THE BAD COLD.
SOPHIE'S lessons went on more smoothly for a few days, and she made
abundant resolutions to be more steady and industrious, but she relied
on her own strength to keep them, and asked no help from above. As two
or three weeks passed without any particular temptations, she began to
flatter herself that she had no more reason to fear, and began to relax
her guard. Of course it was not very long before she learned how much
her self-reliance was worth.
Winter had now fairly set in, and the weather was very cold. Sophie's
favorite pets—her chickens—were shut up in their house at the barn, and
she always went out to feed them morning and evening. She was provided
with a warm wadded sack and hood for these occasions, but though she
was subject to ear-ache and pain in her face on the least cold, she
had never been taught by what she suffered to take care of herself.
Sometimes her hood and sack were up stairs, or elsewhere out of place,
and she could not stop to find them; or her overshoes were cold, and it
was not worth while to warm and put them on, "just to run out to the
barn."
"Put a shawl over your sack, Sophie," said her mother to her one
evening, as she came in with her basket of provisions; "and do not stay
out long. It is very cold."
"Yes, mamma," answered Sophie, quitting the room rather hastily, and as
usual leaving the door ajar.
But instead of wearing any thing additional, she did not put on her
sack at all. The truth was, she could not find either that or her hood,
which she had left out of place in the morning: so she hastily threw on
an old shawl of Nancy's, which she found in the kitchen, and without
stopping to warm and put on her overshoes, she ran out to the barn.
On entering the chicken-house, she found the water frozen, and another
journey to the house for some hot water became necessary. Then a new
arrangement of troughs and basins was entered into, and the end of the
matter was, that she returned to the house thoroughly chilled. When she
entered the kitchen, Mrs. Kennedy was there, and at once perceived the
state she was in.
"Why, Sophie!" she exclaimed. "You have not been out all this time with
nothing but that shawl! Where is your sack?"
"I could not find it, mamma. I am not very cold," answered Sophie,
though her chattering teeth, and the way in which she hung over the
stove contradicted her words.
"Run up stairs, Jane, and get a pair of warm shoes and stockings for
Miss Sophie," said her mother. "Sit down here, Sophie, but do not
put your feet very near the fire. How could you go out so, my dear?
I should think you had suffered enough this winter to make you more
careful."
"Why, mamma, I very often go out so without getting cold. I was out
longer last Saturday without its doing me any harm."
"I thought you had the toothache all day Sunday, Sophie, so that you
could not go to church."
Sophie could not deny it.
"But there is no use in talking about it," continued Mrs. Kennedy. "If
you cannot learn to be more prudent, you must take the consequences."
"At any rate," murmured Sophie, as she followed her mother into the
parlor, "if I do have the toothache, I will not tell any one."
This was a resolution much easier to make than to keep, for Sophie
was impatient of pain and very irritable under it. A good many sharp
twinges in the course of the evening made her aware that she had
incurred the usual penalty. True to her resolution, however, she said
nothing about it, but taking a bottle of laudanum into her room, she
bound some upon her face, and got into bed as soon as possible, to try
and forget her pain in sleep.
She passed a restless and uncomfortable night, and was awakened early
by the pain in her face and ear. When she came to rise, she found her
limbs stiff and aching, and her throat very sore. She dressed herself,
however, and taking care to wash the stain of the laudanum from her
face, she descended to the breakfast-room, still firm in her resolution
to say nothing about it.
Her mother observed that she ate little, and was very silent.
"Do you not feel well, Sophie?" she asked.
"Yes, mamma, very well," answered Sophie, though she felt very much
like crying as she spoke.
A feeling of depression and irritability made it very difficult for her
to attend to her lessons: the pain in her face and throat increased
every moment, and she felt as if she were choking.
Her mother took no notice of the numerous mistakes she made in her
music lesson, though she said before the lesson was half finished—"That
will do for this time; you may get your slate and arithmetic now."
Sophie brought them, and set herself, languidly enough, about an
interest sum. She did not succeed the first time; and when she brought
the sum to her mother, it was again wrong.
"Why, what is the matter, my child? You did this very sum yesterday,
and several others like it. Do you not understand it?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Sophie, completely overcome by pain and
vexation, and bursting into tears: "my face aches so, I cannot think of
any thing, and my throat is so sore, I can hardly breathe."
"I thought you were not well," said Mrs. Kennedy. "How long has your
throat been sore?"
"It was sore last night, but not as bad as it is now."
"Why did you not speak of it, and have something done for it
immediately?"
Sophie was silent.
"You will pay pretty dearly for your carelessness, if you have the
quinsy and a gathering in your face at the same time. But don't cry,
my dear, you will only make the matter worse. Come and let me put some
cold camphor on it, and perhaps we may prevent its swelling. You must
be very careful not to get more cold."
Sophie lay down on the sofa in her mother's room, for she did not feel
able to sit up any longer. All that day she suffered very much, and
when night came, her face was much swelled. She had severe pain in all
her limbs, and such a high fever that Mrs. Kennedy thought it necessary
to send for the doctor.
Dr. Werner came, felt her pulse, and made many inquiries as to how
she had been exposed. Mrs. Kennedy told him the story of the chicken
feeding expedition.
"So!" said the doctor. "Your chickens are wiser than you, my child;
they do not go out barefooted in the snow."
"I never saw them put any shoes on, doctor," said Sophie, laughing.
"Oh well, it is all one; they do not go out at all in the snow, but
stay in their house. But you have, indeed, caught one very bad cold, do
you hear, and you will have to stay in the house two or three weeks,
perhaps. I tell you, my child, you must be more obedient and careful,
or you will be sick like Betsey, and then you can never be cured any
more."
"How is Betsey, doctor?" asked Mrs. Kennedy.
"She is getting no better very fast," answered the good doctor
seriously. "I think she can now live but a few days longer. I was
coming this very night to tell you she wanted to see Miss Sophie again.
But you must not go out to-morrow, child, do you hear?"
"Not if I am a great deal better, doctor?" asked Sophie anxiously. "Not
if I am quite well? I want to see her so much!"
"You must not go out to-morrow, or the next day either for you will
not be well enough. You shall give her this powder, madam, and put her
feet in some boiling water when she goes to bed, and she must have some
boiling gruel, and be covered warm. To-morrow I shall come again."
"Nancy," said Sophie to the nurse, who entered as Mrs. Kennedy went out
with the doctor, "Dr. Werner says I must put my feet in boiling water
to-night, and have some boiling gruel!"
"I reckon he didn't mean just 'boiling,' dear," said Nancy, after some
consideration. "The doctor talks kind of outlandish, you know. I reckon
he meant pretty hot. Does your face get any better, dear?"
"No, it gets worse every minute, and my throat aches so I don't know
what to do. I wish the chickens had been in the Red Sea, I am sure."
"I don't see how the chickens were to blame," said Nancy. "If you had
only gone and found your cloak and hood—"
"Well, I don't want to hear all that old story over again," interrupted
Sophie, pettishly. "I think it is bad enough to be sick, without being
scolded by every one. You always say just so!"
"If people will not mind what is said to them when they are well, they
must hear of it when they are sick," answered Nancy, calmly. "I think
it is bad enough for little girls to make themselves sick, and give so
much trouble, without being cross at the same time. I am very sorry
your face aches, my dear, and I would do most any thing to help you,
but I don't like to see you trying to lay all the blame on some one
else."
In spite of the doctor's boiling water and powders, Sophie's face
continued to swell, and she rested very little during the night.
For the next three days, she was unable to be up, and suffered a great
deal. Mrs. Kennedy hardly left her during the time. She tried her best
to relieve her and make her forget her pain, and Sophie felt as if she
could never do enough to repay her mother for her kindness.
"After all," she thought, "it is a very good thing to have a stepmother
to take care of one. But I suppose they are not all alike."
When Sophie began to get better, and to sit up a little, her mother
found it very difficult to keep her from exposing herself. As long as
she did not feel uncomfortable, she never noticed whether she were
properly covered or not. She was very anxious to go down stairs, and
her mother yielded to her entreaties, on condition that she should
wear a large shawl through the passages, and not go out of the parlor.
But Sophie was no sooner established in an arm-chair by the side of
the fire, and left alone, than she remembered that she had left her
book up stairs. There were plenty of other books in the room, and she
had the bell at hand. But instead of ringing for Nancy, or employing
herself about something else for a little while, she went back to her
room without her shawl, and found what she wanted. The windows were
all open, and she remained some time exposed to the cold air. She
congratulated herself on getting back without discovery, but found she
might better have kept quiet. For the pain in her face came back as bad
as ever for several hours.
"You may consider yourself well off in escaping so," said her mother,
when she had, by dint of questioning, extracted the truth from Sophie.
"I am sorry that you cannot be trusted by yourself for five minutes.
You promised me you would not leave the parlor fire."
"I should not have gone, only for my book," answered Sophie, very angry
at being told she could not be trusted. "There was no one here to get
it for me."
"What you went for is of no consequence, my child. You promised, and
you should have kept your word. It is not the first time that I have
noticed the same thing, Sophie. The other day you promised me that if I
would let you go out with Laura Bartlett, you would learn your lesson
next morning before breakfast, but you did not learn it at all."
"Because I did not get up in time."
"Precisely, but you ought to have been up after making such a promise.
The habit of making promises carelessly is a very bad one to fall into:
it leads directly to lying. You look very indignant, my dear, at the
idea of being betrayed into any such thing, but it would be much better
for you to guard carefully against it. You are no more secure than any
one else, and you must look to the same means to keep you in safety."
When Sophie was again left alone, she thought very earnestly upon what
her mother had said. "I am sure I never told a lie in my life." Here
she stopped. For she remembered that two or three times lately she
had so far departed from the truth as to give a false excuse for the
omission of a lesson—even going so far as to say that she had practised
an hour, when she had spent half the time in reading a magazine. "But
that was not a lie," she continued—
"But it 'was' a lie," said Conscience. "I told you so at the time, and
you were very much afraid of being found out."
"Well, at any rate, I am very sorry," said Sophie, "and I mean to ask
forgiveness to-night in my prayers."
But when night came, Sophie had forgotten the matter altogether, and
went to sleep without saying her prayers at all. She thought of it when
she waked in the morning, but satisfied herself with the idea that the
room was too cold, and she must go down to the fire as soon as possible.
She did not care about going out this day or the next, for she felt
quite weak, and was willing to be quiet. But when Saturday came very
bright and pleasant, and she saw the street full of sleighs and
walkers, she felt very uneasy at staying in the house. She was sitting
by the front window, looking at the passers-by, when she saw Laura
Bartlett running up the steps. She was just going to meet her, when
she remembered her promise not to expose herself, and kept quiet until
Laura came in, breathless as usual.
"Come, Sophie," she exclaimed, "but put on your bonnet and cloak,
and be ready. James is coming with the sleigh to take us to the
green-house, and then down to the lake shore. The roads are beautiful,
and it is so clear and cold—so pleasant, you can't think. Run and get
ready."
"I don't believe mother will let me, Lolla," said Sophie. "You know I
have been sick."
"Oh, well, but you have got over it. You are as well as ever now, are
you not? Your face does not ache now. I will ask your mother for you.
But here comes James. What on earth are you stopping for, James?" she
called, opening the window to speak to her brother.
"I must go up town on an errand for mother," he answered. "I shall be
gone about half an hour, and will call for you when I come back."
"Well, come, Sophie, where is your mother?" asked Laura, closing the
window again. But she had hardly spoken, before Mrs. Kennedy entered,
dressed for going out.
"Oh, Mrs. Kennedy," began Laura, without giving that lady time to
speak, "I have come to take Sophie out to the green-house, and then
mother wants her to come to our house to tea. It is a beautiful day to
ride."
"It is, indeed," said Mrs. Kennedy, "and I wish Sophie were able to go,
but—"
"Oh, please don't say but," interrupted Laura. "I hate that word."
"I should like to go very much, mother," said Sophie anxiously. "I am
sure it would not hurt me, it is so pleasant, and I have not been out
of the house in a week."
"I know it," replied her mother, "but I am afraid, Sophie. You have
narrowly escaped being very sick, and a little cold would make you
worse than ever. I think you will have to content yourself with staying
by the fire a few days longer. I am sorry for your disappointment, but
I cannot have you sick again."
"But it is so pleasant, mother; and I could wrap myself up very warm."
"Not to-day, my dear. If you keep on getting better, and it is pleasant
on Monday, I will try to let you have a ride. But to-day you must try
to amuse yourself at home. I am going out for a little while, and will
find you something to read."
Mrs. Kennedy had hardly closed the door, when Sophie burst into tears.
"I declare it is too bad," exclaimed Laura. "I think she might let you
go."
"It is always just so," sobbed Sophie. "I never can do any thing I want
to. She has kept me shut up in this room this whole week. She found
fault with me for going into the study to find a book."
"I don't believe Harry Reed would say it was such a nice thing to have
a stepmother, if she knew about it," continued Laura. "If it had been
your own mother, she would have let you go, I know."
Sophie sobbed more than ever.
"Why don't you ask your father, Sophie? I dare say he would let you go."
"It would be just the same," answered Sophie. "He would only ask me
what mother said. He always does just as she says."
"I think you were better off when you had no one but Nancy to ask,"
continued Laura. "Then you could go where you liked. I am sure I hope
I shall never have a stepmother. It is just as mother says—they never
have any feeling for their husband's children."
It may seem strange that Sophie could allow Laura to speak this of her
kind mother, but she was too angry herself to think of the impropriety
of it. As for Laura, she was ready for any thing, if there were only a
chance of finding something to talk of.
"Does she make you learn long lessons, Sophie?" asked Laura.
"Not very," said Sophie, "but then I always must have them exactly,
and at just such a time. The other day I did not have my arithmetic
lesson in the morning, and she made me stay at home and study all the
afternoon."
Sophie did not think fit to tell why she had stayed at home all the
afternoon. She had neglected to commit to memory an important rule, and
her mother had told her she must learn it after dinner. It did not take
fifteen minutes when she fairly applied her mind to it, but she was
offended at being treated like a baby, as she said, and it was her own
choice to remain at home.
"There comes James with the sleigh," exclaimed Laura. "Good by, Sophie.
I am right sorry you cannot go. I shall call for Anne Weston."
After Laura had gone, Sophie continued crying a long time, persuading
herself that she was very ill-used and very unhappy. Then she began to
reflect that it would be as well not to let her mother see that she had
been crying. So she went up stairs and bathed her face with rose-water
until the traces of tears had disappeared, and then set herself down to
practise a new waltz. She soon became very much interested in it, and
had nearly forgotten her ill-humor, when her mother appeared, with her
arms full of books.
"Why, mamma, what a load!" exclaimed Sophie.
"I have brought you some books to comfort you for the loss of your
ride," answered Mrs. Kennedy, piling the large volumes on the table.
"There is 'The Tyrol,' and there is a volume of 'Wilson's Birds,'—you
must be very careful of that,—and here is the very volume of costumes
you were so desirous of seeing. I felt as if it was rather an
extravagant purchase,—it is a second-hand copy, you see,—but the
figures are very spirited, and good studies for you—so I stretched my
purse-strings a little."
"Did you really buy it for me, mamma?" asked Sophie, delighted. "Where
did you find it?"
"All the way up at Lawson's, my dear. They would have sent it at
tea-time, but I thought you would like it now, as you were unable to
go out. I will put my bonnet away, and then we will look over them
together."
"I have another reason for not caring to have you go out with Laura,"
said her mother, as they sat down together at the table. "She is not a
very safe person for you to be intimate with."
"Why not, mamma?" asked Sophie.
"She is such a news-carrier, my dear. I have observed her closely, and
I perceive she never comes here without a story to tell of some one;
and her stories are very apt to vary a little from the truth, as is
almost always the case with such persons. Her mother is very much so.
The first time she called upon me, she gave me a history of almost
every family in the street; and when I returned the call, she was
equally communicative in regard to her own neighbors. Such persons are
not very safe."
Sophie now began, with some alarm, to think over what she had said to
Laura: "Do you think, mamma, that Laura would really tell any thing
that was said to her?"
"Why, my dear, you can judge for yourself. You know she was here the
day before yesterday to see you: how many things did she tell you
that the girls in school said about Mrs. Warner, and ended every one
with—'But don't repeat it for the world, for I promised I would never
tell.'"
"I remember she did," said Sophie, "but I did not think of it at the
time."
"I am always glad to have your friends come and see you," continued
Mrs. Kennedy, "but it will do you no harm to put you on your guard a
little. A great many people have an idle way of repeating conversation,
without meaning any harm, but it is a bad habit, and mischief is very
likely to grow out of it. Even a harmless remark sounds as differently
as possible when it is repeated."
Some visitors coming in, the conversation was interrupted, but Sophie
did not forget it. She sat with her pretty new book at the window, and
turned over leaf after leaf, but she did not pay much attention to the
gay figures. She was trying to remember every word she had said to
Laura, and the more she thought of it, the more uneasy she felt. She
could not but see how improperly she had spoken, and how much she had
misrepresented her mother. She would have given any thing to recall the
words, but it was too late for that. And she could only hope that Laura
would hold her peace—a faint hope, indeed, for any one acquainted with
her habits.
Her disagreeable feelings returned with double force, when she found
herself alone in her own room at bedtime. She repeated over and over
again, "What if mamma should hear of it!" Of the ingratitude and want
of respect she had shown to her kind mother, she hardly thought at all.
She read her chapter, and repeated her prayers, almost without knowing
what she said, and lay down to sleep to be tormented with dreams of
Mrs. Bartlett telling every one that her mother was very unkind to her,
and of Dr. Shelly announcing the same from the pulpit.