The baby slept all night, and mother thinks she is better."
"This is my daughter, Emma, that I have brought to see you," said Mrs.
Gaylord; "and the other little girl is Sophie Kennedy. Is there any
thing I can do for you before your mother comes in?"
"If you will undo this cloth on my hand, ma'am," answered Betsey. "It
is tied too tight, I think, or else my hand gets worse, for it hurts me
very much."
Mrs. Gaylord gently undid the dirty rag of a handkerchief, and both the
girls shrunk from the sight it revealed. The whole hand was perfectly
raw, and very much swelled and inflamed. Mrs. Gaylord cut some soft
linen and wrapped it up, separating the fingers from each other as she
did so. She then took the bandage from her face and dressed it anew.
The operation was evidently painful, but Betsey bore it with great
fortitude, though the girls could not bear to witness it.
"Don't it hurt you very much to have it touched?" asked Sophie.
"Very much, miss. But I am glad to have it done before mother comes in,
it makes her feel so bad."
Just as she finished speaking, a poorly dressed woman entered,
accompanied by the city physician, a great stout German, as
kind-hearted and skilful as he was eccentric.
"It shmells meeshrable in here," said he, stopping on the threshold.
"What for do you not clean up?"
"I've been trying to do a little," answered the poor woman, "but we
only got here last night, and the children were so bad I could not do
much."
"Well, well," said the doctor, "that will all be in good time." Then,
after speaking to Mrs. Gaylord and nodding to the girls, he sat down on
a box by Betsey's side.
"Now, my leetle girl, what is the matter with you?"
"I have got a burn on my face and hand, sir," said Betsey, "and I have
a bad cough besides."
"That is bad, indeed; and how did you get burned?"
"Well, sir," said the mother, "I must say, it was partly my fault."
"Now, mother," said Betsey imploringly.
"Hush, little girl," said the doctor gently. "I shall first hear your
mother. Tell me now, good woman; how was it?"
"Night before last, sir, at the place where we stopped, it was done.
You see, the child has coughed very bad these six weeks, and I own
I was fairly beat out watching her, the baby too being worrysome on
account of its teeth. So we stayed at a sort of tavern there was there;
and the woman of the house was very good to us, I must say, and gave
Betsey something that seemed to ease her cough, and said she would sit
up all night with her, if I would go to bed.
"So I being so tired, and Betsey too, poor child, saying, 'Do, please,
mother,' they over-persuaded me, and I went. But, oh, doctor, see what
happened. In the middle of the night, the man of the house came home
as drunk as a beast, and stumbled up stairs into the room. Betsey had
dropped asleep, and the woman having stepped out a moment, what does he
do but take the candle off the table and go to look at the child, and
he being drunk dropped the candle on the bed.
"And so," said the poor woman sobbing, "when the child screamed, we
both ran in together, and there was the bed all on fire, and before we
could put it out, she was burned as you see."
"Now, doctor—now, ma'am," said Betsey eagerly, "was it her fault? How
could she know that the man would come home drunk?"
"No, my little child," said the good doctor kindly; "I cannot say I
think it was any one's fault, except the drunken toad of a man."
"There, mother," said Betsey triumphantly; "didn't I tell you so?"
"You look very young to be this girl's mother," remarked the doctor.
"Is she your own child?"
"All the same as my own, sir. I married her father when she was six
years old and never was an own child better, or easier to rule. It's
now going on eight months since the father died, and left me with this
little one, the first I had, about five weeks old. I did what I could
to support them and myself decently, and Betsey worked like a little
woman. Somehow she took cold about eight or nine weeks ago, and she
has never got over it, but grew worse and worse all the time. The
winters in that part of the country are very hard, and having something
beforehand, I thought I would come over here, and try to get some quiet
country place where I could work for a living, for I've no great love
for the city. But when we got here last night, the poor things were so
bad, I was glad to get the first corner I could to put my head in. But
I hope she will get well, for it would go near to break my heart to
lose her."
"I tink you are one very good woman." said the doctor emphatically. "I
shall do what I can for your girl, you may depend. What do you say,
little child, will you have me for your doctor?"
"Oh yes, sir, that I will thankfully," answered Betsey smiling.
"Dat is good," said the doctor, "now let us see the burned hand."
Mrs. Gaylord again removed the wrappings, and the doctor after
examining the burns, with a fresh burst of indignation against "the
drunken toad" who had caused the mischief, took his leave, promising to
call again in an hour. Mrs. Gaylord rose to go at the same time, being
desirous to learn his opinion of the case.
"We must make her as comfortable as we can, madam, but I fear there is
no cure possible. She may linger a long time, but she will never be
well."
"They seem very destitute of clothes, but those they have are very
decent," said Mrs. Gaylord. "I wonder how it happened!"
"The woman has told me that her goods were lost overboard in the storm
on the lakes," said Dr. Werner. "Good day, madam, I shall see you again
soon."
"I wish I could do something for Betsey, mamma," said little Emma as
they walked homeward.
"You can, my love. I shall get some cotton cloth for nightgowns as we
go home, and you may help make them. We must get them done as soon as
possible."
"May I come and help you, Mrs. Gaylord," asked Sophie. "I cannot sew
very fast, but I will try my best."
"Certainly, Sophie, we shall be very glad of your help. Ask your father
to let you come over this afternoon."
"I was going out with Laura Bartlett this afternoon," said Sophie
hesitating, "but I don't care much about it. I would rather come and
sew with you and Emma."
"Did you make an engagement to go out with Laura?" inquired Mrs.
Gaylord.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then excuse me, my dear, but I think you should keep your engagement.
Promises are not to be trifled with, you know. Laura no doubt will
depend upon you, and you should not disappoint her."
"I know very well," said Sophie, "how disagreeable that is. The other
day Carry Woodford promised to call for me just after dinner, to go
and see Anne Weston before she went away. But she did not come, and
I waited and waited till night for her, and so I did not see Anne
after all, and Carry had no very good reason either. But this would be
different."
"True," said Mrs. Gaylord "but I would do as I had agreed, if I were
you."
"I might stop and see Laura, and ask her if she cares about going,"
said Sophie; "and if she does not, I will come."
"That would do very well," replied Mrs. Gaylord. "If Laura will excuse
you, I shall be happy to see you."
When Sophie got home, she related to her father the story of her
morning's visit, dwelling particularly on the affection of Betsey and
her mother for each other, for Sophie had fine perceptions, and the
beautiful in any shape made a great impression on her. Mr. Kennedy
listened with great interest, and when she had finished, said quietly,—
"And yet Mrs. Hand is Betsey's stepmother."
"Oh, papa!" said Sophie imploringly, and with crimson blushes. "Please
don't talk about that. I am so sorry. I will never be so foolish again."
"I hope not, my pet. But Sophie, if your mamma should be obliged to
restrain you or reprove you, how will it be then? You have almost run
wild for the last three years. Do you think you can submit cheerfully
to be brought into regular orderly habits like other little girls?"
"I don't know, papa, but I think I could. After all, it is pleasanter
to be told what to do, than it is to do things and then be sorry
afterwards. Nancy has been telling me about mamma, and I think I shall
like her very much indeed."
"I hope so, Sophie. Are you going to Mrs. Gaylord's again to-day?"
"Yes, papa, to help make some nightgowns for Betsey. Laura did not care
about going out."
"What about Laura?" inquired Mr. Kennedy.
And Sophie repeated the conversation relative to her engagement.
Mr. Kennedy was much pleased. "I am always glad to have you with Mrs.
Gaylord, Sophie, and with Margaret Carroll and her cousins. As for
Laura, she chatters rather too much."
"Laura does not mean any harm, papa. She likes to hear herself talk,
but she is very good-natured after all."
"These very good-natured people often do a deal of mischief," said her
father. "You may give this three-dollar bill to Mrs. Gaylord, if you
please, Sophie, and ask her to lay it out for Betsey and her mother as
she thinks best."
CHAPTER III.
THE NEW MAMMA.
IN about a week, Mr. Kennedy left home to bring back Sophie's new
mamma, leaving Nancy and Mrs. Gaylord to make all the necessary
arrangements for her reception. He expected to be gone from home about
four weeks, during which time Sophie was to go to school as usual. He
had at first thought of making it a holiday time, but Sophie herself
petitioned against it.
"The time will not seem nearly as long if I am at work as usual, as it
would if I were at home all day, with nothing to do but to count the
hours."
So Sophie went to school accordingly. And if she was not quite as
diligent as usual, and sometimes fell into a reverie over her books,
and now and then forgot to answer in the right place, Miss Warner was a
reasonable person, and made all due allowances.
"It is perfectly natural," she said, in reply to one of her assistants,
who had made some complaint of this state of things. "She will settle
again presently. We should any of us do the same under the same
circumstances."
"How absent you are growing, Sophie!" said Harry Reed to her one day.
"You will soon have no head left."
"I know it," said Sophie; "it is because I am all the time thinking
about—" She left the sentence unfinished, and proceeded in a more
lively tone: "But I am really getting better, Harry, since I have been
sitting with Greta Carroll. She tells me, when she sees me forgetting
to study. What a good girl she is!"
"She is, indeed," said Harry, with emphasis. "I wish I were half as
good."
"You and she are great friends," proceeded Sophie; "and yet you are
as different as summer and winter. But Laura Bartlett says, she sets
up for a saint, because she is so particular about prayers, and such
things."
"Laura Bartlett is an impertinent chatterbox," said Harry, with great
indignation. "She had better be careful what she says, or she may find
herself in trouble, some of these days."
"There it is!" exclaimed Sophie, laughing. "Now Greta would never have
said that."
Harriet looked a good deal mortified at the comparison. She was quite
conscious of her hasty manner of speaking, and often made excellent
resolutions in regard to it. These were formed at first with the
fullest confidence in her own powers of keeping them, but numerous
failures had rather weakened this confidence. She now changed color so
much that Sophie thought she had really offended her.
"I beg your pardon, Harry, for being so saucy," she said. "You and
Greta are so kind to me that I forget you are grown-up young ladies,
seventeen years old, while I am only a little girl."
"I am not angry with you, child," said Harry, trying to speak as if
nothing was the matter, but not quite succeeding—"but we must not waste
any more time now. I wonder where that French book is that I had this
morning. I must look over my lesson before school."
"It is on Miss Field's table, up stairs. I will run and get it for
you," said Sophie, happy to do any thing for Harry, of whom she was
very fond.
When she came back, she said—
"Anne Western has come back to school, Harry!"
"Has she?" said Harry, finding her place, and not appearing much
interested in the news.
"Yes," answered Sophie, "and I stopped to speak to her while Miss Field
found your book. She said she had heard that my new mother was very
handsome, and asked me if I knew."
"And what did you say?"
"I said I did not know, but I was sure I should like her, whether she
was or not."
"Very good," said Harry. "And now let me give you one piece of advice:
don't let the girls draw you into talking about your father's affairs.
There are some of them just foolish enough to do it, but it is very
wrong, and will only bring you into trouble. Now mind what I tell you,
and whatever they say, do you say nothing. Now, if you like, you may
get your book and study here, and I will tell you the hard words."
As the time drew on for Mr. Kennedy to return home, Sophie grew more
and more restless. And when the very day arrived, she felt as if she
could never wait till six o'clock in the evening. She awaked much
earlier than usual, and got up, because she could not go to sleep again.
When breakfast was ready, she thought, as she sat down alone,
"To-morrow papa and mamma will be here." And she tried to fancy how the
table would look, when a thought came into her mind which made her feel
rather grave. She had been used to make tea and coffee for her father
for almost two years, and he had never liked to sit down without her.
Now her mamma would take her place, of course, and she herself would be
only a secondary person. Sophie had no heart to finish her breakfast
after this. She wandered about the house, feeling very sad, she hardly
knew why, and quite dreading to have the hour arrive, which she had
begun by expecting so impatiently.
Mrs. Gaylord, who had come over to consult Nancy about some final
arrangements, noticed the little girl's depression, and suggested the
propriety of finding her some employment.
"Suppose mistress should send her to the little sick girl, with some of
the apple-jelly I made this morning: there was more than enough to fill
the moulds, and I put the rest into a little pot, thinking to run over
with it myself, but I see I shall not have time. I suppose there could
be no danger in her going down there alone."
"O no!" answered Mrs. Gaylord. "Emma often goes and spends the whole
afternoon there. Sophie, will you go over and take some jelly to
Betsey, and read to her a while? She had a bad night, and nurse told me
she was rather low-spirited this morning."
Sophie looked doubtful.
"Just as you please, my dear; you will be the better for something to
do, and Betsey will be glad to see you. You know her mother is away at
her work a great deal now, and nurse cannot be with her all the time."
"I will go, to be sure," said Sophie, ashamed of her hesitation. "Will
you get the things ready, aunty, while I put my bonnet on?"
Sophie was soon ready, and, with basket in hand, proceeded on her way.
Betsey's friends had removed the family from the dirty attic and noisy
street where we first found them, and placed them as boarders with an
elderly woman, who was often employed in this way by the charitable
society. Nurse Brown's house was in a very quiet and pleasant street,
in the outskirts of the city, where invalids would not be disturbed
with noise, and where they could enjoy almost as much fresh air as if
they were in the country.
The morning was fresh and fine, and the trees in the prime of their
October beauty. As Sophie walked on through the leaves, now dropping
so fast that no sweeping could keep them from covering the walks, she
began to feel her heart much lightened. She stopped under a hard-maple
tree, and gathering a handful of its most brilliant leaves, she
arranged them into a bouquet.
"I wonder if they have such leaves in Virginia," she thought; "I will
arrange some and put in the parlor vases when I go home."
Just then some one called her—and, looking up, she saw Greta Carroll,
in her garden bonnet, and with her hands full of flowers, standing at
a gate across the street, and ran to speak to her. "Are you going to
nurse Brown's, Sophie? Will you take these flowers to Betsey?"
Sophie exclaimed at the beauty of the bouquet. There were verbenas and
heliotropes, petunias and dahlias, and variegated snap-dragons, and one
monthly rosebud.
"When you come back, I will give you some for yourself," said Greta,
enjoying the little girl's admiration. "The frost will come to take
them so soon, that I do not at all mind gathering them; and the garden
is overrun, besides."
"We have hardly any flowers, except such as will grow of themselves,"
remarked Sophie. "Papa has no time to attend to them. I do hope mamma
will love flowers, we have such a nice place for them."
"You shall have some for her to-night, at any rate," answered Greta,
"and next week I will give you some chrisanthemums, which will blossom
till Christmas. Good-by, dear."
Sophie tripped on her way, admiring the beauty of the flowers, and
pleased at the thought of having some for her mamma.
When she arrived at nurse Brown's gate, she found good Dr. Werner just
entering. Sophie had quite gotten over her fear of him. And though she
sometimes smiled at his odd English, and could not help wishing he
would not smoke such strong cigars, she was always pleased to meet him.
And he, on his part, was much interested in the bright-eyed little girl.
"Ah, ah, my little friend, you come with both hands full. What will you
make with the pretty flowers?"
"I am going to give them to Betsey, sir. And Nancy has sent her some
apple-jelly." Sophie opened her basket, and displayed her treasures.
"That is good, very good," said the doctor, smacking his lips, and
pretending to cast longing eyes towards the dainties, "but now suppose
I should steal you while you are going up stairs?"
Sophie smiled.
"Is not that right to say steal?"
"We should say, 'rob you,'" said Sophie, modestly. "We say, one steals
something, but one robs a person."
"I think that is all one," said the doctor, good-humoredly, "but I
shall never learn English right. Do you wait here now till I shall
dress the burns, for it is not good for you to see that done, and then
I will call you. I will be the bitter medicine, and you shall be the
good sugar to take away the bad taste."
Dr. Werner ascended the stairs to Betsey's chamber, and Sophie remained
below.
In about half an hour he came and called her.
"Do you hear, little girl—you must not talk much to her, for she is
very weak. You shall only sit by her, and read very softly, and perhaps
she will go to sleep."
Sophie, who had not seen Betsey for several days, was struck by the
alteration in her appearance. She had grown much thinner; her skin
looked like paper, and, on the well cheek, which was not concealed
by the bandage, was a round spot of deep crimson. Poor little Betsey
seemed to be fast passing away. She opened her eyes, and smiled at the
sight of Sophie, but did not appear to have energy enough to speak. The
sight of the flowers seemed to revive her: she took them in her hands,
and smelt of them with evident pleasure.
"How sweet they are!" she said in a whisper. "I am so glad of them! I
thought I should never see any more flowers."
"They came from Greta Carroll," said Sophie, "the young lady who gave
you the caps, you know. She is as pretty as the flowers herself, and
just as sweet."
"Every one is very good to us," said Betsey. "I am glad we came here,
for mother will have some kind friends to help her. I am afraid she
will grieve sadly when I am gone."
"DO you think you shall die, Betsey?" asked Sophie, surprised at the
way in which she spoke.
"O yes, miss; I have known it this great while. I never say a word to
mother about it, for it makes her feel so bad, and she cannot help
hoping. But I shall never be any better; and only for leaving mother, I
should not mind. I am not afraid."
"God can take care of your mother, you know," said Sophie, timidly,
after a little pause.
"I know it," said Betsey; "it is not that. It is only that I feel sorry
to leave her. But it will not be long."
"Shall I read to you, Betsey?" asked Sophie, after a few moments'
silence. "Dr. Werner said you must not talk much."
"If you please Miss Sophie. I should like to hear the hundred and third
and hundred and fourth psalms first."
Sophie read in a low voice, sitting close to the bed. At the verse,
"Look how high the heaven is, in comparison of the earth: so great is
the Lord's mercy toward them that fear him," Betsey repeated the words
and went on to the next herself.
"How beautiful that is!" she murmured. "As far as the east is from the
west, so far has he set our sins from us. Like as a father pitieth his
children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him."
Sophie finished the psalm, and went on to the next.
Betsey lay quietly listening, with her eyes half closed.
At the words, "He sendeth the springs," she roused herself again. "I
know where there is just such a place in Canada, where we used to live.
There is a little sort of ravine runs up from the river, with high
rocks on both sides, and at the end of it there is a clear beautiful
spring that runs so cool and sweet over the rocks. I can see how it
looks just now, with the red sumach leaves dropping into it. Don't you
love to be in the country, miss?"
"Yes, dearly," answered Sophie, "but I have almost always lived in the
city. I think perhaps we shall spend next summer in the country."
"If you do," said Betsey, "and if you find any such pretty spring, you
may think it is a keepsake to remember me by. Are you tired of reading,
dear?"
"Oh, no," replied Sophie eagerly; "I often read two hours at a time to
papa. What shall I read next?"
"About, 'Let not your hearts be troubled,' if you please."
Sophie turned over, and read the wonderfully beautiful words of divine
consolation. She had never seen half the meaning in them that she found
now, as she repeated them for the comfort of the poor dying child,
for whom they seemed so full of heavenly peace. Betsey now and then
repeated the words after her, and finally fell asleep with them on her
lips.
Sophie sat looking at her a few minutes without moving. "After all,"
she thought, "Betsey does not seem to be unhappy. The only thing that
troubles her, is the thought of leaving her mother: and she seems so
sure of seeing her again. She is not at all afraid of dying. I suppose
it is because she is so good. I mean to ask her about it some day when
she is better, and able to talk."
Sophie sat by Betsey till nurse Brown came in, and then went home, not
forgetting to call for the flowers Greta had promised her.
When she arrived at home, she filled the parlor vases, and put a
beautiful bouquet on her mother's dressing-table. After dinner Nancy
asked her to dust and arrange the books in the parlors, and this
occupied her until it was time to dress herself. Then feeling very much
agitated, but not unhappy, she went down and seated herself by the
parlor fire, for the evening was chilly, and a little blaze was very
pleasant. She took a book from the table and tried to read, but found
it impossible to fix her attention a moment. Finally she gave up all
attempt at employment, and sat still by the fire, listening for the
railroad whistle, or the wheels of the carriage.
Nancy was almost as nervous in her way. She was one moment in the
kitchen where the dinner was cooking, then in Mrs. Kennedy's own room,
then she overlooked Sophie's dress to see that all was right, and then
she cast a vigilant glance upon the table and its appointments to see
that nothing was wrong.
Sophie was sure the cars had run off the track, or else that they were
not coming till to-morrow, a dozen times, before they finally announced
themselves by a prolonged screech to be within a mile of the city.
After that she could sit still no longer, and she stood at the window,
or walked up and down the room, wishing and yet dreading to have the
meeting over, till the carriage turned into the street and stopped.
Nancy went down to the gate to meet the travellers, but Sophie stood
timidly at the door. She heard her father's voice, and then a lady's,
speaking to Nancy, and with a strange feeling of anxiety and fear she
shrunk aside from the door as they entered.
"Sophie!" called her father. "Why, where is the child?"
"Here, papa," said Sophie, coming forward.
Mr. Kennedy lifted Sophie in his arms, and kissed her more fervently
than he had ever done before. Then he took her hand, and put it into
that of the lady who stood beside him.
"This is my little girl, Sophia," he said, in a tone of deep feeling.
"Sophie, this lady is your mother."
Sophie had fully determined not to cry, whatever happened, but her
father's tone and warm embrace quite overset her, and as she threw her
arms around her new mamma's neck, she burst into tears. Nobody found
fault with her for crying this time, however. Her mamma only pressed
her face close to hers, and kissed her over and over again, while her
father walked rather hastily to the other end of the hall, and stood
for a minute looking out of the window, though it was quite too dark to
see any thing.
Then he returned to where they were standing, and said cheerfully,—
"Come, Sophie, have you got a good fire for us? It is really cold this
evening."
"Yes, papa," said Sophie, brushing away her tears, and opening the
parlor door, "fire and lights, and dinner too, when mamma is ready."
"All very welcome," replied her father; "you are a nice little
housekeeper."
"Nancy was the housekeeper, papa; I only helped."
"Did Nancy arrange all these beautiful flowers and leaves?" asked Mrs.
Kennedy, speaking for the first time.
"What a sweet voice she has!" thought Sophie.
"No, mamma. Greta gave me the flowers, and I arranged them. I thought
you would like to see them."
"You guessed rightly, my love; I am very fond of flowers, and these are
beautiful. I am surprised to see such a variety so late in the season."
"The frost keeps off wonderfully!" remarked Mr. Kennedy. "And we have
had so much rain that the gardens are in fine order."
"Shall I take your bonnet, mamma?" asked Sophie.
"Thank you, Sophie, I will change my dress, if there is time before
dinner. I feel as if I were covered with dust. Will you show me the
way?"
Sophie lighted a candle, and led the way to her mother's room.
"Here is your room, mamma; and I believe it is all in order for you.
This is the bathing-room, and here are two closets; and here are your
trunks, already. I will come and call you when dinner is ready."
"Wait one minute, Sophie," said Mrs. Kennedy, who was unlocking one of
her trunks. She removed one or two dresses, and then took out a little
morocco box like a watch-case, which she placed in Sophie's hands.
"For me, mamma?" asked Sophie.
"Certainly, my love. Open it, and see if it pleases you."
Sophie opened the pretty little case; and there, on a white velvet
cushion, lay a little enamelled Geneva watch, with its key, and a
beautifully-worked hair chain.
"Why, mamma!" exclaimed the little girl, hardly daring to trust her
eyes. "Not for 'me'! Not a real watch! Oh, how glad I am! Thank you
very much, mamma. What a beauty it is! And such a lovely chain! It is
just the color of your curls."
"That is not very remarkable, considering how recently they were
neighbors," said Mrs. Kennedy, smiling. "I made it for you myself, and
I am glad you are pleased with it. It would be thought—the watch, I
mean—rather an expensive present for a girl like you, by many people,
but I remembered how pleased I was at your age, when your grandmamma
gave me one, and with what delight I used to wind it up, and refer
to it. Moreover, Sophie, I am very punctual, and always want every
one about me to be the same; and you will have no excuse for being
behind-hand, now that you have a watch of your own."
"Are you very particular, mamma?" asked Sophie, somewhat timidly.
"I do not think I am very particular, my dear. I am not as neat as that
New England lady, who used a white quilt five years without washing."
"I should not call that being very neat."
"But I like to have things nice about me, and I am not fond of having
people dilatory, because that wastes so much time. But you need not be
alarmed, my child. We shall find out each other's ways by degrees, and
if I should ever find fault, it will be because I think it necessary,
and not because I like it."
Mrs. Kennedy had finished dressing by this time, and she and Sophie
returned to the parlor together. At dinner, Sophie quite forgot to feel
bad at not sitting at the head of the table, she was so much occupied
in looking at her mother, and admiring her white hands and graceful
manners. She began to feel quite unconstrained and at her ease, and
talked to her father about her school, and her playmates, and her
chickens, as freely as if they had been alone together.
"And how is Betsey, Sophie?" asked her father. "Is she getting better?"
"She is not any better, papa: I do not think she will ever be, for Dr.
Werner says she has the consumption. I was there this morning and read
to her a long time."
"Who is Betsey?" asked Mrs. Kennedy.
"She is a little English girl, mamma, who is sick at nurse Brown's."
And Sophie gave an account of Betsey's adventures and sufferings,
ending with—"And for all that, mamma, and though she thinks she will
certainly die, she is not at all unhappy; and when she is a little
better, she seems to enjoy looking at flowers and pictures, as much as
any one. She does not seem to feel bad about any thing except going
away from her mother."
"You think, I suppose, you would not be as cheerful as she is under the
same circumstances."
"No, mamma, I am sure I do not think I could, especially if I thought
so much about dying as she does. But I suppose it is because she is so
good."
"I rather think she has some better reason than that, my dear."
"Why, what better reason could she have, mamma?"
"We will talk about it again, Sophie. Perhaps we shall be able to ask
her about it some time. Do you go and see her very often?"
"Pretty often, now she is at nurse Brown's," answered Sophie. "She
always seems glad to see any of us when we go in. She is alone a good
deal, for her mother goes out to work, and nurse Brown is apt to be
busy. She will be glad to see you, mamma, I am sure."
"Will you try the piano, Sophia?" asked Mr. Kennedy after dinner.
Sophie looked surprised. She did not know what her father meant by
asking her to play, but Mrs. Kennedy rose, and opening the new piano,
sat down and ran her fingers over the keys.
"It is a very brilliant instrument," she said, pausing a moment, and
then beginning one of Beethoven's waltzes.
Sophie listened perfectly entranced till the last soft tones died away,
and then, with a long-drawn sigh, she exclaimed, "Oh, what music!
Please, mamma, play another."
Mrs. Kennedy played another and another, and then sang several songs,
and still Sophie was not satisfied. She remembered, however, that her
mother must be tired with her journey, and forbore to ask for one more.
Mrs. Kennedy left the piano and sat down again by the fire. "Have you
ever taken music lessons, Sophie?" she inquired.
"No, mamma, not exactly. Greta taught me the letters, and how to read
music a little, and I have learned to play two or three tunes on her
piano, for we have never had a piano till lately."
"I should like to hear you play something."
Sophie hesitated, but finally went to the piano and played one or two
tunes very prettily. She had a quick ear and a good perception of time,
so that she seldom made mistakes.
"I should think you would learn music pretty easily," said Mrs.
Kennedy. "You seem to have a good ear, and your touch is light and
steady. You cannot do much with music, however, when you go to school."
"Papa said he thought I should not go to school next quarter," remarked
Sophie.
"In that case we must see about some music lessons," said her mother.
"It is a pity you should not learn, if you have a good ear. But you
will need a great deal of patience."
"I am sure I cannot learn then," said Sophie, "for I have not a
particle of patience. If I cannot learn any thing directly, I never can
learn it at all."
"Perhaps we had better begin with lessons in patience then, which is an
acquirement much more necessary than music," remarked Mrs. Kennedy.
"Can any one learn it if they are not naturally patient?" asked Sophie.
"People usually learn it when they are obliged to do so," answered Mrs.
Kennedy. "But, Sophie, how do you get on in school, if you have no
patience?"
"I don't know, mamma: I contrive to get on somehow."
"I suppose you expect every one to have patience with you?"
"Yes, mamma," said Sophie rather slowly, "but that is different."
"How different?"
"I don't know. We always expect teachers to be patient. It seems easy
enough for them."
"Nevertheless, it is as hard for them as for any one else. But they
know they must be, and so they learn it. And that is the only way any
one learns."
"What time is it, Sophie?" asked Mr. Kennedy.
Sophie produced her watch with great satisfaction. "It is ten o'clock,
papa."
"And that is time you were asleep, my dear. You will be complaining of
headache in the morning. So take your lamp, and do not forget to wind
up your watch."
When Sophie was alone in her room, she began to think over the events
of the day which seemed so long to look back upon. She could hardly
persuade herself that she had been reading to the sick girl only that
morning: it seemed as if it must have been a week ago at least. Her
mind was so full of her new mamma's words and looks and music that she
could think of nothing else. She said her prayers, however, and then
feeling very happy, she lay down and dropped asleep, almost before her
head touched the pillow.
CHAPTER IV.
NEW STUDIES.
THE next day, which was Saturday, was occupied by Mrs. Kennedy in
making acquaintance with the house, and in unpacking and putting away
the contents of her travelling trunks. Sophie was very much interested
in this proceeding, and particularly delighted with the sight of her
mother's portfolios of drawings and paintings.
"Can you sketch from nature, mamma?" she inquired.
"Yes, my dear; all the pictures in that purple book are sketches from
nature. There is a sketch of your grandmother's house there somewhere."
Sophie opened the book and found the sketch. "Oh, what a lovely place!"
she exclaimed. "Did grandmamma live in such a place as this?"
"Yes, that is a very good portrait of the house; the two high windows
that you see at the corner of the verandah were in your mamma's room."
"Do I look like her, mamma?" asked Sophie.
"Not much, Sophie. Your mother had a very bright color, and brown hair,
and her face was very full and round, when I last saw her. Your voice
puts me in mind of her sometimes. I hope you will be half as good and
sensible. Your mother was one of the steadiest persons I ever saw. If
she once made up her mind that any course was right—if she saw her way
clear before her, she always went straight forward, at any sacrifice to
herself."
Sophie sighed, but made no remark. Presently her mother took out two
workboxes, one after the other.
"Are you a good sewer, Sophie?" she inquired.
"No, mamma," said Sophie, blushing, "not very. I don't like to sew."
"Probably because you do not know how. But you must learn to sew, my
dear child. It is an art much more necessary than drawing, or playing
on the piano. I have brought you a work-box, you see, and I think we
must make that one of our first lessons, shall we?"
"Yes, mamma," said Sophie, admiring the pretty box with its complete
appointments, but a little alarmed at being set down to sew. "But I
would much rather learn to draw."
"Cannot you learn both?"
"I suppose so, mamma, but I do not like to sew or knit, or do any such
thing."
"What do you like?" asked her mother. "I like to read, mamma, and to
study some things."
"Such as what, Sophie?"
"History, mamma, especially natural history; and I like to translate
French, and sometimes to write compositions, when I feel like it."
"Do you like arithmetic?"
"Not much, mamma, it is so hard for me. I have no natural taste for
figures."
"You will have to acquire a taste, then, my dear, for figures are
almost as necessary as sewing. I suspect the fact is, you like to do
what you can do easily."
Sophie smiled. "You are right, I believe, mamma."
"The best natural taste, as you call it, would be a natural taste for
work, but that very few people possess. Nothing worth doing can be done
without work."
"But, mamma, great geniuses do not have to work so hard."
"Such as who, my dear?"
"Why—people that have a great genius for music or painting, like Mozart
or Paganini, or some of the great painters."
"You have chosen your instances rather unluckily: Mozart, who composed
and played the most difficult pieces at six years old, was a wonder
of study and industry. Paganini often practised for hours at a single
strain. Michael Angelo studied unceasingly, as have all the great
painters. No doubt other people have had as much genius as Michael
Angelo, but wanting the genius for work, their gifts were all in vain."
"Well, mamma," said Sophie, sighing, "I suppose I must learn to sew,
but I do not like to. I wish one could get along without it."
"You will like it better when you learn to sew fast and easily. As for
the arithmetic, we will see about it. Perhaps you have not begun in the
right way; there is a good deal in that. The next week will probably be
too much broken up by visits to allow of our doing much, but I hope,
after that, we shall both settle to our regular employments."
The next day was Sunday, and Sophie was glad to see the sun shining
when she arose. Before she was quite dressed, her mother rapped at her
door:
"Are you ready, Sophie? Your father is waiting for you."
Sophie was not quite ready, but she made as much haste as possible,
and accompanied her mother down stairs. She found all the servants
assembled in the dining-room, and her father sitting with the
large Bible and Prayer Book before him. As soon as they had seated
themselves, he read a chapter in the New Testament, and a Psalm, and
then they had prayers.
Sophie was pleased and affected by the scene, for she had strong
religious feelings, though she had never learned to apply them in
actions. But she saw the propriety of beginning the day with a solemn
appeal to the Disposer and Father of all, and particularly the
Sabbath—God's peculiar day. It made her think, too, of the time when
her mother was living, and able to join in their prayers; and she
prayed that she might be allowed to join her again in that land where
there are no more partings.
"Do you go to Sunday school, Sophie?" asked her mother, at breakfast.
"No, mamma, not now," answered Sophie. "I used to go, but my teacher
got married and went away, and then I did not care any more about it."
"What do you do all day Sunday?" said Mrs. Kennedy.
"I read, mamma, and write my compositions, and sometimes I learn my
lessons. Do you think it is wrong to study on Sunday?" she inquired,
seeing that her mother looked rather grave.
"That depends upon what you study, Sophie," answered her mother. "I do
not think it is right to use Sunday for lessons which should be learned
during the week. As long as we have one day in the week set apart for
religious improvement, we should, I think, use it for that purpose."
"But, mamma," said Sophie, "Sunday is such a dull day, if one does
nothing but read the Bible. Somehow it is all so familiar, and I have
read it so many times that I can never keep my mind fixed upon it."
"What did you study in Sunday school?" asked her father.
"We used to learn two or three verses in the Testament, papa, and say
them to Miss Fisher, and she explained them to us. And we learned
hymns, and talked about our library books. I liked it very well then,
but I do not care about it now."
"We must try to hit upon some new method of studying the Bible,
Sophie," remarked Mrs. Kennedy. "Perhaps you may find that you are not
as familiar with it as you imagine. I wonder if you can tell me now
what countryman Abraham was?"
"He was a Jew, was he not, mamma?"
Mrs. Kennedy smiled, and shook her head. "There were no people called
Jews till long after his time, my dear. You may take that for your
Sunday's lesson, and see if you can find out."
Sophie was a little vexed at being in the wrong. She was, as the girls
at school said, rather "touchy." And when any little thing happened
to displease her, she would color and bite her lips and look very
unamiable.
Mrs. Kennedy took no notice of these demonstrations of displeasure, but
continued, notwithstanding Sophie drew up her head in a manner which
she considered very dignified, "We are, perhaps, rather inclined to
overrate our stock of knowledge until we are called upon to make use of
it."
"But, mamma, how can I find out about Abraham? Does it tell in the
Bible?"
"In the Book of Genesis you will find all about him. But we must not
sit too long over the breakfast-table, or the girls will not have time
to get ready for church."
Sophie was quite delighted with her mother's appearance, when she came
down stairs, ready for church. She wore nothing expensive, but all her
clothes were so well chosen and put on, that Sophie thought she had
never seen any one better dressed. And yet Mrs. Kennedy did not appear
to think much about it either, though she was rather anxious to get
into church early.
They accordingly arrived at the church-door just as the second bells
began to toll, and there were very few people in church. After they had
taken their seats, Mrs. Kennedy opened a Bible that was in the pew, and
read till it was time for service to begin. A good many people stared
rather uncivilly, but she did not seem to pay any attention to them,
though Sophie thought she blushed once or twice as she looked up and
caught some one's eyes fixed full upon her.
Sophie noticed that she read the Psalm and responses in an audible
voice, and that she paid the greatest attention to the sermon.
As they came out of church, several of the school-girls spoke to
Sophie, and Mrs. Gaylord came round at the door to shake hands with her
father. Laura Bartlett also made her way round; and, while talking to
Sophie, she contrived, as she said, "to have a good look at the bride,"
in order that she might give a description of her dress and appearance
to such of her schoolmates as attended different churches, and
therefore had not the felicity of beholding her first appearance. It
is wonderful to reflect what a talent some people have for collecting
information, and melancholy that it is so thrown away. If Laura had
turned her attention to the antiquities of Rome, for instance, she
might have rivalled the great Niebuhr himself, but her curiosity did
not extend itself greatly in the direction of books.
The next week passed away very quietly and pleasantly for Sophie. As
her mother had predicted, the time was too much broken up by visits,
for any regular occupation.
Mrs. Kennedy was all the time becoming better and better acquainted
with her daughter's disposition and acquirements. She perceived that
Sophie was a good deal spoiled by neglect and indulgence, and that she
had faults which would call forth all her patience and forbearance.
She foresaw that she must be contented with small beginnings and
long-continued efforts, but she was encouraged by seeing that
Sophie had very good qualities to begin upon. She was affectionate,
intelligent, tolerably truthful, fond of some sorts of study, and as
little selfish as could possibly be expected under her circumstances.
What selfishness she had was negative rather than positive in its
character. She was very ready to serve those about her, when it could
be done in an active way. For instance, she would run to the farthest
corner of the house to bring a book for her father; and, ten to one,
she would leave every door in her way wide open, though she knew how
much it annoyed him. She would sit for hours beside Nancy when she
had a fit of sick-headache, and do every thing she could think of to
alleviate her suffering. But she would never take the trouble to put
away her bonnet and shawl when she came home, or to overlook her own
clothes when they came up from the wash. As some one says, she was
capable of great sacrifices, but not of small ones.
"I am afraid you will have great trouble with the child!" said Mr.
Kennedy one day to his wife.
"I expected it, when I took the charge upon myself," answered Mrs.
Kennedy. "She is just at the age when children are always troublesome,
and she would naturally be more so from her peculiar circumstances."
"You must not hesitate to use authority, if necessary."
"I shall endeavor to get along without any contention," answered his
wife. "She does not seem to have any very bad faults. In fact, it is
not such a difficult matter to keep children from doing what they ought
not to do: the trouble is to make them do what they ought to do."
The next week the lessons began. Mrs. Kennedy commenced with music
lessons, arithmetic, and drawing. Sophie would gladly have got rid of
the arithmetic, but her father was very decided on that point, and
she did not like to oppose him. The first two weeks went on smoothly
and pleasantly. Mrs. Kennedy was very clear in her explanations, and
possessed great patience, and Sophie began to think she was going to
have very nice times.
But by and by she began to grow rather tired, and relaxed her efforts.
The arithmetic lessons were very carelessly studied; and if her mother
were called away, Sophie would spend her practice hour in playing,
for her own amusement, easy lessons that she had already learned. One
morning she was particularly careless and inattentive. She had a new
music lesson, and a very easy and pretty one, but she paid no attention
to it, and played so many false notes, that her mother said, "Stop
playing, Sophie!" Sophie stopped.
"What note is that in the treble? The next, and the next."
Sophie told them all correctly.
"Then why do you not play them so? You have struck them wrong every
time."
"I cannot help it," exclaimed Sophie petulantly. "I do as well as I
can. I shall never learn music, I am sure."
"Cannot you help playing C instead of D?" inquired her mother.
Sophie did not reply.
"Whether you can learn music or not, remains to be seen," continued
Mrs. Kennedy. "That is not the question now. Begin at the beginning,
and be sure you know the name of every note before you strike it."
A little awed by her mother's tone and manner, Sophie managed to get
through the lesson without any more blunders.
Then came the arithmetic. Her sum to-day was one in Compound Addition.
She understood the rule perfectly, and the sum required only patience
and care. But neither care nor patience was Sophie inclined to exercise
this day. After two or three trials, she got entirely out of humor, and
throwing the slate down on the floor, she exclaimed:
"I never can do it, and that is all about it." And she burst into a
flood of tears.
Her mother waited a few minutes, until the storm had subsided, and
then, taking up the slate, said:
"Don't you understand the rule, Sophie?"
"I understand it well enough," sobbed Sophie, disconsolately, "but I
cannot do that old sum. I never shall get it right, I know."
"What is the trouble with it? It is a long sum, I know, but not at all
difficult, and you have done several like it. But you can never do any
thing as long as you are such a baby. Take the slate and try again.
You must really do this sum before dinner, my child," she continued,
seriously, but calmly. "It requires nothing but patience, and it must
be done. I shall sit here till I see it finished."
Mrs. Kennedy said no more, but went on quietly with her work. Sophie
sat crying for some time, but as her mother took no notice of her
tears, she grew rather ashamed of them, and, finally, wiping her eyes,
she took up her slate, and in ten minutes did the sum correctly.
"It is quite right this time," said her mother, looking it over. "You
had better put away your books now, and get ready for dinner. You will
have no time to draw to-day."
Sophie found she had much better have preserved her temper, as she
gained nothing by losing it. Her mother did not seem to be even
ruffled, and she went to her room feeling very much ashamed of herself.
She had lowered herself in her own eyes and her mother's, and deprived
herself of a real enjoyment in losing her drawing lesson. She appeared
at dinner with flushed cheeks and swollen eyes, but her father did not
seem to notice them; for he laughed and talked just as usual. Before he
left the table, he said:
"I saw nurse Brown this morning, Sophie, and she said Betsey was
wondering what had become of you. I told her you had been very much
occupied, but would come and see her soon."
"Suppose We go this afternoon?" said Mrs. Kennedy to Sophie. "You know
I have never seen your little friends yet."
"If you please, mamma," said Sophie.
"Then you may ask Nancy to put up some of her nice potted chicken,
and we will take it round. A delicate appetite is often tempted by
something which is made away from home."
A little while after dinner, Mrs. Kennedy and Sophie set out on their
walk. It was a mild afternoon: the trees were now quite bare, and the
grass had begun to look brown, but the air was filled with the peculiar
sweetness of Indian summer. As they passed the school-house, several
girls were standing at the gate, among whom were Laura Bartlett, Greta
Carroll, and Harry Reed. And Mrs. Kennedy stopped for Sophie to speak
to them.
When they went on—"Sophie has been crying," remarked Laura, who as
usual had her eyes about her. "I wonder if she has had a fuss with her
stepmother already?"
"It is nothing remarkable for her to cry," said Carry Woodford. "She
often did that in school, especially over her arithmetic. I have seen
her shed any quantity of tears over a sum in fractions, which after all
she did in two or three minutes."
"I wonder if she studies at home?" continued Laura. "I think it is too
bad for her mother to make her work out of school."
"You speak as if you thought that her mother made her study for her own
pleasure and convenience, instead of for Sophie's own good," remarked
Greta. "I don't think Mrs. Kennedy can find it very amusing, to sit
down two or three hours in the morning with Sophie over scales and
exercises and little easy tunes, when she plays so splendidly herself
or to spend ever so long over arithmetic and grammar lessons."
"Why does she do it, then? She might just as well send her to school."
"No doubt she thinks it will be better for Sophie, she has been to
school so much. I am sure Sophie ought to be grateful to her for taking
so much pains with her."
"Well, I don't see why we need be so wonderfully grateful to our
teachers. They are paid for all they do, and they need not teach unless
they choose."
"I suppose then if you had the smallpox, and a doctor should save your
life, you would not feel any gratitude towards him," observed Harry
Reed. "He would get his pay for all he did."
"I am sure no money would pay Miss Warner for the pains she takes with
that poor little Anne Jenkins," said Greta; "she is both dull and
mischievous, and yet Miss Warner and Miss Lee are never weary of trying
to teach her."
"She has improved very much since she came here, though," remarked
Carry Woodford. "She is really beginning to learn something; and she
has got over that trick of rolling her eyes and twitching her mouth
when she talks. I should not wonder if she becomes about as clever as
other children, after all."
"I do not believe she will ever be very intelligent," replied Greta.
"But even if she should not, think how glad her parents will be, if she
only learns to read and write and to behave properly. Do you think,
Laura, that money will ever pay Miss Warner for the pains she takes
with her?"
"Oh no, indeed," acknowledged Laura. "I did not mean, you know, Greta,
that one ought not to be grateful at all to teachers; only not so
'very' grateful."
"I rather think you did not consider much about it, Laura. But I know a
great many girls feel just so about their teachers. They seem to take
every thing done for them just as a matter of course, and never think
of making any return; and it is something so even to their parents."
"Oh, well, Greta," said Laura, carelessly, "we cannot all be as good as
you, even if we try."
"Suppose you should try, Laura?" said Harry.
"It is quite too much trouble for me," replied Laura. "But Harry," she
added, mischievously, "why don't you try yourself? I am sure there
is room for improvement. I don't set myself up for a pattern, as
Greta does, but I never should have answered Miss Lee as you did this
morning."
Harry colored very much, but made no answer in words, though a very
angry one flashed from her eyes.
While Greta said smiling, "I assure you, Laura, I don't set up for a
pattern at all. But I don't think you really do want Harry to improve."
"Why not?"
"Because if you did, you would not try to provoke her. Besides you
don't know how much she does try."
"I am sure she does not succeed very well," persisted Laura, who seemed
to take a malicious pleasure in seeing Harry's indignation rise.
Harry turned and went into the house, without saying a word. She was
beginning to try very hard to get the better of her temper, and in such
cases as the present, she found it the best policy to get out of the
way of provocation.
"There she goes, as grand as Juno," continued Laura laughing, "and I
must go too, if I don't want to be marked. Come, Miss Pattern, it would
never do to be late, you know."
And the girls accordingly went into school.
When Mrs. Kennedy and Sophie arrived at their destination, they found
Betsey sitting up in bed, supported by pillows. She had passed a week
of comparative ease and comfort, and was very cheerful. Her mother was
seated beside her, sewing on a fine linen shirt. A bright flush of
pleasure passed over Betsey's face as they entered, and she held out
her thin hand.
"I am so glad to see you again, miss," she said. "I was almost afraid
you had forgotten me, but I suppose you have been very busy. Is this
your mamma?"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Kennedy smiling. "I have been trying to come and
see you before: but you may imagine, Mrs. Hand," she continued, turning
to her, "that I have been pretty busy. It takes some time to settle
one's self in a new home."
"It does indeed, ma'am," answered Mrs. Hand, "especially for one like
you. No doubt you found every thing ready to your hands too, and that
makes a great difference. When I was married, and went home with my
husband, I had every thing to do. The woman who pretended to keep house
had neglected every thing, and the child, poor thing, had not a whole
garment to put on, nor a stocking to her foot. The first week I was
there, I knitted her two pairs of stockings."
"Red ones," said Betsey; "how well I remember. And I remember too,
mammy, how you cleaned up every thing and how different the house
looked."
"Do you recollect how I would not let you play in the water, and how
you cried over the first sewing I set you?"
"Yes, mammy, and how you made me sit still till I had finished it: I
thought you were very hard upon me then. And how you let me make the
biscuits one day: I got my hands covered with dough, and could not get
it off, and ran out in the front yard, to ask you what I should do
next."
Betsey grew quite animated over her reminiscences, and her mother
smiled to see her so gay, but the smile was followed by a sigh.
"The most I cared about growing up, since I began to think about it,
was that I might do something for you, mother. But never mind," she
continued cheerfully; "I have tried to do something, and we shall not
be long apart, and you will have little Mary. So don't cry, mother,
please."
Mrs. Hand laid down her work and left the room, while Betsey looked
after her and sighed in her turn. "Poor mammy," she said. "Miss Sophie,
you must try and comfort her when I am gone."
"The only thing you think about is leaving your mother, Betsey," said
Sophie, after a few moments' silence. "You do not seem at all afraid of
dying. I suppose it is because you are so good."
"Oh no, indeed, Miss Sophie, it is not that. I do not believe any one
is good enough, not to be afraid of dying: do you, ma'am?"
"No, Betsey," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "I told Sophie before I saw you
that I thought you must have some better reason than that. Perhaps you
will feel able to tell her what it is."
"It is because I have a Friend in heaven that loves me, and will take
care of me, Miss Sophie. I know that God is my Father, and that he sent
His dear Son, our blessed Saviour, to die and rise again for me, that I
might be saved. And I know that for His sake, God will forgive my sins,
and take me to live with Him; and by and by mammy will come too, and
then we shall all be together, mammy and father and all."
"You are sure, dear child, that God has forgiven you for Jesus Christ's
sake, and that He will hear your prayers!"
"Oh yes, ma'am," said Betsey, with animation; "he has heard me so many
times already. I cannot say I ever thought much about such things till
my father died, though he and mammy both used to teach me about God and
heaven, but somehow, when he died, he seemed to carry my heart right up
with him. We were a great deal poorer after daddy was taken away; and
when I saw how mammy worked, I felt as if I must work too. So I asked
God, night and morning, to give me strength and sense to work for mammy
and Mary, and He did."
"I have no doubt of it, my love," said Mrs. Kennedy.
Sophie listened with fixed attention; she was much interested.
"But I am afraid you are tiring yourself. Does it not hurt you to talk?"
"No, ma'am, not at all to-day. I love to talk about those times. So,
then, I began to try and take the best care I could of Mary and the
house, while mother was away at work. Mary was a very good baby, and
needed little nursing. And by and by, I thought I might get some sewing
or knitting to do too. So I went to our minister's wife—she was a good,
good lady—and told her about it, and showed her some sewing I had
done. She said she would help me all she could, and gave me some work
herself. I never told mother a word about it, till I had earned almost
ten shillings."
Sophie glanced at her mother, who had seated herself by the bedside,
and taken up Mrs. Hand's work.
Mrs. Kennedy returned the glance with a smile.
"So much for knowing how, Sophie. But what did your mother say, Betsey,
when you gave her the money?"
"She was very much surprised and pleased, ma'am, and asked me how I
came to think of it. Then I told her how I had asked God to help me,
and show me some way to work for her. After that, I did a great deal of
work. I think, Mrs. Kennedy, it is a great deal easier to do hard and
disagreeable things, when one thinks one is doing it for God."
"You have found the true philosophy of life, my child. And no doubt
the same feeling helps you to bear your suffering as patiently and
cheerfully as I am told you do. Do you ever think that you drink of the
same cup that your Saviour drank of, and are baptized with the baptism
that he was baptized withal?"
"Of suffering, do you mean, ma'am?"
"Yes, my dear."
"But my pains are nothing to His?"
"That is true, but it is great for you, and you cannot tell how much
good it will do."
"It has done me good already, I know, and some one else, too. Oh, Mrs.
Kennedy, the poor drunken man that burned me—that dropped the candle
on me, you know—he has never drank one drop since. His wife told him,
when he was sober, what he had done. And he was so shocked, and felt so
sorry, that he declared he would never taste another drop as long as he
lived, and he went and took the pledge directly. He came all the way
here to see me, yesterday, and to ask me to forgive him."
"And did you?" asked Mrs. Kennedy.
"Oh yes, ma'am," replied Betsey. "Indeed, I had nothing to forgive, for
he did not mean to do it. I expect it was harder for mother than for
me. Of course it would be, you know. But I think she has forgiven him,
for she said the Lord's Prayer with me last night. So my being burned
has done some good."
"Well, Betsey," said Mrs. Kennedy, rising and laying down the work,
now nearly completed, "I think you are happier than a great many well
people I know. I shall come and see you again, very soon, my dear."
Sophie was very quiet and thoughtful all the way home. When she
arrived, she put away her bonnet and shawl without waiting to be told
as usual, and then sat down with her arithmetic and slate to learn her
lesson for to-morrow.
"What do you think it is that makes it so hard for me to learn
arithmetic, mamma?" she asked, after working in silence a while.
"I think this is one reason, Sophie," replied her mother. "You acquire
some things much more easily than people in general, for you have a
naturally quick memory. But you think rather slowly, and you are not
much accustomed to exercise your reflective powers. So when you bring
them to bear upon your arithmetic, you are impatient of the slowness of
the operation, and at your progress in it, compared with other studies.
It is really no harder for you than for any one else, except that you
are more unused to reflection."
"I know I am, mamma; I never can sit down and think steadily."
"But, my dear, I sometimes see you sit an hour without speaking or
moving: what do you do then?"
"I don't know, mamma; I dream, I believe," said Sophie; "I think what I
would do if I had such and such things, or how I would live if I were
very rich, like Miss Eustace. I think how I would have a fine place,
and travel all over, and such things."
"A very bad way of employing your mind, or rather your time, for your
mind has not much to do with it."
Sophie looked incredulous, and her mother continued:
"I know all about it, my dear, for I had the same habit myself for
a great many years, and had to make great efforts to rid myself of
it. Tell me honestly, do you not sometimes build castles in the air
that are not so very pleasant? When any one vexes you a little, for
instance, do you not sometimes imagine a train of circumstances in
which you are very much abused, and made to endure all sorts of
hardships?"
Sophie assented silently. She was conscious that she had been doing
something of the sort that very morning.
"And do you not come out of such a reverie, feeling still more
uncomfortable, and unwilling to be pleased?"
Sophie nodded again.
"That is one bad effect of this habit of reverie," continued her
mother. "Another is, that it tends to make you impatient of every sort
of mental exertion; and that is the case, more or less, with almost
every thing which occupies the mind without exercising it. I think if
you will make an effort to break off this habit, you will find your
lessons all the easier for it."
"But, mamma, it is so pleasant to imagine one's self able to have all
that one wants, and to think of all the good one might do with so much
money. I was thinking, yesterday afternoon, that if I were as rich as
Mr. Astor, I could do so much for the poor people here. I would build
them such nice houses, like Prince Albert's model cottages, you know,
and—" Sophie paused, for she saw a smile on her mother's face.
"I heard Nancy asking you why you had not dusted the books in the
parlor, as you promised her. Was that when you were imagining all these
fine things?"
Sophie colored scarlet. In fact, she had started about her work, and
actually taken the duster in hand, but finding a paper containing an
account of the prince's model cottages, she had fallen into the reverie
aforesaid, and had not only forgotten to dust the books, but finally
went out, leaving duster and brush in the middle of the room.
Mrs. Kennedy saw she had guessed rightly, and continued:—
"You have no reason to suppose that you would do any good with Mr.
Astor's means, or even more, if you neglect the opportunities now in
your power. 'He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful
also in that which is much: and he that is unjust in the least is
unjust also in much.' What do you think would have become of Betsey and
her mother, if the latter had sat down to cry over her misfortunes, and
to imagine what a fine education she would give them, if she were only,
rich. Or suppose Betsey had spent the hours she devoted to sewing, in
thinking, 'Now if I could only sing like Jenny Lind, how nicely I could
support mother!'"
Sophie allowed that her mother was in the right as far as Betsey was
concerned, but she thought her own case very different. She took too
much pleasure in her reveries to be very willing to abandon them. But
the conversation had so much effect upon her that for once, she applied
her whole mind to her lesson in figures, and therefore found it much
easier than the preceding one had been.
CHAPTER V.
THE BAD COLD.
SOPHIE'S lessons went on more smoothly for a few days, and she made
abundant resolutions to be more steady and industrious, but she relied
on her own strength to keep them, and asked no help from above. As two
or three weeks passed without any particular temptations, she began to
flatter herself that she had no more reason to fear, and began to relax
her guard. Of course it was not very long before she learned how much
her self-reliance was worth.
Winter had now fairly set in, and the weather was very cold. Sophie's
favorite pets—her chickens—were shut up in their house at the barn, and
she always went out to feed them morning and evening. She was provided
with a warm wadded sack and hood for these occasions, but though she
was subject to ear-ache and pain in her face on the least cold, she
had never been taught by what she suffered to take care of herself.
Sometimes her hood and sack were up stairs, or elsewhere out of place,
and she could not stop to find them; or her overshoes were cold, and it
was not worth while to warm and put them on, "just to run out to the
barn."
"Put a shawl over your sack, Sophie," said her mother to her one
evening, as she came in with her basket of provisions; "and do not stay
out long. It is very cold."
"Yes, mamma," answered Sophie, quitting the room rather hastily, and as
usual leaving the door ajar.
But instead of wearing any thing additional, she did not put on her
sack at all. The truth was, she could not find either that or her hood,
which she had left out of place in the morning: so she hastily threw on
an old shawl of Nancy's, which she found in the kitchen, and without
stopping to warm and put on her overshoes, she ran out to the barn.
On entering the chicken-house, she found the water frozen, and another
journey to the house for some hot water became necessary. Then a new
arrangement of troughs and basins was entered into, and the end of the
matter was, that she returned to the house thoroughly chilled. When she
entered the kitchen, Mrs. Kennedy was there, and at once perceived the
state she was in.
"Why, Sophie!" she exclaimed. "You have not been out all this time with
nothing but that shawl! Where is your sack?"
"I could not find it, mamma. I am not very cold," answered Sophie,
though her chattering teeth, and the way in which she hung over the
stove contradicted her words.
"Run up stairs, Jane, and get a pair of warm shoes and stockings for
Miss Sophie," said her mother. "Sit down here, Sophie, but do not
put your feet very near the fire. How could you go out so, my dear?
I should think you had suffered enough this winter to make you more
careful."
"Why, mamma, I very often go out so without getting cold. I was out
longer last Saturday without its doing me any harm."
"I thought you had the toothache all day Sunday, Sophie, so that you
could not go to church."
Sophie could not deny it.
"But there is no use in talking about it," continued Mrs. Kennedy. "If
you cannot learn to be more prudent, you must take the consequences."
"At any rate," murmured Sophie, as she followed her mother into the
parlor, "if I do have the toothache, I will not tell any one."
This was a resolution much easier to make than to keep, for Sophie
was impatient of pain and very irritable under it. A good many sharp
twinges in the course of the evening made her aware that she had
incurred the usual penalty. True to her resolution, however, she said
nothing about it, but taking a bottle of laudanum into her room, she
bound some upon her face, and got into bed as soon as possible, to try
and forget her pain in sleep.
She passed a restless and uncomfortable night, and was awakened early
by the pain in her face and ear. When she came to rise, she found her
limbs stiff and aching, and her throat very sore. She dressed herself,
however, and taking care to wash the stain of the laudanum from her
face, she descended to the breakfast-room, still firm in her resolution
to say nothing about it.
Her mother observed that she ate little, and was very silent.
"Do you not feel well, Sophie?" she asked.
"Yes, mamma, very well," answered Sophie, though she felt very much
like crying as she spoke.
A feeling of depression and irritability made it very difficult for her
to attend to her lessons: the pain in her face and throat increased
every moment, and she felt as if she were choking.
Her mother took no notice of the numerous mistakes she made in her
music lesson, though she said before the lesson was half finished—"That
will do for this time; you may get your slate and arithmetic now."
Sophie brought them, and set herself, languidly enough, about an
interest sum. She did not succeed the first time; and when she brought
the sum to her mother, it was again wrong.
"Why, what is the matter, my child? You did this very sum yesterday,
and several others like it. Do you not understand it?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Sophie, completely overcome by pain and
vexation, and bursting into tears: "my face aches so, I cannot think of
any thing, and my throat is so sore, I can hardly breathe."
"I thought you were not well," said Mrs. Kennedy. "How long has your
throat been sore?"
"It was sore last night, but not as bad as it is now."
"Why did you not speak of it, and have something done for it
immediately?"
Sophie was silent.
"You will pay pretty dearly for your carelessness, if you have the
quinsy and a gathering in your face at the same time. But don't cry,
my dear, you will only make the matter worse. Come and let me put some
cold camphor on it, and perhaps we may prevent its swelling. You must
be very careful not to get more cold."
Sophie lay down on the sofa in her mother's room, for she did not feel
able to sit up any longer. All that day she suffered very much, and
when night came, her face was much swelled. She had severe pain in all
her limbs, and such a high fever that Mrs. Kennedy thought it necessary
to send for the doctor.
Dr. Werner came, felt her pulse, and made many inquiries as to how
she had been exposed. Mrs. Kennedy told him the story of the chicken
feeding expedition.
"So!" said the doctor. "Your chickens are wiser than you, my child;
they do not go out barefooted in the snow."
"I never saw them put any shoes on, doctor," said Sophie, laughing.
"Oh well, it is all one; they do not go out at all in the snow, but
stay in their house. But you have, indeed, caught one very bad cold, do
you hear, and you will have to stay in the house two or three weeks,
perhaps. I tell you, my child, you must be more obedient and careful,
or you will be sick like Betsey, and then you can never be cured any
more."
"How is Betsey, doctor?" asked Mrs. Kennedy.
"She is getting no better very fast," answered the good doctor
seriously. "I think she can now live but a few days longer. I was
coming this very night to tell you she wanted to see Miss Sophie again.
But you must not go out to-morrow, child, do you hear?"
"Not if I am a great deal better, doctor?" asked Sophie anxiously. "Not
if I am quite well? I want to see her so much!"
"You must not go out to-morrow, or the next day either for you will
not be well enough. You shall give her this powder, madam, and put her
feet in some boiling water when she goes to bed, and she must have some
boiling gruel, and be covered warm. To-morrow I shall come again."
"Nancy," said Sophie to the nurse, who entered as Mrs. Kennedy went out
with the doctor, "Dr. Werner says I must put my feet in boiling water
to-night, and have some boiling gruel!"
"I reckon he didn't mean just 'boiling,' dear," said Nancy, after some
consideration. "The doctor talks kind of outlandish, you know. I reckon
he meant pretty hot. Does your face get any better, dear?"
"No, it gets worse every minute, and my throat aches so I don't know
what to do. I wish the chickens had been in the Red Sea, I am sure."
"I don't see how the chickens were to blame," said Nancy. "If you had
only gone and found your cloak and hood—"
"Well, I don't want to hear all that old story over again," interrupted
Sophie, pettishly. "I think it is bad enough to be sick, without being
scolded by every one. You always say just so!"
"If people will not mind what is said to them when they are well, they
must hear of it when they are sick," answered Nancy, calmly. "I think
it is bad enough for little girls to make themselves sick, and give so
much trouble, without being cross at the same time. I am very sorry
your face aches, my dear, and I would do most any thing to help you,
but I don't like to see you trying to lay all the blame on some one
else."
In spite of the doctor's boiling water and powders, Sophie's face
continued to swell, and she rested very little during the night.
For the next three days, she was unable to be up, and suffered a great
deal. Mrs. Kennedy hardly left her during the time. She tried her best
to relieve her and make her forget her pain, and Sophie felt as if she
could never do enough to repay her mother for her kindness.
"After all," she thought, "it is a very good thing to have a stepmother
to take care of one. But I suppose they are not all alike."
When Sophie began to get better, and to sit up a little, her mother
found it very difficult to keep her from exposing herself. As long as
she did not feel uncomfortable, she never noticed whether she were
properly covered or not. She was very anxious to go down stairs, and
her mother yielded to her entreaties, on condition that she should
wear a large shawl through the passages, and not go out of the parlor.
But Sophie was no sooner established in an arm-chair by the side of
the fire, and left alone, than she remembered that she had left her
book up stairs. There were plenty of other books in the room, and she
had the bell at hand. But instead of ringing for Nancy, or employing
herself about something else for a little while, she went back to her
room without her shawl, and found what she wanted. The windows were
all open, and she remained some time exposed to the cold air. She
congratulated herself on getting back without discovery, but found she
might better have kept quiet. For the pain in her face came back as bad
as ever for several hours.
"You may consider yourself well off in escaping so," said her mother,
when she had, by dint of questioning, extracted the truth from Sophie.
"I am sorry that you cannot be trusted by yourself for five minutes.
You promised me you would not leave the parlor fire."
"I should not have gone, only for my book," answered Sophie, very angry
at being told she could not be trusted. "There was no one here to get
it for me."
"What you went for is of no consequence, my child. You promised, and
you should have kept your word. It is not the first time that I have
noticed the same thing, Sophie. The other day you promised me that if I
would let you go out with Laura Bartlett, you would learn your lesson
next morning before breakfast, but you did not learn it at all."
"Because I did not get up in time."
"Precisely, but you ought to have been up after making such a promise.
The habit of making promises carelessly is a very bad one to fall into:
it leads directly to lying. You look very indignant, my dear, at the
idea of being betrayed into any such thing, but it would be much better
for you to guard carefully against it. You are no more secure than any
one else, and you must look to the same means to keep you in safety."
When Sophie was again left alone, she thought very earnestly upon what
her mother had said. "I am sure I never told a lie in my life." Here
she stopped. For she remembered that two or three times lately she
had so far departed from the truth as to give a false excuse for the
omission of a lesson—even going so far as to say that she had practised
an hour, when she had spent half the time in reading a magazine. "But
that was not a lie," she continued—
"But it 'was' a lie," said Conscience. "I told you so at the time, and
you were very much afraid of being found out."
"Well, at any rate, I am very sorry," said Sophie, "and I mean to ask
forgiveness to-night in my prayers."
But when night came, Sophie had forgotten the matter altogether, and
went to sleep without saying her prayers at all. She thought of it when
she waked in the morning, but satisfied herself with the idea that the
room was too cold, and she must go down to the fire as soon as possible.
She did not care about going out this day or the next, for she felt
quite weak, and was willing to be quiet. But when Saturday came very
bright and pleasant, and she saw the street full of sleighs and
walkers, she felt very uneasy at staying in the house. She was sitting
by the front window, looking at the passers-by, when she saw Laura
Bartlett running up the steps. She was just going to meet her, when
she remembered her promise not to expose herself, and kept quiet until
Laura came in, breathless as usual.
"Come, Sophie," she exclaimed, "but put on your bonnet and cloak,
and be ready. James is coming with the sleigh to take us to the
green-house, and then down to the lake shore. The roads are beautiful,
and it is so clear and cold—so pleasant, you can't think. Run and get
ready."
"I don't believe mother will let me, Lolla," said Sophie. "You know I
have been sick."
"Oh, well, but you have got over it. You are as well as ever now, are
you not? Your face does not ache now. I will ask your mother for you.
But here comes James. What on earth are you stopping for, James?" she
called, opening the window to speak to her brother.
"I must go up town on an errand for mother," he answered. "I shall be
gone about half an hour, and will call for you when I come back."
"Well, come, Sophie, where is your mother?" asked Laura, closing the
window again. But she had hardly spoken, before Mrs. Kennedy entered,
dressed for going out.
"Oh, Mrs. Kennedy," began Laura, without giving that lady time to
speak, "I have come to take Sophie out to the green-house, and then
mother wants her to come to our house to tea. It is a beautiful day to
ride."
"It is, indeed," said Mrs. Kennedy, "and I wish Sophie were able to go,
but—"
"Oh, please don't say but," interrupted Laura. "I hate that word."
"I should like to go very much, mother," said Sophie anxiously. "I am
sure it would not hurt me, it is so pleasant, and I have not been out
of the house in a week."
"I know it," replied her mother, "but I am afraid, Sophie. You have
narrowly escaped being very sick, and a little cold would make you
worse than ever. I think you will have to content yourself with staying
by the fire a few days longer. I am sorry for your disappointment, but
I cannot have you sick again."
"But it is so pleasant, mother; and I could wrap myself up very warm."
"Not to-day, my dear. If you keep on getting better, and it is pleasant
on Monday, I will try to let you have a ride. But to-day you must try
to amuse yourself at home. I am going out for a little while, and will
find you something to read."
Mrs. Kennedy had hardly closed the door, when Sophie burst into tears.
"I declare it is too bad," exclaimed Laura. "I think she might let you
go."
"It is always just so," sobbed Sophie. "I never can do any thing I want
to. She has kept me shut up in this room this whole week. She found
fault with me for going into the study to find a book."
"I don't believe Harry Reed would say it was such a nice thing to have
a stepmother, if she knew about it," continued Laura. "If it had been
your own mother, she would have let you go, I know."
Sophie sobbed more than ever.
"Why don't you ask your father, Sophie? I dare say he would let you go."
"It would be just the same," answered Sophie. "He would only ask me
what mother said. He always does just as she says."
"I think you were better off when you had no one but Nancy to ask,"
continued Laura. "Then you could go where you liked. I am sure I hope
I shall never have a stepmother. It is just as mother says—they never
have any feeling for their husband's children."
It may seem strange that Sophie could allow Laura to speak this of her
kind mother, but she was too angry herself to think of the impropriety
of it. As for Laura, she was ready for any thing, if there were only a
chance of finding something to talk of.
"Does she make you learn long lessons, Sophie?" asked Laura.
"Not very," said Sophie, "but then I always must have them exactly,
and at just such a time. The other day I did not have my arithmetic
lesson in the morning, and she made me stay at home and study all the
afternoon."
Sophie did not think fit to tell why she had stayed at home all the
afternoon. She had neglected to commit to memory an important rule, and
her mother had told her she must learn it after dinner. It did not take
fifteen minutes when she fairly applied her mind to it, but she was
offended at being treated like a baby, as she said, and it was her own
choice to remain at home.
"There comes James with the sleigh," exclaimed Laura. "Good by, Sophie.
I am right sorry you cannot go. I shall call for Anne Weston."
After Laura had gone, Sophie continued crying a long time, persuading
herself that she was very ill-used and very unhappy. Then she began to
reflect that it would be as well not to let her mother see that she had
been crying. So she went up stairs and bathed her face with rose-water
until the traces of tears had disappeared, and then set herself down to
practise a new waltz. She soon became very much interested in it, and
had nearly forgotten her ill-humor, when her mother appeared, with her
arms full of books.
"Why, mamma, what a load!" exclaimed Sophie.
"I have brought you some books to comfort you for the loss of your
ride," answered Mrs. Kennedy, piling the large volumes on the table.
"There is 'The Tyrol,' and there is a volume of 'Wilson's Birds,'—you
must be very careful of that,—and here is the very volume of costumes
you were so desirous of seeing. I felt as if it was rather an
extravagant purchase,—it is a second-hand copy, you see,—but the
figures are very spirited, and good studies for you—so I stretched my
purse-strings a little."
"Did you really buy it for me, mamma?" asked Sophie, delighted. "Where
did you find it?"
"All the way up at Lawson's, my dear. They would have sent it at
tea-time, but I thought you would like it now, as you were unable to
go out. I will put my bonnet away, and then we will look over them
together."
"I have another reason for not caring to have you go out with Laura,"
said her mother, as they sat down together at the table. "She is not a
very safe person for you to be intimate with."
"Why not, mamma?" asked Sophie.
"She is such a news-carrier, my dear. I have observed her closely, and
I perceive she never comes here without a story to tell of some one;
and her stories are very apt to vary a little from the truth, as is
almost always the case with such persons. Her mother is very much so.
The first time she called upon me, she gave me a history of almost
every family in the street; and when I returned the call, she was
equally communicative in regard to her own neighbors. Such persons are
not very safe."
Sophie now began, with some alarm, to think over what she had said to
Laura: "Do you think, mamma, that Laura would really tell any thing
that was said to her?"
"Why, my dear, you can judge for yourself. You know she was here the
day before yesterday to see you: how many things did she tell you
that the girls in school said about Mrs. Warner, and ended every one
with—'But don't repeat it for the world, for I promised I would never
tell.'"
"I remember she did," said Sophie, "but I did not think of it at the
time."
"I am always glad to have your friends come and see you," continued
Mrs. Kennedy, "but it will do you no harm to put you on your guard a
little. A great many people have an idle way of repeating conversation,
without meaning any harm, but it is a bad habit, and mischief is very
likely to grow out of it. Even a harmless remark sounds as differently
as possible when it is repeated."
Some visitors coming in, the conversation was interrupted, but Sophie
did not forget it. She sat with her pretty new book at the window, and
turned over leaf after leaf, but she did not pay much attention to the
gay figures. She was trying to remember every word she had said to
Laura, and the more she thought of it, the more uneasy she felt. She
could not but see how improperly she had spoken, and how much she had
misrepresented her mother. She would have given any thing to recall the
words, but it was too late for that. And she could only hope that Laura
would hold her peace—a faint hope, indeed, for any one acquainted with
her habits.
Her disagreeable feelings returned with double force, when she found
herself alone in her own room at bedtime. She repeated over and over
again, "What if mamma should hear of it!" Of the ingratitude and want
of respect she had shown to her kind mother, she hardly thought at all.
She read her chapter, and repeated her prayers, almost without knowing
what she said, and lay down to sleep to be tormented with dreams of
Mrs. Bartlett telling every one that her mother was very unkind to her,
and of Dr. Shelly announcing the same from the pulpit.
CHAPTER VI.
THE WORDS OF THE TALE-BEARER.
"WHAT do you think, girls! But won't you ever tell as long as you live?"
Laura Bartlett had collected a knot of her especial intimates in one
of the recitation rooms at noon-time, and prepared herself to be very
mysterious and important.
A certain set of girls in Miss Warner's school were very much in the
habit of assembling themselves, at noon and in recess, in order to
retail such pieces of news and gossip as they could pick up out of
school. From these groups an attentive listener might often hear such
exclamations as the following:
"Oh, I think he's divine!" "Isn't he so handsome!" "He certainly is
engaged, for Mrs. Carter told mother." "I know he isn't engaged, for
Mr. King told Louisa." "She is not at home a day in the week, and
her mother does not pretend to govern her." "Isn't it shameful for
Emma Hart to dress so extravagantly? She has taken a class in Sunday
school." "Oh, yes, a great many young ladies have taken classes in
Sunday school since Mr. Collins came—" And so on, without end.
Laura was much the youngest of this set of girls, but she was such an
excellent gatherer of news, and her stories were so interesting, that
she was treated with great favor. Miss Warner looked with no friendly
eye upon these meetings, and had made great efforts to put a stop to
them, but without success. As she truly said, "As long as the girls
were accustomed to the same sort of conversation at home, and were
encouraged in repeating every thing they heard, there was little use in
her interference."
"Let us go up on the stairs," said Carry Woodford; "Miss Warner will be
coming in, and then we shall have to stop."
The garret stairs ascended from a little dark entry which opened out
of this recitation room. And as the garret room was not used at all,
it was a favorite canvassing room, and a deal of mischief was plotted
there.
When the company were fairly seated, Laura opened her budget.
"Isn't it a shame that Sophie Kennedy's mother is so unkind to her?"
"Is she unkind to her, Lolla?" asked one of the girls.
"Yes, indeed she is. I went there last Saturday to take Sophie to
ride, you know what a beautiful day it was. Well, Mrs. Kennedy would
not let her go, though Sophie wanted to very much. And after she went
out, Sophie told me it was always just so whenever she wanted to do any
thing. I think it is a real shame."
"But I am sure, Lolla, Sophie does go out. I see her out with her
mother almost every day."
"Oh, yes, with her mother, to be sure, but not as she used to before
her father was married. She used to run about every where then, and as
long as she was at home at meal-times, her father did not know or care
any thing about it. She used to visit somewhere every day in the week.
I am sure she does not come to our house nearly as often as she used
to."
"That is true, to be sure!" said Anne Weston. "But then she goes a
great deal to Mrs. Gaylord's, and to see Greta Carroll. I wonder, for
my part, that Greta can care so much about her, when Sophie is so much
younger."
"Oh, Greta likes some one that she can 'play good' to, and patronize,"
replied Laura. "That is the reason she has the little girls so much
about her. She knows it will not do with us. Harry Reed is growing just
like her."
"She will never be just like her in one thing," remarked Carry
Woodford; "she will never be so good tempered, if she tries ever so
hard. I am sure I do not care, for my part, how good they are, if they
will only let me alone. But what else did Sophie tell you, Lolla?"
"Oh, she said that her mother was so particular about her lessons, that
if she did not have them in time, she would not let her go out for ever
so long; and she must always do just so about every thing. Sophie says
there is no use in going to her father about it, for he only says, 'Oh,
ask your mother, Sophie,' and will not hear a word of complaint. I know
her mother scolded her when she was sick, for Mrs. Mann, the woman that
was there washing, heard her tell Sophie it was all her own imprudence,
and that she was glad of it."
"How cruel! When she was sick!" exclaimed Carry Woodford.
"But that does not sound at all like Mrs. Kennedy," said Anne Weston.
"She is so refined in her expressions."
"Oh, yes, no doubt, when she wants to make people think she is very
good. She has taken a class in Sunday school, you know; the one Fanny
Bates is in."
"Well, what of it?"
"Well, she noticed that Fanny and two or three of the other girls
talked at one of the Lent Lectures. And the next day she talked to them
about it in the class, and made the girls cry."
"What did Fanny say?" asked Martha Pierce.
"Why, she did not seem to be angry at all, somehow; she did not say
much about it. If I were in her place, I would not go to another
lecture."
"She does go all the time," said Anne Weston; "and I know she has been
at Uncle Shelby's twice this week. I should not wonder if she should be
confirmed at Easter; you know Harry and Greta are going to be."
"Harry Reid!" exclaimed Laura. "She is no more fit to be confirmed—why
she cannot keep her temper one day. I don't pretend to be one of the
saints, but I would never be confirmed unless I were sure I could live
consistently, and keep my resolutions. I would not pretend to be a
Christian unless I were a real good one."
"Uncle Shelby says that is not the right way to think about it,"
replied Anne. "He says no one can tell exactly how they will feel all
their lives; and if we depend on our own resolutions, we shall never be
good at all. I think it is true, too, but I don't see any other way."
"Oh, well, Anne, we don't want to hear your experience," interrupted
Carry. "You can go and make your confession to young Mr. Collins, if
you want to free your mind. You have grown very good since he came."
"I have not, either," said Anne, rather angrily, "but I think I have a
right to speak."
"Well, Lolla, what else about Sophie? Do you think her stepmother is
really unkind to her?"
"I should call that unkind," replied Laura, "scolding her when she was
sick, and not letting her go anywhere unless she was with her. I am
sure I should not like it much. We always have to be so particular when
we are with grown persons. You know that night we were all there to
tea, Mrs. Kennedy staid in the room all the time, and we did not have
any fun at all."
"I thought she made it very pleasant, for my part," said Anne Weston.
"She sung and played for us, and told us so many stories about the
negroes and their queer ways on the plantations, and about things at
the South. I liked it very much. Dr. Shelby says—"
"You are always quoting Dr. Shelby, Anne. Are you sure you don't mean
Mr. Collins?"
"I do not see what particular difference it would make. They are both
ministers, and preach in the same pulpit."
"Oh, yes, of course, it is just the same. But I would not be so very
good just yet, Anne; perhaps he is engaged, after all. That's right,
now—go away and cry—I would not set up for a saint just yet. How
wonderfully grave Anne grows lately," continued Carry Woodford, when
Anne had disappeared.
"That is nothing," said Martha Prime. "She does just so every Lent, and
gets over it again at Easter. She will be just the same by and by, you
will see."
"There is the bell," exclaimed Laura, jumping up. "Now be sure, girls,
you don't tell. I am going to see Sophie again to-night, and I mean to
find out all I can about it: but don't you say a word."
"What is the matter, Anne dear?" said Greta Carroll in recess, sitting
down by Anne's side, and putting her arm around her.
Anne had been sitting in the same attitude ever since the school
opened: her book was before her, and her eyes were fixed on its pages,
but her thoughts were evidently far away. She looked very sad, and now
and then a tear rolled down her cheek.
"What is the matter, dear?" repeated Greta. "Are you sick?"
Anne tried to answer, but the words would not come, so she shook her
head in reply.
"Come out into the garden with me," said Greta. "Miss Warner gave me
permission, and the girls are all in the playground, so we shall have
it to ourselves, and the fresh air will do you good. It is more like
spring than winter."
Anne suffered Greta to lead her into the garden without any remark, but
when she found herself alone with her friend, she could control herself
no longer, and she burst into tears. Greta allowed her to weep without
restraint for awhile, till her excitement passed away in some measure,
and she was able to speak.
"I am very foolish to cry so, Greta, I know, but I cannot help it.
Carry Woodford is so provoking. I do not see how she can take any
pleasure in being so. She is always saying that people may be as good
as they please, if they will only let her alone, but she does not think
so, I am sure, or she would not act as she does."
"How, Anne?"
"Why, she and Laura Bartlett, and that set of girls, were in the
recitation room talking—just as they always do, you know—I don't
mean to say any thing against them, for I have just been as bad as
the rest—and I quoted something Dr. Shelby said, about talking among
ourselves, and before grown people, you know."
Greta assented.
"And then Carry said I was always quoting Dr. Shelby, and asked me if
I did not mean Mr. Collins; and then she had some nonsense about his
being engaged that provoked me—"
"That was foolish in Carry," said Greta, after waiting a moment for
Anne to proceed, "but I would not mind it, if that was all. Carry
rattles on without thinking what she says. I would not mind her."
"But that was not all, Greta, I was very angry, I confess, and I am
such a goose I never can help showing it. And then she told me I had
better not set up for a saint until I could keep my temper a little
better, and that I was growing very grave all at once. And then Martha
Prime said I was always just so in Lent, but that I got over it and was
as bad as ever. That was what I cared most about," said Anne, crying
afresh, "because I know it is true. Every Lent, when I am going to
the lectures, I try to be good and to make myself a Christian, but I
never can keep on. I make resolutions upon resolutions, but I never
keep any of them, and I don't believe I shall ever be good enough to be
confirmed."
"How good are you going to be, before you are confirmed, Anne?"
"Why, I don't know," said Anne, surprised at the question; "I thought
we must be very good indeed. Because as soon as one is confirmed, there
is the Communion. One must be perfectly good for that, you know."
"I don't know," answered Greta. "The Prayer Book says in the
invitation, 'Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and
"intend" to lead a new life'—I do not believe it is right to wait till
one is 'perfectly good,' as you say."
"But there is the trouble, Greta: I know very well I do not repent. I
think over my sins, and try to make myself feel sorry, but I know I do
not, after all,—not as I ought. I am sure I wish I could."
Greta was silent a few moments, and then said, blushingly and with
hesitation, "I don't want to be impertinent, Anne, but I should like to
ask you a question: you need not answer unless you choose."
"I am not afraid of your being impertinent, Greta. You may ask what you
please."
"Do you pray, Anne? Are you in the 'habit' of praying?"
"No," said Anne, frankly, "I acknowledge that I am not. I was taught to
say my prayers when I was a child, of course, but I have left it off,
almost ever since I was old enough to sleep by myself. At one time, I
used to repeat the prayers in church, but that seemed only a mockery,
and I left it off. Now I do not even put my head down."
"I do not see how you can expect to repent, or be an obedient
Christian, unless you do pray."
"But, Greta, ought I to pretend to pray, when I don't care any thing
about it?"
"Certainly not," answered Greta. "But I thought you said you wished you
could repent and be a Christian, did you not?"
"Yes," said Anne, "I am sure I do.—You will hardly believe me, I
suppose," she continued, more earnestly than before, "but I would be
willing to do any thing if I could only be saved by it; I would not
care what."
"But you know we cannot save ourselves, Anne; you know that nothing we
can do can merit heaven."
"What must we do, then? I do not see that we can be saved at all, if
that is the case."
"'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ
Jesus came into the world to save sinners.' If we would be saved, we
must give up all hope in our own doings, and trust in Him—we must ask
God the Father to forgive and accept us for the sake of his dear Son."
Forgetting her embarrassment in her earnestness, Greta spoke with great
feeling, and Anne seemed both interested and affected.
"But I am such a sinner, Greta," she said. "You don't know how wicked I
have been. It does not seem as if I could come and ask to be forgiven,
just as I am."
"If you were sick with the smallpox, Anne, you would send for the
doctor at once, would you not? You would not say, 'My skin is too much
marked now, I will wait till I look a little better before I send for
him.' You never can be cured of your sin in any other way. It is only
the blood of Jesus Christ that cleanseth us from all sin. We cannot
save ourselves."
"What ought I to do, Greta? I am sure I do wish with all my heart to
repent and be forgiven."
"You must pray, Anne, and study your Bible. Read how Jesus Christ came
into the world, and took upon Him the nature of man, and was poor
and despised; how He was tempted and insulted, and finally crucified
for us—for you, Anne. And He does not forget us now, either. He will
receive us gladly the moment we come to Him. He is far more ready to
give than we to ask. I wish I could make you feel about it as I do,"
said Greta, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"I am sure I wish you could, Greta," answered Anne in a subdued voice.
"Well, won't you try? Don't give it up, nor let the girls laugh you
out of it. I do not believe they will laugh if they see you in real
earnest. And what if they do? It will not hurt you if you do not know
it. Try to-night not to think of any thing else until you have made
up your mind about this: I am sure you will be much happier. And you
may never have another opportunity. As Mr. Collins says, if you are
not ready to be confirmed, you are not ready to die, only think if you
should go to the Judgment without being prepared!"
"Will you pray for me, Greta?" asked Anne softly, as they walked
towards the house. "I will pray for myself. I never felt so much like
it before. But will you pray for me?"
"Yes, indeed," said Greta, "I do very often. And, Anne—if you will
excuse me for saying so—will you sit somewhere else, and not with Carry
and Martha, if you go to church to-night? It does not seem right to
whisper in church, and if you will only sit somewhere where you can
listen—"
"I will, Greta," said Anne. "I will sit with aunt Shelby if mother does
not go. I do not think it is right any more than you, but when I am
with the other girls I forget."
True to her word, Laura set out to call upon Sophie after school, and
see what else could be extracted from her: but just as she was turning
into the street where Mr. Kennedy lived, she met Sophie. She had a
basket on her arm, and was going to visit nurse Brown, and carry some
delicacies to poor Betsey, who, after a week or two of great suffering
and weakness, was again comparatively comfortable. Sophie had nearly
forgotten her uneasiness, until she saw Laura running to meet her: she
now resolved internally that she would say nothing out of which that
young lady could make any capital.
"I was just coming round to see you, Sophie," exclaimed Laura. "Where
are you going?"
"I am going up to nurse Brown's to carry Betsey Hand some things that
mother has sent her," answered Sophie; "and I am going to call and see
if Greta will go with me."
"I will walk round to Mrs. Carroll's with you," said Laura; "I want to
tell you what a nice time we had last Saturday. I was so sorry you did
not go. We went to the green-house, and then down to the lake shore,
where we got out and ran about on the snow and ice. But be sure you
don't tell, Sophie, for I promised mother I would not get out of the
sleigh."
"I wonder you were not afraid to go on the ice," exclaimed Sophie.
"Suppose you had fallen through and been drowned?"
"Why then I should, I suppose, but there was no danger. What did you do
all the afternoon? I should think you would have cried your eyes out."
"Oh, no," answered Sophie, "I had a nice time. Mother borrowed some
volumes of engravings, and bought that large book of costumes for me,
so I enjoyed myself very much. And, Laura," she added, with a good deal
of hesitation, "I wish you would not repeat what I said about mother.
I ought not to have spoken so, I suppose, but I was very much vexed. I
wish I was not so quick-tempered."
"I don't see how you can help it, if it is your natural disposition,"
answered Laura. "You never keep angry. For my part, I don't like these
very particular people, that always cut their words by one pattern,
like Greta Carroll."
"Why, Laura, I am sure Greta Carroll is as good as she can be. I wonder
you can speak so, when she is so kind to you. How many times she has
helped you about your lessons! I wonder you should speak so."
"I do not feel myself under any such overwhelming obligations,"
answered Laura, with a toss of her head. "I am not very fond of being
patronized for my part. I like Greta well enough, but I don't see why
she should set up to be so much better than other people. Martha Prime
says that Greta has you and Emma Gaylord completely under her thumb."
"It is no such thing," retorted Sophie angrily. "I don't believe Greta
ever said so."
"Nobody said she did say so," answered Laura "but actions speak louder
than words. Why should she, the oldest girl in the school almost, want
to have so much to do with you little ones, if it is not because she
likes to govern."
"Because she likes to help us, and keep us out of mischief," answered
Sophie. "She likes to help every one. Miss Warner says she is as useful
to her as any of the teachers."
"To be sure; that is just what I say," persisted Laura. "She likes to
be in authority. She likes to have Miss Warner send her to hear classes
and to keep order among the little ones, and to have them coming
with their books to her. She and Anne Weston have been wonderfully
confidential this afternoon; I should not wonder if she should bring
her round. However," she added, "I don't want to prejudice you against
Greta, Sophie. If you like to be governed, I am sure I don't care."
Just at this moment Greta passed them on the other side of the street.
She was walking with Harry Reed, and the two were so much engaged in
conversation as not to see Laura and Sophie. If she had been alone,
Sophie would have called to her at once, but Laura's remarks had not
been without their effect on her mind, and she determined to show that
she could do as she pleased. So she let them go on without speaking,
and then said, "Greta will not be at home, Laura. Suppose you go round
with me and see Betsey?"
"I don't mind going round and waiting for you," said Laura, "but I
would not see her for the world. I have such quick feelings that I
cannot bear to see people suffer. When James hurt his face so last
summer, I never went into the room till he was almost well, it made me
feel so bad to see him."
Sophie thought within herself, that it was well every one's sensibility
did not take the same form. She remembered Mrs. Gaylord's dressing
Betsey's hand and face, and her mother binding up the gardener's arm
when he cut it with the scythe; and it did not appear to her that their
feelings would have been equally well displayed in sighs and tears.
She would have said so, but that she stood rather in fear of Laura's
sarcastic remarks.
"Does your stepmother make you go to see poor people very often,
Sophie?" asked Laura.
"She does not make me," answered Sophie, "she lets me."
"Oh, she makes it a privilege, then! I must say it is a privilege I
do not want, going into such dirty places, among Irish and Dutch, and
every thing. I think it is the business of the Charitable Society to
do that. We give them our money, and they ought to take care of the
people."
"Mother says," replied Sophie, "that we can never excuse ourselves by
giving money, from getting acquainted with the people themselves. And I
know both she and father think that only giving money does harm instead
of good, sometimes."
"Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Laura. "Charity do harm! That is a new
idea."
"Not charity," said Sophie. "Only giving things away."
"I don't see any difference," answered Laura.
Sophie's own mind was not very clear upon the subject, so she did not
answer.
"You go to Sunday school now, don't you?" asked Laura, after a moment's
silence. "Whose class are you in?"
"I am going to be in Greta's class after this week," answered Sophie.
"She is going to take half of mother's."
Laura smiled.
"What do you mean, Lolla?"
"Oh, nothing; only I should rather have a teacher that knew more than I
did. Greta and your mother are great friends, are they not?"
Sophie did not answer. If she had followed her best impulse, she would
have stopped Laura's insinuations at once, but she was really afraid of
her, and did not like to offend her. Moreover, Laura's remarks had not
been without effect. Sophie was beginning to be very jealous of being
treated like a little girl, and she could not bear to think that any
one near her own age should try to govern her. She was often displeased
at her mother for insisting upon her doing things in exactly the right
time and way, treating her like a baby, as she said.
That very morning she had been seriously disobliged, because her mother
did not think proper to have her dresses made long, like a young
lady's. Mrs. Kennedy did not think it worth while to dispute the point
at length, but gave her own orders to the dressmaker; and when the
dresses came home, they were short, as before. Unluckily Laura chanced
to observe that she had on a new frock, and asked her why she did not
put on long dresses.
"Mother would not let me," said Sophie. "I wanted them made long,
very much, but she says it will be time enough two years from now,
especially as I am so small. I wish I was as tall as Miss Lee," she
continued, thinking aloud, "and then I should not be treated like a
child by every one."
"I don't wonder you don't like it—I shouldn't. But why don't you set up
and do as you please, as I do? Mother did not wish me to go to school
this quarter, but I was determined I would, and I did."
"That would never do with my mother," answered Sophie. "You would never
try it but once with her, I can tell you. For all she is so gentle
usually, she can be severe enough when any one sets her at defiance. I
should never dare to say I would do what she told me not to—I would as
soon cut my head off."
"It must be a change for you; you used to do pretty much as you
pleased, before she came."
"I do now, about a great many things, but then I have to mind. She is
very kind when I am sick, and takes a great deal of pains to teach me.
And I am sure I am very much attached to her, but I should like to be
left more to myself sometimes. Here we are now, and here is nurse at
the door."
Nurse had her finger on her lip. Betsey had had a very bad turn, but
was better, and asleep. Sophie must leave her basket full of dainties,
and come to see her another time.
Laura now found she must go in another direction; so Sophie walked
home alone, pondering on all she had heard, and feeling more than ever
discontented with Laura, herself, and every one around her. She felt
very unhappy, she could hardly tell why. Nobody appreciated her; Greta
only wanted to patronize her; her mother was very unkind; and even her
father did not love her as he used to. She wished she had never seen
Laura, and yet she continually thought over all she had said. "Truly,
the words of the tale-bearer are as wounds."
CHAPTER VII.
SOPHIE'S GREAT TROUBLE.
FOR several weeks Sophie continued to see a good deal of Laura
Bartlett, and she never saw her without being made uncomfortable by
her remarks. Mrs. Kennedy saw with great uneasiness the influence that
Laura was gaining over her daughter. She perceived that Sophie grew
discontented, peevish, and critical that she was far more difficult to
manage, and more disposed to rebel against necessary government, and
that she was estranged from her best friends. She tried to warn Sophie
of the injury which Laura would do her, but without success. Sophie at
once concluded that her mother was prejudiced against Laura, and wanted
to keep her from having any friends but herself. Mrs. Kennedy thought
it would do more harm than good to forbid any intercourse between the
two girls, as it would of course cause a quarrel between the families.
Laura expected to go away to school in the spring, and to be gone
two years. And this, Mrs. Kennedy thought, would answer the purpose,
without having recourse to any extreme measures.
Easter came, and with it the Confirmation: a number of the older girls
and boys out of the Sunday school, and several of Sophie's schoolmates,
were confirmed; among them were Greta, and Harry, and Anne Weston.
Anne had, with much fear and trembling, made up her mind to this
decisive step, and her courage almost failed her at the last moment.
The service was held on the evening of Easter Tuesday, and in the
afternoon she ran up to Dr. Shelby's and tapped at the study door. She
was a distant relation of the good doctor, and he was very fond of her,
so she had no hesitation in confiding her troubles to him. She now
poured forth all her fears, her distrust of herself, and her anxiety
for the future, and concluded by saying—
"And I am afraid, Uncle Shelby, that I am not fit to be confirmed,
after all, Suppose I shall fail? I have so little steadiness—I have no
strength at all."
"You are not expected to have any, my little girl," answered the doctor
kindly. "If any one were to come forward to this ordinance, trusting
in his own strength he would be sure to fail. The only safety for you,
or any one, is in earnest prayer, and a full dependence on God for
help. Remember that you have all the power of God on your side, so long
as you persevere in asking for it. Trust all to your Saviour. Be not
troubled overmuch about yourself. 'Take no thought for the morrow: for
the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.' Every day has
its duty, and every duty has also its day; and I think I may safely
tell you, little Miss Much-afraid, that 'as your days, so shall your
strength be.'"
Sophie witnessed the Confirmation, and she was much affected when she
saw so many of her friends going forward to enroll themselves as the
soldiers of Christ, and she heartily wished herself among them. She
forgot her distrust of her mother and of Greta, and as the latter
stood before the altar looking more beautiful than ever, but evidently
entirely forgetful of every thing but the solemn vow she was about
make, she turned her eyes to her mother for sympathy.
Mrs. Kennedy pressed Sophie's hand warmly in hers, and the tears stood
in her eyes, as she prayed that her dear little charge, in proper time,
might stand in the same place and make the same offering of herself.
The solemn question was asked and the response given, and after prayers
the good bishop laid his hands on the heads of the young people
kneeling so humbly at the chancel rails, with those beautiful words
which have welcomed so many souls to new life and usefulness—
"Defend, O Lord, this thy servant with thy heavenly grace; that she may
continue thine for ever, and daily increase in thy Holy Spirit more and
more, until she come unto thy everlasting kingdom."
As the Reverend Father in God came round to Anne Weston and her
schoolmates, Carry Woodford who was sitting in the pew before Sophie
and her mother, put down her head and sobbed aloud. Her natural and
acquired levity was for the time subdued.
As Anne came out of the church, Carry took her hand and whispered,
"Please forgive me, Anne, for teasing you so. I am real glad you have
become confirmed, though I cannot myself."
Anne pressed her hand but did not reply, for she felt that she could
not speak just then.
Sophie had allowed Laura to tempt her into repeating a great many
little things which had occurred at home, such as always happen in
any family, and are of very little consequence unless told of abroad.
Every little jar in her own lessons or employments was also confided to
Laura, who did not fail to make the most of them.
Yet Laura was not without good qualities; her great trouble was, that
her mind and heart were entirely unoccupied. Her mother was a vain and
vulgar woman, who being without cultivation herself, was jealous of it
in every one else. Mrs. Bartlett professed great contempt for "literary
people," and thought women had enough to do to attend to their domestic
affairs, so she spent half her time in collecting news and the other
half in relating it. Under such influences Laura had grown-up, and it
was not wonderful that she should make gossip the employment of her
life. She retailed the stories which she extracted from Sophie's folly
and waywardness, with additions and embellishments of her own, for like
most other newsmongers, she never could tell any thing exactly as it
was told to her. Her mother did the same in her own circle of friends,
and it was soon the impression with many people that poor Sophie was
very unkindly treated by her stepmother, and that Mr. Kennedy had made
a most unfortunate match.
Three or four weeks after Easter, as Sophie was sitting with her
mother one afternoon, Mrs. Gaylord came in, and after a few moments'
conversation asked to speak with Mrs. Kennedy in private. Sophie left
the parlor and went up to her own room, feeling rather uncomfortably.
She was never without a lurking uneasiness lest her confidences to
Laura should bring her into trouble, and she felt almost sure that Mrs.
Gaylord had heard of them and was come to tell her mother.
The two ladies were closeted together for a long time, and as soon
as Mrs. Gaylord left, the tea-bell rung and Sophie was obliged to
go down. She ventured to glance at her mother's countenance once or
twice, and could not help thinking she looked very sadly, but she said
nothing. And Sophie could not make up her mind as to what had been the
subject of the conference. She had a feeling, however, that she had
been concerned in it. Sophie was right—Mrs. Gaylord had related to her
mother the reports in circulation, and concluded by saying—
"I should never have dreamed of bringing you this foolish tale, my dear
friend, had not Sophie been so deeply concerned in it, but both Laura
Bartlett and her mother declare that Sophie told them the stories in
the first place. And my Emma, who I may say without boasting is very
truthful, tells me that the girls at school all say that Sophie is in
the habit of speaking, not only to Laura, but even to other girls,
about things that happen at home. Laura is a very unsafe friend for any
girl, least of all for one so easily influenced as Sophie."
Mrs. Kennedy was too much shocked to answer, at first, and could only
express her obligations to her friend by pressing her hand. At last
she said,—"If any one else had told me such a story about my child, I
would not have believed it. But I fear it must be true. I have seen
many things in Sophie lately which have made me very uneasy and I
almost wish now that I had followed my first impulse, and forbidden
her to have any thing to do with Laura. But I had such a dread of a
neighborhood quarrel, that I concluded to let the matter rest, hoping
that Laura would soon leave town, and so an end would be put to the
affair."
Mrs. Gaylord rose to depart. "I think Mrs. Bartlett will hold her
peace, for her own sake, after what I have said," she remarked; "and as
for other people, it is of no consequence. In such a place as this, any
story soon dies out, if left to itself."
The next morning Sophie got her books as usual, and was about to sit
down to the piano, when Mrs. Kennedy said,—
"You may let your books be for the present, Sophie; I have something
else to talk to you about."
She then informed Sophie of what Mrs. Gaylord had told her, and ended
by saying—
"I should care very little about the matter, Sophie, if it had been an
ordinary piece of gossip, but that you should have been guilty of such
treachery, astonishes me beyond measure. I can hardly doubt that such
is the fact, but if you have any thing to say for yourself, I shall be
glad to hear it."
Sophie sat perfectly overwhelmed with confusion and shame, almost
wishing that she could sink into the earth, or be at once annihilated.
She dared not look up and meet her mother's eye, which she felt was
fixed upon her. At last she stammered:—
"I am sure I did not mean—I did not think Laura would go and tell!"
"How could you think otherwise? You know that she always repeats every
thing she hears. But even if she had never repeated a word, did that
justify you in slandering your mother?"
Sophie burst into a violent fit of weeping.
"Stop crying, Sophie, instantly," said Mrs. Kennedy.
Sophie had never heard such a tone from her mother before. She wiped
her eyes, and sat trembling like a leaf.
"Turn your face towards me," commanded her mother in the same tone.
Sophie obeyed, but she dared not look up.
"Now listen to me, and answer my questions, and be careful to tell me
the exact truth: Did you tell Laura, the day I would not let you go out
with her, that I would not permit you to do any thing you wished to,
that I made you stay at home all day because you did not know a lesson,
and that I kept you sewing from morning till night? Answer me!"
"Yes, ma'am," articulated Sophie, with difficulty.
"Is it true that I never let you do any thing you wish to, or that I
ever made you sew from morning till night?"
"No, mother," answered Sophie again.
"Did I ever restrain you from doing any thing which you yourself knew,
on reflection, to be right?"
"No, mother."
"Have I ever neglected, from the first moment I came into this house,
to provide every thing necessary for your comfort? Have I not taken
care of you when you were sick, and taught you when you were well? Dare
you say, this moment, that I have ever treated you unjustly once since
I came here?"
Sophie dared not say yes. She felt as if she were standing at the
judgment seat. For in her heart she knew that she had never received
any thing from her mother but kindness.
"Answer me, Sophie: yes or no."
"No, mother," said Sophie.
"So that all you have told Laura is false? Is it?"
"She is a good-for-nothing tattler!" exclaimed Sophie, trying to find
relief from her shame and remorse in violent indignation. "I wish she
was in the Red Sea."
"What she is, or is not, is not to the present purpose," answered Mrs.
Kennedy. "And if she is a tattler, you by your own confession are a
slanderer, and that of your own mother."
"I wish my own mother was alive," sobbed Sophie. "I wish I could die
and go to her."
"You are not worthy to take her name on your lips in such a spirit,
Sophie. She was a saint upon earth, as she is now a saint in heaven. I
trust she does not see her little girl as she is now."
"Oh dear! I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead!" sobbed Sophie.
"Are you prepared to die? Suppose God should at this moment take you at
your word, where would you be?"
Mrs. Kennedy was silent for some time, and then said in a tone of the
deepest sadness—
"I am sorry for you, my child; I do not know what to do for you. If in
a single outbreak of temper you had spoken so to Laura, I should think
little of it in comparison, though that would be bad enough. But again
and again you have told her and others, what was either entirely false,
or you have repeated things with a false coloring. I came here from a
very happy home, determined to devote my life to your advantage, and
since I came, I have labored in every way by teaching you, and working
for you, to make you good and happy. I have put aside my own tastes and
employments for your sake, and day and night I strove to behave to you
as your own blessed mother would have done. I thought I was succeeding,
and that you loved me as I did you I could not but perceive how much
you were improved inwardly, and I flattered myself that your heart and
mind grew in proportion.
"But it seems that I was mistaken: you have allowed the idle words of
a vulgar school-girl to have more weight with you than all my love
and care, and have given to her the confidence you denied to me. I do
not know what more I can do for you, since you think my care tyranny,
and treat my affection with contempt. What is to become of you if you
continue in this course, I do not know. You may go to your room and
remain there for the present. If we can do no more for you, we must
at least take care to save your reputation from irrevocable injury if
possible."
Sophie went to her room, and throwing herself upon the floor, gave way
to the wildest expressions of grief and anger, weeping and sobbing
and wringing her hands almost like a mad creature. But this could not
last long, the violence of the passion exhausted itself, and she began
against her will to think. Oh, how contemptible and mean she appeared
in her own eyes as she reviewed the course she had taken. She dared
not whisper even to herself that she had ever been unjustly treated by
her stepmother. Every kind word and act, every sacrifice for her sake,
seemed to rise up in judgment against her.
In that very room, her mother had sat up with her night after night
when she was sick, and had thought no pains too great to amuse and
comfort her. Her book-shelf filled with pretty volumes, her nice
dressing-case, the pretty prints on the walls, all witnessed against
her. Above all, her first mother's picture, which her stepmother had
copied and hung at the foot of the bed, and upon which her eyes first
rested on Christmas morning, how it reproached her! She dared not look
at it.
She felt indignant at Laura's treachery, but her conscience repeated to
her that she had known Laura before, even if she had not been warned
against her. Turn where she would, she saw no comfort. The girls at
school all knew how she had behaved. Greta and Harry would despise her,
and never want to have any thing more to do with her. Mrs. Gaylord
would never let her come and see Emma again. How could she even go into
the Sunday school? How could she go to church or into the street?
What would her father say? She had not thought of that before. Of
course he knew all about it—and what would he think of her? Would he
ever forgive her? She did not feel as if he could.
She did not dare to think of dying. What if she should die now, just as
she was? The idea was insupportable. She took a book from the shelf,
and thought she would read, but it was one her mother had given her,
and she hastily replaced it and took another. It was a Testament, and
her eyes fell upon the words, "It is a fearful thing to fall into the
hands of the living God:" she threw it from her as if it had stung her.
And at last, worn out with weeping, she threw herself upon the bed and
fell asleep.
She was awaked by Nancy, who brought up her dinner; and having arranged
it comfortably for her, and made up her fire, left the room without
speaking.
"Nancy is turned against me too," she thought. "I have not a friend in
the world; what will become of me?"
The afternoon passed wearily enough, and it seemed to Sophie as if it
would never be dark. She tried to sew, she tried to read, to draw,—but
she could fix her mind on nothing. She wished her mother would come and
see her. And yet when she heard her step in the hall, she trembled lest
she should enter. At last Jane, the housemaid, brought her tea, with a
lamp and a new magazine.
"Who told you to bring the magazine, Jane?" asked Sophie.
"Your mother, miss. She fixed the waiter for you, and got the quince
jelly herself. She has been lying down all the afternoon with a
headache, and looks dreadful pale. I heard your father ask her if he
should send for the doctor, but she said it was nothing much."
"Did papa say any thing about me, Jane?"
"No, miss, but he looked as if he felt very bad. If I was you, miss, I
should go and beg mamma's pardon, right off, whatever I had done, and
not stay shut up here. Only think how much better it would be."
Sophie shook her head.
"Well, miss, now I call that real naughty of you, when your mamma has
been so good to you. I'm sure you ought not to be proud."
"It's not that," said Sophie, "but I know she never would forgive me."
"Oh, nonsense, don't you believe it; I know better. But I must go and
wait on the table,—so good night, miss."
So, her mother was almost sick. Sophie felt that it was her fault, and
thought what would become of her if her mother should die. She looked
at the evidence of continued care on the neatly spread tea-board, and
the book she had sent her, and felt in her heart of hearts, that no own
mother could be more kind. The time passed slowly enough, and she went
to bed before nine o'clock, to try and forget her troubles. But she had
slept so long during the day, that she could not go to sleep at once,
and she felt almost afraid to do so.
She lighted her lamp again, and taking her Bible to read herself
sleepy, she opened to the parable of the prodigal son. She read it
through again and again.
"That is what I ought to do," she thought, "if only I could. But then
even if mother forgives me, it will never be again as it was before.
She will never trust me again—how can she? Oh, how I wish I could undo
it all! If I had only minded what she told me about Laura, it would
have been well enough. I made so many resolutions when I was sick, and
I have broken them all. Oh, dear me! I don't know what to do!"
Then another thought occurred to her which made her heart beat fast.
She had offended God as well as man, and her heavenly Father was angry
with her. How could she go to sleep without asking his forgiveness?
She knew now, why she had never kept her resolutions. She had learned
that in the Church Catechism, but she had never thought of it before as
she did now. She had never asked God for his special grace by diligent
prayer, though she had said her prayers a great many times.
Sophie had strong religious feelings, and had been well taught. And now
in her time of trouble, the good seed began to spring up. Thoughtfully
she turned over the leaves of her Bible, reading a few words here and
there, till she came to a chapter in Isaiah where were a few verses
marked by her mother's hand. She read:
"He was wounded for our sins and bruised for our transgressions; the
chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with his stripes we are
healed. All we, like sheep, have gone astray; we have turned every one
to his own way, and the Lord has laid on Him the iniquities of us all."
She knew very well to whom these words referred. "My sins too," she
said. She put down the book, and sat meditating with her eyes covered
with her hand for some minutes. Then she rose from her bed, and
kneeling down beside it, she remained in that position a long time.
When she arose, she was weeping, but not bitterly; and the hopeless
expression was gone from her face. She no longer felt forsaken of God;
and trusting that He had forgiven her, she felt sure her kind mother
would do the same.
At first she thought she would go to her at once, but she remembered
what Jane had said about her headache, and thought she would not
disturb her to-night. So she lay down again, and putting out her
light, was soon asleep. She did not sleep quietly, being tormented by
uncomfortable dreams, all relating to the events of the day. Several
times she awaked herself by talking, or started up in a great fright.
At last she thought that her mother was lying on the floor in the
schoolroom; that she was dying, and calling on her for help, while
Laura Bartlett held her fast and would not let her go. Oh, how she
struggled to get free, till some one pressed her hands softly, and
said, "Sophie! Sophie! What is the matter? Wake up, my child."
Then she opened her eyes, and knew it was all a dream. Her mother was
standing over her, holding her hands and speaking to her.
"Oh, mother!" she sobbed. "I thought you were dying, and I could not go
to you."
"You were dreaming, my child; lie down now, and I will sit by you till
you go to sleep."
Sophie threw her arms round her mother's neck as she bent to arrange
the pillow, and whispered, "Oh, mamma, I was so wicked!—But I am so
sorry! Can you ever forgive me, and love me again?"
Her mother kissed her, and said gently, "I forgive you, my daughter,
with all my heart. But, Sophie, there is another whom you have offended
more than you have me, and whose forgiveness you ought to ask—your
Father in heaven, my child."
"I have, mamma; I did before I went to sleep. But I don't see how you
can ever trust me again, or any one else."
"We will talk about that in the morning, Sophie. You must not expect to
escape from the consequences of your fault, even though you repent of
it. But we will talk of that another time."
"Does your head ache now, mamma?" asked Sophie, anxiously.
"It is better, though it aches a little. It has been very bad for a few
hours this afternoon."
"And that is my fault too. Oh dear! How much harm I have done! If I had
only minded you, mamma, it never would have happened. But you don't
know half I used to do. I am ashamed to think how I used to let Laura
talk to me."
"You must not be angry with Laura, Sophie."
"I am not, mamma, now. I was at first, but now I see it was all my own
fault. But please, mamma, go back to bed. Your head will soon be worse
than ever. I shall go to sleep now, I know; and I cannot bear to see
you look so pale. Please do go to bed."
Mrs. Kennedy yielded to Sophie's earnest entreaties, and retired,
thankful from her heart to find her so truly penitent. And Sophie,
after again saying her prayers, was soon asleep.
The next morning Mrs. Kennedy had a long conversation with Sophie on
the subject of her fault, in which the latter confessed without reserve
all that she had done. And her mother was encouraged to find that she
had no disposition to justify herself at Laura's expense.
Neither did she appear confident in her own resolutions, but said,
humbly, "I am afraid to make any promises, mamma, but I will try and
be a better girl than I have ever been, and I hope God will help me. I
don't want you to trust me, mamma, but I want to stay with you, and not
be sent away."
Sophie had rather feared she should be sent to school somewhere away
from home.
"I have no thought of sending you away, my daughter. On the contrary,
I shall keep you with me more than ever, and try to do more for you. I
hope you have learned by this time, Sophie, how foolish and dangerous
a thing it is to have secrets away from your parents. Depend upon
it, they are your best friends, and any thing which you are afraid
to confide to them must be wrong. I am glad to have you have friends
and playmates of your own age, but unless you are willing to have me
acquainted with all you do and say with them, they will do you more
harm than good. Many a girl has bitterly repented all her life that she
did not make a confidant of her mother instead of some one as foolish
as herself."
Mrs. Kennedy paused a few moments and then said, "I want you to go out
with me this morning."
"Where to, mamma?" said Sophie, rather unwilling to run the risk of
meeting any one, for she felt as if the whole world must know how
wicked she had been.
"Up to Mrs. Brown's, my love. Betsey—"
"Is she worse, mamma?" asked Sophie, seeing that she hesitated.
"She is dead, Sophie. She died last evening about dark."
Sophie burst into tears.
"She passed away without suffering, and apparently without waking up at
all."
"Then I am sure she waked up in heaven, mamma," said Sophie.
"I have no doubt of it, my dear. She was in heaven in spirit before she
died: I never saw a more perfectly Christian character. Dry your eyes
now, Sophie, and let us go and see if we can do any thing. Your father
and Mr. Carroll will pay the funeral expenses, and we must see that the
mother has proper clothes."
When they arrived at Mrs. Brown's, they were taken up into the room
where Betsey had suffered so long, and where her body now lay asleep to
await for the resurrection day! A neat cap hid the scar on her face,
and her hand held a sweet white rosebud. Sophie thought, as she looked
at her, that she had never seen any thing more beautiful.
"Are you afraid to sit here alone a few minutes, my dear?" said Mrs.
Kennedy. "Mrs. Hand has lain down, and I want to speak to nurse."
"No, mamma, I am not afraid; I do not think Betsey would hurt me, now
that she is an angel."
Sophie kneeled down by the body of her friend, when she was left alone;
and there, in the presence of death and of eternal life, she prayed
that her heart might be moved as Betsey's had been; and that she might
have grace henceforth to live, not to herself but to God; and that
following her Saviour all her life, she might meet Him at last in
heaven.
And God heard that prayer and answered it!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE BABY.
FOR some time after the events recorded in the last chapter, Sophie
felt rather unwilling to go out, or meet any of her friends. For
she could not help feeling as if she had forfeited the respect and
affection of all those she most valued. She did not find, however,
that she was treated any less kindly by Harry and Greta, or that Mrs.
Gaylord was not glad to see her.
Laura left town immediately after the affair came out, and Sophie
was spared the embarrassment of meeting her. She wrote one letter to
Sophie, who showed it at once to her mother. Mrs. Kennedy could not
help smiling to see that Laura had already learned the history of every
one in the school, and was deep in all the gossip of the establishment.
She advised Sophie not to answer the letter.
"A correspondence with Laura will do you no good, and it will use up
time which would be much better employed by that young lady in learning
to spell, an accomplishment which she seems thus far to have neglected."
Sophie had learned a lesson which she never forgot. In the loneliness
of her chamber, face to face with her wounded conscience and her
God, she had found that all her own strength was the most miserable
weakness, her own resolutions worse than useless, unless supported upon
a higher Power. She had been deprived of all stay upon herself; had
been forced to see her own folly and sinfulness, and she had been led
to the Rock that was higher than herself—the Rock of Ages—that tried
stone, the precious Corner Stone, the Sure Foundation.
She had many a conflict with herself, more than ever, for many things
now appeared to her in the light of sins, which she had never thought
so before, and she could not look back upon her past life without shame
and self-reproach. But she fought bravely, and found her strength
and courage increasing with every victory. Many of her careless and
indolent habits she now saw were merely the indulgence of selfishness,
and she addressed herself with steadiness to break them off.
"Sophie has left every door in the house open." "Sophie, here are your
overshoes by the drawing-room fire." "Sophie, you have not mended your
stockings," were sentences much less frequently heard than formerly.
It was very hard for Sophie to answer in a good-natured tone when she
was reproved, and her mother advised her never to answer at all: she
found this an excellent plan, and I would advise all my young readers
to try it. You may possibly think that these are small things to make
matters of conscience, but depend upon it, unless you find yourself
applying the religious test to every-day duties, faults, and cares, you
have good reason to distrust yourself and your attainments.
We must now ask our readers to take a long step, and pass over an
interval of several months. It was now about a year since Sophie first
saw her new mamma; how long the time seemed to look back upon! She
had learned to think of her mother as her best friend, and turned
to her for advice as naturally as if she had never known any other
counsellor. The story which had originated in Sophie's indiscretion and
Laura's gossip, had long ago died out, as Mrs. Gaylord had predicted.
And the people who troubled themselves about the matter, had come to
the conclusion that Sophie was wonderfully improved in manners and
appearance, and much better dressed than formerly, so after all it
might be as well for her to have some one to take care of her.
One pleasant morning in September, Sophie was awakened very early by
some sudden noise which startled her very much, though she could not
tell what it was. She listened, but all in the house seemed quiet, so
she lay down and went to sleep again. This time she slept rather too
long, and when she awaked the second time, the sun shone brightly into
the room. Afraid of being too late for breakfast, she dressed hastily,
and as soon as she had finished her reading and prayer, which she now
never forgot, she went down into the parlor.
There was no one there! What could be the matter? Was any one sick?
Sophie was going to knock at her mother's door, when Nancy partly
opened it and looked out.
"Why, Nancy—" Sophie began hastily, but Nancy smiled and held up her
finger, and at that moment she heard a sound such as she had never
heard in the house before—it was the cry of a little baby.
Then she knew in a moment what had happened. Her heart beat faster than
it had done since the night she had stood at the hall-door, waiting for
her new mamma to get out of the carriage, and she trembled so that she
could hardly stand.
"Is that Sophie?" said a soft voice within. "Let her come in, nurse."
"Will you be very still, dear," said Nancy, "and not worry your mother?"
Sophie nodded, for she could not very well speak, and Nancy allowed
her to enter. A little fire was burning in the grate, and a strange
woman sat before it with something in her lap, but Sophie did not look
at her. She saw only her mother lying in bed, with her face almost as
white as the pillows. Mrs. Kennedy held out her hand to Sophie, and
kissed her very tenderly. I should not like to affirm that the little
girl did not shed a few tears, and even sobbed once or twice, but Nancy
said, that "'On the whole,' she behaved very well."
"Come here, Sophie," said her father, as soon as she was released from
her mother's embrace; "come and make acquaintance with this young
gentleman."
Sophie went towards the fireplace, and there, on the strange woman's
lap, lay a little baby—certainly the smallest baby in the world, Sophie
thought, though nurse declared it was a good big boy. Well, at any
rate, there he lay, with his eyes wide open, poking his little hands
about, and puckering his little red face into all sorts of odd shapes.
"What a darling little thing!" exclaimed Sophie. "But what funny faces
it makes up!"
"They always do so at first, miss," said the nurse. "See what pretty
little hands he has!"
Sophie slipped her little finger into one of them, and the tiny little
pink claws closed upon it, to her great delight. "See, papa, he is
holding my finger. What a dear little baby! When will he be old enough
to play, nurse?"
"Not in some time yet," said Nancy. "I expect you will be wanting him
to run about by next week."
"I am not quite so foolish as that," said Sophie, smiling. "I know
babies cannot walk and talk directly, but I shall want very much to see
him grow." She turned to her mother again, and a new fear entered her
mind, as she saw how pale she was.
"I am afraid you are very sick, mamma," said she, anxiously.
"No, my love, I am only weak. I do not think I am very sick. Now go
and make coffee for papa. You must be mistress for a while, till I get
about again."
Sophie was duly installed in her mother's place at the breakfast-table,
and filled her office with great propriety and dignity: her father
gratifying her by saying that he never drank a better cup of coffee. "I
am taller than I was the last time I made coffee for you, papa. Don't
you remember how I used to get the great Dictionary to sit upon, before
mamma came?"
"You are very much improved, my daughter," said her father, "especially
for the last few months. I hope you will continue to improve. Think
how soon you will be a young lady, and how much you will have to learn
before that time!"
"I am learning a great many things now, papa. I am going over the
arithmetic the second time, and I can do any sum in the book. How
stupid I used to be about it!"
"Do you think it was altogether stupidity, Sophie?"
"No, papa," answered Sophie, "I know it was not. I used to be vexed the
moment I could not do a sum, and then I would not try again. Now I like
it quite as well as French."
After breakfast, Sophie began to consider what she should set herself
about. She thought she would not practise, as that would disturb her
mother. So she took her slate and arithmetic, and worked an hour at
her sums with great perseverance. Then she went about the parlor, and
put all the tables and book-shelves in order, and arranged some late
flowers in the vases.
"I mean to try and keep the house looking just as it would if mamma
were about," she thought, "and have every thing pleasant for my father
when he comes in."
Finally, she took her sewing, and spent the rest of the morning in her
mother's room, sewing and watching the baby. What a surprising thing
that baby was! Every contortion of its little pink countenance, its
hands and feet, its cunning little ears, and the scanty locks of hair
which appeared when its cap was taken off, all were marvels in Sophie's
eyes. If she had not been a little anxious about her mother, she would
have been perfectly happy.
Every thing went on well, and in the course of a week Mrs. Kennedy was
able to sit up a little. Greta and Harry had seen the baby, and admired
it to Sophie's full content, but Emma Gaylord had rather affronted
her, by declaring that it had a funny lump of a nose, and that she
could not tell what color its eyes were—they seemed to her to be of
no color at all. As Mrs. Kennedy only laughed, and agreed with Emma
perfectly, Sophie could only take refuge with Nancy, who joined with
her in declaring that its eyes—bless 'em—were the perfect pattern of
its father's, and so was its nose.
One evening as Sophie was coming in from feeding her chickens, and
stopped a moment on the steps to take off her overshoes, she overheard
the following conversation between the nurse and Jane:
"Miss Sophie's very fond of her little brother," said Jane.
"She's a mighty pleasant child, any way," answered Mrs. Briggs, "and
takes to the mistress the same as if she were her own. But don't you
think, Jane, dear, she'll find a difference now?"
"What do you mean?" asked Jane.
"Oh, just this. I've seen a good many ladies that were very fond of
other children just as long as they had none of their own, but the
minute their own children came, they could not abide any others."
"It won't be so with Mrs. Kennedy, I am sure," said Jane; "she is
not one of that sort. She used to have a deal of trouble with Sophie
at first, but I never saw her one particle out of patience; not half
as much as many are with their own, and I don't believe it will be
different now."
"Well, maybe not. The lady is a good lady, to be sure, and its like she
will treat them all the same. I hope so, for Miss Sophie is that fond
of her, it will break her heart to be turned off."
This was all Sophie heard, but it was enough to fill her heart with
trouble. She was naturally inclined to be rather exacting of affection,
and perhaps a little jealous; and the thought that possibly her mother
would not love her as well, threw her into great distress. She did not
really believe that such would be the case, but she could not help
thinking about it. When she went to kiss her mother and the baby good
night, she approached the cradle with different feelings from what she
had done before: she felt almost angry with the little stranger, whom
she had been so glad to see. After she had retired to her room, she
sat for some time brooding over the uncomfortable idea which had taken
possession of her.
"But how foolish I am!" she finally said, half aloud. "I should think I
might have had enough of distrusting mother. I am sure she has not made
any difference, lately, and it will be time enough to think of it when
it comes."
So Sophie read her Bible and said her prayers, and with a resolute
effort dismissing the matter from her mind, she was soon asleep.
The next morning she had almost forgotten her distress, but it was
renewed in the course of the day by Mrs. Bartlett, who seemed destined
to be Sophie's evil genius. Mrs. Bartlett had kept away from Mrs.
Kennedy's, and had rather avoided meeting her, but the latter disliking
the idea of any thing like a quarrel, had called upon her, and made a
point of treating her politely. So Mrs. Bartlett came round to make
the proper inquiries for the health of Mrs. Kennedy and the baby, and
Sophie received her and answered her queries with due politeness.
"I suppose you will find yourself quite cast into the shade now, Miss
Sophie," said Mrs. Bartlett with her accustomed delicacy.
"Why, I don't know," replied the little girl, rather at a loss what to
say. "Why should I?"
"Oh, why—because the baby is almost always the most important
personage, you know—the oldest always has to be put out of the way
even when—" Mrs. Bartlett hesitated, and then went on in quite another
direction. "I suppose your mamma will not care to superintend your
education any more, now she has a baby of her own to occupy her.
Probably she will be thinking of a school for you."
"I don't know," said. Sophie again, feeling her heart grow suddenly
heavy. "She has never said any thing about any change."
"Of course she would not be likely to mention it to you, but Mrs. Stone
remarked to me that she heard your mamma making a great many inquiries
of Miss Crosset about the school she was at in H. And Mrs. Stone said
your mamma said, she was very much interested in the subject just now:
that's all."
Sophie, feeling herself very uncomfortable, was about to try and change
the subject, but Mrs. Bartlett continued—
"If your mamma should really intend to send you away, I can recommend
the school where Laura is. It is one of the most expensive in the city,
and very fashionable. The young ladies all take their own silver forks
and spoons and napkin-rings, and they are expected to dress for dinner
every day."
"One need not go away to school for that," remarked Sophie. "Mamma
always wants me to dress before dinner."
"Your mamma is right no doubt, Miss Sophie, but I think probably she
will not be so particular now. People are always more strict with other
people's children than their own. I suppose you are very fond of the
baby, are you not?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Sophie rather shortly.
"That is quite right: you ought to love him the same as if he were
your own brother. Many people say there need be no difference in the
feeling. I cannot see how that is possible myself, but no doubt it is.
So I hope you will not be jealous even if you find yourself cast quite
into the shade. You know it is natural for people to like their own
children best."
Sophie made no answer, and Mrs. Bartlett, having "freed her mind,"
finally departed, leaving the poor girl's heart full of trouble. In
vain she told herself that it was foolish to mind what Mrs. Bartlett
said, the words would constantly recur to her mind—"You know it is
natural for people to like their own children best."
To do her justice, she strove manfully against the feelings of anger
and jealousy which she was shocked to find arising in her heart, and
never gave way without a struggle, but it made her wretched to find
that she could feel so towards the darling little baby. Especially she
dreaded being sent away to school, and when she heard her mother say
that she would need several new dresses and other articles, she feared
it was with a view to her leaving home. She did not like to say any
thing about it to her mother for fear of distressing her, otherwise she
would have told her the whole story.
But Mrs. Kennedy had eyes and ears of her own, and she had become well
skilled in reading her daughter's looks and tones. She saw that Sophie
was unhappy, and guessed that some such ideas might be at the bottom of
the trouble, so she took the first opportunity of drawing her out.
"You may take this pleasant afternoon to go home and see your children,
Mrs. Briggs," said she one day not long after Mrs. Bartlett's visit.
"Sophie does not care about going out, and she will sit here and call
Nancy if any thing is wanted."
Mrs. Briggs was much obliged and prepared to be gone accordingly, and
as soon as they were alone, Mrs. Kennedy opened the subject.
"It seems to me, Sophie, that you have not been very happy for two or
three days. Has any thing happened to make you uncomfortable?"
"You will think me very foolish, mamma, and wrong too," said Sophie,
"but indeed I have tried all I can to help it."
"Help what, my dear?"
"Feeling jealous, mamma. I don't mean to, indeed; and I do love the
little fellow dearly," said Sophie almost crying. "I never should have
thought of it, but from something I heard."
"What did you hear, my child?"
Sophie related what she had overheard from the servants, and the
substance of Mrs. Bartlett's remarks.
"I wish Mrs. Bartlett—" began Mrs. Kennedy, in a tone of irritation
very uncommon with her, but she stopped and did not finish the sentence.
"Do say you wish she was in the Red Sea, mamma," said Sophie laughing.
"I should be delighted to hear you, just for once."
"You want me to be as bad as yourself, you saucy girl," said Mrs.
Kennedy, laughing in her turn. "But, really, I wish she lived anywhere
else. I do not wonder you were made uncomfortable by her remarks. Why
did you not tell me at the time, instead of fretting yourself ill over
it?"
"I was afraid of worrying you, mamma, as you were not very strong. And
besides, I did not really believe it after all, though I could not help
thinking of it. You do not mean to send me away, do you, mamma?" asked
Sophie very anxiously.
"No, my dear child," answered her mother, "I never thought of such a
thing. Of course I shall not have quite as much time to devote to your
lessons as formerly, and I intend that you shall have a music-master at
any rate, but I shall keep you at home as long as I can, I assure you.
I shall expect you to be very useful to me for the next few years, in
various ways. You will soon be able to take a great deal of care off my
hands, and that will be very desirable for you, in order that you may
learn housekeeping. Your father tells me that you have mended all his
stockings, and sewed on the buttons since I have been sick, and Nancy
says your room and clothes are in fine order. I am very much pleased
with your improvement in these matters."
"But do you think it is true, mamma, as Mrs. Bartlett says, that—that
baby and I, for instance, can never be the same as an own brother and
sister?"
"No, Sophie," said her mother, "I do not believe it at all. I have
seen large families situated in the same way, where no one would
have thought of there being any difference. No doubt in such cases,
jealousies do sometimes grow up, but it is almost always the result of
some such impertinent meddling as this of Mrs. Bartlett. I advise you
to set yourself entirely at rest about the matter, my dear, and as far
as you can dismiss it from your mind. If you are kind and patient with
baby, he will no doubt love you. As for myself, I make no promises. I
only ask you to judge for yourself, whether I make any difference. We
have said nothing about baby's name yet; what would you like to have
him called?"
CHAPTER IX.
GAWKY ANNE.
AUTUMN passed into winter, and winter into summer, and summer into
autumn again, while baby—we beg his pardon—while Freddy grew in mind
and body, and waxed prettier and more knowing every day. Never, Sophie
thought, was there so wonderful a child. She could not believe that
any other baby had ever made such pretty noises, or improved so fast.
And in truth, Freddy was a very pretty child. His eyes, which Emma had
declared to be no color in particular, were now, unquestionably, dark
blue; and he had beautiful soft hair, curling in rings round his head.
As to his intellectual attainments, truth compels us to state that he
was about on an equality with other children of his age, but every one
knows that our baby—especially the first baby—is always remarkable.
When Freddy was six weeks old, he was baptized by the name of Frederick
Wood. Sophie stood at the altar with her mother and father, and joined
with all her heart in the solemn service. She had seen children
baptized before, and beheld the ceremony with interest, as every
one must, but she had not realized the importance of it. Dr. Shelby
marked the sacred sign upon Freddy's innocent forehead, "in token that
hereafter he should not be ashamed of the faith of Christ crucified,
and manfully to fight under his banner against sin, the world, and the
devil, and to continue Christ's faithful soldier and servant unto his
life's end."
Sophie felt that she now stood in a new relation to the darling boy,
now made a member of the Holy Catholic Church, to which she herself
belonged, and standing by the font where she herself had been dedicated
to God by the office and ministry of the same good man, she resolved,
that, God helping her, she would take care that no act or word of hers
should ever offend or mislead that little one, but that she would do
her best to lead him onward in the paths of righteousness. For a long
time afterwards, Freddy's name had a sacred sound in her ears, and she
never pronounced it at length without a certain feeling of awe.
Sophie did not altogether conquer herself so but that she had several
attacks of her old feelings of jealousy towards the baby. She was
especially subject to it when she was sick and though she struggled
against it with all her might, it often cost her many tears. She tried
to conceal her feelings from her father and mother, but in this she was
not as successful as she herself supposed. Her mother almost always
divined at once what was passing in her little girl's mind, and without
noticing it in words, she generally contrived some diversion, which
helped to drive away the evil spirit.
"It is very often better to run away from such ideas than to fight
them," she remarked one day to her husband. "It is perfectly natural
that Sophie should sometimes feel as she does, especially as I began by
giving her my whole attention. She really makes great exertions to be
disinterested, and the best way to help her is to give her something
else to think about."
The year after Freddy was a year old, Mrs. Kennedy thought it best
for Sophie to begin school again. So she made an arrangement with
Miss Warner, by which Sophie was to attend only in the morning, the
afternoon being spent at home in drawing and practising. Sophie was at
first rather unwilling to make the trial. She had been so much in the
society of grown persons since her father's marriage, that she felt
herself rather lost among girls of her own age, and this was one reason
why her mother made the arrangement.
"It is undesirable, my dear," she said, "that you should grow up
altogether unlike other girls. You have had a great deal of attention
lately, moreover, and have fallen into a very dependent way of
studying, from having some one always ready to answer your questions.
In school, you will be obliged to take care of yourself."
"But then, mother—" said Sophie, and she stopped.
"Well, my dear, what then?"
"I am afraid I shall not find it so easy to do right in school as at
home. A great many of the girls are very careless, and idle; and I am
afraid I shall be led into temptation."
"But, Sophie, you cannot remain shut up in a glass case all your life.
You will soon be old enough to go into society, where you will meet
many more temptations. You must learn to be firm and resist."
"Miss Lee says we must be self-reliant, mamma, and then we shall do
very well. But I never can be self-reliant."
"I am not anxious you should be," replied her mother. "I have no great
faith in self-reliance. Self is a miserable support—a broken reed to
lean upon. Woe to that one who in the hour of trial has only self on
which to depend. No, my dear, your only safe resting-place at home or
abroad, in solitude or in society, is upon God. 'Watch and pray,' is
both sword and shield to the Christian, and as long as you obey this
rule, you are safe anywhere; forget it, and you are safe nowhere."
Sophie was somewhat comforted by this view of the case, and began
school on Monday morning with the determination that in all cases she
would faithfully "watch unto prayer."
For a few days all went well with her. Having been so long out of
school, she was almost a stranger to many of the girls, and was,
therefore, under no temptation to join in any mischief that might
be going on. She sat with Emma Gaylord, who was very steady and
industrious, and her other neighbor was a young lady who was preparing
to be a teacher, so she was very well placed for study.
And in fact it was from study that her first temptation arose. Sophie
was ambitious in a certain way. She loved study for its own sake, and
she was also fond of being praised by those to whom she was attached,
though she never cared, as some girls do, to mortify others by going
before them. She had read so much with her mother, since she had
been out of school, that she was far beyond most girls of her age in
general information, and this stock of knowledge "told" in various
ways, especially upon her compositions. She wrote better than many of
the oldest girls in school, and her rhymes and sketches were in great
request for the "Lily," and the "Rose," two literary papers kept up
with great spirit among the older pupils.
Miss Warner mingled with her praises, admonitions against haste and
"scribbling," but the younger teachers were not so cautious, and, on
the whole, it is no wonder that Sophie's head became a little turned.
Then she was soon very much interested in her studies, and worked very
hard at them, not only in school but at home. Two or three times she
was tempted to curtail her hours of reading and prayer for the sake of
her lessons, and often when she was reading her Bible, her thoughts
were far from its sacred pages. Sophie felt that this was not right,
and made some efforts to regain her former watchfulness, but without
much success, for she did not strive with her whole heart.
"But then," she reasoned with herself, "papa and mamma expect me to be
diligent about my studies, and improve as much as I can. Mamma always
says, 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.'"
Thus, she lulled her conscience into an uneasy slumber. Her prayers
grew more and more formal, and her thoughts were less upon things
above. Presently her lessons invaded even her Sundays: she was always
thinking of them in church, and once or twice she spent Sunday
afternoon, which she had been accustomed to make a time of prayer
and religious reading, in writing compositions. She felt a sense of
guilt in so doing, but satisfied herself with the thought, that it was
certainly her duty to write, because Miss Warner would be displeased if
she came to school without a composition, and she should lose her place
in her classes.
Poor Sophie was indeed in a bad way. True, she had not yet fallen into
any open and grievous sin, but having strayed from the straight path,
she was ready to fall at the first temptation.
The occasion was not far off. There was a girl in the school who
rejoiced in the singular name of Chicago Anne Higbee. What could have
induced any one to bestow such a name upon a girl, it is impossible to
imagine, but that was her name, and many were the changes rung upon
it by her schoolmates, the favorite ones being Chicky Anne and Gawky
Anne, especially the latter, which had a suitableness about it quite
irresistible to the mischievous girls.
Poor Gawky Anne was continually exciting the mirth of her schoolmates
and the rebukes of the teachers by her awkwardness and slatternly
habits. She had an immense quantity of light-colored hair, and daily
displayed some new and startling fashion of dressing it. She wore the
very largest figured muslin de laines and calicoes, and usually an
apron made of some other kind of muslin de laine trimmed with a showy
cord and tassel. She commonly eschewed collars and cuffs, but wore a
red ribbon pinned closely around her throat, while about a dozen pins,
large and small, were stuck on the waist of her dress. Gawky Anne
always dropped every thing that could be dropped, and spilled every
thing that could be spilled. She chewed slate-pencils and little pieces
of india-rubber, and bit her nails, and turned her toes in and her
elbows out and in short, as Miss Lee observed, if there were ever an
awkward thing to be done, Miss Higbee was the one to do it.
She might have learned better if she could have been convinced that
she was not well enough, but she saw no difference, in any important
respect, between her own manners and those of Miss Bradford, the
most elegant girl in the school; for withal Gawky Anne had a fund of
self-complacency which nothing could disturb. Poor Gawky Anne was
very romantic, and nourished her budding fancies upon such books as
"Thaddeus of Warsaw," "The Children of the Abbey," "The Romance of the
Forest," and the like, until she fancied herself an Amanda or Adeline
at the very least, and rather wondered that no Thaddeus or Theodore
appeared to claim her hand, or cruel Montini to imprison her in a
dungeon.
Some of the more thoughtless of the girls used to "put her up," as they
said, to talk of her castles in the air, and I regret to say, they did
not hesitate to encourage her in her folly, by telling her stories
of the admiration she excited, and by praising her verses written by
moonlight, and comprising examples of false syntax under every rule in
the grammar.
At first Sophie refused to join in this sport, and expressed herself
decidedly against it, but as she left off to watch and be sober, her
sense of the ridiculous got the better of her sense of duty, and she
was tempted to join with the rest. One day at noon, while the girls
were amusing themselves with some of Gawky Anne's effusions, Sophie
snatched up a pen, and scribbled a letter to Miss Higbee, purporting
to come from a romantic young officer, smitten with the charms of that
young lady, and breathing an admiration and devotion worthy of Thaddeus
himself.
This precious production was read aloud amidst shouts of laughter;
Carry Woodford declaring that it was too good to be lost, and that
Gawky Anne should have it that very day.
Sophie remonstrated, but Carry would not surrender the paper, and she
finally dropped the matter, thinking that Gawky Anne would not be
foolish enough to be so imposed upon.
But Miss Higbee was foolish enough for any thing which promised to
gratify her love of romance. Carry copied the letter, and contrived
to have it fall into her hands before night. Gawky Anne was delighted
beyond measure at the contents of the epistle, and before next morning
she had concocted an answer, which she deposited, as desired by her
imaginary admirer, in the spout of the rain-water conductor. From
thence Carry, watching her opportunity, extracted it, and collecting
two or three of her especial friends, she read it aloud with great
emphasis.
"You must write an answer to it, Sophie," said Carry, after the laugh
had subsided a little; "Gawky Anne will break her heart if you do not."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Sophie. "It would not be right to deceive her."
"Deceive her, indeed!" answered Carry. "No one has tried to deceive
her. If she is such a goose as to believe such stuff, it is not our
fault."
"Come, do, Sophie!" urged Martha Prime. "No one can do it but you. We
can tell her any time, if we think it worth while."
Sophie resisted for some time, but the entreaties and flatteries of
the girls prevailed over her sense of right she wrote the answer, and
gave it to Carry to copy. She wished she had never begun, but had not
resolution enough to stop short after taking the first false step.
That night Sophie did not feel much of the spirit of prayer. Her head
was full of very different things and then she feared to awaken her
conscience, for she knew that she had done wrong. How could she ask
God's forgiveness for the sin she had committed, when she was intending
to repeat the same sin again to-morrow? She hurried over a form of
prayer, however, and thus partially satisfying her conscience, she fell
asleep.
In the morning it was the same, and the next night she omitted the
form. We can never stand still in the path of holiness; unless we are
going forward, we are surely receding. Sophie had ceased to go forward:
she had allowed the cares of her little world to choke the Word, and it
was fast becoming unfruitful.
The days went on, and still the deception continued. The girls did
not find it so easy to stop, when they had once begun no opportunity
occurred for undeceiving Gawky Anne, and the correspondence grew more
and more animated. Poor Miss Higbee considered matters all settled,
and began to hint to some of her intimates, that "they need not be
surprised if something should happen some of these days." Meantime she
curled her hair in longer and longer ringlets, and grew more and more
sentimental every day. Miss Lee complained that she never had a lesson:
Miss Warner herself began to suspect something wrong, and aware of her
romantic propensities, determined to watch her closely.
One morning early, as Miss Warner was standing at her window, she saw
Gawky Anne appear in the courtyard, and glancing above and around,
proceed with a letter in her hand to the corner of the building. She
threw on a shawl, and quietly crossing the yard, stood behind Miss
Higbee, just in time to see her extract a letter from the spout, and
put another in its place.
"What have you there, Miss Higbee?" asked the teacher, in her usual
calm voice.
Miss Higbee started, and gave a slight scream. Miss Warner repeated the
question.
"'Taint—'taint nothing at all, Miss Warner."
"It is certainly something," said Miss Warner, "for I see a letter
in your hand, and here is another," extracting the epistle from its
romantic place of concealment.
"Please don't read it," sobbed Miss Higbee, bursting into a flood of
tears, "it ain't nothing but nonsense."
"Very likely," said Miss Warner, breaking the seal, "but I must see
what it is. I cannot have girls under my roof carrying on private
correspondences."
She glanced at two or three sentences, while Gawky Anne stood looking
at the vacant spout as if she contemplated creeping into it herself.
"Come to my room, Miss Higbee," said Miss Warner. "I must understand
this matter."
Gawky Anne followed, like a prisoner to execution, thinking, no doubt,
that the course of true love never did run smooth. When they were
within, Miss Warner locked the door, and requesting Miss Higbee to
take a seat, she perused both documents to the end, vainly endeavoring
to keep the corners of her mouth in order. When she had finished and
recovered her gravity a little, she prepared to interrogate Gawky Anne.
"How many of these letters have you received, Miss Higbee?"
Miss Higbee would not answer, at first, but upon Miss Warner's
threatening to send for her father, she replied, "Ten or twelve."
"When and where did you come by the first one?"
"I found it in my desk, a week ago, Friday afternoon."
"And since then you have been answering them, and putting your answers
in the spout," said Miss Warner, laughing in spite of herself.
"Yes, ma'am," sobbed Gawky Anne, "and Augustus has answered every one."
"Augustus, indeed!" exclaimed Miss Warner. "You poor child, is it
possible you are silly enough to suppose that these letters are really
written by Augustus Frederick de Root?—I see that is the name at the
bottom."
"Why, yes, ma'am, of course," answered Chicago Anne, opening her eyes
wide; "they are just exactly such letters as Theodore wrote to Adeline
in the 'Romance of the Forest,' and I don't see why I should not have
such letters as well as any one else."
Miss Warner rung the bell, and desired the servant to call Miss Lee.
"Oh, please don't tell any one, Miss Warner," exclaimed Gawky Anne.
"Do not be alarmed, child; I have not the least desire to expose your
folly, but I must understand the matter."
Miss Lee made her appearance, and Miss Warner, after explaining as much
of the story as was necessary, gave her the letter to read.
"Who should you say, Miss Lee, was the author?" asked Miss Warner,
after she had finished them.
"The writing is Caroline Woodford's without doubt," said Miss Lee.
"She has attempted to disguise it, but without much success. I do not
think it originated with her, however: she never wrote any thing that
displayed so much talent. If the thing were possible—"
"Well," said Miss Warner, seeing that she paused; "and what if it were
possible?"
"I should say that Sophie Kennedy wrote it."
"I can hardly believe that Sophie would be guilty of such a thing,"
remarked Miss Warner.
"She would not have done it at one time, but Sophie has grown very
careless lately, and she is a great deal with Carry Woodford and Martha
Prime. I could tell with more certainty if I were to see the whole
parcel."
"Chicago Anne, go with Miss Lee, and bring the rest of the letters
here."
Chicago Anne entreated and wept in vain: Miss Warner was resolute, and
she was obliged to produce her treasures. She waited in breathless
suspense till the two ladies had finished the last one. Then Miss Lee
said emphatically—
"There can be no doubt at all, that Sophie Kennedy is the author of
these letters. I have lately found most extraordinary sonnets and
scraps of verses written on her books and exercises, and here are the
very same things. She has written them, and Caroline has copied them."
Poor Gawky Anne! She wept and cried more vehemently than ever. To
be found out corresponding with an officer—a real live Augustus
Frederick—was bad enough. Still there was consolation in the thought
that Adeline and Malvina Fitzallan had been treated in the same way
by cruel guardians. But to have the cup thus rudely dashed from her
lips—to be assured beyond any possibility of doubt, that Augustus
Frederick was a creature of air, with no existence except in the minds
of her mischievous schoolmates, was too cruel. Miss Warner pitied the
poor girl's distress, and forbore making any comments upon her folly
for the present.
The bell now rang for prayers.
"You may remain here, Chicago Anne," said she; "I will send you some
breakfast presently."
"I don't want any," sobbed the fair disconsolate. "I couldn't eat a
mite, I know. I'll go right home this very day."
"We will see about that, my dear child. You must do just as I say, you
know. Come, come, dry your eyes; we will say no more about it just now."
The boarders all wondered why Miss Warner was so late, and why Gawky
Anne did not make her appearance, but when one of the other teachers
made some inquiries about her, Miss Warner only said, "I have excused
Miss Higbee this morning," without giving any reason. Nothing was said
about her absence from the table, and Miss Warner herself prepared her
breakfast.
Soon after school commenced, Miss Warner was missing from the room, and
after a little time, the monitress came round to Carry Woodford and
Sophie Kennedy: Miss Warner wished to see them in her room.
Sophie's heart sunk within her at this announcement, for she felt sure
her sin had found her out. She had been for two or three days very
uneasy in mind, seeing the effect produced upon Chicago Anne, and she
had written the last letter very reluctantly, and not without a great
deal of urging from Carry. Sophie had wandered very far from the path
of duty, but she had not strayed out of the reach of conscience. Having
once been dead unto sin, she could not quietly live any longer therein,
and the deceit and cruelty in which she had been engaged began to
appear in their true light.
Another circumstance had helped to arouse her from the state of
insensibility into which she had fallen. Dr. Shelby and Mr. Collins
had spent the evening before at her father's, and the former, after
announcing that the bishop's visit would take place in about eight
weeks, had intimated to Sophie, that he should hope to see her come
forward upon that occasion. Sophie had fully intended to do so at one
time, but she had felt very differently then.
Now she dared not think of going up, with such a burden of sin upon her
heart and hands. She looked back to the time when she had made that
resolution, and saw how far she had fallen. She was now living almost
without prayer: God was not in all her thoughts, and she had more than
once been guilty of gross sins.
Should she then give up being confirmed at this time? She did not like
the idea, and yet what could she do? She remembered what she had heard
Mr. Collins say, that whoever was unfit for Confirmation was unfit for
death, and she believed it, but then what was to become of her? If
she continued as she was, she knew she must grow worse and worse, and
fail of heaven at last. Sophie had taken great pleasure in thinking of
heaven—of seeing her Saviour face to face, and seeing her own mother
again; and was she to be disappointed after all? These thoughts made
her very miserable: she wept and prayed, but her prayers seemed to have
no wings, and she found no peace or consolation. She came to school
in the morning very sad, and resolved on the first opportunity to beg
Carry Woodford to undeceive Miss Higbee and give up the whole affair,
but as it happened, Miss Warner's early discovery put it out of her
power.
Miss Warner received them with a countenance of grave displeasure, and
taking the package of letters, she spread them on the table, saying,
"Young ladies, have you ever seen these papers before?"
The confusion which overspread the faces of the girls was not to be
mistaken: Miss Warner continued, "Please to tell me what you have had
to do with them."
"I do not see why you should lay all the mischief in the school at
my door, Miss Warner," said Carry, trying to speak with her usual
confidence. "I don't see why they are to be charged to me more than any
one else."
"Because they are in your handwriting," said Miss Warner quietly.
"I did not 'write' them," said Carry, putting unconsciously an emphasis
on the word "write."
"But you copied them," rejoined Miss Warner; "and you, Miss Kennedy,
wrote them, did you not?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Sophie frankly. She had already resolved to
speak the whole truth, cost what it might. She thought she should
probably be punished, and perhaps expelled, but any thing was better
than continuing in the state of sin and misery in which she then was.
So she answered at once, "Yes, ma'am, I wrote them in the first place."
"And Miss Woodford copied them, did she?"
"I would rather answer for myself only, if you please, Miss Warner."
Gawky Anne was sitting by the window, still crying, for she had the
gift of inexhaustible tears. "Do you hear, Miss Higbee?" said Miss
Warner, turning to her. "You see I was right."
"Ye—yes, ma'am," said Chicago Anne, with a fresh burst of tears, as the
deathblow was thus given to Augustus Frederick.
"You may go to your room now," continued Miss Warner. "I shall excuse
you from any lessons to-day. However foolish you have been, you are
certainly more sinned against than sinning. I shall talk with you
further another time."
When Gawky Anne had disappeared, Miss Warner turned again to the two
delinquents.
"How came you to write the first letter, Miss Kennedy?"
"I hardly know, Miss Warner. We were laughing about Miss Higbee being
so romantic and talking so foolishly, and I wrote the letter. I did not
think then that any thing would be done with it."
"Then what became of it?"
Sophie was silent a moment, and then said, "I read it to two or three
of the girls."
"Well, and what then?"
Carry now answered for herself, shamed out of her silence by Sophie's
frankness:
"I copied it, Miss Warner, and put it in her desk."
"What was your object in thus deceiving and tormenting the poor girl?"
Neither answered, and Miss Warner continued—"And all this time you,
Sophie Kennedy, have been lending yourself to this falsehood, which
could bring forth nothing but mischief—which could end in no other way
than in the distress and mortification of a schoolmate, who, whatever
were her faults, never intentionally harmed any living being; and
this you have done again and again. I am very greatly disappointed in
you, Sophie. I have always thought you above any meanness or deceit;
and since your return to school especially, I have believed you to be
actuated by religious principles. I thought if there was one in the
school I might trust, you were that one. It seems I have mistaken you
entirely.
"For you, Caroline Woodford," she continued, taking that young lady
by the arm with some force, "I have but few words. You have more than
once been the occasion of great disturbance in the school; and though
you are one of the oldest girls, you give more trouble than all the
rest. I do not exactly know whether or not it is sheer folly and want
of sense that makes you behave as you do, but this I must tell you—and
beware how you forget it—if you do not at once change your whole course
of conduct, you leave the school. You may both thank Miss Higbee that
I do not send you home at once, but I do not wish to make her folly
more public than is necessary; and I am willing to give you a chance
to retrieve your characters. You must not complain, however, of being
strictly watched, since you have forfeited all claims to confidence and
respect."
Sophie did not look up at all. She had nothing to say in excuse for
herself, and she was too unhappy for tears.
"One thing, however, I must insist upon," added Miss Warner, "that you
shall both beg Miss Higbee's pardon for the malicious trick you have
played upon her, and that you shall be utterly silent in regard to the
whole affair. You will not indeed be tempted to enlarge upon it, since
it places you in such a contemptible aspect."
"May I not tell mother, Miss Warner?" asked Sophie, in a low tone.
"Your mother, certainly, Sophie. I am glad if you intend to do so. It
is a sign of repentance, I hope. Now go to Miss Higbee, and apologize
to her, and be sure you do it respectfully, too."
Carry would gladly have refused, but she was afraid Miss Warner would
tell her father, of whom she stood greatly in awe; so she went with
Sophie. They knocked at Miss Higbee's door, but receiving no answer,
went in. She was standing with her back to the door, but turned as they
entered, and her face flushed with anger as she saw who it was.
"Well, what do you want?" she exclaimed. "I should think you had been
mean enough already, without coming spying in here. I'll never speak to
you, the longest day I live, so please to walk out."
"Don't be in such a hurry, Chicky Anne," said Carry. "Miss Warner sent
us to beg your pardon, so I will be as sorry as you please if you will
only tell me how sorry that is."
"Don't speak so, Carry," said Sophie. "We really are sorry, Chicago
Anne."
"You are not any such thing," answered Chicky Anne, more and more
enraged by Carry's address. "You have told stories enough, Caroline
Woodford, without coming here and telling more. As for you, Sophie
Kennedy, you are a real little hypocrite—pretending to be so pious—"
Chicky Anne stopped from sheer want of breath.
"Come, Sophie, let us go," said Carry. "She cannot deny that we have
begged her pardon, if Miss Warner asks her. She wants to be left to
weep over the memory of Augustus Frederick."
"Pray don't, Carry," said Sophie, distressed at her companion's levity.
"I am sure we have been bad enough, without making matters worse. Do
please try and say something to show that you are really sorry."
"I shall do no such thing, Miss Sophie," said Carry, angrily; "you had
better not begin preaching again. We shall all know the worth of your
wonderful piety henceforth. As for staying here to be abused, I shall
not, for you or any one: I have begged her pardon, and if she doesn't
choose to grant it, she may let it alone."
So saying, she left the room, but Sophie remained standing in the same
place.
"Well, why don't you go too?" said Chicky Anne, turning round. "You
helped her all along: go with her, and see what else you can find to
do."
"I do not feel as she does," answered Sophie; "I really am sorry,
Chicky Anne, and I would give the world if I had never had any thing
to do with it. I don't expect you or any one else to believe me after
this, but I will do any thing for you if you will only forgive me."
"I did not so much wonder at Carry," said Chicky Anne, weeping afresh;
"she always makes game of me, but you, Sophie, that I thought was
really so good and religious—I wouldn't have thought it. But it's just
as pa says—folks that pretend to be pious ain't any better than other
folks."
"Oh, don't think, so, Chicky Anne," said Sophie, with a new and more
poignant feeling of distress.
"When I first came here," said Chicky Anne, without heeding the
interruption, "I used to think so too. Pa isn't one of the pious sort
at all. I expect ma was, from all I can hear, but she died when I was a
baby. Well, then, there is Miss Warner, who is real good, for all she
scolds sometimes; and there was Miss Carroll, who was a real saint—no
one ever saw her do any thing wrong—and Miss Reed and Miss Weston were
almost the same. I was so sorry when they went away. And when you came,
you were so good at first, I thought you would be like them. I was
beginning to think of being religious myself, and cared more for going
to church and reading the Bible than ever I did in my life before.
And now you have turned out so different, and I don't see that your
religion does you a mite of good. I don't never mean to try any more."
"Oh, don't, Chicky Anne, that is worse than all," sobbed Sophie,
feeling as if her heart would break. "Oh, what will become of me, what
can I do?"
"I believe you really are sorry, after all," said Chicky Anne; "I am
sure I forgive you, Sophie. But I don't know what 'I'm' to do, I am
sure," she continued; "I shan't dare to show my face in school; I
suppose all the girls know about it."
"No, they do not," answered Sophie, as soon as she could speak. "We
never told any one, and I am sure we shall not now. But pray, Chicky
Anne, don't judge all religious people by me. If I had only kept on
being religious, I should never have done so. It was only when I left
off watching and praying that I began to go wrong. I do not know what I
shall be now, for it does not seem as if God could ever forgive me: I
shall keep on growing worse and worse to the end, I suppose."
"Don't cry any more," said Chicago Anne, seriously alarmed by Sophie's
violent emotion. "It ain't worth while; don't think no more about it;
I don't care much, after all. Come, I wouldn't cry any more; you will
make yourself sick, and your ma won't like it."
"You are a good girl, Chicky Anne!" exclaimed Sophie, kissing her. "A
great deal better than I am; and I will never laugh at you again."
Sophie spent the rest of the morning in Miss Warner's room, and went
home at the usual time.
There was no one at home, for her father was in New York, and her
mother was spending the day at Mrs. Gaylord's, where Sophie was to have
gone with Emma, as soon as school was out. When Emma appeared, she
could give no reason for Sophie's absence; and Mrs. Kennedy fearing she
might be unwell, excused herself as soon as she could, and hastened
home.
She found Sophie in her own room, with a severe headache, but suffering
still more from distress of mind. As soon as she could command herself
sufficiently, she related the whole story to her mother, not seeking to
excuse herself in the least. Mrs. Kennedy, though greatly grieved at
her daughter's misconduct, was glad to see that she was fully sensible
of her sin. She thought it right, however, to set the full consequences
of her conduct before her.
"You have not only lost Miss Warner's confidence," she concluded, "and
lowered yourself in her estimation, but you have brought disgrace on
the name of religion. You have wounded your Saviour in the house of
His friends; and your conduct may perhaps hinder this poor girl from
seeking Him at all."
"That is the worst, mother. And Carry too thinks me a hypocrite, as
well she may. Oh, mother! What shall I do?"
"You must return to God, Sophie, and He will return to you."
"I have tried, but it does not seem to do any good; I cannot feel as
if He heard me. And see what it says in this chapter," she continued,
pointing to the Bible which lay open before her. "I have been trying to
find some comfort, but there seems to be nothing but threatenings."
Mrs. Kennedy looked where she pointed, and saw these words—
"For it is impossible for those who were once enlightened, and have
tasted of the heavenly gift, and were made partakers of the Holy Ghost,
if they shall fall away, to renew them again unto repentance; seeing
they crucify to themselves the Son of God afresh, and put Him to an
open shame."
"These are indeed fearful words, my daughter, and I do not wonder that
they alarm you, but be not dismayed. Do you not repent already of your
sin?"
"Yes, indeed, mother, I am sure I do."
"And have you tried to make all the amends in your power, by asking
Miss Higbee's forgiveness?"
"Yes, mother; and I persevered till she said she forgave me, for she
would not believe me at first."
"Then, Sophie, you have every reason to believe that your sin will be
blotted out. 'If any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father,
Jesus Christ the righteous.' 'Whosoever cometh to me, I will in no wise
cast out.' 'If the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he
hath committed, he shall save his soul alive.'"
"But I have denied Him, mother."
"So did Peter, yet his Lord forgave him, and sent him a token of love
on his first rising again. Be not faithless, but believing, my dear."
Sophie wept, but not so bitterly, for she began to feel that there was
yet hope for her. Her mother talked with her, and prayed with her, and
though she knew that it would be long before she could be happy again,
she did not feel that God had given her up.
She had at first thought she would ask her mother to take her out of
school, but on reflection she saw that she might perhaps retrieve what
she had lost, by a true penitence and an anxious desire to do right.
She had now no self-confidence left but with a heart truly humbled, she
prayed earnestly against temptation.
Her first care was to seek Miss Warner, and again express her sorrow
for her offence. Miss Warner received her kindly, but pointed out to
her that her future conduct would be the test of her repentance. Chicky
Anne had entirely gotten over her angry feelings towards Sophie, though
she still felt resentment against Carry.
Miss Warner had a long talk with Chicago Anne, and had the satisfaction
to perceive that she was fully sensible of her folly. She declared
her resolution henceforth to avoid romances, actually put her whole
collection into Miss Warner's hands, and announced her intention
henceforth to "try and be somebody." The teacher commended her
resolution highly, and took the opportunity of commending to her
attention various matters regarding her manners and appearance. We may
as well say in this place, that Chicago Anne continued to improve from
this time. She remained with Miss Warner some two years longer. That
judicious lady marked out a course of reading for her, which so far
enlarged her mind, that she lost all taste for Thaddeus and the Romance
of the Forest. Gawky Anne indeed never became remarkable for grace or
intelligence, but she was not at all deficient; and better than all,
she became a consistent and faithful Christian, and in the end a very
useful woman.
The other task Sophie had set herself was rather harder—to seek out
Carry Woodford, and acknowledge to her how much she had been in the
wrong. Carry received her very coldly, and hardly listened to her;
she felt that Sophie's humility and earnest desire to make amends,
condemned herself, and was angry accordingly. The next time they met,
Carry refused to speak to her and though Sophie made several efforts to
establish peace between them, Carry refused to be conciliated.
CHAPTER X.
CONCLUSION.
IT was long before Sophie began to recover her cheerfulness at all.
She felt that she had forfeited the respect of her best friends, and
that was enough to make her unhappy, but what most burdened her heart
was, that the cause of religion had suffered in the school through
her. All the girls had seen her become giddy and careless; and though
the particulars of the affair were not known, all were aware that she
had been involved with Carry Woodford in something very disgraceful.
She had of course lost all influence with Carry and her friends; and
whatever and however carefully she might govern herself by Christian
rules henceforth, they could never forget how she had once disregarded
them.
The next Sunday after the detection of the plot, Dr. Shelby gave
notice in church that the bishop's visit would take place in about six
weeks, and that lectures preparatory to Confirmation would begin upon
the next Wednesday evening. He hoped to see all the young people of
the congregation at these lectures, and would be at home upon certain
mornings and evenings of each week to all persons wishing to converse
with him upon the same subject. Sophie felt her heart sink within her;
she put down her head, and wept bitterly. Her mother noticed and pitied
her distress; she divined what was passing in her mind, and determined
to introduce the subject as soon as possible, in order that Sophie
might be relieved.
A convenient opportunity occurred that very afternoon, as the mother
and daughter were sitting together in the nursery. Mrs. Kennedy
alluded to Dr. Shelby's notice, and asked Sophie if she still held her
resolution to be confirmed at this time.
"I am afraid not, mother," said Sophie, sorrowfully. "Not that I do not
desire it as much as ever, but I am afraid I ought not. What would the
girls in school think to see me come forward so soon after—" She could
not finish the sentence.
"They would think, perhaps, that your profession and practice have not
agreed very well together, and they will be right. But as that does not
hinder you from making every effort to regain what you have lost and
to walk henceforth in the path of duty, so it should not hinder you
from making a public profession of your faith. You are no more likely
to fall because you acknowledge your dependence on a Higher Power.
Moreover, you have learned something, have you not, from what you have
gone through?"
"Yes, mother," answered Sophie; "a great deal, I hope. I have been
humbled in my own eyes, by seeing how weak I am when left to myself,
and I have learned too how dangerous it is to go one step out of the
way. As long as I preserved the spirit of watchfulness and prayer, I
had no trouble. The very beginning of my fall was studying my lessons
for school when I knew I ought to have been reading my Bible."
"Do you think that you have truly repented of your sins?"
"Yes, mother, I hope so."
"What reason have you to hope so, my dear?"
Sophie hesitated, and her mother continued: "I know it is rather a
difficult question, but I wish you to try and answer it, for your own
satisfaction."
"I think, mother," said Sophie, after some minutes' silence, "the chief
reason I have to hope so, is, that I hardly think of myself at all. I
mean, when I think over the matter, I do not care most about losing my
place in school, or even for having the girls consider me a hypocrite,
as some of them do, I know, but I am most sorry that Miss Higbee should
be so mortified, and that she should be made to believe that religious
people are no better than others. I am sorry to have made Carry
Woodford worse, too, as I know I have. And when I think on my God and
Saviour," she continued, "I am ready to sink into the earth. If I could
only hope that the harm I have done could ever be repaired, I should
not care much what became of me."
Mrs. Kennedy could not doubt that Sophie spoke the exact truth. She had
observed from the first that she had no disposition to escape from even
more than her just share of blame.
"Since, then," said she, "you do truly and earnestly repent you of your
sins, and are in love and charity with all men, and intend henceforth
to lead a new life, why should you not draw near with faith?"
"I am not in charity with all, mother," said Sophie.
Mrs. Kennedy looked inquiringly at her.
"Neither Carry Woodford nor Martha Prime will speak to me."
"But how is it with you?" asked her mother. "Do you cherish feelings of
anger or resentment towards them?"
"No, mother," answered Sophie, "I am certain I do not. I have no reason
to do so, for I was much the most to blame."
Mrs. Kennedy thought within herself, that the fact of having been the
most to blame, would with many people be reason enough for resentment,
but she said nothing.
And Sophie continued—"I have tried my best to make friends with them,
two or three times, without success and the last time, Carry told me in
so many words, that she wished I would not speak to her again: she said
she did not want any thing to do with me."
"Did you not feel angry with her then?"
"Only for a moment; I do not, now, the least in the world."
"Then it is they who are not in charity with you—not you with them."
"I thought it was just the same, mother."
"Not at all, my dear; if you have tried your best for a reconciliation,
as I doubt not you have, and they remain obstinate, you have no more to
do. I would advise you to drop the matter for the present, and renew
your attempt some other time. Is there any thing else in your way since
this obstacle is disposed of?"
"Only what people will think, mamma. I do not know what will be said
about my coming forward so soon after having behaved so badly."
"You know, my dear, how the Saviour received the woman that anointed
his feet; and Matthew, a publican, was numbered with the apostles. You
cannot suppose that the faults of these people were not very generally
known."
"You always find a passage in the Bible for every thing, mamma," said
Sophie.
"I believe, Sophie," said Mrs. Kennedy, "that there is something there
applicable to every case which can possibly occur to man. But to return
to our great subject: I do not think your late backsliding any reason
for postponing your Confirmation. You have done your best to repair
your fault, and have since been careful to walk circumspectly; you
fully intend to obey God's holy will and commandments and to walk in
the same all the days of your life. You have carefully considered the
subject before, and made up your mind, and I should certainly advise
you to adhere to your resolution."
"I am sure I wish to do so, mother," said Sophie. "It was only the fear
of doing wrong that made me hesitate. It seems as if it must be a great
assistance in doing right."
"Suppose you talk with Dr. Shelby about the matter, Sophie?" suggested
her mother. "He may be able to set your mind at rest."
"I know just what he will say, mamma, but I shall be glad to hear him
talk about any thing. I believe you are right, but I should like to
have a little time to think it over."
Sophie considered, and talked with Dr. Shelby, as her mother
recommended. And she came to the conclusion to go forward, and gave in
her name accordingly.
There were various opinions on the matter when it came to be talked
of in school; some of the girls applauded, while others thought she
might have waited a little before taking such a decisive step. Among
the latter was Martha Prime, who said she thought Sophie might be sick
of making such great pretensions. "She had better wait till we have
forgotten her late performances."
"I don't see why," said Carry Woodford. "Sophie has done the best she
could to make amends, and more a great deal than any one else would
have done."
"Why don't you speak to her, then?" inquired Martha. "She has tried
several times to make friends with you, and you told her in so many
words that you would have nothing to do with her."
"I know it, and I wish I had not done so. The truth is, girls," said
Carry, coloring a good deal, and speaking with effort, "I feel as if
I had behaved very badly to Sophie. It was more that than any thing
else, made me speak to her as I did—because she made me look so mean in
my own eyes. I am a wicked girl, I know, and I wish I was not, but I
cannot help doing justice to people—at least when I am not angry."
"Why do you not make friends with her now?" asked Martha.
"Because I am afraid she would not let me, after all that has passed."
"That is a very good excuse, no doubt," returned Martha, sneeringly.
"But if you feel as you pretend, you ought to be willing to apologize
to her, whether she is civil to you or not. Miss Emma, is not that
Scripture doctrine?" she asked, turning to Emma Gaylord, who had joined
the group in time to hear Carry's confession.
"I believe it is, Martha, but I do not think, Carry, you need be afraid
of Sophie's meeting you unkindly. She would be very glad to be friends
with you and Martha both, I know."
"I shall not trouble her," answered Martha. "I have friends enough
already, without going out of my way for them. Carry may do as she
pleases. Here comes Saint Sophie now. Miss Kennedy!" she continued,
elevating her voice as Sophie entered. "Will you please to come here?"
Sophie came, looking surprised enough.
"Now, Carry," said Martha, "now you have a chance."
Carry colored and hesitated. Martha exchanged a contemptuous glance
with one of the other girls, which roused her spirit, and she said,
though with an unsteady voice, and holding out her hand—
"Sophie, I am sorry I have behaved so badly to you, and been so unkind.
I am ashamed to ask you to forgive me, but I shall be glad if you will."
"I have nothing to forgive," said Sophie, cordially taking Carry's
outstretched hand, and kissing her. "I was more to blame than you but
I am glad you are not angry with me any more. I cannot bear to have a
quarrel with any one."
Carry would have answered, but her voice failed, and tears stood in her
eyes. At last she said, "I wish I were like you. I will never call you
a hypocrite again."
"What an affecting scene!" sneered Martha. "It is a pity there are no
more to witness it." She glanced around the circle, but met with no
response: the feelings of the girls present were clearly against her,
and she walked away with a contemptuous toss of her head, feeling very
much vexed with both Carry and Sophie.
Carry sought Sophie in recess, and had a long private interview with
her, the result of which was, that she went to Miss Warner's room after
school and made an ample apology for all her misconduct. Miss Warner
received it graciously, and had a long conversation with her idle and
careless pupil. She set before her in plain terms the consequences of
the course she was running, and endeavored to arouse her to a sense of
duty and responsibility. She urged it upon her to begin a new course
of life from that moment, and Carry promised to try her best. Miss
Warner did not fail to show her that she could not depend upon her own
strength to help herself, but that she must seek a higher power to
assist her.
From this time Carry was a changed girl. She became quiet and orderly
in school, learned a reasonable quantity of lessons, and absented
herself entirely from the recitation room group, of which she had been
the centre. That society, having lost its principal pillars, gradually
declined and fell into disrepute, to the great improvement of manners
and morals in the school.
As the time approached for the Confirmation, Sophie's mind grew more
and more quiet, and she saw her way fair and clear before her; she
seemed to herself to be putting away childish things, and standing upon
the threshold of a new and important life. She fully appreciated the
privilege of being admitted with God's people to the Blessed Sacrament
of the Body and Blood of Christ, and endeavored to prepare herself
for receiving the full benefits of that holy ordinance. On the day of
the Confirmation she was calm and happy; and with a full sense of her
own weakness, and a humble trust in God, she renewed her baptismal
vows, in the presence of God and the congregation. The next Sunday she
accompanied her mother to the Communion, and there again consecrated
herself to the service of her Maker, Redeemer, and Sanctifier.
Thus, we have accompanied our little friend through several important
years of her life. We have seen her in joy and in sorrow, in sickness
and in health. I hope we may have learned something from her.
A few words will conclude this little history. Sophie held fast through
life the good profession she had professed before so many witnesses.
She met with trials and temptations, and sometimes gave way to them,
but when she fell, she immediately arose. As a daughter and elder
sister, she was beloved at home; and as a teacher and friend, she was
useful abroad. And among her many causes for thankfulness for mercies
bestowed, she accounted it the greatest that she had been provided with
such a mother, to fill the place of the one she had lost.
Laura Bartlett came home after a three years' absence, somewhat
reformed in outward things, and considerably less ignorant than when
she left home. She had acquired a little of a good many things, because
she could not help it, and she had grown very pretty. She had learned
to sit, stand, and walk well, and to dress beautifully; and she made
the most of these acquirements, especially the latter. She never
made any attempt to renew her intimacy with Sophie, though she did
with Carry, but the latter rather declining the honor, Miss Bartlett
contented herself with remarking to her admirers, that "Miss Woodford
had really turned out quite a blue, after all."
Caroline Woodford left school about a year after the Confirmation, and
devoted herself almost exclusively to the care of her grandmother, who
was in very infirm health. This lady was an example of all that is
beautiful in the Christian character; and under her gentle guidance,
Caroline was at last brought to an obedient and humble walking in the
true faith of Christ.
Betsey's mother obtained an excellent situation as nurse in a large
boarding-school, where she is very useful, and very much liked: her
little daughter is being educated in the institution.
Nancy lived to a great age, respected by all who knew her. Her
declining years were made happy by the affectionate attentions of her
master and mistress and their children. And when she died, she was
buried by the side of Sophie's first mother.
Thus having accounted for our principal personages, we take our leave
of our readers (if we should happen to have any) with the best wishes
for their prosperity.
THE END.
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