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."