THE WORDS OF THE TALE-BEARER.
"WHAT do you think, girls! But won't you ever tell as long as you live?"
Laura Bartlett had collected a knot of her especial intimates in one
of the recitation rooms at noon-time, and prepared herself to be very
mysterious and important.
A certain set of girls in Miss Warner's school were very much in the
habit of assembling themselves, at noon and in recess, in order to
retail such pieces of news and gossip as they could pick up out of
school. From these groups an attentive listener might often hear such
exclamations as the following:
"Oh, I think he's divine!" "Isn't he so handsome!" "He certainly is
engaged, for Mrs. Carter told mother." "I know he isn't engaged, for
Mr. King told Louisa." "She is not at home a day in the week, and
her mother does not pretend to govern her." "Isn't it shameful for
Emma Hart to dress so extravagantly? She has taken a class in Sunday
school." "Oh, yes, a great many young ladies have taken classes in
Sunday school since Mr. Collins came—" And so on, without end.
Laura was much the youngest of this set of girls, but she was such an
excellent gatherer of news, and her stories were so interesting, that
she was treated with great favor. Miss Warner looked with no friendly
eye upon these meetings, and had made great efforts to put a stop to
them, but without success. As she truly said, "As long as the girls
were accustomed to the same sort of conversation at home, and were
encouraged in repeating every thing they heard, there was little use in
her interference."
"Let us go up on the stairs," said Carry Woodford; "Miss Warner will be
coming in, and then we shall have to stop."
The garret stairs ascended from a little dark entry which opened out
of this recitation room. And as the garret room was not used at all,
it was a favorite canvassing room, and a deal of mischief was plotted
there.
When the company were fairly seated, Laura opened her budget.
"Isn't it a shame that Sophie Kennedy's mother is so unkind to her?"
"Is she unkind to her, Lolla?" asked one of the girls.
"Yes, indeed she is. I went there last Saturday to take Sophie to
ride, you know what a beautiful day it was. Well, Mrs. Kennedy would
not let her go, though Sophie wanted to very much. And after she went
out, Sophie told me it was always just so whenever she wanted to do any
thing. I think it is a real shame."
"But I am sure, Lolla, Sophie does go out. I see her out with her
mother almost every day."
"Oh, yes, with her mother, to be sure, but not as she used to before
her father was married. She used to run about every where then, and as
long as she was at home at meal-times, her father did not know or care
any thing about it. She used to visit somewhere every day in the week.
I am sure she does not come to our house nearly as often as she used
to."
"That is true, to be sure!" said Anne Weston. "But then she goes a
great deal to Mrs. Gaylord's, and to see Greta Carroll. I wonder, for
my part, that Greta can care so much about her, when Sophie is so much
younger."
"Oh, Greta likes some one that she can 'play good' to, and patronize,"
replied Laura. "That is the reason she has the little girls so much
about her. She knows it will not do with us. Harry Reed is growing just
like her."
"She will never be just like her in one thing," remarked Carry
Woodford; "she will never be so good tempered, if she tries ever so
hard. I am sure I do not care, for my part, how good they are, if they
will only let me alone. But what else did Sophie tell you, Lolla?"
"Oh, she said that her mother was so particular about her lessons, that
if she did not have them in time, she would not let her go out for ever
so long; and she must always do just so about every thing. Sophie says
there is no use in going to her father about it, for he only says, 'Oh,
ask your mother, Sophie,' and will not hear a word of complaint. I know
her mother scolded her when she was sick, for Mrs. Mann, the woman that
was there washing, heard her tell Sophie it was all her own imprudence,
and that she was glad of it."
"How cruel! When she was sick!" exclaimed Carry Woodford.
"But that does not sound at all like Mrs. Kennedy," said Anne Weston.
"She is so refined in her expressions."
"Oh, yes, no doubt, when she wants to make people think she is very
good. She has taken a class in Sunday school, you know; the one Fanny
Bates is in."
"Well, what of it?"
"Well, she noticed that Fanny and two or three of the other girls
talked at one of the Lent Lectures. And the next day she talked to them
about it in the class, and made the girls cry."
"What did Fanny say?" asked Martha Pierce.
"Why, she did not seem to be angry at all, somehow; she did not say
much about it. If I were in her place, I would not go to another
lecture."
"She does go all the time," said Anne Weston; "and I know she has been
at Uncle Shelby's twice this week. I should not wonder if she should be
confirmed at Easter; you know Harry and Greta are going to be."
"Harry Reid!" exclaimed Laura. "She is no more fit to be confirmed—why
she cannot keep her temper one day. I don't pretend to be one of the
saints, but I would never be confirmed unless I were sure I could live
consistently, and keep my resolutions. I would not pretend to be a
Christian unless I were a real good one."
"Uncle Shelby says that is not the right way to think about it,"
replied Anne. "He says no one can tell exactly how they will feel all
their lives; and if we depend on our own resolutions, we shall never be
good at all. I think it is true, too, but I don't see any other way."
"Oh, well, Anne, we don't want to hear your experience," interrupted
Carry. "You can go and make your confession to young Mr. Collins, if
you want to free your mind. You have grown very good since he came."
"I have not, either," said Anne, rather angrily, "but I think I have a
right to speak."
"Well, Lolla, what else about Sophie? Do you think her stepmother is
really unkind to her?"
"I should call that unkind," replied Laura, "scolding her when she was
sick, and not letting her go anywhere unless she was with her. I am
sure I should not like it much. We always have to be so particular when
we are with grown persons. You know that night we were all there to
tea, Mrs. Kennedy staid in the room all the time, and we did not have
any fun at all."
"I thought she made it very pleasant, for my part," said Anne Weston.
"She sung and played for us, and told us so many stories about the
negroes and their queer ways on the plantations, and about things at
the South. I liked it very much. Dr. Shelby says—"
"You are always quoting Dr. Shelby, Anne. Are you sure you don't mean
Mr. Collins?"
"I do not see what particular difference it would make. They are both
ministers, and preach in the same pulpit."
"Oh, yes, of course, it is just the same. But I would not be so very
good just yet, Anne; perhaps he is engaged, after all. That's right,
now—go away and cry—I would not set up for a saint just yet. How
wonderfully grave Anne grows lately," continued Carry Woodford, when
Anne had disappeared.
"That is nothing," said Martha Prime. "She does just so every Lent, and
gets over it again at Easter. She will be just the same by and by, you
will see."
"There is the bell," exclaimed Laura, jumping up. "Now be sure, girls,
you don't tell. I am going to see Sophie again to-night, and I mean to
find out all I can about it: but don't you say a word."
"What is the matter, Anne dear?" said Greta Carroll in recess, sitting
down by Anne's side, and putting her arm around her.
Anne had been sitting in the same attitude ever since the school
opened: her book was before her, and her eyes were fixed on its pages,
but her thoughts were evidently far away. She looked very sad, and now
and then a tear rolled down her cheek.
"What is the matter, dear?" repeated Greta. "Are you sick?"
Anne tried to answer, but the words would not come, so she shook her
head in reply.
"Come out into the garden with me," said Greta. "Miss Warner gave me
permission, and the girls are all in the playground, so we shall have
it to ourselves, and the fresh air will do you good. It is more like
spring than winter."
Anne suffered Greta to lead her into the garden without any remark, but
when she found herself alone with her friend, she could control herself
no longer, and she burst into tears. Greta allowed her to weep without
restraint for awhile, till her excitement passed away in some measure,
and she was able to speak.
"I am very foolish to cry so, Greta, I know, but I cannot help it.
Carry Woodford is so provoking. I do not see how she can take any
pleasure in being so. She is always saying that people may be as good
as they please, if they will only let her alone, but she does not think
so, I am sure, or she would not act as she does."
"How, Anne?"
"Why, she and Laura Bartlett, and that set of girls, were in the
recitation room talking—just as they always do, you know—I don't
mean to say any thing against them, for I have just been as bad as
the rest—and I quoted something Dr. Shelby said, about talking among
ourselves, and before grown people, you know."
Greta assented.
"And then Carry said I was always quoting Dr. Shelby, and asked me if
I did not mean Mr. Collins; and then she had some nonsense about his
being engaged that provoked me—"
"That was foolish in Carry," said Greta, after waiting a moment for
Anne to proceed, "but I would not mind it, if that was all. Carry
rattles on without thinking what she says. I would not mind her."
"But that was not all, Greta, I was very angry, I confess, and I am
such a goose I never can help showing it. And then she told me I had
better not set up for a saint until I could keep my temper a little
better, and that I was growing very grave all at once. And then Martha
Prime said I was always just so in Lent, but that I got over it and was
as bad as ever. That was what I cared most about," said Anne, crying
afresh, "because I know it is true. Every Lent, when I am going to
the lectures, I try to be good and to make myself a Christian, but I
never can keep on. I make resolutions upon resolutions, but I never
keep any of them, and I don't believe I shall ever be good enough to be
confirmed."
"How good are you going to be, before you are confirmed, Anne?"
"Why, I don't know," said Anne, surprised at the question; "I thought
we must be very good indeed. Because as soon as one is confirmed, there
is the Communion. One must be perfectly good for that, you know."
"I don't know," answered Greta. "The Prayer Book says in the
invitation, 'Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and
"intend" to lead a new life'—I do not believe it is right to wait till
one is 'perfectly good,' as you say."
"But there is the trouble, Greta: I know very well I do not repent. I
think over my sins, and try to make myself feel sorry, but I know I do
not, after all,—not as I ought. I am sure I wish I could."
Greta was silent a few moments, and then said, blushingly and with
hesitation, "I don't want to be impertinent, Anne, but I should like to
ask you a question: you need not answer unless you choose."
"I am not afraid of your being impertinent, Greta. You may ask what you
please."
"Do you pray, Anne? Are you in the 'habit' of praying?"
"No," said Anne, frankly, "I acknowledge that I am not. I was taught to
say my prayers when I was a child, of course, but I have left it off,
almost ever since I was old enough to sleep by myself. At one time, I
used to repeat the prayers in church, but that seemed only a mockery,
and I left it off. Now I do not even put my head down."
"I do not see how you can expect to repent, or be an obedient
Christian, unless you do pray."
"But, Greta, ought I to pretend to pray, when I don't care any thing
about it?"
"Certainly not," answered Greta. "But I thought you said you wished you
could repent and be a Christian, did you not?"
"Yes," said Anne, "I am sure I do.—You will hardly believe me, I
suppose," she continued, more earnestly than before, "but I would be
willing to do any thing if I could only be saved by it; I would not
care what."
"But you know we cannot save ourselves, Anne; you know that nothing we
can do can merit heaven."
"What must we do, then? I do not see that we can be saved at all, if
that is the case."
"'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ
Jesus came into the world to save sinners.' If we would be saved, we
must give up all hope in our own doings, and trust in Him—we must ask
God the Father to forgive and accept us for the sake of his dear Son."
Forgetting her embarrassment in her earnestness, Greta spoke with great
feeling, and Anne seemed both interested and affected.
"But I am such a sinner, Greta," she said. "You don't know how wicked I
have been. It does not seem as if I could come and ask to be forgiven,
just as I am."
"If you were sick with the smallpox, Anne, you would send for the
doctor at once, would you not? You would not say, 'My skin is too much
marked now, I will wait till I look a little better before I send for
him.' You never can be cured of your sin in any other way. It is only
the blood of Jesus Christ that cleanseth us from all sin. We cannot
save ourselves."
"What ought I to do, Greta? I am sure I do wish with all my heart to
repent and be forgiven."
"You must pray, Anne, and study your Bible. Read how Jesus Christ came
into the world, and took upon Him the nature of man, and was poor
and despised; how He was tempted and insulted, and finally crucified
for us—for you, Anne. And He does not forget us now, either. He will
receive us gladly the moment we come to Him. He is far more ready to
give than we to ask. I wish I could make you feel about it as I do,"
said Greta, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"I am sure I wish you could, Greta," answered Anne in a subdued voice.
"Well, won't you try? Don't give it up, nor let the girls laugh you
out of it. I do not believe they will laugh if they see you in real
earnest. And what if they do? It will not hurt you if you do not know
it. Try to-night not to think of any thing else until you have made
up your mind about this: I am sure you will be much happier. And you
may never have another opportunity. As Mr. Collins says, if you are
not ready to be confirmed, you are not ready to die, only think if you
should go to the Judgment without being prepared!"
"Will you pray for me, Greta?" asked Anne softly, as they walked
towards the house. "I will pray for myself. I never felt so much like
it before. But will you pray for me?"
"Yes, indeed," said Greta, "I do very often. And, Anne—if you will
excuse me for saying so—will you sit somewhere else, and not with Carry
and Martha, if you go to church to-night? It does not seem right to
whisper in church, and if you will only sit somewhere where you can
listen—"
"I will, Greta," said Anne. "I will sit with aunt Shelby if mother does
not go. I do not think it is right any more than you, but when I am
with the other girls I forget."
True to her word, Laura set out to call upon Sophie after school, and
see what else could be extracted from her: but just as she was turning
into the street where Mr. Kennedy lived, she met Sophie. She had a
basket on her arm, and was going to visit nurse Brown, and carry some
delicacies to poor Betsey, who, after a week or two of great suffering
and weakness, was again comparatively comfortable. Sophie had nearly
forgotten her uneasiness, until she saw Laura running to meet her: she
now resolved internally that she would say nothing out of which that
young lady could make any capital.
"I was just coming round to see you, Sophie," exclaimed Laura. "Where
are you going?"
"I am going up to nurse Brown's to carry Betsey Hand some things that
mother has sent her," answered Sophie; "and I am going to call and see
if Greta will go with me."
"I will walk round to Mrs. Carroll's with you," said Laura; "I want to
tell you what a nice time we had last Saturday. I was so sorry you did
not go. We went to the green-house, and then down to the lake shore,
where we got out and ran about on the snow and ice. But be sure you
don't tell, Sophie, for I promised mother I would not get out of the
sleigh."
"I wonder you were not afraid to go on the ice," exclaimed Sophie.
"Suppose you had fallen through and been drowned?"
"Why then I should, I suppose, but there was no danger. What did you do
all the afternoon? I should think you would have cried your eyes out."
"Oh, no," answered Sophie, "I had a nice time. Mother borrowed some
volumes of engravings, and bought that large book of costumes for me,
so I enjoyed myself very much. And, Laura," she added, with a good deal
of hesitation, "I wish you would not repeat what I said about mother.
I ought not to have spoken so, I suppose, but I was very much vexed. I
wish I was not so quick-tempered."
"I don't see how you can help it, if it is your natural disposition,"
answered Laura. "You never keep angry. For my part, I don't like these
very particular people, that always cut their words by one pattern,
like Greta Carroll."
"Why, Laura, I am sure Greta Carroll is as good as she can be. I wonder
you can speak so, when she is so kind to you. How many times she has
helped you about your lessons! I wonder you should speak so."
"I do not feel myself under any such overwhelming obligations,"
answered Laura, with a toss of her head. "I am not very fond of being
patronized for my part. I like Greta well enough, but I don't see why
she should set up to be so much better than other people. Martha Prime
says that Greta has you and Emma Gaylord completely under her thumb."
"It is no such thing," retorted Sophie angrily. "I don't believe Greta
ever said so."
"Nobody said she did say so," answered Laura "but actions speak louder
than words. Why should she, the oldest girl in the school almost, want
to have so much to do with you little ones, if it is not because she
likes to govern."
"Because she likes to help us, and keep us out of mischief," answered
Sophie. "She likes to help every one. Miss Warner says she is as useful
to her as any of the teachers."
"To be sure; that is just what I say," persisted Laura. "She likes to
be in authority. She likes to have Miss Warner send her to hear classes
and to keep order among the little ones, and to have them coming
with their books to her. She and Anne Weston have been wonderfully
confidential this afternoon; I should not wonder if she should bring
her round. However," she added, "I don't want to prejudice you against
Greta, Sophie. If you like to be governed, I am sure I don't care."
Just at this moment Greta passed them on the other side of the street.
She was walking with Harry Reed, and the two were so much engaged in
conversation as not to see Laura and Sophie. If she had been alone,
Sophie would have called to her at once, but Laura's remarks had not
been without their effect on her mind, and she determined to show that
she could do as she pleased. So she let them go on without speaking,
and then said, "Greta will not be at home, Laura. Suppose you go round
with me and see Betsey?"
"I don't mind going round and waiting for you," said Laura, "but I
would not see her for the world. I have such quick feelings that I
cannot bear to see people suffer. When James hurt his face so last
summer, I never went into the room till he was almost well, it made me
feel so bad to see him."
Sophie thought within herself, that it was well every one's sensibility
did not take the same form. She remembered Mrs. Gaylord's dressing
Betsey's hand and face, and her mother binding up the gardener's arm
when he cut it with the scythe; and it did not appear to her that their
feelings would have been equally well displayed in sighs and tears.
She would have said so, but that she stood rather in fear of Laura's
sarcastic remarks.
"Does your stepmother make you go to see poor people very often,
Sophie?" asked Laura.
"She does not make me," answered Sophie, "she lets me."
"Oh, she makes it a privilege, then! I must say it is a privilege I
do not want, going into such dirty places, among Irish and Dutch, and
every thing. I think it is the business of the Charitable Society to
do that. We give them our money, and they ought to take care of the
people."
"Mother says," replied Sophie, "that we can never excuse ourselves by
giving money, from getting acquainted with the people themselves. And I
know both she and father think that only giving money does harm instead
of good, sometimes."
"Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Laura. "Charity do harm! That is a new
idea."
"Not charity," said Sophie. "Only giving things away."
"I don't see any difference," answered Laura.
Sophie's own mind was not very clear upon the subject, so she did not
answer.
"You go to Sunday school now, don't you?" asked Laura, after a moment's
silence. "Whose class are you in?"
"I am going to be in Greta's class after this week," answered Sophie.
"She is going to take half of mother's."
Laura smiled.
"What do you mean, Lolla?"
"Oh, nothing; only I should rather have a teacher that knew more than I
did. Greta and your mother are great friends, are they not?"
Sophie did not answer. If she had followed her best impulse, she would
have stopped Laura's insinuations at once, but she was really afraid of
her, and did not like to offend her. Moreover, Laura's remarks had not
been without effect. Sophie was beginning to be very jealous of being
treated like a little girl, and she could not bear to think that any
one near her own age should try to govern her. She was often displeased
at her mother for insisting upon her doing things in exactly the right
time and way, treating her like a baby, as she said.
That very morning she had been seriously disobliged, because her mother
did not think proper to have her dresses made long, like a young
lady's. Mrs. Kennedy did not think it worth while to dispute the point
at length, but gave her own orders to the dressmaker; and when the
dresses came home, they were short, as before. Unluckily Laura chanced
to observe that she had on a new frock, and asked her why she did not
put on long dresses.
"Mother would not let me," said Sophie. "I wanted them made long,
very much, but she says it will be time enough two years from now,
especially as I am so small. I wish I was as tall as Miss Lee," she
continued, thinking aloud, "and then I should not be treated like a
child by every one."
"I don't wonder you don't like it—I shouldn't. But why don't you set up
and do as you please, as I do? Mother did not wish me to go to school
this quarter, but I was determined I would, and I did."
"That would never do with my mother," answered Sophie. "You would never
try it but once with her, I can tell you. For all she is so gentle
usually, she can be severe enough when any one sets her at defiance. I
should never dare to say I would do what she told me not to—I would as
soon cut my head off."
"It must be a change for you; you used to do pretty much as you
pleased, before she came."
"I do now, about a great many things, but then I have to mind. She is
very kind when I am sick, and takes a great deal of pains to teach me.
And I am sure I am very much attached to her, but I should like to be
left more to myself sometimes. Here we are now, and here is nurse at
the door."
Nurse had her finger on her lip. Betsey had had a very bad turn, but
was better, and asleep. Sophie must leave her basket full of dainties,
and come to see her another time.
Laura now found she must go in another direction; so Sophie walked
home alone, pondering on all she had heard, and feeling more than ever
discontented with Laura, herself, and every one around her. She felt
very unhappy, she could hardly tell why. Nobody appreciated her; Greta
only wanted to patronize her; her mother was very unkind; and even her
father did not love her as he used to. She wished she had never seen
Laura, and yet she continually thought over all she had said. "Truly,
the words of the tale-bearer are as wounds."