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Title: The blue socks
or, Count the cost.
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Release date: March 23, 2026 [eBook #78280]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1862
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78280
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLUE SOCKS ***
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: _Frontispiece.—The Blue Socks._
"Oh, mother! Will you please give me some money this minute?"]
THE BLUE SOCKS;
OR,
COUNT THE COST.
[BY]
[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
—————————
NEW YORK: 599 BROADWAY.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
CONTENTS.
——————
CHAPTER I.
GREAT BEGINNINGS
CHAPTER II.
SELF-DENIAL
CHAPTER III.
PROGRESS
CHAPTER IV.
STORIES
CHAPTER V.
ELSIE'S TROUBLES
CHAPTER VI.
THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER
CHAPTER VII.
MADAM WENTWORTH
CHAPTER VIII.
THE TEA-PARTY
CHAPTER IX.
MINNY'S EXCUSES
CHAPTER X.
CONCLUSION
THE BLUE SOCKS.
—————————
CHAPTER I.
GREAT BEGINNINGS.
"OH, mother! Will you please give me some money, this minute? I want
to go right down and get some yarn, so that I can begin to-night. And,
mother, will you show me how to set it up?"
This was said by a very pretty little girl, about twelve years old.
She had, apparently, just come in from school, for she still wore her
hat and coat, while her satchel of books lay on the floor by her side,
and her luncheon-basket dangled from her hand. Her mother sat on the
sofa, busily engaged in cutting out animals and birds in paper for the
amusement of another child, a sickly, deformed little creature, about
two years younger than Henrietta.
Mrs. Laurens delayed her answer for a moment, as she carefully shaped
the bill of the parrot then under her hand; and Henrietta stamped her
little foot impatiently.
"Say, mother, won't you?"
"Won't I do what, Hetty? I should like to know the whole story, before
I give my consent. You have not told me why you want yarn, nor what it
is you want me to set up. It would really save a good deal of my time
and yours, if you would learn always to begin at the beginning of a
story."
Hetty coloured a little.
"Well, mother, I will. The girls at school are all going to knit socks
for the soldiers. Miss Armitage talked to us about it this afternoon,
and we are all going to knit one pair."
"What! Fifty girls all going to knit one pair of socks! What a curious
pair it will be!"
"Mother, I do wish you wouldn't laugh when I am in earnest. Of course
I mean that we are each going to knit one pair before Christmas—that
will be fifty pairs of socks—only think, mother, fifty pairs! But I
mean to knit two or three pairs myself, and so does Minny Granger. And,
mother, only think! Elsie Probert would not promise to knit any! She
said she must think about it, and ask her mother, because she did not
know whether she should find time. I guess I would find time, if I had
to sit up all night; and so I told her: wouldn't you, mother? I shall
never like Elsie again, if she is not willing to work for the poor
soldiers."
"Why, my child, you are coming to conclusions very hastily, as usual.
Elsie did not say that she was not willing: she said she must think
about it, and ask her mother—which was quite right. Elsie has more to
do at home than either you or Minny Granger."
"Yes, I know that, because they keep only one servant; and I don't
believe she is a very good one, either, for Mrs. Probert and Elsie work
a great deal themselves. And, mother, Minny says that on washing-days,
Mrs. Probert gets the dinner herself, for she has soon her going in
and out of the kitchen-door, and even carrying kettles. Minny says she
should think Mr. Probert would send his daughter to a public school,
and not to a select school like Miss Armitage's, where only girls of
the first families go—and such an expensive school, besides. You know
he is only a book-keeper."
"You speak very improperly, my daughter," said Mrs. Laurens, with
more severity than was at all common with her. "I shall forbid your
having any thing to do with Minny, if she fills your head with such
ideas. What business is it of hers or yours what Mrs. Probert does on
washing-days or other days? She is a cultivated and lady-like woman,
and Elsie is one of the sweetest little girls I know. Let me hear no
more of such gossip."
Hetty coloured and pouted; but she was too strongly bent upon gaining
her point to indulge in a fit of temper just then.
"Well, but, mother, about the yarn? May I go and get some, and begin
to-night?"
"Do you think you would finish a pair of socks, if you began them,
Hetty?"
"Why, yes, mother, of course. Didn't I tell you I meant to knit two or
three pairs?"
"I know you did, my daughter; but 'saying' is one thing, and 'doing'
another. However, I am willing you should make the trial, on two or
three conditions."
"I hate conditions," said Hetty, aside, and in a low voice.
"On two or three conditions," continued her mother. "First, you shall
knit them all yourself."
"Of course! I wouldn't have any one else touch them for the world!"
"Secondly, you shall not neglect your practising, nor any other of your
ordinary duties.
"Thirdly, you shall go and put away all your school-things neatly, and
then wait patiently till Cecy has had her luncheon and Peter is ready
to carry her out. Then I will go down with you and buy the yarn."
"Why can't I go and buy it now, mother?"
"Because, my dear, you know nothing about yarn, and you might get what
was very unsuitable to the purpose. Now begin by putting away your
books, dress yourself neatly, and mend that hole in your glove."
Hetty pouted, and murmured something to herself; but she saw that her
mother was decided, and, gathering up her things, she withdrew to her
own room.
Little Cecy's large gray eyes had wandered wonderingly from her
mother's face to her sister's during this dialogue, but she had not
said a word. Now, however, that Hetty was out of the way, she asked, in
her slow, hesitating manner,—
"What does Hetty mean, mother?"
"Hetty wants to knit some warm socks for the soldiers, my dear. You
know winter is coming soon, and the poor soldiers' feet will be very
cold, unless they have warm woollen stockings to wear under their
boots: so a great many ladies are knitting socks to send them. You
recollect I told you that all the soldiers were going to the South to
fight the rebels. Don't you remember how Cousin Charles came to bid you
good-by and show you his uniform and sword?"
"I remember," said Cecy. "But, mother, if the rebels want to go away
and have a country by themselves, why don't they let them? It would be
a great deal less trouble."
"Cecy," said her mother, "do you remember when we were down on the
beach last summer, how little Cousin Harry wanted to sit out on the
rock and watch the ships?"
"Oh, yes; and aunt would not let him. She called him, and he would not
come, and when she went to lead him away, he lay down on the sand and
kicked it up and screamed. Then aunt sent for Peter to take him up in
his arms and carry him in."
"Why did not aunt let Harry stay out on the rock as long as he pleased?
It would have been a great deal less trouble."
Cecy opened her eyes wide. "Why, mother, he would have been drowned,
because the waves came up all over the rock that day. We could hardly
see where it was. It was one of the days when the water came up high."
"Well, Cecy, it would be a great deal less trouble 'at first' to let
the rebels have their own way, but by-and-by it would cause a great
deal more, not only to us, but also to them, and wise people think it
would end in our being entirely ruined. So the Government wishes to
bring them to obedience, just as Aunt Mary did Harry. That is what the
soldiers have gone for. Do you understand now?"
"Yes, mother, I think I do." Cecy was silent for a few minutes, and
then sighed deeply.
"What makes you sigh, dear?" asked her mother.
"I was thinking, mother, how much I wished I could do something for the
soldiers."
"So do I, my love; but I am afraid you could not knit. You know you
tried to sew last summer, and it made your poor shoulder ache sadly."
"I know it, mother." And Cecy sighed again, and remained silent a while
longer.
Then, as a new thought struck her, she brightened up a little.
"Mother," she said, in a low voice, "will you teach me a prayer to say
for the soldiers, as well as for Uncle David and Cousin Charles?"
"Yes, my dear child," replied her mother, kissing her tenderly.
"That will be helping a little, won't it, mother?"
"A great deal, Cecy. No one can tell how much good it will do. Now you
must have your luncheon, and then, as it is such a fine day, Peter
shall take you out for a good, long walk, while I go with Hetty to buy
the yarn."
Mrs. Laurens was a widow, and Henrietta and Cecelia, or Hetty and
Cecy, as they were more commonly called, were her only children. She
had married early in life, had abundance of this world's goods, her
children were bright and healthy, and her husband the kindest of men.
For six years she had lived in an earthly paradise, but then came a
dark cloud.
Mr. Laurens was in the habit of spending every summer in the country or
on the sea-shore. One afternoon he had been out with his wife, to try a
horse which he had just purchased. The animal, though spirited, seemed
exceedingly well broken, and, as they returned, Mr. Laurens, seeing
Cecy, then two years old, standing on the steps with her nurse, said,
gayly,—
"Now Cecy shall have a ride all alone with father, like a grown-up
woman."
Cecy of course was delighted. Mrs. Laurens had perfect confidence in
her husband's driving, and saw them set out without fear, while she
walked to a neighbour's to bring home Henrietta, who had keen spending
the day with a little playmate. On her return, she was met with the
terrible news that the horse had run away and overset the chaise, and
that her husband and child were even then being brought home in a dying
condition. Mr. Laurens was dead before he reached the house, and it was
some hours before Cecy gave any but the faintest signs of life.
At last, however, and by slow degrees, she revived. But it was not
till many days afterwards that the whole of the sad story was known,
and it was discovered that the little girl's spine was so injured that
she must remain a cripple for life. For a long time it was feared that
the shock had completely destroyed her mind, but, under her mother's
unremitting care and watchfulness, she recovered. She was slow in
thinking or speaking, and seldom talked much, except to her mother and
one other person. She was very fond of her sister, and in general liked
to be with her, but Henrietta was by nature hasty and impetuous, and
found it hard to tone down her spirits to poor Cecy's minor key; and
truth compels me to say that she was not seldom impatient with the poor
child, for not being able to think as fast as herself. Then Cecy would
cry, and bring on one of her fits of nervous exhaustion, and there was
an end of all pleasure, or even comfort, for the day.
Our readers must not infer from what we have said that Hetty was
altogether a bad child. She was warmhearted and affectionate, full of
good impulses, and even conscientious. That is to say, when convinced
that she had done wrong, she was very sorry, and made many good
resolutions for the future, which she kept very well so long as she had
no particular temptation to break them. Her mother was necessarily so
much taken up with poor, suffering, helpless Cecy that she was not able
to give as much time as she could have wished to Hetty; but she did the
best she could for her, in sending her to an excellent school, and in
checking her graver faults as they appeared.
Elsie Probert had always been Hetty's most particular school-friend.
They had studied together, walked together, dressed their dolls
together, and sat in the same class in Sunday-school, ever since
they were three years old. Elsie fully believed Hetty to be almost
perfection, and Hetty entertained the same opinion of Elsie. But of
late, a cloud had come between these two friends,—a cloud small at
first, but which grew larger and thicker every day.
A new scholar had come to Miss Armitage's school, in the person of
Minny Granger. Minny's father was immensely rich, and she was an only
child,—the undoubted heiress of three or four hundred thousand dollars
at the very least. Her mother was a weak-minded, half-educated woman,
very proud of her husband's wealth, her diamonds, her own beauty
and that of her daughters, and last, not least, of that mysterious
something called a social position. She found it hard to believe
that a woman who kept only one servant or perhaps none at all, whose
husband was a clerk or a retail grocer, who opened the door herself
to visitors, or even, as in Mrs. Probert's case, cooked her husband's
dinner upon occasion, could be as much a lady in feeling and taste
as herself; and it may be doubted whether she did not in her heart
consider mechanics and day-labourers as of a different and inferior
species.
Minny had been brought up with the same ideas. She had also been
indulged in an almost unlimited amount of pocket-money, which she spent
with reckless profusion. The girls were daily amazed at the amount of
chocolate cream-drops, cocoanut-cakes and caramels which she brought to
school with her luncheon, and which—to do her justice—she was always
ready to share. Moreover, she had vast stores of the finest stationery,
which she gave away as readily as she did her eatables, and a whole
library of story-books, which she was always ready to lend: so it was
no wonder that she soon found herself surrounded with a large party of
devoted adherents.
Of these Elsie had not been one. She had never quite liked Minny from
the first. There was something in almost every sentence she uttered,
which grated on Elsie's lady-like sensibilities, and this alone would
have prevented their becoming intimate. But after a time, other traits
began to show themselves, which turned indifference into positive
dislike and distrust. Elsie was not jealous nor suspicious in her
nature, but she could not help seeing that Minny was greedy, not only
of sweetmeats and confectionery, but also of applause and admiration,
and that she was by no means scrupulous in her methods of obtaining
what she desired. She accepted help in her drawings and her French
exercises from those more skilful than herself, did not hesitate
to look into her book at recitation, if she were sure of not being
observed, and, as Elsie strongly suspected, drew her compositions from
some other source than her own brain. She was rude and overbearing
in her manners to little girls and those whom she fancied not quite
her equals. And Elsie noticed that, though she was very ready to give
away what she had in more abundance than she could possibly use, she
never made the slightest sacrifice of her own wishes or comfort to the
convenience of others.
Hetty, however, saw none of these defects. Dazzled by Minny's beauty,
and always fond of novelty, she soon plunged into the most devoted
and exclusive friendship with the newcomer. Hetty and Minny walked
together to and from school, played together at recess, and exchanged
confidential little notes and mysteriously significant looks at all
times; and Elsie found herself gradually but decidedly "left out."
Hetty, indeed, would willingly have included her at first, but Minny
demurred. She saw that she had failed to influence Elsie as she had
influenced Hetty. Conscious that all she did would not bear inspection,
she fancied that Elsie watched her, and, as she told Hetty, she had no
idea of being intimate with everybody's daughters because she happened
to go to school with them. She did not see, for her part, how such a
girl as Elsie came to be there at all. The public school was the place
for her, and, if her mother had any sense, she would send her there.
Elsie really loved Hetty dearly, and of course she could not see
without pain the direction things were taking. At first she accused
herself of jealousy and suspicion; but as days passed, it became
more and more clear that she had not only ceased to be necessary to
Henrietta, but that she could not join in the conversations and walks
of the two girls without casting a damper upon their intercourse, and
even being treated decidedly as an intruder by at least one of the pair.
Elsie was gentle and loving by nature, but she was also self-respecting
and somewhat proud, and she could not help being deeply grieved at
seeing preferred to herself a girl who was her inferior in every thing
but wealth and beauty.
She withdrew herself as far as possible from Minny's society, and
waited, hoping that Hetty's eyes would, after a while, be opened to
the character of her new friend, and that then she would return to her
old one. So far this hope had not been fulfilled. Hetty and Minny grew
more and more intimate every day. It was plain that Hetty was coming
to regard outside show as of more importance than any thing else;
and Elsie could not help fancying that her friend was ashamed of her
economical dress and plain straw hat, and would rather not be seen in
the street with her. Such was the state of things at the commencement
of our story.
As soon as Mrs. Laurens had seen Cecy duly wrapped up and deposited
in Peter's sturdy arms for her promenade, she put on her own bonnet,
and accompanied Hetty to look for some yarn. Hetty was all impatience,
and would have taken the first that presented itself, but Mrs. Laurens
persisted in her search till she found some that was both strong enough
to wear well and soft enough to be agreeable to the feet. Hetty was
rather dissatisfied that her mother bought only one skein.
"This will do for a beginning, my love," said Mrs. Laurens, smiling.
"There is no fear that all the yarn in town will be used up. If you
finish one pair in season, I shall think you do very well."
Suitable needles being procured, they returned home. Hetty, as usual,
was all eagerness to begin, and could hardly wait to put away her
bonnet.
"Are all your lessons learned for to-morrow?" asked her mother.
"Yes, mother,—no mother,—not quite. All but a little Roman history; and
that is so easy, I can learn it before I go to school in the morning."
Her mother decided, however, that the lessons must be learned before
the knitting was touched. Hetty pouted, and almost cried, but Mrs.
Laurens was firm; and she took her book not a little comforted by
seeing her mother preparing to wind the yarn and set up the work.
Meantime Peter was slowly walking up and down with Cecy in his arms.
He was a very large, almost gigantic, coloured man, as black as ebony,
who had been in Mr. Laurens's employ for many years, first as porter
and warehouseman, and afterwards as coachman and gardener. It had been
decided by the physicians that Cecy must spend as much time as possible
in the open air; but there seemed some difficulty in bringing this
about,—as she could not bear the motion even of the easiest carriage.
It was at last discovered that Peter had the knack of adapting his
strong arms to her weak back, so that Cecy declared she lay as
comfortably as in her cradle, and many an hour of comparative ease and
pleasure did the poor child owe to this discovery. Peter was always
at her service, at any hour of the day or night: he was never tired
and never impatient. Although, of course, not much educated, he had a
strong, sensible mind, and a fervent and enlightened religious faith.
Cecy was always sure that he would understand her, slow as the right
word might be in coming; and she talked to him more than to any person
in the world, except her mother.
"Peter," said she, as they pursued their walk, "Hetty is going to knit
some socks for the soldiers."
"That will be very nice, if she only gets 'em done before the war is
over," replied Peter, smiling.
"What makes you say that? Do you think the war will come to an end very
soon?"
"I'm afraid not, my dear; but you know Miss Hetty don't always finish
what she undertakes. She was going to make me a pair of mittens last
Christmas, but I should have had a great many cold fingers if I had
waited for 'em."
"Yes, I know," said Cecy, after a little consideration. "She never
finished my doll's talma, either. But, Peter, I don't think Hetty meant
to tell a story about the mittens: do you?"
"Oh, no, Miss Cecy. But she don't always think when she begins a piece
of work how long it will take to finish it, and so she gets tired. A
great many little people are that way,—and big people too, for that
matter."
Cecy was silent for a while, apparently meditating on this unfortunate
state of things. Then, as they passed two or three soldiers, she awoke
from her revery with a sigh:—
"There are some soldiers now! Oh, how I wish I could do something for
them! But I can't do any thing for any one, only hinder and take up
time. Oh, dear!" Cecy's lip quivered, and the tears stood in her eyes.
"Now, Cecy, you know you must not cry," said Peter, tenderly but
firmly. "That will make you sick, and give your dear mother trouble."
This argument was a strong one, and seldom came unheeded. Cecy stifled
the rising sob, but she could not send back the large tears or prevent
them from running over.
At that moment, the two soldiers who had attracted her attention
stopped, and one of them turned back to ask Peter a question. Receiving
his answer, he looked with some surprise at the unusual burden he
carried.
"Is the little girl sick?" he asked, kindly.
"She is always sick, poor child," replied Peter. "She is quite
helpless, and can only get out when I carry her. Just now she is
fretting because her sister is working for the soldiers, and she is not
able to do any thing."
"Poor thing!" said the soldier, looking at her with renewed interest.
"To think of her caring about that, now, when she has so much to bear.
But I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you."
"Oh, I don't mean to," replied Cecy, quite cheered up by this
unexpected sympathy: "only you know it is hard to—" She hesitated, as
she often did, for a word.
"Hard to see others working when you can't," said the soldier, taking
her meaning at once. "Yes, I know that very well. I was in the hospital
at the time of the fight at Big Bethel, and I thought lying abed was
the hardest duty I ever did in my life."
"Were you, really?" asked Cecy, with great interest,—"because you were
sick?"
"I was wounded, child. See here: my arm is not quite well yet." And he
turned back his sleeve, and showed her part of the large red scar.
"Only think!" said Cecy. "I have really seen a wounded soldier with my
own eyes!"
Both the men smiled.
"Perhaps you will shake hands with me, little miss," said the soldier.
"When I go back to the camp, I will tell the men about the little sick
girl who wanted to work for the soldiers."
"Put your head down, Peter: I want to whisper," said Cecy, eagerly.
"Do you think I might give him my little red verse-book? It is in my
pocket; and I bought it with my own money."
Peter was of opinion she might, and Cecy, her little fingers trembling
with eagerness, drew forth the tiny gilt volume.
"Will you please take this?" she said, with a timid grace quite
irresistible. "It has beautiful verses out of the Bible in it, and it
is such a little wee book, you can carry it in your pocket. It is my
very own: so I may give it away."
The soldier's bearded lip trembled, as he took the little volume and
the hand that held it into his own.
"Thank you very much, my little girl. I will keep it and read it, for
your sake." He kissed the little thin hand, nodded to Peter, and walked
rapidly away.
Cecy was very much interested with the adventure, and could talk of
nothing else all the way home.
"I have done something for one soldier, haven't I, Peter? You know it
really was something, because I was fond of that little book. It was
not just giving away what I did not care for?"
"True; and who knows how much good it may do? A single word of
Scripture has waked up many a careless sinner and made a new man of
him."
"But this man may be good now, you know, Peter. I'm sure he looked and
talked as if he was good."
Peter could not quite agree to this. He thought the man looked like
rather a hard subject, but he did not think it necessary to disturb
Cecy's charitable view of the case.
"Well, dear, it's only right to think so, as long as we don't know any
thing to the contrary; and the better he is, the more he will prize
your little book. Did it have your name in it?"
"Yes,—'Cecy Laurens, 75 B— Street.' Cousin Charles printed it, in
little wee letters. Why?"
"I thought he would think all the more of it: that's all."
"Of course," said Cecy. "I'm sure 'I' should. I'm so glad I had it with
me!"
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
SELF-DENIAL.
ELSIE walked home from school in a very uncomfortable frame of mind.
Her refusal to pledge herself to knit for the soldiers had arisen from
no lukewarmness to the cause, nor did she at all doubt her own power to
produce as good workmanship as any of her schoolmates; for she was a
skilful knitter, and had made many a pair of warm stockings and mittens
for her brothers. But, what with studies and home-duties, her time was
very fully occupied already, and she really did not see how or where
she was to find time for any thing more. She was now likely to be even
more hurried than usual. She had always been very desirous of taking
music-lessons, and expected to begin them in the course of the week,
and she knew that the necessary practice would occupy at least two
hours in the day. Then there was fall sewing to do for herself and the
children. The more she considered the subject, the more her labours
seemed to accumulate,—until she began to think, like the discontented
pendulum, that she might as well stop work altogether.
She had been deeply wounded, too, by Henrietta's thoughtless and
unkind speech, and the significant glances and shrugs of Minny and her
adherents. Even Miss Milford had said,—
"Why, Elsie, I thought your patriotism was equal to any effort."
Only Miss Armitage and Rose Chesterfield had expressed no surprise,
and she was a little comforted by the thought that they at least
understood her. As she passed by Whitney's store, she had a glimpse of
Hetty and her mother within; and Hetty held up her bunch of yarn with a
significant smile.
The tears came to Elsie's eyes; but she drew her veil over her face and
walked rapidly home. Her mother was standing at the door, dressed to go
out.
"Elsie, my dear, you are a little late."
"Yes, mother: you know I had to stop on the way to do Aunt Wentworth's
errand; and it took me some time."
"Very well, my child: I dare say it is all right; but now I want you
to take the baby for an hour and let me go out. I must try and get the
children's new flannels in hand, or we shall never have them done."
"Always the way!" thought poor Elsie, as she went up-stairs. "Never a
moment to myself, from morning till night."
But a moment's reflection conquered the impatience.
"After all, it is just what I am made for," she said to herself, as
she hung up her cloak and smoothed her hair: "there would be no great
comfort in working for the soldiers if it prevented me from helping
mother at home. Now, baby, if you will only be good and sit on the
floor, I can learn my History lesson, and so have a little more time
after tea."
The baby was in the best of humours, and willing to amuse herself upon
the carpet for a full half-hour. But at the end of that time, she
imperatively demanded attention, nor would she allow Elsie to hold her
and her book at the same time.
"Why, you little torment!" said Elsie, giving up the attempt. "I shall
be glad when you are grown-up and out of the way a little. There now,
the book is put away, and you shall have sister all to yourself, and
eat her up if you like. So she was a darling, if she was a little
plague."
Elsie said nothing to her mother about what had passed at school till
after tea. But when that was over, Mr. Probert gone out, and the
younger children put to bed, the subject was opened.
"How tired and fretted you look, my dear! I am afraid you had a hard
time with the baby. Was she naughty?"
"No, mother: she was very good: only she would not let me study."
"Babies generally have a great objection to a division of labour,"
remarked Mrs. Probert. "They like to engross the whole attention of
those who take care of them. But I am sure something unpleasant has
happened. You are not used to wear such a distressed face for nothing,
or for a slight cause."
"It was something that happened in school, mother." She detailed the
occurrences of the morning, adding, apologetically, "It was not much to
worry about, after all; but I could not help being vexed at what Hetty
said. I am sure I am as willing to work for the soldiers as any one, if
I could only find the time."
"And the money," said her mother. "Yarn costs something, you know,—not
much, to be sure; but, now that your father's income is so much
lessened and our expenses are so great, I do not like to spend a single
cent more than is absolutely necessary."
"But father did give something for the soldiers, mother."
"All he could afford, Elsie, and perhaps a little more."
"I have thought of a way to buy the yarn," said Elsie, after a ten
minutes' pause: "that is, if you are willing—"
"Well, my dear?" said her mother, as Elsie paused.
"You know the money Aunt Wentworth gave me for hemstitching the ruffles
for those pillow-cases? I have three dollars left, that I was saving to
buy Christmas presents with. If you would explain it to the children
when Christmas comes, and if you and father did not mind—"
"My love," said her mother, tenderly, "don't you know that your father
and I would be more gratified with such a sacrifice on your part than
by any present that could be bought for money? And as for the children,
I undertake that there shall be no disappointment on their part. You
know, too, that Aunt Wentworth always overwhelms them with presents.
But, my dear, I see another hindrance, much more serious than this.
What will become of your subscription to the Christmas-tree at school?"
Elsie sighed. "I must give it up and stay at home: that's all. I don't
care so much about it now as I should a little while ago, when things
were different."
"My dear Elsie, I know very well how you feel about it," said her
mother, sympathizingly. "Such things are very unpleasant, as I know
by my own experience; but you must try to bear it bravely. The simple
truth is that you have rather overrated your friend, and now you are
in danger of going to the other extreme. I think Henrietta will find
out her mistake after a little while. She is really a good, warmhearted
girl, though a little apt to be dazzled by whatever is new."
"But there is another trouble, mother," said Elsie, after a little
pause. "I don't see, really, how I am to get any time."
"I thought of that, myself," said Mrs. Probert.
"You see, there are my lessons," pursued Elsie. "I really 'cannot'
learn them all in school, work as hard as I may; and I don't like
to drop any of them. Then there is practising, when I begin to take
lessons, and helping you at home; and then all this great pile of
sewing," she added, looking despairingly at the heaped-up basket. "I
don't see, work as I will, how it is to be done."
Mrs. Probert sighed in her turn. She felt all the time that her
oldest daughter was over-burdened for a girl of her age, and tried
her best to relieve her. But relief was not so easy with four younger
children,—three of them boys and one a baby,—one not very efficient
servant, and a limited income.
"Suppose we drop the subject for the present, and sleep upon it, as
Aunt Wentworth says," said she, after a little consideration. "Don't
work any more at that flannel just now. Put it away, and read me the
nest chapter of Motley."
Reading aloud was always a great pleasure to Elsie, as well as to
her mother. The siege of Leyden soon drew her attention from her own
embarrassments, and her intense indignation at "the stupidity of the
Dutchmen" quite dissipated, for the time, her indignation at Henrietta.
"I declare, mother," she said, as she finished the chapter and closed
the book, "it is quite a comfort to find that other people have made as
great mistakes as ourselves!"
"I am not sure it is a very amiable kind of comfort," replied her
mother, smiling. "But now go to bed, my dear; and don't have a blue
yarn nightmare, if you can help it."
Things looked a little brighter to Elsie in the morning,—as they are
apt to do after a night's rest. She could not help hoping that some
way would be opened to enable her to accomplish what she had set her
heart upon. As she thought over all her lessons for the day, she said
to herself, "I must get up earlier in the morning, now that I have to
practise."
At that moment a thought flashed upon her mind which sent the colour
to her cheeks. What if she should give up her music-lessons for this
quarter, and take that time for her knitting? It would be a great
sacrifice, for Elsie was fond of music, and could already play very
well, and she had been looking forward to her lessons with great
pleasure for three months past. Still, it was to be thought of. She
considered the matter in every light.
"Aunt Wentworth would not care. She gave me the money, to be sure; but
she said at the time she thought I had quite enough to do already. I
think father and mother would be willing, for they said I might do as
I liked about beginning now or in the spring. But then I had so set my
heart upon it! Then there is another thing: I have spoken to Miss M.
about it, and, of course, she depends upon me. No: I don't see how it
can be done."
Elsie said nothing more to her mother about the socks.
As she was walking leisurely along to school, she was overtaken by Rose
Chesterfield. Rose was the oldest girl in the school, and was looked up
to by all her companions, partly for her talents and accomplishments,
but still more for her straightforward truthfulness and her readiness
to assist every one in difficulties. She was, however, rather cold and
reserved in her manners, and had the reputation of being very proud.
"Good-morning, Elsie," she said, as she came up with our young friend
and walked along by her side. "Do you know you have been very much in
my way this morning?"
"I didn't know it, I'm sure," returned Elsie, in surprise. "How do you
mean, Rose?"
"Why, I have just been to Miss M., to ask her to take my sister into
her musical class. But she says she has given you the last vacant
place, and will have no other till next quarter. So Belle must
wait,—though she will be sadly disappointed."
"Why doesn't she go to some one else?" asked Elsie.
"Perhaps she may; but mother thinks so highly of Miss M.'s method, and
she says so much depends upon beginning rightly, that I think she will
prefer to wait."
"Are you going home, or going to school, Rose?" asked Elsie, after they
had walked a little farther, conversing on indifferent subjects.
"I thought of going home first," returned Rose; "but it does not mutter
much. Why?"
"Will you please not to say any thing about the music-lessons till
night? Something has happened which makes me rather doubtful about
beginning this quarter, and, if I decide to give it up, Belle can take
my place."
"Why, Elsie, I thought you wanted to begin music, of all things," said
Rose, surprised. "Pray don't think of giving up on Belle's account."
"Oh, no," said Elsie, smiling: "I am not quite so good as that. But
I want very much to do something else, and I don't see how I am to
accomplish it unless I give up my music for the present."
"Knitting socks, eh?" said Rose, smiling.
"I did not think you would guess," returned Elsie, smiling in her turn,
and also blushing a little. "But, Rose, please don't say a word about
it in school. I am not sure that mother will be willing, you know."
"I understand. But, Elsie, I am sure of one thing. There is not a girl
in the school but yourself who would dream of making such a sacrifice.
I am afraid I should not be equal to it,—though I am pretty patriotic,
too."
"How came you to guess what it was?" asked Elsie.
"I heard what you said yesterday about finding time," said Rose, "and
also what Henrietta said to you. Minny Granger is spoiling that girl,
and several others beside her. I am glad you have not joined her
clique, Elsie. She is not a friend to do good to any one."
"I am sure she has done no good in one case," said Elsie, sadly. "Hetty
is a different girl from what she was before Minny came: I don't mean
to me only, but every way. She don't care half so much about her
lessons, and all she seems to think of is dressing and going out."
"I hope that is the worst of it," said Rose. "I have always thought
Henrietta very straightforward—"
"She is!" interrupted Elsie, eagerly. "I do assure you, Rose, she is as
open as the day."
"I don't see, then, how she can like Minny so well, for Minny is any
thing but that."
"Do you really think so?" asked Elsie. "I have had suspicions myself,
but I thought perhaps I was unjust."
"I am sure of it," said Rose. "She no more writes those compositions
than I do. By-and-by, you will see, Miss Armitage will be suspicious,
and then there will be an explosion; but that is no business of mine.
Well, then, Elsie, I shall say nothing decided to mother till I hear
positively from you."
"If you please," said Elsie; and the two girls separated.
At recess, nothing was talked of but the socks, and several of the
girls brought out their work to show how much they had already
accomplished. Elsie could not help thinking that the soldiers would be
none the better for some of the socks unless their latter end should be
more prosperous than their beginning; but she kept her suspicions to
herself, and was content with giving advice when it was asked,—which
indeed, was pretty often, for Elsie was well-known as an experienced
knitter.
"Haven't you begun yet, Elsie?" asked one of the girls.
"No: I should like it very much, but I don't see my way clear just yet."
"It takes some people a great while to make up their minds," said
Minny, significantly. "It's a good thing for the soldiers that every
one don't think so long before they do any thing."
Elsie's colour rose a little, but she answered gently, "You haven't
quite so much to do at home as I have, Minny. We have a large family,
and I must help mother all I can about sewing, and taking care of the
children."
"Does your mother take in sewing?" asked Minny.
Elsie laughed outright: "No, indeed! I should think not. She has sewing
enough to do without taking in any, considering that there are three
boys in the family to work for, besides my father."
"Mercy on me!" said Grace Newland. "How do you ever contrive to learn
so many lessons? I should think you would never have a minute to
yourself. I'm sure I don't wonder that you don't want to knit."
"I do want to knit, Grace; but you see how it was that I could not
promise at once. I have been thinking over every way, and I don't see
how to set about it."
"Why do you come to school, then, if your mother is so poor and has so
much to do?" asked Minny, who seemed this morning more than usually
bent upon ruffling Elsie's serenity. "I should think you would go out
to work and try to support yourself. I dare say mother would help you
to find a place."
Elsie could not quite trust herself to answer this piece of
impertinence. But Rose Chesterfield came to her aid:—
"I wish your mother would help you to find 'your' place and keep it,
Minny! Your impertinence is rather beyond any thing I ever saw."
"Dear me! What did I say?" asked Minny, in a tone of injured innocence.
"I only asked."
"You only said what you knew to be false, and asked a rude question,
purposely to insult Elsie," interrupted Rose. "If I hear any thing more
of the kind, I will tell Miss Armitage and see what she will say. Never
mind, Elsie. Learn to take Minny and her speeches at their real value,
and you will care very little for either."
It was not altogether what Minny said that had annoyed Elsie. It was
seeing her former fast friend, Henrietta, standing by, without even an
effort to interfere in her behalf. Try as she might to avoid it, the
tears would gather in her eyes; her heart swelled with violent emotion,
and, once safely back at her desk, she could not help putting her head
down and giving way to her grief.
Hetty heard her sobs, and longed to go and comfort her, but she had
held aloof from her so long that she felt a degree of awkwardness at
making any advances towards a reconciliation. Besides, Minny might
laugh at her; and she had learned to have a great dread of Minny's
laugh.
As soon as school was out, Elsie hurried home and opened the plan to
her mother.
"But, Elsie, that will be a great sacrifice! You have long wished to
take music-lessons, and you may not have such another opportunity very
soon. You know if you do not begin now, you must wait till the first of
next quarter,—nearly three months."
"I know it, mother. I have considered all that. I thought it all over
this morning, and almost decided to do it, but I felt myself bound by
my engagement to Miss M. But of course it will make no difference to
her if Belle takes my place."
"True; but it will make a decided difference to you. However, you may
do as you please: only consider it well beforehand. It is an unpleasant
thing, you know, to make a sacrifice and be sorry for it afterwards."
"Yea, mother, I know; but this will not be altogether a sacrifice,—not
such a very great sacrifice, at least; for you know I can read while I
am knitting."
"True," replied her mother, smiling: "that is an alleviation, I grant.
Well, my love, I have no objection to your pleasing yourself, as I
said. I suppose, of course, you will like to begin directly?"
"Yes, mother, if you please. I told Rose I would let her know to-night,
and I thought it you could spare me to run up to Mrs. Chesterfield's, I
would buy the yarn as I came back."
Mrs. Probert saw no objection. The yarn was purchased and wound, and
when Elsie went to bed that night, she had the comfort of seeing a
satisfactory commencement of her work.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
PROGRESS.
HETTY'S knitting went on most prosperously for two or three days. Like
most girls, she was fond of novelty, and any new piece of work was apt
to engage all her attention,—while it was new. In the present instance,
she worked so hard and so steadily as to draw forth a caution from her
mother.
"You must be more moderate, my love. You are not used to knitting,
and unless you are careful you will make your shoulders lame and your
fingers sore, and there will be an end of your work for some time."
But Hetty could not be cautioned. She declared it did not hurt her
fingers nor tire her the least bit.
But after a few days, Mrs. Laurens noticed that the stocking was laid
down several times in the course of the evening, and finally put aside
altogether.
"What is the matter, Hetty? Have you any difficulty with your work?"
"No, mother; but I have rubbed a piece of skin off my finger in some
way, and this afternoon I went to push my needle down, and the point
went into the sore place; and now it pains me so, you can't think!"
"You should have taken advice, you see, my dear. Inexperienced knitters
are very apt—"
"But, mother," interrupted Hetty, "it was not the knitting. It was
because the skin was off."
"How came the skin off, my dear?"
Hetty could not tell. She could not deny that the finger ached badly,
but was quite sure it would be all right in the morning. In the
morning, however, it was worse than ever, swollen and inflamed, and
Mrs. Laurens decided that it must be poulticed, and that Henrietta
must stay at home and take care of it. Hetty was unwilling to let her
stocking alone; but it was clearly impossible to knit with her right
forefinger tied up in a bag of bread-and-milk, and she was obliged to
submit.
In two or three days, the finger was well, but Hetty's ardour had
evidently abated. Her stocking was not taken up the moment she entered
the house and kept in hand till bedtime. On the contrary, she found
time to read, to play, and even to make a rain-cloak for her doll,—for
Henrietta had not quite given up dolls, though she had begun to be
rather ashamed of them.
"I am afraid you are growing tired of your knitting, Hetty," said her
mother, one evening, as Henrietta, after finishing her lessons, settled
herself with a story-book. "You know it was part of the bargain that
you were to finish whatever you began."
"Yes, mother, of course. But there is plenty of time before Christmas,
and I want to finish this book directly, because Minny has promised it
to Sarah Stone."
"Very well, my dear: only you will find it very unpleasant to be
hurried at the last, and you know they must be done at the time."
Henrietta made no reply, and Mrs. Laurens dropped the subject.
"I don't seem to see Miss Hetty knitting much now a-days," said Peter
to Cecy one day, as they were taking their accustomed round on the
common. "Has she got tired of it already?"
"Why, no, I don't think she is tired of it—at least she says she
isn't," replied Cecy, after some consideration. "But you know, Peter,
she had a sore finger."
"I know she had,—two weeks ago," said Peter, smiling.
"What do you think is the reason that Hetty begins things and don't
finish them, Peter?" asked Cecy.
"I think that she don't count the cost beforehand."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, suppose you should go, we will say, to a toy-shop, to buy a
doll's house and furniture. You see a house that pleases you, and you
say at once that you will take it; but when you come to pay for it, you
find that it will use up all your money, so that you will have nothing
left to pay for your chairs and tables, and so on. That would not be
very wise, would't?"
"Why, no," replied Cecy. "I think it would be very silly, because the
house would be of no use without any thing to put in it. The best way
would be to ask the price of the house, and then of the furniture. Then
I would count my money and see if I had enough to pay for them both,
and if I had not, then I would pick out a cheaper house—"
"Or cheaper furniture, whichever you thought best," said Peter. "That
would be counting the cost."
"But yet I don't understand why you say that Hetty did not count the
cost. She had plenty of money to buy the yarn, and it does not cost any
thing to knit."
"Not in money, perhaps; but still I think it costs something. If
Miss Hetty undertakes to knit a pair of socks by a certain time, she
must give up a good many other things. She can't spend time to read
her story-books, or play with her dolly, or walk with her little
friends, and she must sit still in the house when she would rather be
out-of-doors. Perhaps Miss Hetty didn't think of all this when she
began; and that is what I mean by saying that she didn't count the
cost."
"I see," said Cecy. "After all, Peter, I can't help wishing very much
that I could knit. I should so like to make a pair of nice warm socks
for one of Uncle David's men!"
"And I should like to have you. It would be very nice if you could
knit, not only for the sake of the soldiers, but because it would help
you to amuse yourself sometimes, when your mother is busy or wants to
be doing something else."
"I know it. Sometimes I think I am selfish about that, Peter. Do you
think I am?"
"I don't think you are always quite so considerate as you might be,"
replied Peter. "That is one of the great troubles of being always sick.
People have to think of themselves a great deal, and it naturally makes
them a little selfish."
"I don't want to be selfish, Peter," said Cecy, rather anxiously; "but,
after all, it is very hard to lie on the sofa all day and do nothing at
all except think how one's shoulder aches."
"That's true," said Peter. "I think it is very hard,—especially when
you see others running about and playing as they please. You are
wonderfully cheerful and good-natured, considering all you have to
bear."
Cecy was silent for a while. "I am thinking about something very
important, Peter," said she at last; "but I am not sure—I want to count
the cost, you know. I am thinking whether if I did not ask mother to
cut me out any animals, or paint me any pictures, or hold me in her
lap, for several days, whether she could not find time to knit a pair
of socks: that would be something as if I had knit them myself,—not
just the same, but something like it."
"I think, as far as that goes, it would be a great deal better than
knitting them yourself, Cecy," replied Peter. "But I am afraid you
would find it very dull, wouldn't you?"
"I suppose it would be tiresome," said Cecy, with a sigh; "and I am not
sure—I have not decided yet; but, then, I do want to do something for
the poor soldiers so much, and I don't see how I can in any other way.
So don't tell any one, Peter, till I quite make up my mind. See, there
is Hetty coming, with Minny Granger. I don't like Minny half so well as
Elsie Probert; but Elsie hardly ever comes to our house now. I wonder
what is the reason?"
Henrietta and Minny were coming in the opposite directions, and, as
they met, Hetty naturally stopped to speak to her sister.
"Are you having a nice time, Cecy? Why don't you go and see the
flowers?"
"I like to walk here under the trees, and, besides, I love to watch
the squirrels. Only think, Hetty, I saw one of them walk right up on a
gentleman's knee and eat an almond out of his fingers!"
"Oh, what a story!" exclaimed Minny, thoughtlessly.
Cecy coloured in a way very unusual with her, and looked just ready to
cry.
"You are very wrong to speak in that way, Miss Minny," said Peter,
gravely. "Cecy never tells stories. I wish all the little girls I know
were as good as she is, about that."
"Well, well, I don't choose to be lectured by you," returned Minny,
colouring in her turn from vexation. "Come along, Hetty: I don't want
to stay here all day, with every one staring at us. What an impudent
man that is!" she continued, as they walked on. "I don't see how your
mother can keep him."
"Peter is not impudent," said Hetty, not at all pleased with Minny's
tone and manner. "I think some one else was impudent, for my part. You
had no business to speak so to Cecy. Mother says she never knew a child
so truthful as she is; and as for the squirrel, I have seen him do it
myself, dozens of times."
"Dear me! What a fuss about nothing!" exclaimed Minny. "What did I say,
after all? Who minds what they say to such children?"
Henrietta did not answer, and they walked along a little while in
silence.
"After all, Hetty," resumed Minny, after a pause, "I do wonder that a
lady of your mother's taste should let a poor little deformed fright,
like Cecy, be made so conspicuous. I should think she would rather keep
her out of sight. Everybody notices her, and knows who she belongs to,
of course; and people make remarks about it, I can tell you."
"People had better mind their own business, I think," replied Henrietta.
"Oh, yes, it is very easy to say that; but, you see, they don't and
won't. And, besides, it annoys other people to see such a miserable
little object."
"They may be annoyed, then," said Henrietta, who loved her sister
dearly, though she was now and then tempted to be hasty with her. "It
would be a pretty story, indeed, if poor Cecy were to lose all the good
of being in the fresh air, and seeing the people and the children,
because she is sickly and deformed! I should think you would be
ashamed, Minny Granger."
"Dear me! What a fuss for nothing!" said Minny again. "I am sure it is
nothing to me: so you need not be so angry, Henrietta. I thought you
would like to know what people say about it: that's all. How do you get
on with your knitting?"
"I have not knit much lately," replied Henrietta, blushing a little, as
she remembered how little progress the stocking had made for the last
week. "You know my finger was sore, and that got me out of the way of
it. But there will be plenty of time before Christmas."
"Have you finished one yet?"
"No, indeed: I have not got up to the heel of the first. Have you?"
Minny laughed. "I have not knit three inches yet. The yarn is so
coarse, and the blue comes off on my fingers. After all, as Mr.
Cheselden says, it is not exactly the work for ladies."
"But, Minny, all the ladies do it! Think of Mrs. Howard, and Mrs. and
Miss Lewis,—how much they have done."
"I know that; but, after all, it is not very genteel work. But I
mean to finish mine if I can—though I sha'n't make myself a slave to
them. And that makes me think! Do you know I believe Elsie Probert is
knitting for the soldiers, after all? I see her up at her window, or in
their back parlour, day after day, with a blue yarn sock, knitting as
fast as her fingers can fly."
"I don't believe they are for the soldiers," said Hetty, an ill-defined
fooling of anger rising in her heart. "They are for her father or some
one in the family. She would have spoken of it in school."
"I don't know: I don't believe she would, after all that was said.
Anyhow, she gets help about it."
"How do you know?" asked Hetty.
"Why, you know, I can see right into their back parlour from my window.
So I looked out, and there I saw Elsie knitting away very earnestly.
I had a curiosity to see what she was doing: so I got mother's
opera-glass, and, sure enough, it was a blue yarn stocking, with a
strip of bright red yarn round the top, as if it had been put in for a
mark.
"Well, I didn't think any thing about it till the next day. I was in
the passenger-car, and in came Elsie with another lady,—her cousin, I
believe. The lady got into the car, and as Elsie bade her good-by, I
heard her say, 'Don't forget.'
"No sooner was she settled in her place than she pulled out this very
sock with the red yarn in it, and knit on it all the way to Milton. So
don't that look as if Miss Elsie was playing a double game?"
"It does, certainly," said Henrietta; "and yet I don't like to think
so. It isn't a bit like Elsie."
"Well, now, I think it is. It is just these quiet girls that teachers
think are model girls, who are always doing such things. But time will
show. Don't say any thing about it, Henrietta,—because it may be her
own stocking, after all; and then we should be in a fix."
Henrietta bade her friend good-by, and walked homeward, feeling rather
unpleasantly about several things. She was vexed at Minny for speaking
of and to Cecy as she had done, and she was annoyed at the idea that
the child should be the object of remark. She thought of the small
progress her sock had made, and of the great things she had talked of
doing. What was to become of the two or three pairs she had promised
to knit? It was now almost the end of October; and all must be done by
Christmas!
"How silly I was to say so much about it!" she said to herself. "I
don't see why I couldn't hold my tongue. I mean to knit all the
evening, at any rate. It will be too bad if Elsie should get hers done,
after all. But I don't believe it. She is always knitting for her
father or some of her host of brothers."
Evening came, and, unluckily for the sock, brought with it a new
monthly magazine. Hetty could not forego the pleasure of cutting the
leaves and looking at the pictures. But if one does not mean to read a
new book, cutting the leaves is a mere trifling with temptation.
"I will just read this one story," said Hetty. "That will not take
long."
It took till bedtime, however, and the stocking lay untouched that
night.
Next day was Saturday. Mrs. Laurens always insisted on Hetty's mending
her own stockings, and doing sundry other similar things for herself.
And when these were finished, she did not feel at all inclined to sit
down with her knitting.
"Saturday is not a good day for such things. I will begin in earnest on
Monday, and finish them as fast as I can."
Meantime, Cecy had been reflecting on the idea which had occurred to
her mind, and came to the conclusion that she would try it, at least.
So after she was put to bed, she called her mother and suggested the
project for her consideration. Mrs. Laurens was not a little surprised
and delighted at such an effort at magnanimity on the part of her
little daughter, and readily consented to do her share. She was always
afraid that Cecy's helplessness and suffering would make her selfish,
and it gave her heartfelt pleasure to see that she was capable of
making such a sacrifice.
"And, mother, please don't tell Hetty,—because I should like to
surprise her."
"Very well, my dear: I will keep the secret. I can easily do so by
knitting while she is in school."
"Don't you think I might knit a little, just a very little, you know,
mother?"
"You can try, Cecy; but you must not be disappointed if you fail.
Knitting is rather hard work for those who are unaccustomed to it."
"And will you get the yarn the first thing Monday morning?"
"I cannot say that, my dear," said her mother, smiling at her
eagerness,—"because it may rain, or I may be engaged. However, if that
should happen, I will take part of Henrietta's and buy her some more.
I promise you that, if it be possible, the socks shall be begun Monday
morning."
Monday morning came, and Cecy's gratified eyes beheld the socks fairly
begun. She would not be satisfied without trying to knit; and great was
her pleasure when she actually accomplished a whole round without an
error. She would gladly have tried another, but her mother advised her
against it.
"You have done very well for the first time, my dear, and if it does
you no harm, you may try again this afternoon. But you know it will be
bad economy both of my time and yours to make yourself sick."
To this Cecy heartily agreed. So she lay back on her pillows
and watched the rapid motion of her mother's fingers with great
satisfaction, much delighted to find that she could knit and tell
stories at the same time.
When Hetty went to school on Monday morning, she found all the knitters
in a state of great excitement. Word had come that the socks were
greatly needed and must be finished as soon as possible. Happy now
were those who had made the most of their time, and long the faces
of the little workwomen who had acted on the idea that there was no
hurry,—they could finish their work long before Christmas. Among these
last was Henrietta; and the blood mounted to her face as she thought
of her poor mateless stocking not yet up to the heel. Especially was
she annoyed at a proposition which was made by Rose, that all the
knitters should bring their work to school the next morning and compare
progress. She would gladly have opposed the idea if she could have
found any reasonable pretext for so doing, but she could think of no
reason but the true one, which she was ashamed to confess.
"What do you say, Elsie?" asked Rose, turning to her as she stood
silently by. "Are you willing to bring your work for inspection?"
"Of course," replied Elsie: "only perhaps some of the girls would like
a little more time."
"But, my dear, what difference will it make?" asked Rose. "There will
be just as much time to finish them afterwards."
"Elsie wants time to get her stocking home from Milton," whispered
Minny to Henrietta, who nodded assent without paying much attention to
what was said. She was thinking how much she could possibly knit before
to-morrow, and wondering doubtfully whether her mother would allow her
to omit her music-lesson, which occupied an hour and a half on Monday
afternoon.
"To be sure," said Elsie, smiling; "I know that, of course; but I was
thinking that some of us might like to get our work a little further
along before making a display of it."
"Then you 'are' knitting, after all, Elsie?" said Lizzy Becket.
Elsie nodded.
"Well, for my part, I like a little consistency," said Minny,
decidedly. "If I had said I wouldn't knit, at least I would stick to
it. Consistency above all things, I say."
"Above right, for instance?" said Rose.
Minny did not find it convenient to hear this question, but Rose
persisted.
"Suppose you had made a mistake, and begun your stocking too small:
would you pull it out, or would you knit it too small all the way
through for the sake of being consistent?"
"How ridiculous you are, Rose! Just as if that had any thing to do with
the matter!"
"I don't know why not," returned Rose. "It seems to me exactly a case
in point."
"But, Minny," said Elsie, "I never said I wouldn't knit. I only said I
must take time and consider the matter before I made any promise. Where
is the inconsistency in that?"
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Minny. "What a fuss about nothing! Who cares whether
you were consistent or not?"
"But how much have you done, Elsie?" asked little Isabella Chesterfield.
"You will see to-morrow," replied Elsie, good-humouredly. "That is, if
it is decided that we shall have a grand display."
"'I' am willing—" "And so am I—" was heard from one and another.
"What do you say, Henrietta?" asked Rose.
"I'm sure I don't care," replied Henrietta, pettishly. "I am heartily
sick of the whole thing, any way! I wish we had never begun."
"I say, girls," said Lizzy, "let's beset Miss Armitage to let us omit
the paper this week."
"A good thought—only she won't do it," said one of the girls.
"Why not?"
"Because—to begin with—she never does let us off from any thing; and,
besides, didn't we promise, when we began, not to ask to be let off?"
"The idea of Miss Armitage letting any one off!" exclaimed Elsie,
laughing. "And, indeed, having so promised, I don't see how we could
very 'consistently,' as Minny says, try to beg off from the papers."
"That's a very different thing!" said Minny.
"Very different, I admit; but I don't think the advantage of the
difference is on our side. No, no! Let's stick to our bargain, and do
our best. And, girls," said Elsie, "won't you bring in your pieces
to-morrow? You know I have it all to do this week."
"All what?" asked Henrietta.
"All the work upon the paper, because Jenny Price is sick, and Mary
Carew is out of town. So pray be in time."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
STORIES.
HENRIETTA walked home from school in any thing but a good humour. She
could not flatter herself that her work would make any great figure,
even with all she might be able to do to it before to-morrow, and
she felt sure that some of the boastful speeches she had made at the
beginning would be remembered and quoted against her. She felt vexed at
Elsie for knitting "after all," as she said,—though after all what, she
did not specify even to herself. So that, taking every thing together,
she reached home in a mood ready to be angry with any thing or anybody
who might happen to cross her path.
The first thing she saw upon entering the parlour was Cecy, propped
up as usual in a corner of her own especial sofa, busily knitting on
a blue sock just the colour of her own. The poor child was so deeply
engaged in her work that she did not observe her sister's entrance at
first. But the moment she did so, she coloured, and made a movement as
if to conceal her work.
"You little meddling torment!" exclaimed Henrietta, flushing in her
turn with vexation. "How dare you touch my work? I dare say you have
spoiled it entirely," she continued, snatching it roughly from her
hand, and thereby pulling out a whole row of stitches. "Now, just see
what you have done!"
Cecilia attempted to speak in her own defence, but, as usual when
agitated, the words would not come. She stammered and hesitated, and
finally burst into tears and sobbed bitterly.
"What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Laurens, who had entered the parlour
just in time to hear Henrietta's last hasty words. "What is the matter,
Cecilia?"
But Cecy was by this time far past explanation, and could only sob
hysterically.
Mrs. Laurens turned to Hetty.
"She had my work," said Hetty, too angry to see or heed any thing; "and
she has pulled out the stitches and half-spoiled it. Then I took it
away, and she cried,—just as she always does if any one looks at her.
She is the greatest cry-baby that ever lived."
"Henrietta!" said her mother, sternly.
"Well,—I don't care. She is; and she had no business to touch my work."
"Is that your work?" asked Mrs. Laurens. "Look and see."
Hetty looked. It certainly was not hers, for it was not more than half
as long.
"Well, I thought it was mine," she said; but her mother checked her.
"I do not wish to hear any thing from you at present. You may go to
your room and stay there till tea-time."
Henrietta left the room, closing the door with violence, and the door
of her own room also. The first thing that met her eyes was her own
work, lying exactly where she had laid it on Saturday night. She walked
up to it and threw it across the room.
"Hateful old thing! I wish I had never seen it! I don't care whether
I ever get it done or not. Mother always sets Cecy above me in every
thing. No matter what she does, she is always right and I am always
wrong."
"You are certainly wrong in this case," said conscience; but Henrietta
would not listen.
She put away her bonnet and satchel, and looked around for a book to
read: but she could find none, except those she had read again and
again.
Suddenly she remembered that there was a large pile of magazines put
away in the back attic. True, her mother had forbidden her to leave her
room; but she was too much out of humour to care whether she obeyed
or not. She opened her door softly, stole up-stairs, and presently
descended with an armful of the coveted treasures. She could not feel
very happy, for she had been trained in habits of obedience and of
honesty, but her temper was roused, and she was determined, as she
said, to face it out.
She found plenty of entertaining matter in the magazines, and sat
reading till it was nearly dark. Then she remembered her knitting, and
that it must be carried to school in the morning, and she began to
look around for it. What was her consternation to find it lying in the
water-pail, and, of course, soaked through and through! This was a new
misfortune, none the easier to bear because she had brought it upon
herself. Henrietta burst into tears, and cried till she brought on a
headache, which sent her to bed before tea, and—almost for the first
time in her life—without saying her prayers.
People are rather apt to get up in the same humour with which they go
to bed; and Henrietta rose feeling any thing but happy. As soon as
she was dressed, she looked round for the unlucky knitting-work. The
stocking had dried during the night: not so the ball, which was still
like a wet sponge. And when she tried to knit, she found the needles
covered with rust and quite immovable.
What was to be done? Again Hetty cried; but crying would not mend
matters. And after several unsuccessful attempts to put it to rights,
she concluded that the only way was to carry the work to her mother.
"See here, mother; what shall I do with my work?" she said, as she
entered the breakfast-room. "I dropped it in the water last night, and
now the needles are all rusty. I cannot knit at all."
"You should have brought it to me directly," said her mother. "I could
easily have put it in order for you; but now it will be a work of time
to draw out the needles and put in others. So much for one of the
consequences of a fit of temper, my daughter. If you will leave it
here, I will attend to it as soon as I have time."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Hetty, impatiently. "Can't you do it now, mother?
All the girls are going to bring their work to school and compare their
progress."
"If that is all, you can carry it as it is," replied Mrs. Laurens;
"but I cannot possibly attend to it now. Cecy has had a very bad
night,—thanks to her fit of crying,—and will not be able to get up to
breakfast, and I must go to her immediately."
"Cecy is such a cry-baby," said Henrietta, colouring at this allusion
to the scene of the day before; "one cannot look at her without her
going into a fit. I should think she might learn not to cry at every
little thing, when she knows it always makes her sick."
"And I should think a strong, healthy girl might learn not to hurt
the feelings of a suffering younger sister, when she knows what the
consequences will be," said Mrs. Laurens, much displeased. "Cecy was
not the only cry-baby in the house last night."
"Cecy never does wrong," murmured Henrietta to herself. "I wish I was
crooked; and then perhaps I might have some privileges now and then."
"Henrietta," said her mother, sternly, "if Cecilia could have a hundred
people devoted to her every day and all day long, with nothing to do
but to minister to her pleasure and alleviate her suffering, she could
well afford to give them all up for the health that you enjoy without a
thought of its value. You are indulging in a most wicked and unthankful
temper, my child. Conquer it, or no one can tell how far it may lead
you."
Henrietta dared not answer when her mother spoke in such a tone, but
her heart was full of anger, which she made no attempt to put down.
She hastily swallowed her breakfast, gathered her books together, and,
putting the unlucky knitting in her satchel, she set out for school
without kissing either her mother or Cecy.
"Good news, Henrietta!" said one of the girls, meeting her at the door.
"Miss Armitage has excused us from the paper this week, of her own
accord. We are to have it next week instead of composition; but Miss
Armitage says we may have the time now to finish our socks, as they are
so much wanted. Wasn't it clever in her,—and without being asked, too?"
At any other time, Henrietta would have joined cordially in the praises
of Miss Armitage. But she was not now in the humour to be pleased with
any thing: so she answered, shortly,—
"I don't see any great generosity in that, I am sure. If she had let us
off altogether, there would have been some fun in it. But as long as we
have to write next week, I don't see what difference it makes."
"All the difference in the world, I should think," said Lizzy Becket.
"We shall have time to finish our socks this week if we don't have to
write for the paper. 'I' can, I know. Let me see how far yours is done.
Is that your second one?" She made a movement to take it up.
"Do let things alone, Lizzy, can't you?" said Henrietta, pushing by
her. "I want to go to my seat."
"Heyday!" said Lizzy, looking after her. "Some one has got up wrong end
foremost this morning, I should think. If I were you, I would go to bed
and try again!"
"I think Hetty gets up wrong end foremost very often," said little
Belle Chesterfield. "I used to think she was one of the best-natured
girls in school, but she is downright cross very often nowadays. I
wonder what is the reason?"
"'Evil communications corrupt good manners,'" said Bessy Stanley,
sagely. "Take care you don't indulge in them, Belle."
"If you mean Minny Granger, there's no danger; for I can't bear her,"
said Belle. "She called me a little—"
"Never mind what she called you," interrupted Rose. "Minny's speeches
are not worth remembering, much less repeating. Come; it is time to go
into school."
At recess the girls collected with one accord in the play-room, and the
stockings were all produced. They made a goodly show, and spoke well
for the industry of the little workwomen. Some had finished the first
of the pair; some were half-way through the second. Even Minny's had
advanced as far as the middle of the foot. Hetty's was the only one
which had not reached the heel. The girls, who remembered her grand
speeches, looked at one another significantly. And Augusta Stephens
said,—
"I am afraid you won't accomplish your two or three pairs, Hetty. If
you finish these, it will be as much as you can do."
"Mine is as far forward as Elsie's, any way," said Hetty, ready to cry
with mortification.
"Yes; but that is Elsie's second pair," said Augusta. "She has done
more than any of us. Oh, come; what's the use of being so modest,
Elsie?" she continued, as Elsie made her a sign to be silent. "You know
you have; and you deserve more credit than any of us, because you have
so little time."
"Oh, yes, she deserves a great deal of credit, to be sure!" exclaimed
Henrietta, forgetting in her anger her promise to Minny to say nothing
about the affair of the opera-glass. "Perhaps if I had had some one to
help me, I might have knit two pairs as well as Elsie."
Minny pinched her arm and recalled her promise, but the mischief was
done.
"What do you mean, Hetty?" said Elsie, surprised.
But Hetty would not explain.
"Never mind, Elsie," said Rose, seeing Elsie's eyes filled with tears.
"We all know you too well to believe that you would do any thing
dishonourable. I know, too, what a sacrifice you made to be able to
knit at all. Don't be troubled," she continued, as Elsie took up her
work and turned away. "Henrietta is out of humour, and doesn't know or
care what she says."
"If it was any one else, I wouldn't mind so much," said Elsie, as soon
as she could steady her voice. "But we used to be such good friends,
and—" The words failed.
"I don't know what to think of Henrietta," said Rose. "She is very much
changed."
"It is not her natural disposition; I am sure of that," replied Elsie,
generously unwilling to have her former friend blamed. "I believe Minny
puts things in her head."
"She ought to be ashamed to listen to them," said Rose, indignantly. "I
should think any one might see through Minny. She is a vain, shallow,
vulgar girl, and her mother is as shallow and vulgar as herself."
"That is some excuse for her," said Elsie; "but Rose, I can't think
what they mean about the stockings. No one has ever touched them but
myself: I wouldn't even let Cousin Ellen take them to try the needles."
"Of course not. Don't disturb yourself about that," said Rose. "Your
character is too well-known for any one to suspect you of dishonesty.
It was only a pettish speech of Henrietta's because she was mortified
at her own slow progress. You know she had a great deal to say, when we
began, about how much she was going to accomplish, and it was no great
wonder that she felt ashamed and angry when she found herself behind
the youngest girl in the school. I think if I were you, I would take no
notice of the speech, but leave the matter to die of itself. I presume
there will be no more heard of it."
Contrary to Rose's prophecy, a great deal more was heard of it. A
number of the girls—a particularly those of Minny's party—asked
Henrietta what she meant, and Henrietta could not resist the temptation
of telling such an important secret. The story passed from one to
another, losing nothing by transmission, till at least half the girls
in school believed that Minny had seen Elsie's cousin Ellen knit both
pairs of stockings in Mrs. Probert's back parlour.
When Minny was appealed to, she shook her head, looked mysterious, and
dropped broken hints that she could tell a great deal more, if she
chose, about that and other things. Minny concluded by inviting all the
elder girls in the school, except Elsie, to meet at her mother's house
the next afternoon, to knit and drink tea.
Much to her mortification, Rose Chesterfield refused point-blank, and
so did the Stanleys; but all the rest accepted, some from curiosity to
see a house about which they had heard so much, some because others
did, some, perhaps, influenced by the prospect of a treat, &c., which
Minny held out.
As Elsie was walking homeward, she was overtaken by Sarah Stone.
Elsie did not particularly like Sarah, whom she suspected of a
mischief-making disposition and knew to be possessed of a strong
propensity to tattling; but she could not in civility run away from
her, and the two walked along together.
"Are you going to Minny's party to-morrow night?" asked Sarah.
"I presume not," replied Elsie, surprised, "as this is the first I have
heard of it. Is she going to have a party?"
"Why, yes, to be sure," replied Sarah,—affecting a great deal of
astonishment, though she well knew that Elsie had not been invited.
"She has asked all our set,—all the older girls; and every one is
going. I should think Minny would be ashamed to leave you out."
"Not at all," said Elsie, steadily,—though she could not prevent her
cheeks from burning at this new affront. "Minny has a right to ask whom
she pleases to her own mother's house."
"But she 'is' just as mean as she can be, Elsie. Everybody knows that.
Just because her father is rich, she thinks she can lord it ever every
one in the school as much as she pleases. I think all rich girls are
mean, for my part; don't you?"
"No, indeed," said Elsie, promptly. "I am sure the Chesterfields are
not mean, nor the Stanleys, nor Augusta Stephens; and they are the
richest girls in the school. I think I have known quite as many poor
girls who were mean as rich ones. As for Minny, I don't pretend to like
her, but there is nothing mean in her not inviting me if she did not
wish to do so. And, I must say, if I were you, I should be ashamed to
accept her invitation, and even receive presents from her and then talk
against her behind her back."
Elsie spoke with unusual warmth and it is possible that her virtuous
indignation against Sarah was a little increased by the affronts she
had received from Minny. But Sarah was altogether too obtuse to be
abashed by any such hints.
"You would not defend Minny," she said, mysteriously, "if you know what
she and Hetty Laurens said about you. Of course it isn't true, and a
great many of the girls don't believe it. But then, again, they do say
it looks oddly for you to have accomplished so much more than any one
else, when you began last."
"I am a great deal more used to knitting than most of the other girls,"
said Elsie,—not knowing how to understand Sarah's speech.
"Yes, of course: that's just what I say. 'Of course,' I said: 'Elsie
knows how to knit better than any of us; and, besides, if she did get
her cousin to help her, there is no great harm done. The stockings are
knit all the same, and Elsie has so little time that she is excusable,
if any one is.'"
"What do you mean, Sarah?" asked Elsie, very much agitated.
But Sarah was too much delighted with having found a way of tormenting
Elsie to give up her amusement suddenly.
"To be sure, we did agree to knit them all ourselves, but perhaps you
did not understand that,—though Henrietta says she knows you did. And,
at any rate, it was mean in Minny to tell of you. But she could not
know any thing and not tell it. That is quite impossible."
"What do you mean, Sarah?" asked Elsie, again. "Does any one think I
had help about my work?"
"Why, yes, to be sure!" rejoined Sarah. "Minny and Hetty both say they
know you had. Minny says she saw a lady knitting on that very pair of
stockings that you brought in,—with the red mark. She saw you knitting
on one of them at your back parlour window, and that very afternoon,
she saw your cousin have that same stocking on the Milton cars. And
besides, she says she has seen your mother knit on them. And that is
the reason she would not ask you to her party."
"I should like to know how Minny pretends to have seen so much," said
Elsie, as soon as she could recover her voice. "I have never had my
sock out of the house."
"Oh, you know the back of their house is just opposite to yours,"
replied Sarah, rejoicing in the effect of her words. "She can look
right into your window from her mother's back parlour, and with an
opera-glass she could see every thing that went on in the room. Mind,
I don't say she 'did,'—only that she might if she chose. But, at any
rate, she ought to be ashamed of herself to tell. She does worse things
than that. I know where she gets her compositions; and I sha'n't keep
her secret much longer, either, if she don't mind her Ps and Qs. Now,
mind, Elsie, you don't tell any one who told you."
"Well," she said, as she walked away, "she never denied it. I should
not wonder if it was true, after all. I don't believe these saints are
any better than other people, for my part."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
ELSIE'S TROUBLES.
ELSIE entered the house, and went at once to her own room, feeling more
angry that she had ever done before in her life. She was not easily
disturbed, and her mother often thought that Elsie's sunny, even temper
was one of her greatest blessings; but now her spirit seemed moved from
its lowest depths. To her natural anger at being suspected of so mean
a fraud was added a deep sense of grief and injury that the accusation
should have come from such quarter; and she felt that she could almost
say, with David, "It was not an enemy, else I could have borne it; but
it was thou, mine equal, my guide, mine acquaintance."
"I will tell mother and father all about it," she said to herself; "and
ask them to take me away from school. I am sure my father would never
let me stay there to be so treated."
"Elsie!" her mother called, from the foot of the stairs.
"Yes, mother, in a moment," replied Elsie, hastening to put away her
bonnet and cloak.
But before she had finished, her mother made her appearance.
"Do you think you can manage with the children for a little while,
dear? Cousin Frances sent for me this morning in great haste. Little
Anna has fallen into the fire and burned herself very badly. I ran down
there for a few minutes, but could not stay till you came home. But if
you think you can do without me—"
"Why, yes, mother, of course," replied Elsie, forgetting all her own
small troubles for the moment. "Do go this minute! Dear Anna! How sorry
I am! How did it happen?"
"No one knows. She was playing in the back parlour as usual; Frances
ran up-stairs for a moment, and, while there, she heard Anna scream,
and, hurrying back, found her all in flames. The child is unable to
speak, and can, of course, give no account of the matter."
"Dear child!" exclaimed Elsie, with her eyes full of tears. "Is she
very badly burned?"
"Very badly, my dear. I have little expectation that she will live
through the night. Dr. H. has done every thing possible, and keeps her
under the influence of ether all the time: so we may hope she does not
suffer a great deal. Poor Frances is very calm and composed, but she
feels as though she would be glad to have me with her."
Elsie did every thing in her power to hasten her mother's departure,
and as soon as she was gone, set herself seriously to the task of
taking care of and amusing the younger children. They were very good
and quiet. George and Jack were old enough to feel the sobering effects
of such a fearful accident, and even the baby seemed disposed to be
less exacting than usual. Elsie found that by setting her on the floor
at her feet and providing her with toys, she was able to take her
sewing and pursue her own reflections in peace.
Her school troubles, which had seemed so important and distressing an
hour before, faded into insignificance before the overwhelming calamity
which had befallen her cousin. Anna was the only surviving child of
five beautiful little ones, four of whom had been borne to the grave
before they reached the age of three years. Anna had passed the period
which had been fatal to them without any of the symptoms of decay which
had so many times wrung the hearts of the parents, and they had hoped,
at first with trembling, and then with confidence, that the peril was
over. Her father was an officer of volunteers, and had left town with
his regiment only about three weeks before.
"Poor Cousin Frances!" thought Elsie. "It does seem as if she might
have had one child to comfort her! We all thought Anna would live to
grow up, she seemed so healthy and strong; and now to have her taken
away by such a fearful death! It seems a great deal worse than though
she had died like Lucia and the others. It is strange that God will let
such things happen!"
It is strange to us; and the wisest theologians and philosophers have
never found a way to explain it. Happy they to whom grace is given to
take refuge in the simple declaration of his word,—
"All things work together for good to them that love God."
Mr. Probert came in to dinner as usual. He had not heard of the
accident, and, after despatching a hasty meal, hurried down to Mrs.
Percival's house. Elsie gave the children their dinner, fed the baby,
and finally put them all to bed, and sat down before the fire, with
the little one in her arms, to await the return of her parents. It was
the first leisure she had had that day; and what a long day it seemed,
as she went back and reviewed its events, and how differently some of
these events looked from what they did before she had heard of little
Anna's calamity! When she entered house, she felt that she could hardly
ever forgive either Minny or Hetty,—that she could hardly ever speak
to them again,—certainly she would never have any more to do with them
than she could help. Forgiveness did not now seem so impossible.
"At any rate, I shall not tell mother or father any thing about it,"
she said to herself. "They have trouble enough without that. I knew
that Minny was mean enough, but the idea of using an opera-glass to
look into another person's window! That is beyond any thing. I can
fancy how Miss Armitage would look if she were to hear of it; but I am
sure I shall not tell her. It is rather vexatious to think of being
overlooked in that way, and it would annoy father dreadfully, because
he is so particular; but, after all, we never do any thing to be
ashamed of, that I know. If she would only tell the truth about what
she sees, it would not be so bad. But how she could have taken up such
a notion I cannot understand.
"Now, I remember, she was in the car that very day I went down with
Cousin Ellen, and Ellen's work did have a red stripe, just like mine. I
dare say she told Henrietta. But then Hetty ought to have known better
than to believe such a thing. I am sure I never would have taken up a
story about her, much less have told every one of it. Oh, I don't see
how I can forgive her. I don't mind so much about Minny. I never did
like her; but Henrietta,—I did love her dearly. And yet I must forgive
her! I dare not even say my prayers to-night unless I do. Oh, dear! I
never knew before how hard it is. I don't think I ever really had any
thing to forgive till now."
Elsie was thinking, as she had never thought before, of that wonderful
scene in Pilate's judgment-hall,—of the meekness, the patience, the
love, there displayed,—of those amazing words, "Father, forgive them;
for they know not what they do."
She thought of the martyr Stephen and his persecutors. She had heard
an excellent sermon a little while before upon his cruel death, and
had been much moved by the eloquent description of his forgiveness and
prayers for his murderers; but it had not come home to her then as now.
He could pray, "Lay not this sin to their charge," could not she?
If our blessed Lord could pray, "Father, forgive them," what wonder if
Elsie laid the baby softly in the cradle and kneeled down by her side,
shedding a few tears, and sobbing now and then or that when she arose,
her face was calm and serene,—that the bitterness had passed away for
the time, and that she felt in her heart that she could forgive all who
had injured her?
"But that was a very little thing," some of my young readers may say;
and perhaps they may even think Elsie almost irreverent in appealing
to her heavenly Father about so small a matter as a school-quarrel.
Many children, and some older people, seem to have an idea that there
is something wrong, if not foolish, in making the daily trials and
perplexities of life subjects of prayer. I not long ago heard some one
speak sneeringly of a poor and lonely woman who asked God to direct her
as to whether she should rent her house or take in boarders. But it did
not seem to me in the least absurd that this poor disciple should go to
her only and all-wise Friend in a matter of such importance to herself,
nor that she should have felt a confident hope that He without whose
knowledge a sparrow falls not to the ground, and who does not disdain
to care for the ox which treads out the corn, nor even the tenants of a
bird's nest, * would influence her mind to the best course.
* Deut. xxii. 6.
True, Elsie's injuries were slight compared to those of a martyr; but
it was not a trivial thing to a girl of fourteen to be falsely accused
and to be deserted by friends. One reason why even people who desire to
be influenced by Christian principles bear the minor trials of life so
ill, is that they do not ask that help from above which they need, and
which they always pray for in times of great sorrow and perplexity.
Elsie had been taught to pray from her earliest years. She had been
taught that God was her Father, loving and guiding and taking care of
her before she ever knew him. She loved him for all he had done and was
doing for her, and she had for a long time desired that she might grow
into the likeness of his dear Son; but this time, she seemed to herself
to come nearer to the cross, nearer to Jesus, than ever before. She
had found what it was to "need" the sympathy and help of Him who said,
"Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give
you rest."
About eleven o'clock, Mr. and Mrs. Probert returned. Elsie went into
the entry to meet them.
"It is all over, my dear," said her mother. "Little Anna is in heaven.
She died about eight o'clock. Poor Frances is entirely overcome. She
has fainted several times, but is now more composed, and Dr. H. hopes
she may get some sleep. Mrs. H. is kind enough to stay with her, and
your father will stay there. I am afraid you are very tired with
the care of the children and sitting up so late. You must go to bed
directly."
Elsie would have liked to tell her mother how good the children had
been, but she was indeed quite worn out, and fairly sobbed when she
tried to speak. Mrs. Probert kissed and soothed her, and, after helping
her to undress, would have sat by her till she fell asleep, but this
Elsie would not allow. She made a great effort to control herself, and
succeeded, and Mrs. Probert, coming softly into the room half an hour
afterwards, found her sleeping as quietly as though she had never known
a care.
Elsie could not be spared to go to school next day. Mrs. Probert felt
that she must be with her cousin, and there was no one but Elsie with
whom to leave the children.
Elsie was not sorry, for she did not care to meet either Minny or
Henrietta just now.
She had rather a trying day. The children missed their
mother,—especially the baby, who was not at all inclined to accept
Elsie as a substitute, and, finding herself obliged to do so, seemed
to come to the resolution at least to get as much work out of her as
possible. Elsie found that she must give up all her own employments and
devote herself especially to the care of Miss Molly. Then George and
Jack got into a dispute, in which both were wrong and ill-natured. And
when Elsie tried to reconcile matters, she only succeeded so far as to
unite them both against her.
"Oh, you little plagues!" she could not help saying to herself. "I
wonder how mother lives with you every day, and all day long? But I
suppose I was just as bad; and, at any rate, it is a pity if I cannot
manage you one morning."
So saying, she diverted the boys from their troubles, first by the
prospect of luncheon, and then by allowing them to take down all her
own particular books and look at the pictures. This unusual privilege
brought them into a good humour, so that things went smoothly for the
rest of the day. And Elsie was able, on her mother's return, to say
with a clear conscience, that, "on the whole, the boys had been very
good."
"There!" she said to herself, as she went to bed, "I have hardly
thought of Minny's party to-day."
Minny's party was not very satisfactory to herself. Rose Chesterfield
and the Stanleys refused to go; Lizzy Becket also stayed away.
And though Augusta went, she did not seem at all dazzled by the
magnificence, but took every thing very coolly and quite as a matter of
course.
"I wonder why Elsie did not come to school this morning?" said one of
the girls in the course of conversation. "I hardly ever knew her stay
away a day before."
Minny and several of her friends exchanged significant glances.
"I should not wonder if she did not come any more," said Minny.
"Why not?" asked Augusta.
"Oh, because I should not think she could find it very pleasant to
associate with girls so superior to herself. And besides, you know,
after what happened yesterday—" Minny was very fond of these broken
hints and insinuations. She fancied they sounded very important.
"Allow me to ask, Minny, who are the girls whom you consider so
superior to Elsie?" said Augusta, disregarding the latter part of the
sentence.
Minny shrugged her shoulders, and was silent.
But Sarah Stone took up her defense:—
"Oh, but really now, Augusta, that is absurd. Elsie may be well
enough in her studies and behaviour, and so on; but as to her social
position,—why, there is hardly a girl in the school who does not spend
more money in a quarter than she does in a year."
"Does spending money constitute a social position?" asked Augusta.
"That is news to me. For my own part, I think Elsie one of the most
lady-like girls in school; and well she may be, for her mother is a
lady in every sense of the word."
"You need not be so warm in her defence, Augusta," said Sarah,
mysteriously. "You wouldn't, if you knew—"
"If I knew what?" asked Augusta, with some impatience. "You are always
hinting, Sarah. Why can't you speak out what you have to say, and be
done with it?"
"That's just what I want to do, only you never will let me," said
Sarah, delighted at finding such a good opening, for Augusta would
hardly ever consent to listen to her. "Elsie says all the rich girls in
school are as mean as they can be, and that she never knew one who was
not so."
"Did she say so herself, or did you say it and then ask her if she
didn't think so?" asked Augusta, with a penetrating glance which made
Sarah colour in spite of herself. "Ah, I thought so! That's the way
many a good story is made."
"Now, it's of no use, Sarah," said Marcia Barclay, laughing, as Sarah
began to say something in her own defence. "Augusta knows you like a
book, as Lizzy says. But, Augusta, I am sure you cannot defend Elsie's
conduct about the stockings. If what Hetty and Minny say is true, she
has acted very meanly about them. It looks exactly as though she had
held off at first, in order to produce the greater effect at last.
And really, considering how we know her time to be occupied, it seems
strange that she could accomplish so much in so short a time."
"I don't know about that," said Augusta.
"But I do!" interrupted Henrietta. "I know just how much she has to do,
in tending the baby, and all that sort of thing; for I have been there
a great deal. And now that she has so many studies in school, and takes
music-lessons besides, it is just impossible."
"Does she take music-lessons? I did not know that."
"She began this quarter, at least she told me she was going to, and I
suppose she did," said Henrietta.
Sarah knew better, but she said nothing.
"So you see, Augusta, it is quite impossible."
"She may have given up something else for the sake of knitting," said
Augusta.
"Not she! That isn't a bit like her," said Henrietta.
"Who was it that gave up the picnic last summer to stay with her
friend, because that friend had hurt her foot and could not go?" asked
Augusta. "You seem to have a short memory, Hetty."
"I dare say she stayed at home because she had nothing decent to wear,"
said Minny, answering for her friend.
"The long and the short of the matter is, that Elsie has imposed upon
every one," said Henrietta, growing very angry. "I know it of my own
knowledge. A lady told me who saw the whole, that her cousin knit at
least one pair of the socks. She saw Miss Delancy knitting on that very
pair of socks with the red stripe round the top, and saw Elsie give
them to her and tell her to be sure not to forget to finish them. So,
how can there be any mistake?"
"Who was this lady?"
"I promised not to tell. But I know her, and so does Minny: don't you?"
added Henrietta, appealing to her friend.
Minny nodded, and looked very wise. She did not choose to commit
herself; but she did not object to Henrietta's doing so to any extent.
She had conceived a dislike to Elsie very early in their acquaintance,
and adhered to it with all the tenacity of a little mind. In fact,
Minny prided herself on being "a good hater."
"It certainly does not look well," observed Marcia, who was apt to be
influenced by the last speaker.
"No, indeed, it doesn't," returned Henrietta, who, somehow, seemed to
feel her own honour interested in making out as bad a case as possible
for Elsie. "Of course I shouldn't say so unless I know."
"Then you do know of your own knowledge that Elsie employed her cousin
to knit her socks, and then brought them in and exhibited them as her
own work?" said Augusta, looking keenly at Henrietta.
Henrietta thought the look implied a decided distrust of her word, and
answered warmly,—
"I do know it of my own knowledge. I must say, Augusta, I don't see why
you should be so very anxious to defend her. You know you laughed at
her for being so strict and going to church in Lent, and all that. She
never was any great friend of yours."
"She was a very great friend of yours," said Augusta, drily, "and some
people might think that a good reason why you should not be so desirous
to make out a case against her now. But, as you say, I have no great
interest in the matter: only it is natural to some weak minds to defend
the absent and those who have no one to speak for them. However, I have
done. Time will show. There is no fear but the truth will come out
sooner or later."
The conversation was here interrupted by a call to tea, and was not
again taken up.
As Henrietta walked homeward, and thought over the conversation
quietly, she could not help feeling a little alarm. She had certainly
stretched the truth a good deal, if she had not uttered an absolute
falsehood, in asserting that she knew of her own knowledge,—since, in
fact, she knew nothing except what Minny had told her. But she had gone
over the matter so many times in her own mind, cherishing all the while
such a spirit of resentment against Elsie for outdoing her, that she
really could not distinguish between what she had known and what she
had only heard and imagined.
This is a state into which people often full who allow themselves to
repeat slanderous stories. In general, we are more influenced against
people by the things we ourselves say than by what we hear. Having once
uttered an unfavourable opinion, we seem, in some sense, bound to abide
by it, and therefore catch up eagerly every trifle which appears to
sustain our view of the case.
The confidence with which Henrietta spoke, and the looks of mysterious
importance with which Minny supported her, were not their effect upon
the minds of the girls. Even some of those who had at first been
most confident of Elsie's innocence began to waver. Minny's devoted
adherents of course sustained her view of the case, and the story lost
nothing by repetition.
Elsie did not appear in school again till Friday morning, and when she
did, she found herself in a very unpleasant position. Some of the girls
(Minny and Hetty among the number) refused to speak to her; others
treated her with great coldness, and exchanged significant looks among
themselves when she appeared. At recess, she found herself decidedly
left out of every thing that was going on. Rose and the Stanleys, and
perhaps Augusta, alone treated her as usual.
It was a severe trial, and almost overcame Elsie's generous
determination to say nothing to her parents on the subject. It is very
hard to suffer injustice,—doubly so when no opportunity is given for
self-defence. Elsie had always held a high place in the school from
her natural talents and her industry. While her even, sunny temper,
and her readiness to sympathize with both the pleasures and the trials
of others, made her a general favourite, in spite of what some of her
schoolmates considered her over-strictness in religious matters. Miss
Armitage trusted her entirely, and was wont to say that Elsie's simple
"Yes, ma'am" was worth more than the most earnest protestations of a
great many of her companions.
Elsie had always felt a pride in being trusted. Perhaps she had
unconsciously built up a little edifice of self-conceit and a sense of
superiority upon this foundation. And now to feel that she was looked
upon as an impostor,—as deliberately contriving a deception, and such a
mean deception!—It was almost too much to bear. It was not so easy to
forgive Minny and Hetty while feeling so acutely the immediate effects
of their conduct, as it had been while sitting alone, full of grief
for little Annie and pity and sympathy for the lonely bereaved mother.
Elsie thought she had never before known how hard it was to do right.
"Good news for you, Elsie!" said her mother, meeting her at the door.
"Aunt Wentworth has come home, and she wishes you to come and spend the
day with her to-morrow."
"Oh, how glad I am!" exclaimed Elsie. "But has she come home for good
this time?"
"So she says," replied her mother. "She came in her quiet fashion night
before last, giving no notice to any one but the housekeeper, spent
yesterday in settling herself, and drove down this morning to see
Frances, stopping here on her way back. She wants to persuade Frances
to shut up her house and go to live with her while Mr. Percival is
gone; and I hope she may succeed."
"That is so like Aunt Wentworth," said Elsie. "She always thinks of
the right thing to do for every one. But you cannot spare me all day
to-morrow, can you, mother?"
"I think I must, since it is Aunt Wentworth who desires it," said her
mother, smiling. "You have had rather a trying week, too; and it is no
more than fair that you should have a little recreation."
"Mother might well say so if she knew all," said Elsie to herself. "But
I am so glad Aunt Wentworth has come home. I mean to tell her all about
it, and she can advise me what to do."
CHAPTER VI.
THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER.
HENRIETTA had fully determined to employ every spare moment during the
week upon her knitting. She flattered herself that, by so doing, she
would be able to finish the socks upon which she was engaged, and,
perhaps, to complete another pair before they should be called for.
But she found that, as usual, she had overrated her own powers. She
was not a fast knitter at best, and her eagerness to get on with her
work sometimes defeated her own purpose, for in her haste, she dropped
stitches and made other mistakes which it took a long time to rectify.
Thus, she narrowed off her heel before it was nearly long enough, and
her mother decided that it must come out.
"What difference does it make, mother?" asked Henrietta, impatiently.
"It is only for the soldiers; and I am sure they need not be so very
particular. They ought to be thankful to get any, I think!"
Cecy, who was laboriously knitting on her sock in the corner of her
sofa, opened her eyes wide at this speech. "I think the soldiers ought
to have the best of any one," said she, much more promptly than usual.
"I'm sure they work the hardest!"
"True, my dear," said her mother, "and their socks come to much harder
wear than those of ordinary people. Socks with short heels will be
worn through in a day's march, while those which have abundance of
room around the foot will be perfectly whole. But, my dear Hetty, your
patriotism seems to have cooled very decidedly. When you began, you
thought nothing too good for the poor soldiers."
"I think there is a great deal more fuss made about them than there is
any need of," said Henrietta, not very well pleased at being reminded
of her patriotic zeal in the beginning of the work she now found so
disagreeable. "I am sure they are paid for all they do, and I suppose
they expected it, or they wouldn't have gone."
"Do you think Uncle David's pay as captain will make up to him for the
business he gave up for the sake of going into the army?" asked Mrs.
Laurens.
"Uncle David is a lawyer: of course it is different with him," replied
Henrietta. "I was talking about the common soldiers."
"The remark applies not less to them," said Mrs. Laurens. "Many a man
has given up a lucrative trade or left a fertile farm to go into the
ranks as a common soldier, simply from a sense of duty. I could name
a dozen such among my own acquaintance. No doubt people have enlisted
in the cities who would not have done so unless they had been out of
employment; but think of the country regiments, and especially those
of the new States, where every man has his place and is missed when he
leaves it. Think of the long marches through mud and rain; think of
standing on picket duty on the edge of the woods, or perhaps without
even that shelter, all night, in such a storm as this, for instance,
liable to be shot down at any moment by an unseen enemy!"
"But do the soldiers have to stay out in the rain, mother?" asked Cecy,
very much shocked at the idea. "I should think they would go in the
house when it rained."
"Oh, you little goose!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Don't you know that the
soldiers have to stay out in all sorts of weather? Go in the house,
indeed! I guess they would soon be turned out if they did!"
"Hetty is right,—though she does not speak very properly," said her
mother. "A soldier must do his duty without regard to his personal
comfort. If the camp or the road were left unguarded on such a night as
this, for instance, the enemy would be sure to take advantage of it,
and make an attack."
"Then I should think Hetty would want them to have very nice stockings
indeed, because their feet must be so cold," observed Cecy, deeply
impressed with the hardship of standing out in the rain all night.
"Of course I do!" said Hetty, indignantly. "But I don't see the need of
making such a fuss about shaping them just right, as though they were
gentlemen."
"Gentlemen could go and buy some more if theirs were worn out or did
not fit," said Cecy; "but soldiers couldn't, because I suppose they
don't have any shops to go to."
"And not much money to spare," added her mother.
"And, besides, some soldiers are gentlemen. Are they not, mother?"
"A great many, my dear."
"But about the heel, mother?" said Hetty, impatiently. "I am sure it is
long enough now. See how it stretches!"
"My dear, it is hardly long enough for you," replied her mother,
shaking her head. "I am sorry, but it must come out. If you will do it,
I will take up the stitches for you, and you will soon make it up. Take
care! You are pulling out more than is necessary," she added. "You need
only go to where you began to narrow."
But Henrietta had already got nearly to the top of the heel. Her
impatient jerks first entangled the yarn, and then broke it, and thus
more time was wasted. At last, however, it was fairly in progress once
more.
"When do you think my socks will be done?" asked Cecy, laying down her
work to stretch her cramped little fingers. "Only think, mother! I have
done three rounds without stopping!"
"Very soon, I hope, if they progress as nicely as they have done
already," replied her mother, examining the sock. "You have done these
last rows very nicely, Cecy."
"I don't see why Cecy calls them hers," said Henrietta, who seemed
possessed by the spirit of contradiction. "She hasn't knit more than a
dozen rounds in all."
"True; but that is a great deal for one situated as she is. And,
moreover, she has given up many hours of her favourite amusements, that
I might employ my time upon these same socks: so that I think she has
every right to call them hers."
"You never will knit a stitch on mine," said Henrietta.
"I thought it was part of the original compact that you were to knit
them all yourself," replied her mother. "If I recollect rightly, you
would not have any one touch them on any account."
"Then, if you don't knit on mine, I don't see why you should on
Cecy's," persisted Henrietta. "I don't think it is quite fair."
"The cases are entirely different," said Mrs. Laurens, "as I am sure
you must see if you look at them for a moment. As I understand, you
agreed with all your companions not to accept assistance from any
one, and, having done so, it would be very wrong to break your word,
and would, besides, give you an advantage over the rest. But Cecilia
has made no such agreement. It was very doubtful whether she would be
able to knit at all. Her property in the work consisted, as I said,
in giving up her favourite amusements that it might be done; and a
considerable sacrifice it was for a little girl in her circumstances.
It gave me a great deal of pleasure to see her capable of so much
self-denial."
"A great self-denial, to be sure!" said Henrietta, scornfully. "To
give up a few paper parrots and monkeys! It ought to be put in the
paper:—'Wonderful patriotism of a young lady.'"
"You are in a strange humour to-night, my daughter," said Mrs. Laurens.
"I advise you not to talk any more till you are in a better temper,
and, meanwhile, to consider seriously what manner of spirit you are in."
But Henrietta did not choose to consider any such thing. She preferred
to consider herself very ill used by the world in general and by her
mother in particular. She worked on in sullen silence till bedtime, and
then put away her knitting and went up-stairs without a word. She had
always been used to reading a short lesson in the Bible before saying
her prayers; but, as may be supposed, she now felt in no humour for any
such occupation. She picked up one of the magazines she had brought
down, and read till after ten o'clock; and then, as she thought,
hearing her mother coming up-stairs, she hastily put out her light and
crept to bed in the dark.
This said pile of magazines proved a sad snare to Henrietta. Not that
there was any harm in the papers themselves. On the contrary, they were
full of entertaining and instructive matter, and might have afforded
her a great deal of harmless pleasure. But the bringing them down in
the first place was an act of direct disobedience, since she had been
ordered not to leave her room, and she was constantly taking them up
when she knew that she ought to be doing something else. Then she would
read and read all the time with an under-current of uneasiness of
conscience, and leave off at the last moment dissatisfied with herself
and ready to quarrel with every one else. It may be imagined that the
knitting suffered in consequence of these stolen moments and half-hours
of reading.
At the end of the week, the second stocking was not more than three
inches long, and Henrietta saw that she must give up the idea of having
it ready to send with the rest unless she gave up to it the whole of
Saturday.
This was not very pleasant; but any thing was better than having to
meet again the laugh of her companions. Henrietta went up-stairs after
breakfast, fully determined to sit down at once to her knitting, and
not leave it till dinner-time. She persevered very steadily for an
hour, making famous progress, when, happening to glance out of the
window, she saw Peter coming in with a large basket in his hand,
carefully covered and tied down.
[Illustration: _The Blue Socks._
She saw Peter coming in with a large basket in his hand,
carefully covered and tied down.]
"What in the world has Peter got now?" she exclaimed. "Look, mother:
he is carrying a great basket, all tied up, as if there were something
alive in it. What can it be?"
"Whatever it is, you will soon know; for he is coming up-stairs," said
her mother.
And at that moment Peter entered the room. He set the basket down and
opened it,—when out stepped a magnificent, bushy-tailed, long-haired
Japanese cat, with as much dignity as a gentleman alighting from his
own carriage.
"Oh, the splendid eat!" exclaimed Hetty, dropping her work and jumping
up. "Where did you get it, Peter? Whose is it?"
"It is Cecy's," replied Peter. "It was sent her by that soldier to
whom she gave her little red book. I met him coming to the house, and
he begged me to take charge of it, as he was in a great hurry. He told
me that his brother, who is mate of a ship, brought him two of these
kittens, and that he should be very much pleased if Miss Cecy would
accept of this one."
Cecy's delight was too unbounded for words. She loved all sorts of
living creatures, and would have liked to make pets of the very flies
on the wall. Her last pussy met with a tragical end by the fall of a
slate from the roof, and its place had not hitherto been supplied by
any new favourite. And now, to think of having such a rare and superb
animal, brought all the way from Japan, and given her "by her soldier,"
as she always called him,—the pleasure was almost painful.
The illustrious stranger conducted himself with great dignity and
discretion. Probably his sea-faring life had overcome the usual feline
prejudices as to change of place, for he showed no uneasiness at his
new situation, but walked around the parlour, examining the different
articles of furniture with the eye of a connoisseur, and, the survey
completed, accepted the refreshment of a saucer of milk, smoothed
his fur and whiskers, and prepared to make himself agreeable. Like
all sailors' pets, he was very accomplished, would stand on his hind
legs an incredible length of time, and, as he grew better acquainted,
performed such antics that the little girls were quite exhausted with
laughing at him. Various names were suggested for him; but none seemed
to suit exactly, till Peter proposed to call him Corporal.
"Your soldier is a corporal, now, Miss Cecy, and it wouldn't be more
than polite to call the gift after the giver."
"Very true," said Mrs. Laurens; "and these dark marks on his face and
paws may very well represent the stripes on the corporal's arm."
Though all these matters were readily adjusted, the present proved
rather unfortunate for the progress of Hetty's work. Perhaps it was not
to be expected that she should resist the pleasure of playing with the
Corporal. At any rate, she found it impossible to do so; and thus it
came to pass that at bedtime the new stocking was but little advanced,
after all.
"It is all the fault of that hateful cat!" said Hetty to herself, by
way of excuse. "I wish I had never seen him! I mean to sit up a couple
of hours and knit."
But sitting up to knit was found to be rather sleepy work; and, after
she had nearly put her eyes out with the needles once or twice, she
concluded to abandon the effort and go to bed.
The next day was Sunday, and, of course, there was nothing to be done
on that day.
"Oh, dear!" said Henrietta. "How I wish I never had touched it! If I
had only worked harder at first; but then I did work till my finger got
sore, and after that, I could not bear the sight of it. If ever any one
catches me in such a piece of work again—"
Sunday morning was stormy, and as Hetty had a slight cold, her mother
did not think it best for her to go out. But the weather cleared up
about noon, and Mrs. Laurens thought it would do her no harm to attend
afternoon service. She herself always remained at home with Cecy at
that time.
It was a lovely afternoon. Henrietta had been reading quietly all the
morning; and, as she walked soberly along, she felt in better tune than
she had done for some days. Presently she was overtaken by Minny.
"Why are you going to church alone, Hetty? So am I. How lucky! We can
sit together in one pew, and have it all to ourselves."
Henrietta demurred a little. "Mother always tells me not to sit in any
pew but our own."
"Oh, well, of course she couldn't mean ours. She wouldn't want you
to sit with strangers; but with us you know that's very different.
Besides, she won't know it. So, what harm will it do?"
Such an argument ought to have been enough for Hetty; but she was very
much changed from the open-hearted girl of six months before. She
had learned to think that there was something rather grand in having
a "secret." She suffered herself to be overruled: and the two girls
seated themselves in Mrs. Granger's pew.
Henrietta had been taught, upon entering a place of public worship, to
offer a silent prayer for a blessing on the services. And, as a matter
of course, she did so on the present occasion.
But as she put her head down, Minny bent hers, also, and whispered,—
"What saints we are! Almost as good as Saint Elsie herself!"
"Minny, for shame!" said Henrietta. But the words had their effect, and
she rose without any prayer.
They were quite early, and Minny amused herself with making remarks
upon the people who entered:—
"Look at Mrs. Langford's bonnet,—clear off her head! It must have been
made before the flood. Rich as they are, I should think she might
afford a new one. Oh, do see the bride! In a 'red' shawl, of all
things!—But I suppose Mrs. Becket must show that she had real cashmere
if she died for it. To be sure, she is as old as the hills. Mother says
she might be a grandmother instead of a step-mother. Don't you pity
Lizzy Becket? See how 'proper' she looks, as though she hardly dared to
breathe, for fear her mother should hear her."
"Does Lizzy call her 'mother'?" asked Hetty. "I am sure I wouldn't."
"Nor I. And Lizzy said, before her father was married, that she would
die before she would call Miss Palmer 'mother;' but her spirit is quite
broken already. I said something about Mrs. Becket the ether day, and
she took me up as sharply as could be, and said she did not choose to
hear her dear father's wife spoken of in that way."
"Hush, Minny; don't talk so loud," whispered Hetty. "She will certainly
hear you."
"Who cares?" said Minny, lowering her voice a little, however. "She
isn't my step-mother, thank goodness!"
"Who sits in the pew before this?" asked Henrietta. "How nicely it is
fitted up!"
"Madam Wentworth has taken it," answered Minny. "She has just come
home from the country, somewhere. Her house was opened yesterday for
the first time this season, and I saw the carriage at the door last
night,—a beautiful little coupée, with gray horses."
"Last night?—Why, it rained pitchforks!" said Hetty.
"Yes, I know, and we thought it odd. But I believe she had some one
spending the day with her,—a young lady, I should think, by the glimpse
I had of her in the carriage. It seems singular that she should have
company the very first day. I should think she would have wanted to put
her house in order and get settled: shouldn't you?"
"I dare say it was all in order before she came," said Henrietta,
feeling all the time that she was doing very wrong to indulge in such
gossip in church, but afraid to incur Minny's ridicule by saying so.
"You know she has a housekeeper who has been with her for years."
"And no end of servants, besides. I know she has two men-servants, and,
I believe, a boy; and she has a French maid—"
"Oh, Minny," said Henrietta, laughing, "her maid is old Philly, who
has lived with her years and years. She is a yellow-mulatto, and as
wrinkled as a monkey. She is a good old soul, too, and has made many a
bonnet for my doll."
"Dear me!" said Minny. "I heard she had a Frenchwoman, direct from
Paris, who could not speak a word of English. Then you knew her, Hetty?
Does your mother visit her?"
"Yes, indeed: they are connected by marriage, some way,—I don't exactly
know how," replied Henrietta, with an air of superiority. "We go there
a great deal."
"I wish we did! I wonder whether she will call on mother? You know we
moved into the neighbourhood while she was away. I would give any thing
to be acquainted with her. Mother says the Wentworths are among the
nobility."
"I didn't know we had any nobility," said Henrietta; "but I don't
believe she will call. She hardly ever goes to see strangers nowadays."
"But we are not strangers in town, only in that neighbourhood," said
Minny, anxiously. "Can't you take me there some time, Hetty? I would
give any thing to go."
"I will see about it," said Henrietta, rather consequentially, feeling
her dignity considerably increased by knowing a more distinguished
person than Minny. "But, Minny, do stop talking. Mr. Warren is looking
straight at us."
"Who cares if he is?" said Minny, boldly. "I am not afraid of him,
I hope." She continued to whisper, till Henrietta, really alarmed,
withdrew to the other end of the seat.
"The Lord is in his holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before
him."
Henrietta had often listened to these words with pleasure, thinking
how appropriate they were to the beginning of public worship, but now
they seemed to sound like a reproach. Her mind was out of tune, and she
felt as though she would rather be anywhere else than within hearing of
those solemn words.
As the congregation kneeled in worship, she was conscious that some
one entered the pew before her, but she did not look up till Minny
whispered in her ear,—
"Henrietta, here is Madam Wentworth, and some one with her."
"What of it?" retorted Henrietta. "Do be quiet, can't you?"
"I do believe it is Elsie!" said Minny, in a tone of the utmost
amazement that a whisper could express. "I wish I could see her face.
It is Elsie, as sure as you are alive! Well, if that isn't beyond any
thing!"
"Hush, I tell you! She will hear you," said Henrietta, in real terror.
"Don't be such a goose! You are very good all at once, seems to me!"
Henrietta would have given any thing to be safely in her mother's pew.
She refused to answer Minny, who whispered with a scarcely suppressed
giggle,—
"Do look, Hetty! Here's Mrs. Noah herself come to church!"
Hetty looked up, and had much ado not to laugh aloud. A little woman
stood in the aisle, dressed in black, but in a very odd fashion. She
wore a black straw bonnet of the smallest dimensions, such as were
fashionable several years ago. It had no cape to speak of, and, as if
in an effort to make all the atonement possible for its limited size,
the poor lady had drawn it down over her eyes till it covered no more
of the back of her head than a soldier's cap would have done. Her short
hair, tinged with gray, was arranged in prim little curls all round;
and she wore a very long, bright-green veil. The rest of her dress
was in the same style, and in her hand she carried a large book and a
handkerchief about the size and thickness of a dinner-napkin. She stood
quite still, looking about her, and seemed waiting for some one to give
her a seat. The sexton, however, was not to be seen, and no one else
made a move to do so.
"I wonder some one doesn't ask her to sit down," said Minny. "She must
be a distinguished stranger, I am sure,—perhaps some foreign princess
in disguise."
Just at that moment, Mrs. Wentworth caught sight of the unconscious
cause of all these remarks. She whispered something in a very low tone
to Elsie, who immediately opened the pew-door and beckoned the stranger
to a seat.
The poor woman accepted it very simply, and with a devout propriety
which might have put to shame the two silly girls behind her.
Between Minny's whispers and her own disordered thoughts, Hetty hardly
heard a word of the sermon. She had been taught to behave properly
in church, and that nothing could be more unladylike (to say nothing
worse) than irreverent behaviour in the house of God; and she could not
help thinking what her mother would have said if she had seen her this
afternoon. To add to her discomfort, she thought she caught a glimpse
of Peter in the gallery,—though she could not be sure.
"It would be just like him to tell," she said to herself; "and then
what would become of me?"
Minny's astonishment was quite irrepressible, and, almost before they
were out of church, she attacked Henrietta on the subject.
"Well, if ever I expected to see Elsie Probert coming to church with
Madam Wentworth, of all people in the world! I wonder if she is going
to live there?—If Madam Wentworth has taken her for a companion or
something? It would be a great thing for her, wouldn't it?" she
continued. "Though I suppose she would be only a kind of servant,—not
an equal, at all."
"What are you talking about?" asked Henrietta, who had not attended to
the words of her companion, being intent upon seeing if Peter was among
the people. She could see no one at all like him, however; and her mind
being thus relieved, she had leisure to attend to Minny.
"How stupid you are!" said Minny, with her usual politeness. "I say,
how odd that Elsie Probert should be in church with Madam Wentworth!"
"Not at all," replied Henrietta. "Elsie goes there a great deal. Madam
Wentworth is her great-aunt."
"Why, Hetty Laurens, what 'do' you mean?" exclaimed Minny,
incredulously. "I should like to know how that can be. I don't believe
it."
"It is true, whether you believe it or not,"' said Hetty, not very well
pleased by the tone and manner. "Mr. Probert is Madam Wentworth's own
nephew; and he married Judge Wentworth's cousin. So, you see, they are
connected both ways."
"Well, if ever!—If I had known that.—But are you sure?"
"I tell you I have known them all my life," said Hetty, angrily.
"I have spent days and days there with Elsie, playing with our
dolls. Madam Wentworth had a beautiful doll's house in her little
dressing-room, all furnished for us, and she very often makes little
parties for Elsie, and asks all the girls. Sometimes we have tableaux
and charades, and she lends us all her beautiful things to dress our
characters,—shawls and jewels and all. I wore all her diamonds once,
when I was Mary Queen of Scots."
"Did you, really? How splendid!"
"Yes, indeed! They are worth thirty or forty thousand dollars," said
Henrietta, yielding to the temptation of making a good story, and
exaggerating considerably.
"But does she stay in the room all the time?" asked Minny. "I shouldn't
like that. When I have a party, I always make mother stay up-stairs.
I don't think there's any fun in playing with grown-up people in the
room."
"Oh, she isn't a bit of a spoil-sport,—not like Miss Armitage," said
Henrietta. "But never mind that now. I want to talk about something
else. Do you know I haven't touched my composition yet? I was so busy
all day yesterday knitting, and playing with Cecy's new cat, that I
never once thought of it till this afternoon in church it popped into
my head. What shall I do?"
"Do without," said Minny, "or use some old one."
"But I haven't any,—because I never went to any school but this; and it
is so near the end of the term that I can't afford to lose any credits."
"Can't you write it to-night?"
"No: mother won't let me. She never will let me do any school-lessons
on Sunday."
"What a bother!" exclaimed Minny. "I don't see but you will have to
'hook' something."
"What do you mean?" asked Henrietta.
"Take something out of a book, you little goose. Haven't you some old
annual or magazine, or something? You needn't look so shocked," she
continued, laughing. "Lots of girls do it, and no one is any the wiser."
"But it is so mean!" objected Henrietta.
"Why is it any meaner than writing down the names and dates in history
and geography?" asked Minny. "You know you did that yourself last
week, and so did Louise Sutherland. But you can take your own way, of
course," she added,—rather offended at Henrietta's look of horror. "I
suppose you will run and tell Miss Armitage about it. That's all one
gets by being good-natured and trying to help people."
"I shall do no such thing," replied Henrietta, almost crying. "And you
have no business to say such things, Minny."
"Well, well, don't make a fuss! Of course, you can do as you please. I
only mentioned it to help you. Good-by."
Henrietta had always been accustomed to give her mother some account
of the sermon; but, as may be guessed, she was not very well prepared
to do so on this occasion. She blundered sadly in repeating the text,
and could not even tell where it was to be found. She excused herself
by saying that the church was so warm and close that it made her sleepy
and gave her the headache.
"Was there a fire?" asked her mother, in surprise.
"Yes,—mother; at least, I suppose so; for it was very hot."
Now, Hetty had no idea whether there was a fire or not, or even whether
the church was warm or cold; but she seized upon the first excuse that
presented itself.
"And do you know, mother, Madam Wentworth has come home, and she
invited such a queer-looking woman into her pew! Minny said she looked
like—"
"Minny! Why did Minny sit with you? You know I have told you never to
ask any of the school-girls into our pew unless I am there. Some of
them are very giddy. Did you invite Minny to sit with you, or did she
ask herself?"
"She didn't sit with me, mother. I saw her coming out of church."
"I didn't tell a lie," said Hetty to herself, as she went up-stairs.
"For she didn't sit with me: I sat with her. And I certainly did see
her coming out of church, as I said."
"You did tell a deliberate lie!" said conscience.
"Well, I don't care: mother needn't be so dreadfully particular. At
any rate, it is not so bad as getting some one else to do my work, as
Elsie did. I wonder what Madam Wentworth would say to that if she knew
it?—She thinks Elsie so specially good. Oh, dear! What shall I do about
that hateful composition? I wish I dared take Minny's way! I wonder if
it would do any harm just for once?"
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
MADAM WENTWORTH.
"SO odd in you, Hetty, not to tell me that Elsie Probert was Madam
Wentworth's niece!"
Such was Minny's salutation to her friend as they met on Monday morning
at the schoolhouse door; and it was spoken in a tone of reproach which
grated uncomfortably upon Henrietta's sensitive nerves.
She answered, therefore, rather impatiently,—
"Why should I tell you? What business was it of yours?"
"It was as much my business as any one's, I suppose," said Minny,
haughtily. "At any rate, I think you might have told me. With such
friendship as you profess for me, I must say, it seems very odd that
you should keep such a thing a secret."
"What nonsense!" retorted Henrietta. "Why should I keep it a secret? I
never cared any thing about it one way or the other; and I don't see
now why you should make so much of it. What difference does it make to
you whose niece she is?"
"Why, of course, I should have treated Elsie rather differently if I
had known that she was somebody," said Minny. "Madam Wentworth! Why,
I would give any thing to be invited to her house as you used to be;
but I suppose you won't be asked there any more, now that you have
quarrelled with Elsie."
"What of that?" said Henrietta. "If Elsie gets some one else to do her
work for her, and then pretends that it is all her own, she is a mean,
contemptible, deceitful girl, if she were niece to Alexander the Great.
And I, for one, don't want any thing to do with her."
"Yes,—'if' she did!" said Minny. "But after all, Hetty, we are not
sure—at least I am not—that she did any such thing. It might have been
Miss Delancy's own work that I saw her have on the car; but I suppose
you know something more about it, from what you said at our house."
"What do you mean?" asked Henrietta.
"Why, you said you knew of your own knowledge that Elsie had not done
her work herself. So I suppose you found out in some other way. And
besides, Hetty, I don't think you ought to have told all the girls
without my permission. You know very well that I charged you not to
tell. Didn't I?"
Henrietta coloured deeply. Minny certainly "had" charged her not to
tell.
"But, Minny, you did as much as to say yourself—"
"I didn't say a word," interrupted Minny. "I was vexed enough at you
for talking so, and would have stopped you if I could. Of course, I was
not going to contradict you in my own house—"
"'Your' house!" interrupted Henrietta.
"Well, my mother's house, then,—though, by the way, it 'is' my house,
for my grandfather left it to me. What is the use of interrupting so?
I wasn't going to contradict you then, and make you look like a fool
before all the girls, by telling them that you had broken your word—"
"Or make yourself look like a fool, by telling how you looked into a
neighbour's window with an opera-glass!—"
"If you keep interrupting me, Henrietta, I shall think you want to
quarrel with me," said Minny, in a calmly superior tone. "I must say, I
think you are very childish this morning. If you don't want me to talk
to you, I won't; though I don't know what I have done that you should
treat me in this way. But I advise you not to say any more about Elsie,
unless you do know certainly; for you might get into trouble that it
would not be so easy to get out of. I am sure it is nothing to me, any
way: I only spoke out of friendship to you; and, I must say, I didn't
expect to be treated in this way!"
And Minny immediately proceeded to dissolve in tears, as her custom was
on all occasions when she chose to consider herself aggrieved.
"Now, Minny, it's very silly to cry," said Henrietta. "I am sure I
didn't mean to quarrel with you, or any thing of the kind: only I
didn't like to have all the responsibility thrown on my shoulders, when
I never should have thought of such a thing if you hadn't begun it."
"But you ought not to have told!" sobbed Minny. "You know I told you
not to say a word about it. Oh, Henrietta!—to think that you should
have betrayed me,—you that I loved so much, that I trusted so! But I
shall never have confidence in any human being again! I wish I never
did love any one, and then I should not always be disappointed!" And
all this was accompanied by torrents of tears and hysterical sobs, till
Henrietta really became alarmed.
In the midst of this interesting scene, Elsie entered the
recitation-room, and naturally stood astonished at the sight of such
amazing grief without any apparent cause.
"What 'is' the matter?" she asked. "Has Minny heard any bad news? Or is
she sick?"
Minny sobbed and sighed, and explained with many words that some one
had wounded her heart and betrayed her confidence, and gave notice that
she might never be expected to recover from the shock, and finally came
to the point,—that Henrietta had told of something which Minny had
desired her never to repeat.
"Is that all?" asked Elsie, who had lately seen too much of real grief
to be greatly affected by Minny's sentimental distress. "Come, Minny,
don't cry any more. I know Hetty did not mean to do any thing wrong.
She might forget,—any one might; but I am sure she wouldn't do any
thing mean, for the world. No, no, Minny; you don't know Hetty as well
as I do or you would never suspect her!"
These simple, kind words from the friend she had so cruelly injured
touched Henrietta to the heart. She would have given any thing to throw
her arms round Elsie's neck and "make up." But nothing is harder than
to forgive those whom we have injured. The consciousness of the unkind
speeches—nay, the downright treachery—of which she had been guilty
towards Elsie, came between, and she resisted the good impulse. The
next moment, she had hardened her heart anew, and even felt as though
Elsie had given her fresh cause for anger.
"Come, come, Minny; don't cry any more," said Elsie. "The bell will
ring in a minute. Miss Armitage has taken off her bonnet, and is just
going up-stairs. If she sees that you have been crying, she will be
sure to ask the reason, and make a fuss about it; and you would not
like that. Kiss, and be friends, and then come and wash your face
before school begins."
"You 'are' a good girl, Elsie!" said Minny, really touched for the
moment. "And I am sorry I ever did any thing to vex you. I should never
have said what I did, if I had known what I do now."
"Yes, if you had known she was Madam Wentworth's niece," said Henrietta
to herself. "Well, if ever I would do any thing so shabby as that! And
Elsie, too! If Minny had said to me what she did to her, I would never
speak to her again the longest day I lived!"
She suffered Minny to kiss her, and even said something about being
sorry she had done any thing to hurt her. While Minny, on her part, was
profuse in caresses and protestations. Thus the breach was apparently
healed; but it was only in appearance. Henrietta despised Minny for
what she considered her time-serving. She was vexed with her for
wishing to get rid of her share of responsibility about the story.
And, above all, she was angry at her for placing herself so decidedly
in the wrong. Minny had charged her not to tell: there was no denying
that. Yet she had told all she had heard from her, and a great deal
more; and, as was to be expected, the story had lost nothing by being
transmitted from one mouth to another through the school. She was
sensible that if Minnie deserted her, she would be placed in a very
awkward position, supposing she should ever be called to account.
"Oh, dear!" she said to herself for the hundredth time. "How I wish I
had never seen the old socks! They have made nothing but trouble and
mischief!"
Minny, on her part, was very well pleased with the unexpected turn
things had taken. It gave her an opportunity of making friends with
Elsie, without seeming to go out of her way to do so. And the fact that
Hetty had betrayed her confidence gave her, as she imagined, a great
advantage, which she would not in the least scruple to use as best
suited her purposes. It never occurred to her to think that she had, by
her silence, her mysterious looks and half-uttered hints, confirmed all
that Henrietta said, and had thus made herself a party to the slander.
All day she continued to make advances to Elsie, who received them
coolly enough; for her distrust of Minny had been too long in growing
to be removed all at once. She was not influenced merely by Minny's
former impertinence, but she had seen in her more than one instance of
downright falsehood. And she had every reason to believe that Minny
was at the bottom of all the trouble about the socks—that it was she
who had influenced the girls against her—and she could not overlook
that matter of the opera-glass. She therefore received Minny's polite
advances with civil indifference, and did not seem in the least
flattered by them.
And when school was out, Minny could not decide in her own mind whether
she had made any headway at all. Meantime, her new line of conduct did
not pass unnoticed by the other girls.
"Minny is trying to be friends with Elsie," said Sarah Stone, whose
eyes and ears were everywhere, as usual. "She has been doing the
charming to her all day. I wonder what that is for?"
"Perhaps she has found out that she was wrong about the socks, and
wants to make up," observed one of the girls.
"Not she! She would only be all the more vexed," said Sarah. "It is
something more than that, you may depend."
"I think I could give the clue to the mystery," said Rose Chesterfield,
smiling; "but I don't want to be uncharitable."
"I know well enough," said Lizzie Becket. "Madam Wentworth has come
home, and Minny has found out that Elsie is her niece. They were in
church together yesterday; and I heard Minny asking Henrietta about it
on their way home. Hetty and she sat together, and, certainly, I never
saw two girls behave worse in church than they did. I could hear them
whispering and laughing all the way to our pew. Mother asked me who
they were, and I Was really ashamed to tell her that they went to our
school. I don't know what Mrs. Laurens would have said."
"Mother!" said Sarah, affecting surprise. "I thought your mother was
dead."
"For shame, Sarah!" said Rose.
"Oh, you mean your father's wife. Excuse me, but I thought I remembered
hearing some one say that she never would call Miss Palmer mother, if
she died for it. Perhaps it wasn't you, though."
"You know it was I, well enough," said Lizzy, bluntly. "I said a great
many foolish things about it. I did not think I ever could like her;
but I do. She is very kind to me and to the children; and, besides, it
ought to be enough that she is my father's wife, to make me respect
her, at any rate."
"Well, I must say, I like a little consistency!" sneered Sarah.
"Consistency for me, above all things."
"In other words, having once been in the wrong, I will always be in the
wrong!" observed Rose.
"'Don't be consistent, but be simply true!'"
"Who was it said that?"
"A wise man and a witty," said Augusta. "I am glad Lizzy has the
independence to own that she was in the wrong, if she thinks so."
"Well, I think I wouldn't be quite so ready to talk, if I had to eat my
words so often," said Sarah. "It isn't a kind of refreshment I am very
fond of myself."
"Ah, there I give in!" replied Rose. "We all talk too much."
"'You' haven't any thing to reproach yourself with in that line, Rose,"
said Augusta, laughing. "However, I agree to the principle. It is
better not to be in too much of a hurry to express one's opinion about
things or people. Blessed are they who know how and when to hold their
tongues."
Henrietta went home from school feeling very uncomfortable. She was
angry with Minny, with Elsie, and with herself. She had repeated the
story of Miss Delancy and the socks over and over, and had dwelt upon
it in her own mind till she had come to a full belief in Elsie's
dishonesty. And she was deeply displeased at being reminded on how
slight a foundation her conviction rested.
Elsie's kind and trustful words to Minny had touched her, in spite
of herself; but, as she had hardened her heart to them, they only
increased her displeasure. She felt as if being forgiven by her former
friend was the one thing that she could not endure. Then her conscience
troubled her sorely, and would not be quieted; and now added to all was
the consciousness of an act of dishonesty, which she could not recall
without a feeling of shame and terror which almost made her sick. If
she would only have laid the blame where it was due, she might have
come to a true sense of her sin, and so, by confession and reparation,
have attained to peace. But she persisted in ascribing the trouble to
any thing and every thing but her own fault: to the socks, which had
taken so much of her time,—to Elsie,—to Minny; nay, even poor Cecilia
had to come in for a share, for possessing such a fascinating cat!
Moreover, her sister's steady industry in the face of so many
difficulties was a continual reproach to Henrietta. It really annoyed
her to see Cecy propped on her cushions, and working away with as
much seriousness as though the fate of the whole army of the Potomac
depended on her poor little wasted fingers. And she would even have
been glad had something happened to put an end to the poor child's
employment.
All these conflicting feelings did not tend to make her very amiable.
She had been in the habit of allowing Corporal to take great liberties
with her ball of yarn, till he had come to regard it as his legitimate
plaything, and would stand on his hind legs and lift it out of her lap
with the coolest and most businesslike air conceivable, much to the
diversion of the little girls. On this particular evening, she did not
feel disposed to allow that officer any such latitude; and, on his
making his usual approaches, he was rewarded by a sound box on the ear.
Mrs. Laurens looked up surprised, and Cecy's ever-ready tears rose to
her eyes.
But the Corporal had no idea of being treated in any such way, and
returned the blow with his paw,—which, having the advantage of very
long and sharp claws, was very unwelcome. He then retired, and took up
a strong position in the corner of Cecy's sofa.
"You hateful creature!" exclaimed Henrietta. "I wish you were
drowned! See how he has scratched me. That is always the way with
cats,—treacherous things!"
"Who struck first?" said Mrs. Laurens.
"Well, I don't care! He had no business to take my ball. I'll teach him
to meddle with it, if he comes here again!"
"You taught him to meddle with it, in the first place," replied her
mother. "I told you, you would make him troublesome. But it is hardly
fair to punish the poor animal for a trick which you yourself taught
him. I don't wonder his sense of justice is offended."
"He never scratches 'me,'" said Cecy, petting her favourite.
"Oh, of course it is all right," said Henrietta, colouring, and with a
voice trembling with anger. "It is only 'my' hand that is scratched.
Of course, that is of no consequence. If it was Cecy, it would be
different; but if he wanted to eat me up, it would be all right, so
long as it pleased her."
"Henrietta, my child, what is the matter with you?" asked her mother,
seriously. "You are not like the same girl that you were six weeks ago.
I never would have believed you could show such a temper towards any
one, much less towards your sister. I am sure all is not as it should
be. If any thing has gone wrong, tell me what it is, and I will try to
have it set right; but pray do not go on indulging such a spirit as
this."
"There is nothing the matter," replied Henrietta: "only I don't like to
be always blamed and found fault with, while Cecy never can do anything
wrong. I don't see why she should have her own way in every thing,
while I must be the one to give up."
And Henrietta burst into a flood of tears, which had been accumulating
all day.
Her mother tried to soothe her, and then to reason with her; but all in
vain.
She could be brought to say nothing but that every one was against
her,—everybody hated her,—she had to bear the blame of every thing that
happened, in school or at home, and she wished she was dead and out of
the way!
Mrs. Laurens perceived at once that there was more behind all this
grief and anger than the quarrel with Corporal, and came to the
conclusion that something unpleasant must have happened at school. By
degrees she extracted the information that Hetty had had a quarrel with
Minny, and that Minny and every one had treated her very unkindly.
Mrs. Laurens had not forgotten (as many people do) the feelings of
her own childhood. She remembered the bitterness of a quarrel between
school-friends, and was therefore inclined to excuse Henrietta's
petulance. She did not think it desirable to go very deeply into the
subject while her feelings were so much excited, and therefore asked
few questions, but applied herself simply to the task of pouring oil on
the troubled waters.
When the first tempest of anger was over, Hetty had the grace to be
heartily ashamed of her outburst. She kissed Cecy, whose affliction had
been equal to her own, and, at her earnest request, made friends with
Corporal by scratching his chin and smoothing his fur,—advances which
he received with much pleasure.
"You are not vexed with me now, are you, Hetty?" asked Cecy.
"No, my dear," replied her mother, taking the answer on herself. "Hetty
was uncomfortable about something else, and that made her impatient.
You know you are sometimes cross when you are in trouble. We will not
talk about it any more just now."
"Oh, dear! If I could only tell mother everything, as I used to, what
a comfort it would be!" thought poor Henrietta. "But then that last! I
should not dare! She never would forgive me, I am sure. Oh, dear, dear!
How miserable I am! And then to see Minny courting Elsie all day, just
because she is Madam Wentworth's niece, and trying to throw all the
blame on me! Elsie never would have done that, anyhow."
For the first time, the thought crossed her mind that she should be
glad to find Elsie innocent; and yet, if she was so, what was she? She
made a great effort to think of something else, and was so pleasant all
the evening and the next day, that her mother hoped the trouble had
passed by. But it was only covered up, and ready to break out again on
the first provocation.
Henrietta and Minny met very coolly next morning. No absolute
broach was apparent as yet, but there were none of those abundant
demonstrations of affection with which they were accustomed to greet
one another,—no kisses, or interlaced arms, or going aside into corners
to whisper confidences.
Minny assumed an injured look, and spoke with a plaintive tone,
exasperating Henrietta to the last degree. Her whole air and manner
seemed to say, as plainly as possible, "Behold my magnanimity! You
have injured me deeply, you have betrayed my confidence and abused my
affection; but I forgive you! I heap coals of fire on your head, and I
hope you will find them hot enough to make you very uncomfortable."
Towards Elsie, Minny was cordiality itself. She would willingly have
been something more than cordial, had that been possible.
But Elsie gave no encouragement to any display of affection. Her
dislike of Minny was no prejudice. It was founded on a pretty accurate
estimate of that young lady's character, and she did not believe
Minny would have turned round so suddenly unless she had a point to
carry. It might be merely a desire to spite Henrietta, or it might be
for some other reason, which did not appear. At all events, she felt
no disposition whatever to form an intimacy with her, and contented
herself with replying sparingly and with the coolest civility to her
advances.
Towards Henrietta, Elsie felt very differently. Ever since they were
little children, they had played and studied together: Elsie had
always loved her like a sister, and, though deeply wounded by her late
desertion, she continued to cherish a strong regard for her former
friend. She knew that Hetty was easily led, whether for good or evil;
and her own stronger will had kept her out of many difficulties, and
helped to sustain the good character which, till lately, she had always
maintained in school.
Elsie believed that Minny had used Hetty for the furtherance of her
own designs as long as it suited her convenience, and, as she also
believed, would have no hesitation in casting her off, and throwing
all the blame on her—if blame there was—whenever it became desirable
to do so. She would willingly have warned Henrietta, had it been
possible; but Henrietta sedulously avoided her, and, though she did
not absolutely refuse to speak when they met, her salutation was the
coldest and briefest possible.
"And, after all," Elsie reasoned, "I really know nothing certain:
it is only suspicion. Henrietta may have got up the whole story
herself,—though it is not the least like her old ways. Sarah Stone says
she did; but then Sarah is no more to be trusted than Minny,—perhaps
not so much. The girls are all coming round again: that is one comfort."
The tide had certainly turned in Elsie's favour during the last two or
three days. The older girls felt ashamed of the suspicions they had
been led to entertain of one who had always borne such an excellent
character for uprightness and honesty.
Rose, and two or three of her friends, had adhered to Elsie from first
to last, and they were girls who had great weight in the school. Rose
was ordinarily a person of few words; but, when she did speak, it was
to the point, and her reputation for accuracy was such that her simple
"I think so," or, at most, "I am quite sure," was more convincing than
a whole volume of protestations from those whose ideas of truth were
more loose. Rose had not hesitated from the first to declare the whole
tale to be a slander.
And when Minny inquired, with what she intended for crushing dignity,—
"Do you mean to say, Miss Chesterfield, that you could believe Hetty or
myself capable of inventing such a story?"
Rose coolly replied,—"Much sooner than I would believe Elsie guilty of
such an imposition."
"I should like to know why," said Minny.
"Because," replied Rose, "I have known you to tell falsehoods, and
Elsie I never did."
Minny did not care to pursue this conversation any further, nor did she
repeat it to Hetty. She thought Hetty might take it up more warmly than
would be quite convenient at present.
In the course of Tuesday morning, a carriage was heard to stop at the
school-door. Elsie was sent for down-stairs, and, after a few minutes'
absence, she returned with a very bright face, and whispered to Miss
Armitage, who went down in her turn. The girls looked at each other
with significant smiles. They had seen such proceedings before, and
knew what they portended.
"When, Elsie?" whispered one of the girls as she passed.
But Elsie only laughed, and put her finger to her lip.
Presently the carriage was heard to drive off, and Miss Armitage
returned to the school-room. The class which was reciting when the
interruption occurred finished the lesson, and things went on as usual
till the hour of recess, when Miss Armitage called the attention of the
young ladies by her usual signal,—tapping the table with the key.
"I have the pleasure of informing you, young ladies," said the
principal, in her most gracious manner, "that you are all invited to
Madam Wentworth's house to tea this afternoon at five o'clock. Mrs.
Wentworth begs me to say that she hopes you will excuse the shortness
of the notice, which was unavoidable, and also that she hopes to see
every one in the school, from the oldest to the youngest. As most of
you are acquainted with the habits of our kind old friend, I need not
tell you that when she says five she means exactly sixty minutes past
four, and not a moment later. And, as I suppose you may wish some
little time for preparation, I shall dismiss school at two o'clock. The
young ladies may now have a short recess."
As may be imagined, there was but one subject of conversation.
"A party at Madam Wentworth's! Isn't it grand?" said Lizzy. "How long
it is since we have had one!—Not since last winter."
"Because Aunt Wentworth has been away," remarked Elsie.
"I am sure she is very kind to take so much trouble for us so soon,"
said little Isabella. "But I wonder why she asked all the school at
once? She never did that before. She used always to invite us young
ones by ourselves on Saturday afternoon."
"Oh, that was last winter," said little Kitty French, who, though only
eight, felt at least twelve. "We were very little girls then. It Is
quite different now."
"I dare say she had a good reason for it," said Augusta, carelessly.
"She isn't apt to do things without a motive."
"But the notice is so short," said one of the new scholars. "I can
never get any thing ready to wear."
"Don't trouble yourself about that, Christine," said Elsie. "Aunt
neither expects nor wishes us to dress. That blue merino you wear
sometimes is just the thing."
"Why didn't you let her alone?" asked Sarah Stone, as Christine left
the room. "It would have been such fun to put her up to wear a light
silk dress and short sleeves, and then see how she would look when
she found all the rest of us in our school-dresses! You are a regular
spoil-sport, Elsie."
"I don't like such sport," replied Elsie. "It is rather cruel, I
think,—especially with a stranger."
"Dear me, Saint Stockings!" retorted Sarah; but no laugh followed.
The girls looked indignant, and Sarah, seeing that she had missed her
mark, thought it advisable to withdraw.
Minny joined Henrietta as the school went out. "Are you going to Madam
Wentworth's?" she asked.
"I don't know, I am sure," replied Henrietta, who had been debating the
matter in her own mind. "I can't say that I want to go; but I am afraid
it will look odd if I don't."
"Yes, indeed, it will," said Minny, decidedly. "Connected with her
as you are, and having been there as much 'as you say' you have,—" a
slight emphasis on these words made Hetty wince, "it would look very
odd to stay away now when the whole school is invited. You will have to
give her and your mother a reason; and if you say you have quarrelled
with Elsie, it will all come out. Oh, yes: you must go; and do try to
look a little less as if you were going to be hung, Henrietta."
"I can't help it, Minny," said Hetty, half crying, "I am so unhappy."
"What of that? I am sure you haven't half as much to bear as I have.
Nobody has betrayed your secrets. Come, now; don't begin to cry. I told
you I forgave you, and I only hope you can forgive yourself."
And with this charitable wish, uttered in a highly exasperating tone of
superiority, Minny bade her friend good-night.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE TEA-PARTY.
FIVE o'clock found the whole party of school-girls assembled in Madam
Wentworth spacious, old-fashioned drawing-rooms. From the oldest to the
youngest, not one was absent. Most of the girls had been there before;
but those who had not, gazed with interest at the family-portraits, by
Copley and Stuart, the tall India-cabinets surmounted by almost equally
tall china vases of fabulous age and priceless value, the étagères
with their curious and beautiful things gathered from all parts of the
world, the portfolios of engravings, the heavy, handsome, old-fashioned
furniture, and Madam Wentworth's own particular ebony worktable, inlaid
with ivory and lined with sea-green satin.
The little girls gathered in the back parlour, where Elsie's old
baby-house displayed its attractions, together with gems, puzzles and
picture-books innumerable. The elders walked about, or chatted in
groups, or disposed of themselves in any way that pleased their fancy.
Madam Wentworth sat by the fire, knitting, as usual; only, instead
of fine thread or splendidly coloured Berlin wool, her fingers were
occupied with a blue woollen stocking. Some of the girls thought her
graver than common; but she had a smile and a kind word for every
one,—especially the strangers. Presently she arose and went into the
library, where quite a little party had gathered, including Minny,
Sarah, Elsie and Christine. Christine stood a little apart from her
companions, earnestly engaged in running over the titles of the books
on the lower shelves.
"Look at Christine!" said Minny. "One would think she never had been in
a library before in her life."
"I dare say she never was," said Sarah. "Christine, dear, did you ever
see so many books together in your life before?"
"I have seen as many," replied Christine, simply; "but there are some
books here that I never met with." And she mentioned the titles of
several. "Oh," she said, with something of a sigh, "how nice it must be
to be able to buy every thing that one wants! What a collection of rare
books!"
"Rare!" said Sarah,—sneeringly, as usual.
"Rare out West, I suppose she means," remarked Minny. "Of course, they
are not rare here."
"Rare anywhere," said Christine, with spirit. "Rare even in
London,—some of them. I believe you think that people out West don't
know how to read."
"Oh, no!" replied Minny, who was making a great effort that day to
do the amiable. "Of course we know that Western people are very
industrious and thriving, and all that; but we don't expect them to be
literary. We all know that you are a very good scholar, Christine. We
were only amused at your thinking so much of seeing these books, and
fancying them so rare."
"They 'are' rare!" persisted Christine. "My father buys a great many
books, and gets catalogues of all the great sales: so I know. He has
been trying these five years to get a copy of 'Pococke's Travels,'
without success."
"I believe Christine is right, Minny," said Elsie. "This book
belonged to grandfather; and I rather think it is one of the original
subscription copies. There are some splendid books in that next case,
Christine."
Christine passed on, and was almost struck dumb at the sight of the
magnificent folios relating to the zoological world.
"Oh, Elsie!" she said, in a tone almost of awe. "Do you think your aunt
would be willing to let me take down one of these volumes?"
"Take down any thing you please, my child," said Madam Wentworth,
answering for herself. "I am glad to find some one who is interested in
them. Elsie, my dear, draw out that table for Christine. Have you seen
those volumes on European birds? You will find them well worth looking
at."
Christine flushed up, and seemed almost too shy and too happy to speak.
Madam Wentworth well understood the precious art of setting people
at their ease, and drawing them out to talk of what they understood
best. And the other girls stood amazed to hear the shy, timid girl
chatting with their hostess about different authors on Natural History,
comparing the relative merits of drawings, and expressing her opinions
with modest frankness when they chanced to differ from those of Madam
Wentworth.
"Have you the Australian Birds?" asked Christine.
"I am sorry to say I have not," replied Madam Wentworth. "I had fully
intended to treat myself to the book this fall; but, after this unhappy
war broke out, it did not seem to me right to expend such a sum on what
was, after all, but an article of luxury, when so much is required for
necessaries. It is no time now to indulge in superfluities."
"I suppose that is right," said Christine, thoughtfully; "and yet
buying books does not seem exactly like self-indulgence."
"I do not mean to imply that it is always so," said Madam Wentworth;
"but intellectual tastes may be indulged to a selfish extent as well as
sensual appetites. A man may spend money improperly upon books as well
as upon fine furniture or rich food."
"It seems a higher kind of self-denial, to deny oneself books and such
things," remarked Elsie.
"Undoubtedly it is," said Madam Wentworth, "to those who have
intellectual tastes. But, my dear Christine, since you are so fond
of Natural History, I shall be happy to have you come here and read
whenever you are so disposed. It need make no difference whether I am
at home or not. Gertrude will find you what you want, and make you
comfortable."
Christine expressed her gratitude in few but efficient words.
Minny looked on in wonder and envy. Here was this little, ignorant
country-girl (as she had been accustomed to consider her) treated by
the great lady as an equal, and invited to come to her house whenever
she pleased. While she—the rich and beautiful Miss Granger, daughter of
a millionnaire—was honoured with no more notice than was given to the
youngest of her companions.
"So much for knowing how to get on the right side of people," thought
Minny. "I dare say she knew before she came that Madam Wentworth was
fond of such things; but hew any one can care so much for a parcel of
birds passes my comprehension."
Henrietta was rather later than her companions. She had felt a strange
unwillingness to come at all; for she had an uncomfortable presentiment
that something was going to happen. It might be the effect of her own
uneasy conscience, but she fancied that Madam Wentworth's greeting
lacked something of its accustomed cordiality. Elsie had tried to treat
her just as usual,—but that is a thing which, under such circumstances,
no one ever yet accomplished; and she felt vexed at herself for
colouring and feeling constrained and awkward.
Minny sported her injured innocence and wounded affection, and
Henrietta thought all the girls were more or less cool to her. As she
wandered about the house, and remembered how happy she had been there
with Elsie, she could hardly restrain her tears, and, but for the dread
of exciting attention and remark, she would have pleaded illness and
gone home.
The time passed on, and tea was on last announced. On these occasions,
a table was always set the whole length of the long dining-room, and
adorned with all the magnificence of the Wentworth plate and china.
Mrs. Wentworth sat at the head of the table, and, usually, one of
the elder girls at the foot; but now that place was occupied by Miss
Delancy.
Henrietta looked at Minny, and tried to catch her eye; but Minny looked
resolutely another way. The table was spread as the tea-tables of
old-fashioned ladies are wont to be when they entertain their young
friends. There was plenty of good wholesome bread and butter, a great
abundance of cakes of all sorts and sizes, and such preserved fruits
and cream—as many of the girls thought and declared—were never seen
anywhere else: cherries as clear as amber, in syrup like virgin honey;
peaches not shabbily canned, but preserved by the good old-fashioned
rule of pound for pound; pink quinces built into blooming pyramids with
a cement of their own jelly; with strawberries, pine-apple, &c., all in
rare abundance.
Gertrude took great delight in preparing all these delicacies, and
enjoyed equal pleasure in seeing them appreciated by "the young
ladies." And Madam Wentworth's own man Septimius stood behind his
mistress's chair, and our old friend Peter, in gorgeous array, behind
that of Miss Delancy. The places were taken without confusion, grace
was said, and all sat down.
"What an odd ideal—saying grace at the tea-table!" whispered Minny to
Augusta, who happened to be her next neighbour. "I didn't know any one
did such things nowadays."
"Why shouldn't one say grace at tea as well as at dinner?" asked
Augusta.
"Well, I don't know. It don't seem appropriate, somehow."
"I don't see why it should be omitted at tea more than at any other
meal," answered Augusta. "It seems to me that is like saying, in
effect, that you would like a blessing on your breakfast and dinner,
but as for your tea, you don't care whether you have one or not."
"How you 'do' like to twist words round, Augusta!"
"I like to 'untwist' them," replied Augusta, laughing. "I like to put
them into plain English: and I admit that they sometimes sound very
differently when they are so translated."
The meal went on merrily and pleasantly. There was abundance of lively
conversation and laughing, and a thorough enjoyment of the good things
before them. Madam Wentworth looked on, pleased, as usual, with the
pleasure of the young folks; but several of the girls besides Hetty
thought she was graver than usual.
When every one had finished, she made a signal to Septimius, who
immediately left the room, followed by Peter, and closed the door. The
girls, a little surprised, looked at Madam Wentworth, expecting the
usual signal to rise; but she remained sitting for some minutes in
silence.
"Now that you are all together, girls," she said, at last, in a kind
but very serious tone, "I wish to speak to you in relation to a matter
which has given me a great deal of pain. I allude to the story which
has been circulating among you concerning my niece, Elsie Probert."
The girls looked at each other, and then at Minny and Hetty. Minny
coloured deeply, while Henrietta turned as pale as death.
"I understand," Madam Wentworth continued, "that it has been publicly
said in the school that Elsie has employed another person to do her
work for her, and has then attempted to pass it off as her own,—and
that the person in question was her cousin, Miss Delancy, who was
actually seen at work upon the stocking in question. Was not that the
story?" she asked, addressing herself to Rose Chesterfield.
"It was," replied Rose.
Madam Wentworth continued:—"Elsie herself told me that the girls
distrusted her and treated her coldly upon this account, and asked
my advice as to what she had better do about it, as she did not, for
reasons that you will easily understand, wish to mention the affair
to Miss Armitage. I advised her to do nothing, and let it pass over;
but, upon consideration, doubted the propriety of allowing such a gross
calumny to be unreproved, and I therefore resolved, without saying any
thing to her, to take the matter into my own hands. Miss Delancy will
now speak for herself."
"I have never taken one stitch on Elsie's work since she commenced it,"
said Miss Delancy. "I was staying at her father's house while the socks
were in progress, and we used to have some trials of speed, in which I
confess I was ignominiously beaten. But so conscientious was Elsie that
on one occasion when I had ravelled out a part of her work, mistaking
it for my own, she would not even let me knit it up to where it was
before. The work which I had on the Milton cars was my own. Elsie never
told me not to forget to finish her work, as has been reported. What
she said was, 'Do not forget!' And the words referred to a message to a
friend."
"The facts in the case are these," resumed Madam Wentworth. "Elsie was
doubtful at first whether she should have time to finish the socks
if she began them. She is, as you know, very busy in school, and she
has many home-duties besides. Moreover, she intended to begin taking
music-lessons just at that time, to which she had been looking forward
with a great deal of pleasure, and which would, of course, occupy
most of her time. Her father had already given to the cause of the
country all that he felt he could afford, and for that reason Elsie
did not like to ask him for money to purchase her materials. Upon
consideration, however, she came to the conclusion to devote to her
stocking-yarn the funds she had saved for Christmas purposes, and, that
she might have time to knit, she gave up her music-lessons, resigning
her place in the class to Isabella Chesterfield. By this means, and
by carefully husbanding all her spare moments, she was enabled to
accomplish what she did, and, having counted the cost before she began,
she was not disappointed in the result.
"You know as well as I who were the authors of these slanders," she
continued, with a shade more of severity in her voice. "To them I shall
say nothing. To those who have believed them, I shall only remark that
I am sorry to find them so ready to think evil of a school-mate in whom
they certainly have never seen any tendency to deceit. 'Charity,' says
the apostle, 'thinketh no evil,' and though we have every thing else,
but lack charity, it will profit us nothing."
There was a pause. Henrietta was stunned. She could think of nothing
except to wish that she could somehow sink out of sight and memory.
But her cup was not full! Ever since Madam Wentworth began speaking,
Minny had been considering how best to save her credit. It would be
useless to deny any thing,—that she saw at once; but could she not gain
something by a frank confession? Like many other politicians, she had
no scruple about sacrificing an ally if it became necessary. Before
Madam Wentworth concluded, her mind was made up.
"I suppose I am partly to blame," said she, speaking quite clearly
and distinctly. "I did suspect Elsie of having help about the work. I
saw her knitting on a blue sock with a red stripe round the top, and
I afterwards saw Miss Delancy have such a sock on the cars. I told
Henrietta what I thought, but begged her not to repeat it to any one,
as it was only a guess on my part. She did repeat it, and, I am sorry
to say, with very great additions; for she said she knew of her own
knowledge that Miss Delancy had knit on Elsie's sock, and a good deal
besides. I was very much vexed, and told her so; and we had quite a
quarrel about it, as Elsie knows. I never told one of the girls but
Henrietta, and no one can say that she ever heard me. I am very sorry
that I ever mentioned the matter to any one. If I had known Elsie as
well as I do now, I should never have thought of suspecting her of such
a thing, and I beg her pardon for having done so."
"There!" she thought. "I don't see how I could be expected to do more
than that!"
But Madam Wentworth's face did not relax, as she expected, and Elsie,
for the first time, looked very angry.
"Then you never, in any way, helped to give currency to the report,
except by telling your suspicions to Henrietta, under the seal of
confidence?" said Madam Wentworth.
"No, ma'am," replied Minny, boldly. "I never did. All the rest was
Henrietta's doing."
The girls looked at each other in amazement, and Rose and Augusta
exchanged intelligent glances.
To Rose's lips came the words, "Shall I speak?"
Augusta nodded.
"I should like to say something about that," Rose began. "Henrietta
was undoubtedly very wrong; but it is by no means fair that she should
bear all the blame. I do not say that Minny confirmed the story in so
many words, but she certainly did all that looks and actions and very
broad hints could do, both in the school and, as I understand, in her
own house. She never contradicted Henrietta in a single instance, and
certainly intimated very clearly that she not only believed what was
said, but could tell a great deal more if she would. I do not defend
Henrietta, but, I must say, I think Minny was equally to blame."
Minny tried to put on a look of injured innocence; but it was a signal
failure.
"Where did you see Elsie have her work?" asked Madam Wentworth, turning
to Minny.
"I saw her at her back parlour window," answered Minny. "Our windows
look directly across."
"You must have good eyes, to distinguish one sock from another at that
distance," observed Miss Delancy.
"She used an opera-glass," said Sarah Stone, loud enough to be heard by
every one.
Madam Wentworth smiled in spite of herself.
"I congratulate you upon your zeal in the pursuit of knowledge," said
she. "If you bring it to bear upon your school-books, you must be a
very good scholar. But it unluckily happens that people who bestow so
much attention upon their neighbours' affairs, often have but little
left for their own. I see, by Elsie's imploring looks, that she is
desirous I should drop the matter; and I am very ready to do so. I
hope this will be a lesson to all of you on the subject of slander.
You see how great a matter a little fire kindleth. I do not doubt that
Henrietta sees clearly the sin and folly of her conduct, and I trust
that she will never be tempted to repeat it. As to Minny, I must say, I
should think much better of her if she had not tried to clear herself
at the expense of her companion. I wish to repeat, and to have it
distinctly understood, that all this has been planned by me, without
Elsie's knowledge or consent. We will now go up-stairs."
As soon as Elsie could escape from the congratulations and apologies
of the girls, she hastened in search of Henrietta, who had disappeared
immediately after supper.
After long searching, she found her occupying a low seat behind the
curtains in her aunt's dressing-room, crying as if her heart would
break.
Minny was occupied in putting on her hat and cloak to go home, talking
angrily, though in a low tone.
And as Elsie entered, she heard her say, "I will never speak to you
again the longest day I live; and, what's more, I will be revenged on
you, if I die for it,—you mean, little, hypocritical story-teller!"
"Hush, Minny," cried Elsie. "You must not talk so. It is very wrong.
Henrietta is unhappy enough now."
"I never will speak to her again," repeated Minny, "and I wish I had
never known her."
"It would certainly have been a blessed thing for her if you never
had," Elsie could not help saying.
Minny deigned no reply, but marched down-stairs, and shut the
street-door after her with a violence that shook the house.
Elsie sat down by Henrietta in the window-seat, and tried, by caresses
and kind words, to soothe her agitation. She could not help crying
herself; and perhaps her tears did as much good as any thing.
Henrietta turned away at first, and would make no response to Elsie's
entreaties; but it was not in her nature to resist kindness, and by
degrees she was won over to lay her head on her friend's shoulder, and,
with her arms around her neck, to beg her pardon:—
"Oh, Elsie, I am so sorry! I never realized till to-night how wicked I
had been all the time. I have done nothing but go more and more wrong
ever since that first day I spoke to you so about the stockings. You
can't guess half the mean and shameful things I have done. I have felt
so wicked, I have not dared to say my prayers for ever so long."
"I know how that is," said Elsie. "When I have done any thing very
wrong, I have had the same feeling; but, Hetty, I don't think it right
to give up to it, because then one only gets worse and worse."
"That is just what I have done," said Henrietta, crying afresh. "If any
one had told me, six months ago, that I should have acted so, I never
would have believed it. I was even angry at you yesterday for telling
Minny that I would not do any thing mean. I know very well that I had
done so many mean things, besides talking about you as I did. I have
been angry with mother, and cross to poor Cecy; and oh, Elsie, worse
than that,—I was ashamed to have any one know that she was my sister,
because Minny said she was a frightful little object; and I wished
mother would not let Peter carry her out where people could see her."
"She is not frightful," said Elsie, indignantly: "she has the sweetest
face I ever saw. I really cannot see, Hetty, how you could let Minny
lead you as she did. I should think one such speech would have opened
your eyes."
"She flattered me so," replied Henrietta. "I was just such a fool
as to believe it all; and she could make me do any thing by coaxing
and praising me. And I don't believe she really cared for me, after
all. All she thinks about the girls is whether they are rich and
fashionable."
"I suppose it is a good deal in the way she was brought up," remarked
Elsie. "Frances Percival, who hardly ever speaks against anybody, says
her mother is a very silly, half-educated woman, who cares for nothing
but dress and show; and of course that makes some excuse for Minny."
"I don't blame Minny half as much as I do myself," said Henrietta.
Elsie was glad to hear this remark. She thought it showed the sincerity
of Henrietta's repentance that she did not throw any more blame on her
companion. And she could not help contrasting her disposition with
Minny's, ready to sacrifice Henrietta for the least chance of clearing
herself.
"You must try to forgive Minny, though," she said, with a little
hesitation,—for she was always somewhat shy of speaking upon religious
subjects. "You know,'If we forgive not men their trespasses—'"
"Yes, I know," said Henrietta. "But, Elsie, when I think about it, it
does seem as though—" She paused, and then added, in a much lower tone,
"as though He never could forgive me."
"You mustn't think so, Hetty. He is always ready to forgive a great
deal more ready than we are to ask it."
"If it was only once or twice," said Henrietta. "But I have done wrong
over and over so many times. Sometimes I would be really sorry, and
resolve to behave better; but I never did."
"Hetty," said Elsie, "don't you remember what Christ told Peter?—That
he should forgive his brother, 'not seven times, but seventy times
seven'? And don't you think he would be ready to do as much as he told
Peter was right?"
"Do you know, Elsie," said Hetty, after a little silence, "I used
really to think I loved him and wanted to be like him?—Last spring, you
know."
"I know," replied Elsie. "I thought so too; and that made me all the
more sorry—"
"It began with my doing little things that I knew were wrong,"
continued Henrietta, "not trying to keep my thoughts fixed in
prayer-time, and then reading story-books in school. After that, Minny
came to sit next to me, and we used to do very bad things. I used to
write down dates and numbers on a little piece of paper, and hold it
in my hand to look at in the class, and peep into the book if I got a
chance. And this week I did something worse. I don't know how to tell
you Elsie; but, indeed, I never did any thing quite so bad as this
before. I am afraid you will never want to speak to me again when you
know what it is."
"I think I know now," said Elsie, desirous to relieve her friend as far
as possible from the shame of such a confession: "you mean about your
composition."
"How did you find out?" asked Hetty, surprised. "Did Minny tell you?"
"No, indeed," exclaimed Elsie. "If Minny had told me any such thing
about you, I should have shut her mouth quickly enough, you may depend
upon that. She undertook this morning to say something about your
reading your lesson, and I just told her, plainly, that people who
lived in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."
Hetty felt a new pang of remorse, as she reflected how differently she
had behaved. "But about the composition: how did you find out about it?"
"Oh, I knew in a moment. You see, we have taken Littell's 'Living
Age' from the very beginning, and father has always had them bound.
And when I get out of any thing else to read, I take down one of the
back volumes. So I am pretty familiar with them. I thought the verses
sounded very 'natural,' and yet I could not tell where I had heard or
seen them. I repeated two or three lines to my father, and asked him if
he knew who wrote them, or where they were to be found. And he went to
the bookcase and took down the very volume!
"So I just threw the paper into the fire that no one else might see it,
and meant to speak to you about it; but all this fuss put it out of my
head. But, Hetty, you would have been in a dreadful plight if I had not
known—if they had gone into the paper. Maria Bradley read those very
verses in school one day when you were not there. Just think how you
would have felt if they had been read!"
Hetty shuddered. "It would have served me just right, though! But how
shall I manage about the piece? I never can write one now."
"Oh, never mind. You can scribble something, and make it up next time.
You are a great deal better off than usual this week, and you know Miss
Armitage never asks who is in the paper. I am only glad I saw it before
any one else did."
"Those 'Littells' were among my troubles," said Hetty. "I was cross
with Cecy one day, and mother sent me to my room and told me not to
leave it till tea-time. I had my knitting, but I would not work on
that: so I ran up to the attic and brought down a whole armful of
magazines. After that, I was always reading them when I ought to have
been doing something else,—reading the Bible, or studying, or knitting
on my socks; and I wasted a great deal of time on them. That was one
reason why I didn't get my sock done. I shall never want to see a
'Littell' again as long as I live."
"I think that is hardly fair," remarked Elsie, smiling. "The poor
papers are not in fault. They would have done you no harm if you had
read them at a proper time."
"One thing I am determined on," said Henrietta. "I mean to tell mother
every thing. I will never have a secret from her again."
Elsie applauded this resolution, and begged her not to defer putting it
into practice. "You will find it a hundred times easier to-night than
to-morrow, Hetty. The longer such a thing is put off, the harder it is."
"I will do it before I sleep," replied Henrietta. "I know she will be
very angry—"
"I don't believe she will," interrupted Elsie.
"Well, perhaps not; but she will be sorry, and that is worse. Do you
know, I am so glad it has all come out? Even with the disgrace and all,
I feel happier than I have done for weeks. I don't suppose the girls
will ever speak to me again, though."
"Oh, yes," replied Elsie. "When they see that you are sorry, they won't
remember it against you,—that is, not very long. I dare say there will
be some to twit you with it when they get vexed; but they are not those
you care the most about. Come; don't let's stay up here in the dark any
longer. I want the girls to see that we are friends again."
There was a good deal of staring and whispering, as Elsie and Hetty
entered the drawing-room arm in arm.
"Well," said Letty Stanley, emphatically, "if Elsie is not a Christian
child, I never saw one. I will never laugh at her preciseness after
this."
"She likes to make a show of magnanimity for aunt's benefit," remarked
Sarah, sneering as usual. "It is very cheap, and goes a great way."
"Sarah," asked Letty, "did you ever do one single good or true or kind
thing in your whole life?"
"Upon my word, Miss Letitia Stanley, that is a singular question! I
don't think I am so much worse than any one else. Why do you ask me?"
"Because," replied Letitia, with emphasis, "I never yet, in all the
time I have known you, heard you allow that any one acted from good
motive, or spoke the simple truth, or did a kind action, without some
expectation of advantage; and it is only fair to suppose that you judge
others in some degree by yourself."
"But, after all, Letty, don't you think it shows a want of spirit in
Elsie to be so ready to take Henrietta up again, after being so badly
treated by her?" asked Lizzy, as Sarah turned away, for once too much
abashed to answer.
"It shows a want of a certain sort of spirit, I admit," replied
Letty,—"but a great abundance of another sort which is infinitely
better. It shows a spirit of love and forgiveness—"
"In short, a Christian spirit," interrupted Rose.
"Well, yes, a Christian spirit,—which is much better than pride and
resentment."
"Elsie can afford to be magnanimous," said Rose, smiling. "She has been
in the right all the time. I think it is comparatively easy to pardon
those who have injured us. It is those we have injured that we find it
hard to forgive."
CHAPTER IX.
MINNY'S EXCUSES.
ENTERING upon her resolution fortified by Elsie's advice, Henrietta
confessed every thing to her mother before she slept. She concealed
nothing that she could remember, from her first deviation from truth
in school to her disgraceful behaviour in church and the affair of
the composition, throwing as little blame as possible upon Minny.
Deeply grieved as Mrs. Laurens was, she could not but rejoice that
her daughter had been stopped short in her career of deception, and
also that she took in such a good spirit the severe lesson which
circumstances had taught. She was pleased, too, that Henrietta showed
no desire to excuse herself at the expense of her companion,—friend
she could hardly be called,—though her eyes seemed opened to Minny's
true character at last. She could not say enough in praise of Elsie's
conduct both before and after the discovery.
"Only think, mother, what sacrifices Elsie was making all the time that
we were treating her so,—giving up her music-lessons that she was so
anxious about, and spending all her money on the soldiers, and never
saying one word about it. Nobody knew but Rose."
"Why did not Rose tell?" asked her mother.
"I believe Elsie asked her not to say any thing about it," replied
Henrietta.
"Rose always defended her, however, and told Minny she should believe
Elsie's word before hers any day, because she had never known Elsie
tell a falsehood. Minny was so angry."
"Yes, I dare say. A great many people who do not in the least scruple
to tell a lie are very angry at being accused of it."
"Well, mother, I blame myself a great deal more than I do Minny. I
ought to have known what sort of a girl she was. I knew long ago that
she would tell stories."
"What do you mean by stories, Henrietta?" interrupted her mother.
"Why, falsehoods,—stories, mother,—real lies!"
"Say lies, then, my dear. I think if people accustomed themselves to
call that sin by its right name, they would be more careful about
committing it."
"To be sure," said Henrietta, "it does sound differently to say one
tells a lie. But the stories Minny told did not seem of so much
consequence at first; they were only about little things. And she used
to rattle on so, it was amusing to hear her. I know they could not be
true, of course; and that ought to have put me on my guard.
"But there was another thing, worse than that: she would pretend to
think all the world of girls, and be very intimate with them, and
then talk about them in their absence. There was Bessie Dwight, her
cousin,—she pretended to be so fond of her when she was with her, and
Bessie believed it all, and perfectly worshipped Minny; but Minny made
no scruple of calling her a little fool and an affected little doll,
and saying her weak eyes and head were all a pretence,—she could see
well enough when she had a novel to read. I dare say she talked so
about it me behind my back."
"I have no doubt of it. Bessie is not the brightest girl in the world:
her weak eyes have been a great disadvantage to her, but she is no
fool. And if she were, it is not her cousin's place to proclaim it."
"And she is just as honest as the day is long," said Hetty. "But,
mother, don't you think it is odd that Bessie should be able to read
stories when she cannot study?"
"No, my dear. Reading stories requires a very different degree of
application from learning lessons. Bessie is quite right in employing
her mind as far as she is able,—even though that is not very far. But,
Henrietta, all these things ought to have opened your eyes to Minny's
true character; and, above all, what she said about Cecy. No person
of any delicacy—of any decency—would have talked to you so about your
sister."
"I know it, mother, and at first it did make me very angry. But
by-and-by I did not seem to care so much. And then, oh, mother! I began
to be vexed about her myself. I did not like to have people know that
she was my sister, and I wished she could be sent away to some asylum
where she could be out of sight."
"I am heartily glad that Madam Wentworth took this public way of
putting a stop to the calumnies circulated about Elsie, and I trust it
will be a lesson to all of you. But, my dear child, pray do not forgot
that there is One whose pardon you have to ask, and whose forgiveness
is of far more consequence to you than that of any earthly friend."
"I know it, mother: I try to think of that. Elsie and I talked about
it, and she said something that comforted me very much,—about the
Saviour's readiness to forgive; and she said she would pray for me. It
seems as though I could have some comfort in saying my prayers, now.
Every time I have tried to pray, lately, I have felt as though there
was a great weight hanging over me, and I could only think of that
verse in the Psalms:—
"'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'"
"You had no right to expect any thing else," said her mother, "so long
as you persisted in your wrong course. Your prayers were a mockery and
an insult to your Maker. But I hope all that is over now. I trust you
see your past sins in a just light, and truly repent of them, and that
you do earnestly intend to lead a new life, trusting in God to give
you grace to do so. And in that case, you may approach your heavenly
Father, humbly and sorrowfully indeed, but with confidence and love."
It was hard for Hetty to go to school the next day. She felt that she
had lost all title to the respect of her companions. She knew how some
of them would look at her, and she dreaded meeting Minny again. But she
felt that all this was part of her just punishment, and she resolved to
bear it as meekly as she might. She found it, however, easier than she
expected.
Elsie met her with her bright face and kind smile, and most of the
girls were too much ashamed of their own part in the affair to wish
to keep it in mind longer than was necessary. Most of the girls were
generous; and when, at recess, they were all gathered in the play-room,
and Henrietta, with tears and a faltering voice, confessed to them how
wrong she had been, and begged their pardon for so misleading them,
there were few who were not ready to take their own share of the blame,
and assure her, with kisses and kind words in abundance, that they
should not remember it against her.
Minny had come to school in a very different spirit. She was
determined, as she said, to face it out, and show that she was
not to be put down by any of them. She had not given up all hope
of conciliating Elsie, either. She had been brought up in such an
overweening idea of her own consequence that she found it difficult
to believe in the possibility of any one's being indifferent to her
friendship or enmity. Her anger towards Henrietta knew no bounds, and
she could not think of her former friend without feeling as though
she should like to crush her on the spot. She was a little late in
the morning, and saw none of the girls before school; but she mingled
with them at recess as if nothing had happened, and was present when
Henrietta made her confession.
"What a beautiful scene!" she sneered. "Really, Miss Laurens ought to
go on the stage."
Then, vexed at the indignant glances with which her amiable comment
was received, she continued, with growing anger, "But I think the
confession is rather incomplete. Why don't you tell how you stole
your French exercises out of the key, and wrote down your dates and
distances, and read the 'Arabian Nights' in prayer-time? Oh, I could
add a great deal to the catalogue if I chose."
"Only nobody would believe a word you said," observed Lizzy,—bluntly,
as usual. "Every one knows you do those things yourself, and a great
many more. We have a shelf full of the old 'Tokens' and 'Souvenirs' at
our house, Minny, and some things in them are very interesting. I think
I will lend them to Miss Armitage some day."
Minny coloured very much at this intimation.
"Don't, Lizzy," said Henrietta. "Please don't. It is all true that she
says. I don't deny a word of it. And I want to say another thing. It
was true that Minny told me not to tell any one."
"There!" said Minny, triumphantly. "She owns it; and yet I have to bear
all the blame, and be publicly disgraced, while she is to be made a
saint of, because, forsooth, after it is all found out, she confesses
what every one knew before."
"Nobody makes a saint of Henrietta," said Augusta. "We all know that
she has done wrong, and believe that she is sorry. That is very
different. It would have been easy enough, Minny, for you to quash the
whole thing by telling the true story, and showing how much—or how
little, rather—it amounted to. But, instead of that, you agreed to
every thing Hetty said—"
"When did I?" interrupted Minny.
"Here in school, and at your own house, when she appealed to you."
"I didn't say one word!" said Minny.
"You nodded, though, and that is just the same; and you hinted, very
plainly, that you could tell more if you chose. If you were so very
angry at Hetty for telling, why didn't you check her, instead of
encouraging her?—As you did, till you found out something which you
thought made it more worth your while to coax Elsie than to coax
Henrietta?"
"What a fuss about nothing!" said Minny. "I didn't think it a matter of
any consequence, any way. What does it signify who knits the socks, if
the soldiers only got them?"
"Nothing to the soldiers; but a good deal to ourselves," replied Rose.
"It signifies much whether we are true to our engagements. It signifies
much whether we really do deny ourselves for others, or whether we
only want to get the credit of it. And it signifies a great deal to us
whether we tell the truth or tell lies."
The ringing of the bell broke up the conversation. Minny could not but
feel that she had lost, rather than gained, so far. The sympathy of the
girls was clearly with Henrietta. Not even Sarah Stone said one word to
imply a doubt of Hetty's sincerity, and no one was inclined to reproach
her.
"So much for the humble dodge," said Minny to herself; "but I will be
even with her yet."
She could find to opportunity of speaking to Elsie that day; but the
next, she contrived to join her going home, and intimated that she had
something of consequence to say to her. Elsie was civil, but no more,
and certainly gave no encouragement to any confidence. But Minny was
not easily daunted when she had a point to carry, and proceeded in her
usual way:—
"I think it is my duty to tell you, Elsie, though I don't suppose you
will believe me. All the girls have made up their minds that I am a
liar and a slanderer,—and that is all about it; but you have more sense
than the rest of them. It is very cruel and unjust; but I can bear it."
And Minny forced a few tears.
"If you have any thing good to say of any one, I shall be glad to hear
it," replied Elsie, coldly.
Minny was rather disconcerted, but proceeded, nevertheless:—
"You thought I was very cold to you and treated you very badly when I
first came to school; and so I did; but it was because I was misled
about you. I was told—Well, I may as well tell you the whole. Hetty
told me that you belonged to low people; that your father was only a
book-keeper, and that your mother was a very vulgar woman and did her
own work, and that she took in sewing besides."
"Suppose all that had been true: would it have been any reason for
insulting me?" asked Elsie. "Is one to be treated with disrespect
because one is poor?"
"Why, no, not because one is poor; but then, you know, Elsie, after
all, distinctions must be preserved."
"Why must they?" asked Elsie. "And what sort of distinctions?"
Minny was not quite prepared to say why, so she disregarded the
question, and went on:—"If Henrietta had not misled me so, I should
never have treated you as I did. Of course, if I had known what I do
now, I should not have asked you why you did not go out to service, and
such things."
"If you had known what you do now?" repeated Elsie. "Do you mean if you
had known that I was related to rich and fashionable people?"
Now, this was exactly what Minny did mean. But she had a perception
that such a meaning, put into plain English, would not sound very well
in Elsie's ears, so she changed her tactics.
"No, Elsie, that was not it; but Hetty told me that you were a very
different sort of person from what I find you. She said you were vulgar
and coarse, and not lady-like any way; that you used bad English; and
that you talked as no young lady ought to talk. Of course, I believed
what she said, as you and she had been intimate so long, and I was
influenced by it."
"Why didn't you judge for yourself?" asked Elsie. "You saw me every day
in school and in recess, and you could easily have known how I talked
and behaved."
"Yes, but, you see, I was prejudiced against you by Hetty in the first
place."
"But, Minny, you knew me before you knew her," said Elsie, much
disgusted. "Henrietta was not in school the last part of last term.
Don't you know that you sat at her desk next to me when you first came,
and that Miss Armitage told you, you would have to take some other seat
when Miss Laurens returned? We sat together nearly two months before
you ever saw Henrietta, and surely you were not prejudiced against me
then."
Minny had nothing to say. She had quite forgotten this circumstance. It
is very unfortunate for liars to have short memories.
"Moreover," continued Elsie, "I cannot believe that Henrietta told you
such things about me—"
"There it is!" interrupted Minny. "You won't believe a word I say. That
is the very thing I complain of,—and all because I was so unlucky as to
make a mistake that time. I must say, I don't think it is acting very
much like a Christian. We ought to forgive and forget, the Bible says."
"It says we ought to forgive; but I don't remember any thing about
forgetting," replied Elsie. "The Bible never commands impossibilities.
If you mean that we ought not to dwell upon injuries and keep up our
anger by thinking about them, that I admit, and that I try to do. But,
Minny, since you have spoken plainly, will you excuse me if I do the
same?"
"Of course," replied Minny. "That is just what I want."
"Well, then, I will," said Elsie. "I certainly had no prejudice against
you when I first knew you. On the contrary, I liked your appearance
very well till, one day when Miss Armitage was reading, I happened to
look over you, and I saw that you had a story-book inside your Bible,
which you were reading when you ought to have been following the
lesson. That was one thing I did not like: I thought it was deceitful,
besides being very irreverent. Then, as I saw more of you, I could not
help finding out that you told lies."
"Elsie!" interrupted Minny. "How dare you use such a word to me?"
"Because it is the only word which expresses what I mean," said Elsie.
"They were not very important always; but still you said what was not
true. You were not at all particular in giving in your report, and you
answered 'Perfect in conduct' a great many times when I knew that you
had violated several rules. And you answered 'Perfect' in history, when
you had all your dates written in the palm of your hand."
"But, Elsie, I don't call that a lie, exactly," said Minny, in rather
subdued tones. "Miss Armitage did not ask me whether I had whispered,
or whether I knew my dates by heart."
"Oh, Minny, don't deceive yourself in any such way: pray, don't! You
know what is meant when we answer 'Perfect.' It is just as bad to act
a lie as to tell one. And you did tell lies, besides. You told Miss
Milford that your watch was half an hour too slow, when you know you
set it back yourself in the dressing-room. And then—oh, Minny!—those
compositions."
"But, Elsie, I do think you are hard upon me. Henrietta does things
just as bad as these."
"She did not once," said Elsie. "Hetty and I have known each other
since we were little. She is passionate sometimes, and she is apt to be
idle; but she was just as truthful as daylight, till—"
"Till she knew me, I suppose. Is that it?" said Minny, as Elsie paused.
"You may as well speak out," she added, with a forced laugh. "You can't
well say any thing worse than you have said already."
"You know, Minny, I did not want to say any thing about it, but you
would make me."
"Oh, I don't blame you," replied Minny; "and I don't deny it, either."
The girls walked along silently for some distance, and Elsie began to
wonder what was coming next, when Minny said, suddenly,—
"Elsie, I do really want you to like me. I don't know why, I am sure;
for no one ever said such things to me before. Come; I will tell you
the truth for once, and you may believe me this time, for it don't
sound very well for myself: I 'did' want to make friends with you, as
you said, because I found out that Madam Wentworth was your aunt, and
so on; but that is not all. I feel differently about it now. I like
you for your own sake. Now, if I try to do differently,—if I tell the
truth, I mean, and if I am honest about my lessons, and all that,—will
you try to feel differently towards me?"
"I shall feel differently without trying," replied Elsie,—"especially
if you make friends with poor Hetty."
"I don't know about that," said Minny, shaking her head.
"But, Minny," continued Elsie, very earnestly, "I wish you would not
think so much about pleasing me. That is a very small matter. Think
how wicked it is to tell such stories. Think what the Bible says about
liars,—that no one who loveth or maketh a lie shall enter the kingdom
of heaven, and that all liars shall have their part in the lake that
burneth with fire and brimstone."
"Is that in the Bible?" asked Minny, in surprise.
"Why, Minny, don't you know that?"
"To tell you the truth, Elsie, I don't know a great deal about the
Bible, any way. I never went to Sunday-school, and no one ever made me
read it at home. To be sure, I heard it in school and in church; but I
never paid much attention. It did not seem any matter that concerned
me."
"But it does concern you, Minny,—you, and every one. It is God's own
word, and tells us of his will, and the way of salvation, and all his
goodness to us. It tells us how our Lord Jesus Christ took our nature
upon him to save us from our sins, and all about his life and death."
"Yes, to be sure, I know that," said Minny. "I have a kind of general
idea about all those things, as I have about the History of England,
you know; but I never seemed to care about them. I never thought they
had any thing to do with our every-day life in school and at home.
You see, Elsie, I have not had much of a chance, after all. Father is
always busy down town from morning till night; and when he is at home,
he is reading the papers. Mother is sick a good deal, and when she is
not sick, she is going out, or getting ready to go out. They never
teach me any thing.
"I used always to stay with nurse till I was eight years old, only
I went down in the parlour after dinner and sometimes when we had
company. Nurse was very good to me in her way, but she used to tell
stories awfully; and she taught me. Mother forbade nurse going to see
any of her friends when I was with her; but she always did it, and I
thought it was very good fun. I never had any playmates at some, you
know. Then nurse would say, 'Miss Minny, if your mother asks you where
you have been, you can say so-and-so;' and I did.
"But one day it all came out. Dr. H. saw me going with nurse into a
house where there were some people sick with ship-fever. Of course
nurse did not know that. She would have cut her hand off before she
would have exposed me to any danger; for she really did love me dearly.
But the doctor told mother, and nurse was sent away. Oh, how I did cry
and bog them to let her stay! But it was of no use: she had to go.
"Then I was with mother a few weeks. But she soon grew tired of
that, and really she couldn't see to me very well,—she had so many
engagements: so I was sent to a school in the country. It was called a
very select school,—about twenty girls, big and little; and, oh, how
they did go on! It was there I got into the habit of eating so many
sweet things. I suppose you will think it one of my old stories if I
say we did not have enough to eat; but really, Elsie, we didn't. The
table was handsomely set: we had china and cut-glass, and silver forks
(but we carried those and our spoons from home), and a man to wait, and
all the dishes were very genteel, only there was not half enough in
them. Honestly and truly, I was hungry half the time.
"Well, the express-man came every day to the house, and we used to put
our money together and send to the city for cakes and candy and all
such things. Sometimes we would bribe the cook to give us milk and
sugar, and then we made chocolate and coffee up in our own rooms. They
wouldn't let me into the secret at first, because I was so little;
but they soon found out I was sharp enough, and had plenty of money
besides."
"But didn't the teachers ever find you out?" asked Elsie.
"If they did, they never interfered. I have sometimes thought they must
have known. But the fact was, the whole thing was a sham,—sham lessons,
sham teachers, sham every thing. Miss Brownfield taught drawing; but it
was precious little of the drawing we did, I can tell you. She used to
do more than half the pictures herself, and then 'finish it up,' as she
said; and very differently it looked after it was finished. You would
hardly have known it. It was just so with every single thing.
"We used sometimes to have public-days, when Miss Hatty examined us in
our studies. She would open anywhere in the book, and seemed to skip
about in the most promiscuous way; but every girl knew beforehand just
what was coming to her."
"Oh, Minny!" interrupted Elsie.
"Any one that went to the school will tell you the same."
"But didn't you have any religious instruction?" asked Elsie.
"Oh, yes: that was the worst of it. Yes, Elsie, I really think it
was. Miss Hatty was called religious, and Miss Brownfield was called
religious. There was so much humbug about the whole thing that we
couldn't help seeing,—I mean about the management of the school, and
the house-keeping, and all that. They pretended to teach Chemistry
and the Natural Sciences, and said in their advertisements that those
branches were 'taught by competent professors and illustrated by a fine
apparatus and cabinets of specimens,'—when, in fact, all the apparatus
I ever saw was an old, broken electrical machine, and an air-pump about
as good; and they were never used as long as I stayed in the school.
There was something of a geological cabinet; but nothing was labelled,
and the class never was referred to it. Of course the girls saw all
these things,—they couldn't help it, and of course they didn't think
much of the religion that allowed them."
"Of course they didn't!" said Elsie. "Oh, how much such people have to
answer for!"
"Well, Elsie, now don't you think there is some excuse for me?"
"Certainly I do," replied Elsie. "But, Minny, you are older now,
and can judge and act for yourself. And I don't think all this will
continue to excuse you, now that you know better."
"But it is very hard, when one is in the habit of a thing, to leave it
off," urged Minny. "And besides, the girls wouldn't believe me if I
tried to do better. They would say I was making believe because I had a
point to carry."
"You do them injustice," replied Elsie. "They might distrust you,—and
with good reason. But if you persevered, they would believe you after a
while. But, Minny, their opinion is not of so much importance. They can
see only the outside; but God sees the heart, you know. I don't want to
preach to you," she continued; but Minny interrupted her:—
"Do say just what you think, Elsie. I do believe you are a real
Christian."
"Well then, Minny, I wish you would think of him, and ask him to
forgive you and make you better. You know he must be displeased with
you. And, oh, Minny, think if you should die!"
"Well, Elsie," said Minny, after a pause, "will you promise me one
thing?"
"I must hear what it is first," replied Elsie, gently; "because it
might be something I could not possibly do."
"Of course," returned Minny. "That is what I mean."
"Well," said Elsie, "I promise you I will, if it is possible."
"All I want is this: If you see me trying to be a better girl, to tell
the truth and do my lessons honestly, will you try to believe that I do
it because I want to be really better, and not because I have a point
to carry,—not for what I said at first?"
"Yes, indeed I will," said Elsie, warmly, "and be very glad to do it.
You don't know how I hate to distrust any one. It seems so mean to be
suspicious. But then, you know, I really couldn't help it. But there is
one thing I want to say before I go in." (They had been standing for
some minutes at Mrs. Probert's door.) "If you try to be good in your
own strength, you will fail."
"How do you mean in my own strength?" asked Minny.
"I mean that you must ask God to help you, to give you his Holy Spirit
in your heart, and show you what is right and what is wrong."
"That is all very well for you to say," replied Minny, shaking her
head; "and I don't doubt you mean every word of it; but it won't do for
me."
"Won't do for you! What do you mean?"
"It would be all a sham if I were to pretend to any religion, Elsie. I
haven't one bit."
"But, Minny—"
"Yes, I know: you think it is dreadful; and so it is, I suppose. But,
Elsie, it wouldn't be making a very good beginning in telling the
truth, if I were to pretend to be good when I don't care any thing
about it. Now, would it?"
"But why need you pretend? Why can't you be in earnest?"
Minny shook her head again. "I don't think it is in me to care about
such things. No, no! I am going to try to be a better girl. That I will
promise; and perhaps the other will come in time."
"It must be the reverse of that, Minny."
"Perhaps so. But I mustn't keep you standing out here in the cold any
longer. Good-by."
"What a long talk you have been having with Minny!" observed Mrs.
Probert, as Elsie entered the parlour. "I thought you and she were not
on very good terms,—not intimate, at least."
"No, mother, not intimate; but, when she told me that she wanted to
talk to me, I couldn't refuse. She is the oddest girl I ever knew. But
after all, there seems to be something in her; and, if she really wants
to be a good girl, one would like to help her if one could."
"Of course," replied her mother. "But do you think she is in earnest
about it?"
"I am sure I don't know," replied Elsie. "She says she is. And if it
was any one else, I should not think of doubting a moment; but Minny is
so odd. However, time will show."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
CONCLUSION.
AT the end of the week the stockings were all collected; and a goodly
show they made. True, some of them were not exactly models in shape,
and a good many seemed to have been knit under the prevalent impression
that soldiers are necessarily giants. But, on the whole, they were very
creditable to the industry and patriotism of Miss Armitage's young
ladies. They reached their destination in safety, and doubtless ore
this have fulfilled the destiny of all army socks.
A few days after they were sent away, Henrietta came to her mother with
a very serious face.
"Mother, will you let me try another pair of socks? I want to see if I
cannot get them done without losing time."
"Certainly, my child," replied her mother. "You will find abundance of
nice yarn in the basket."
"But, mother, I think I would rather buy the yarn with my own money. It
will seem more like giving them all myself. Don't you think so?"
"Oh!" said Mrs. Laurens, smiling. "Yes, certainly, if you want to give
the yarn as well as the work. But I am afraid I cannot go out to-day
to buy it for you. However, I think I see how we can manage that," she
continued,—seeing that Hetty looked disappointed at the postponement
of her project. "You can pay me the price of the yarn out of your own
purse, and I will give the money to Mrs. L—, at the employment-rooms."
"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Henrietta. "But it will be so little,
mother,—only fifty cents. I am afraid Mrs. L— will laugh at me."
"It will pay a poor woman for making two flannel shirts, my dear, and
thus enable 'her' to pay the rent of her room or buy a frock for her
baby. Moreover, I don't think Mrs. L— would laugh at you for giving
ever so little, if it were done in the right spirit."
"Well, mother, here are the fifty cents, and I will begin directly,—as
soon as I have done practising, I mean. And, mother, you will see—I
mean, I hope you will see—that I won't be idle over those as I was over
the others. I think I have counted the cost this time, mother."
Hetty was as good as her word. She worked most faithfully, and suffered
no temptation to walk or to read, or even romp with Corporal, to draw
her aside from her self-imposed task. Doing her work faithfully, she
soon learned to love it. And she moreover learned from Elsie the
surprising fact that it is possible to knit and read at the same time.
By the same competent professor she was initiated into the art and
mystery of using a knitting-sheath, and found, as will every one else
who has the patience to learn, the great advantage of that product of
the wisdom of our ancestors.
But Hetty has passed through a great sorrow since then, which has
perhaps done more than any thing else could to steady her character.
Cecy—poor little patient suffering Cecy—has passed away to that land
whereof the inhabitants shall no more say, "I am sick."
A little before the holidays, she appeared more than commonly weak and
languid. And though she suffered less pain than usual, she complained
that every thing tired her and that it hurt her to sit up.
On Christmas-day she appeared much brighter,—was carried to her usual
place on the sofa, and enjoyed the day even more than common. As she
was going to bed, she said to her mother,—
"Will you finish my socks to-morrow, mother? I am afraid I cannot knit
any more just now; and you know the soldiers will want them very much
this cold weather."
Mrs. Laurens promised, and Cecy was content.
She rested but little during the night, but towards morning dropped
into a quiet slumber. Her mother, who had left her for a few minutes,
was struck, on returning, with the altered expression of her face, and,
rousing Peter, sent him at once for the doctor.
But before he arrived, all was over! There was no struggle, and,
apparently, no pain; and it may be doubted whether the little girl was
conscious of any change till she gazed upon the glories of heaven!
After the first agony of parting, Mrs. Laurens could not but be
relieved that the long suffering was over. She had always been haunted
by the apprehension that she should die first, and leave Cecy to the
care of strangers; but now that danger was past. The dear child was
at peace. Her short and weary pilgrimage had been made as easy and as
happy as the sad circumstances permitted. Nothing had been spared which
could give her a pleasure or soften a pain; and almost to the last day
of her life she had enjoyed the happiness of using her little strength
for the good of others. Mrs. Laurens was able sincerely and thankfully,
though with many tears, to say, "Thy will be done!"
To Henrietta the stroke was a heavy one. She had always loved her
sister dearly,—more than she herself knew; but she could not help
remembering that of late she had often been unkind to her. She had even
been ashamed of her, and wished she might be sent away; and she had
been jealous of her mother's love towards her. What would she not have
given if all this had not been done!—but it was too late. The door was
shut. That which was crooked could not be made straight, and that which
was wanting could never be supplied in this world. Henrietta was made
bitterly to feel that the sting of death is sin; and she wept for her
sister as one who could not be comforted.
The day before the funeral, Mrs. Laurens was very unwell, and kept her
bed entirely. Henrietta was sitting alone in her own room, knitting
mechanically, and thinking over and over again all that had passed in
the course of the last few months,—when there was a gentle knock at the
door, and Minny entered.
Henrietta and Minny had had very little to do with each other of late.
There had been, at Elsie's earnest request, a show of reconciliation.
The girls had shaken hands, begged each other's pardon, and even
exchanged kisses, and they did not refuse to speak when they met. But
the intercourse was too suggestive of past trouble and disgrace to be
pleasant to either of them.
Minny had kept her word, and tried hard to be a better girl; and
certainly there was a manifest improvement. She no longer cheated at
lessons and exercises; she told fewer great stories, and ceased to
gossip about her own and her mother's friends. And every one noticed
how much more quiet she was in school. But it was up-hill work. She had
so long accustomed herself to evade her lessons in every possible way
that she found it difficult to form habits of application. Her memory
would not go without its accustomed crutches, and she often had the
mortification of failing after she had taken a great deal of honest
pains.
It was vexatious to lose her place in the class, to be marked
imperfect, and, worst of all, to have Miss Armitage say, at the end of
the week,—
"You have a great many imperfect marks, Minny. I am afraid you are
growing very careless."
When in fact, she had never worked so hard in her life.
Moreover, she found it very difficult always to tell the truth. The
exaggeration, the false statement or downright falsehood, would slip
from her lips almost unawares. All this was very discouraging, and she
had nearly come to the conclusion that Elsie was right in telling her
that she was beginning at the wrong end.
Henrietta looked surprised, and somewhat indignant, as Minny opened the
door.
But Minny gave her no time to speak. She came straight up to her, and,
throwing her arms round her neck, she burst into tears, exclaiming,—
"Oh, Hetty, I am so sorry about Cecy! I am so sorry I spoke so about
her, and would give any thing in the world to take it all back! Oh,
dear Hetty, won't you forgive me?"
Henrietta's rising anger and distrust vanished like frost before the
sun. She returned Minny's embrace, and they wept together.
"Peter said you were here, and told me to come right up," said Minny,
after they had composed themselves a little. "I have wanted to see you
so much,—you can't think! I should have come as soon as I heard she
was dead, but mother wouldn't let me. She thought you would rather
be alone. But I felt so badly, she told me I might come to-day. See
what I have brought!" She uncovered the carefully wrapped up basket
she carried, and showed Henrietta that it was filled with rare and
beautiful flowers.
"Almost all these are from my own plants," she continued. "I cut
off every white and purple flower I had,—rosebuds and camellias and
heliotropes and all,—only mother gave me the tuberoses and the apple
geraniums, because, she said, they were so sweet. And I want—" but she
could not control her voice,—"I want, if your mother is willing, to
have them all put with her. You don't know how much I felt as though I
wanted to do something for you; and this was all I could think of."
"Come and see her," said Henrietta, pressing her friend's hand. "You
don't know how lovely she looks, even in death. Madam Wentworth is
down-stairs, and she will take care of the flowers. Oh, she has been so
good!"
The two girls went down together to the drawing-room, where the little
body lay. Thu face was very little changed. Cecy had always been pale
in life; but all the old look of pain and weariness was gone.
"There was no other thought express'd
But long disquiet merged in rest."
The girls looked a while in silence.
"You were not downright unkind to her, as I was," said Hetty. "Oh, what
would I not give now, if I never had made her cry!"
"Do not waste your strength in vain regrets, my dear children," said
Madam Wentworth. "The dear child is now beyond our care, and all her
troubles are as though they had never been. But let this hour teach you
a lesson for all the future. Try to treat all your friends as you will
wish you had treated them when they have left the world. I am glad to
see you feel this so much. I hope it is a good sign."
"Indeed, I do try to be a better girl," sobbed Minny; "but it is very
hard."
"You must not be discouraged," said Madam Wentworth, kindly. "The
habits of a life are not to be broken up in a day or a month. But do
you try the right way? You know you can do nothing of yourself."
"Elsie told me that," replied Minny, in a low voice, "and I have tried
lately; but I think I do more wrong things than ever."
"Perhaps you see wrong where you never thought of it before," said
Madam Wentworth. "Is not that it? I think you will find it so, if you
examine yourself closely. But do not be discouraged. Watch and pray.
You are sure to succeed at last."
"How good she is!" said Minnie, as she went away. "I wonder if one
could ever be like her? I was wishing the other day that I was poor;
but money don't seem to have spoiled her."
"No, indeed," replied Henrietta. "And, Minny, look at the Stanley
girls. Where did you ever see better or more lady-like girls than they
are?"
"Some of the girls say that Letty is proud," said Minny.
"That's just because she never will gossip with them," replied Hetty.
"I really believe it is running after fashion and fashionable company
that spoils people more than money," said Minny. "Do you know, Hetty,
that poor, funny old woman came to church again yesterday, and I asked
her into our pew. Of course, it wasn't any thing to boast of; but it
seemed, somehow, like making amends. How we did act that day!—But I was
the worst. Did your mother find you out?"
"Oh, I told her," replied Henrietta. "I couldn't be happy with such
a thing on my mind, you know. So, when I told her all the rest, I
couldn't keep that back, you know. And, oh, how glad I was to get rid
of it!"
"That makes me think," said Minny. "Sometimes I feel as though I ought
to tell Miss Armitage about those compositions."
"I would," said Hetty. "I told her about mine, and the dates and all."
"Wasn't she very angry?" asked Minny.
"Yes, at first she was, and she took away ever so many of my credits;
but she was very kind afterwards: so I was glad I had the courage to
confess my faults."
"But I hate to lose all my credits," said Minny; "especially as I have
got so few lately."
"Yes; but then, you know, Minny, they are not ours,—not honestly ours.
It is like taking something that don't belong to one."
Minny gave a deep sigh. "Well, I suppose it is. I will think about it,
any way. Good-by, Hetty. I wish I could do something to help you."
"You have," said Hetty. "I feel a great deal better than I did before
you came. I am so glad we are all friends again!"
Minny did think about it, and came to the right conclusion. It was
hard to give up the credits,—harder still to see that Miss Armitage
watched and distrusted her at the very time she was trying her best to
be honest. But Minny is learning to be influenced by higher motives
than when she began. She is learning to love truth and goodness for
their own sake and for the sake of the Author of all truth. She is
regaining her place in the school,—honestly this time, and by her own
exertions,—and she cannot help seeing that the girls begin to trust and
to respect her.
"Oh, it is only one of Minny's stories!" is a phrase now seldom or
never heard, even from Sarah Stone.
Elsie and Hetty are very fond of her, too. And, altogether, she finds
herself happier than ever before in her life. She cannot resist the
pleasure of now and then treating herself and her friends to caramels
and chocolate-drops. But many a dime and quarter which used to go to
the confectioner is now dropped into a box hidden in her drawer and
marked, "For the sick soldiers." The existence of this box, and that of
a superb cushion which she is embroidering for our old friend Corporal,
and which is intended as a surprise for Hetty on her birthday, are
Minny's only two remaining "great secrets."
[Illustration: THE END]
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