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]