SOPHIE'S GREAT TROUBLE.
FOR several weeks Sophie continued to see a good deal of Laura
Bartlett, and she never saw her without being made uncomfortable by
her remarks. Mrs. Kennedy saw with great uneasiness the influence that
Laura was gaining over her daughter. She perceived that Sophie grew
discontented, peevish, and critical that she was far more difficult to
manage, and more disposed to rebel against necessary government, and
that she was estranged from her best friends. She tried to warn Sophie
of the injury which Laura would do her, but without success. Sophie at
once concluded that her mother was prejudiced against Laura, and wanted
to keep her from having any friends but herself. Mrs. Kennedy thought
it would do more harm than good to forbid any intercourse between the
two girls, as it would of course cause a quarrel between the families.
Laura expected to go away to school in the spring, and to be gone
two years. And this, Mrs. Kennedy thought, would answer the purpose,
without having recourse to any extreme measures.
Easter came, and with it the Confirmation: a number of the older girls
and boys out of the Sunday school, and several of Sophie's schoolmates,
were confirmed; among them were Greta, and Harry, and Anne Weston.
Anne had, with much fear and trembling, made up her mind to this
decisive step, and her courage almost failed her at the last moment.
The service was held on the evening of Easter Tuesday, and in the
afternoon she ran up to Dr. Shelby's and tapped at the study door. She
was a distant relation of the good doctor, and he was very fond of her,
so she had no hesitation in confiding her troubles to him. She now
poured forth all her fears, her distrust of herself, and her anxiety
for the future, and concluded by saying—
"And I am afraid, Uncle Shelby, that I am not fit to be confirmed,
after all, Suppose I shall fail? I have so little steadiness—I have no
strength at all."
"You are not expected to have any, my little girl," answered the doctor
kindly. "If any one were to come forward to this ordinance, trusting
in his own strength he would be sure to fail. The only safety for you,
or any one, is in earnest prayer, and a full dependence on God for
help. Remember that you have all the power of God on your side, so long
as you persevere in asking for it. Trust all to your Saviour. Be not
troubled overmuch about yourself. 'Take no thought for the morrow: for
the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.' Every day has
its duty, and every duty has also its day; and I think I may safely
tell you, little Miss Much-afraid, that 'as your days, so shall your
strength be.'"
Sophie witnessed the Confirmation, and she was much affected when she
saw so many of her friends going forward to enroll themselves as the
soldiers of Christ, and she heartily wished herself among them. She
forgot her distrust of her mother and of Greta, and as the latter
stood before the altar looking more beautiful than ever, but evidently
entirely forgetful of every thing but the solemn vow she was about
make, she turned her eyes to her mother for sympathy.
Mrs. Kennedy pressed Sophie's hand warmly in hers, and the tears stood
in her eyes, as she prayed that her dear little charge, in proper time,
might stand in the same place and make the same offering of herself.
The solemn question was asked and the response given, and after prayers
the good bishop laid his hands on the heads of the young people
kneeling so humbly at the chancel rails, with those beautiful words
which have welcomed so many souls to new life and usefulness—
"Defend, O Lord, this thy servant with thy heavenly grace; that she may
continue thine for ever, and daily increase in thy Holy Spirit more and
more, until she come unto thy everlasting kingdom."
As the Reverend Father in God came round to Anne Weston and her
schoolmates, Carry Woodford who was sitting in the pew before Sophie
and her mother, put down her head and sobbed aloud. Her natural and
acquired levity was for the time subdued.
As Anne came out of the church, Carry took her hand and whispered,
"Please forgive me, Anne, for teasing you so. I am real glad you have
become confirmed, though I cannot myself."
Anne pressed her hand but did not reply, for she felt that she could
not speak just then.
Sophie had allowed Laura to tempt her into repeating a great many
little things which had occurred at home, such as always happen in
any family, and are of very little consequence unless told of abroad.
Every little jar in her own lessons or employments was also confided to
Laura, who did not fail to make the most of them.
Yet Laura was not without good qualities; her great trouble was, that
her mind and heart were entirely unoccupied. Her mother was a vain and
vulgar woman, who being without cultivation herself, was jealous of it
in every one else. Mrs. Bartlett professed great contempt for "literary
people," and thought women had enough to do to attend to their domestic
affairs, so she spent half her time in collecting news and the other
half in relating it. Under such influences Laura had grown-up, and it
was not wonderful that she should make gossip the employment of her
life. She retailed the stories which she extracted from Sophie's folly
and waywardness, with additions and embellishments of her own, for like
most other newsmongers, she never could tell any thing exactly as it
was told to her. Her mother did the same in her own circle of friends,
and it was soon the impression with many people that poor Sophie was
very unkindly treated by her stepmother, and that Mr. Kennedy had made
a most unfortunate match.
Three or four weeks after Easter, as Sophie was sitting with her
mother one afternoon, Mrs. Gaylord came in, and after a few moments'
conversation asked to speak with Mrs. Kennedy in private. Sophie left
the parlor and went up to her own room, feeling rather uncomfortably.
She was never without a lurking uneasiness lest her confidences to
Laura should bring her into trouble, and she felt almost sure that Mrs.
Gaylord had heard of them and was come to tell her mother.
The two ladies were closeted together for a long time, and as soon
as Mrs. Gaylord left, the tea-bell rung and Sophie was obliged to
go down. She ventured to glance at her mother's countenance once or
twice, and could not help thinking she looked very sadly, but she said
nothing. And Sophie could not make up her mind as to what had been the
subject of the conference. She had a feeling, however, that she had
been concerned in it. Sophie was right—Mrs. Gaylord had related to her
mother the reports in circulation, and concluded by saying—
"I should never have dreamed of bringing you this foolish tale, my dear
friend, had not Sophie been so deeply concerned in it, but both Laura
Bartlett and her mother declare that Sophie told them the stories in
the first place. And my Emma, who I may say without boasting is very
truthful, tells me that the girls at school all say that Sophie is in
the habit of speaking, not only to Laura, but even to other girls,
about things that happen at home. Laura is a very unsafe friend for any
girl, least of all for one so easily influenced as Sophie."
Mrs. Kennedy was too much shocked to answer, at first, and could only
express her obligations to her friend by pressing her hand. At last
she said,—"If any one else had told me such a story about my child, I
would not have believed it. But I fear it must be true. I have seen
many things in Sophie lately which have made me very uneasy and I
almost wish now that I had followed my first impulse, and forbidden
her to have any thing to do with Laura. But I had such a dread of a
neighborhood quarrel, that I concluded to let the matter rest, hoping
that Laura would soon leave town, and so an end would be put to the
affair."
Mrs. Gaylord rose to depart. "I think Mrs. Bartlett will hold her
peace, for her own sake, after what I have said," she remarked; "and as
for other people, it is of no consequence. In such a place as this, any
story soon dies out, if left to itself."
The next morning Sophie got her books as usual, and was about to sit
down to the piano, when Mrs. Kennedy said,—
"You may let your books be for the present, Sophie; I have something
else to talk to you about."
She then informed Sophie of what Mrs. Gaylord had told her, and ended
by saying—
"I should care very little about the matter, Sophie, if it had been an
ordinary piece of gossip, but that you should have been guilty of such
treachery, astonishes me beyond measure. I can hardly doubt that such
is the fact, but if you have any thing to say for yourself, I shall be
glad to hear it."
Sophie sat perfectly overwhelmed with confusion and shame, almost
wishing that she could sink into the earth, or be at once annihilated.
She dared not look up and meet her mother's eye, which she felt was
fixed upon her. At last she stammered:—
"I am sure I did not mean—I did not think Laura would go and tell!"
"How could you think otherwise? You know that she always repeats every
thing she hears. But even if she had never repeated a word, did that
justify you in slandering your mother?"
Sophie burst into a violent fit of weeping.
"Stop crying, Sophie, instantly," said Mrs. Kennedy.
Sophie had never heard such a tone from her mother before. She wiped
her eyes, and sat trembling like a leaf.
"Turn your face towards me," commanded her mother in the same tone.
Sophie obeyed, but she dared not look up.
"Now listen to me, and answer my questions, and be careful to tell me
the exact truth: Did you tell Laura, the day I would not let you go out
with her, that I would not permit you to do any thing you wished to,
that I made you stay at home all day because you did not know a lesson,
and that I kept you sewing from morning till night? Answer me!"
"Yes, ma'am," articulated Sophie, with difficulty.
"Is it true that I never let you do any thing you wish to, or that I
ever made you sew from morning till night?"
"No, mother," answered Sophie again.
"Did I ever restrain you from doing any thing which you yourself knew,
on reflection, to be right?"
"No, mother."
"Have I ever neglected, from the first moment I came into this house,
to provide every thing necessary for your comfort? Have I not taken
care of you when you were sick, and taught you when you were well? Dare
you say, this moment, that I have ever treated you unjustly once since
I came here?"
Sophie dared not say yes. She felt as if she were standing at the
judgment seat. For in her heart she knew that she had never received
any thing from her mother but kindness.
"Answer me, Sophie: yes or no."
"No, mother," said Sophie.
"So that all you have told Laura is false? Is it?"
"She is a good-for-nothing tattler!" exclaimed Sophie, trying to find
relief from her shame and remorse in violent indignation. "I wish she
was in the Red Sea."
"What she is, or is not, is not to the present purpose," answered Mrs.
Kennedy. "And if she is a tattler, you by your own confession are a
slanderer, and that of your own mother."
"I wish my own mother was alive," sobbed Sophie. "I wish I could die
and go to her."
"You are not worthy to take her name on your lips in such a spirit,
Sophie. She was a saint upon earth, as she is now a saint in heaven. I
trust she does not see her little girl as she is now."
"Oh dear! I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead!" sobbed Sophie.
"Are you prepared to die? Suppose God should at this moment take you at
your word, where would you be?"
Mrs. Kennedy was silent for some time, and then said in a tone of the
deepest sadness—
"I am sorry for you, my child; I do not know what to do for you. If in
a single outbreak of temper you had spoken so to Laura, I should think
little of it in comparison, though that would be bad enough. But again
and again you have told her and others, what was either entirely false,
or you have repeated things with a false coloring. I came here from a
very happy home, determined to devote my life to your advantage, and
since I came, I have labored in every way by teaching you, and working
for you, to make you good and happy. I have put aside my own tastes and
employments for your sake, and day and night I strove to behave to you
as your own blessed mother would have done. I thought I was succeeding,
and that you loved me as I did you I could not but perceive how much
you were improved inwardly, and I flattered myself that your heart and
mind grew in proportion.
"But it seems that I was mistaken: you have allowed the idle words of
a vulgar school-girl to have more weight with you than all my love
and care, and have given to her the confidence you denied to me. I do
not know what more I can do for you, since you think my care tyranny,
and treat my affection with contempt. What is to become of you if you
continue in this course, I do not know. You may go to your room and
remain there for the present. If we can do no more for you, we must
at least take care to save your reputation from irrevocable injury if
possible."
Sophie went to her room, and throwing herself upon the floor, gave way
to the wildest expressions of grief and anger, weeping and sobbing
and wringing her hands almost like a mad creature. But this could not
last long, the violence of the passion exhausted itself, and she began
against her will to think. Oh, how contemptible and mean she appeared
in her own eyes as she reviewed the course she had taken. She dared
not whisper even to herself that she had ever been unjustly treated by
her stepmother. Every kind word and act, every sacrifice for her sake,
seemed to rise up in judgment against her.
In that very room, her mother had sat up with her night after night
when she was sick, and had thought no pains too great to amuse and
comfort her. Her book-shelf filled with pretty volumes, her nice
dressing-case, the pretty prints on the walls, all witnessed against
her. Above all, her first mother's picture, which her stepmother had
copied and hung at the foot of the bed, and upon which her eyes first
rested on Christmas morning, how it reproached her! She dared not look
at it.
She felt indignant at Laura's treachery, but her conscience repeated to
her that she had known Laura before, even if she had not been warned
against her. Turn where she would, she saw no comfort. The girls at
school all knew how she had behaved. Greta and Harry would despise her,
and never want to have any thing more to do with her. Mrs. Gaylord
would never let her come and see Emma again. How could she even go into
the Sunday school? How could she go to church or into the street?
What would her father say? She had not thought of that before. Of
course he knew all about it—and what would he think of her? Would he
ever forgive her? She did not feel as if he could.
She did not dare to think of dying. What if she should die now, just as
she was? The idea was insupportable. She took a book from the shelf,
and thought she would read, but it was one her mother had given her,
and she hastily replaced it and took another. It was a Testament, and
her eyes fell upon the words, "It is a fearful thing to fall into the
hands of the living God:" she threw it from her as if it had stung her.
And at last, worn out with weeping, she threw herself upon the bed and
fell asleep.
She was awaked by Nancy, who brought up her dinner; and having arranged
it comfortably for her, and made up her fire, left the room without
speaking.
"Nancy is turned against me too," she thought. "I have not a friend in
the world; what will become of me?"
The afternoon passed wearily enough, and it seemed to Sophie as if it
would never be dark. She tried to sew, she tried to read, to draw,—but
she could fix her mind on nothing. She wished her mother would come and
see her. And yet when she heard her step in the hall, she trembled lest
she should enter. At last Jane, the housemaid, brought her tea, with a
lamp and a new magazine.
"Who told you to bring the magazine, Jane?" asked Sophie.
"Your mother, miss. She fixed the waiter for you, and got the quince
jelly herself. She has been lying down all the afternoon with a
headache, and looks dreadful pale. I heard your father ask her if he
should send for the doctor, but she said it was nothing much."
"Did papa say any thing about me, Jane?"
"No, miss, but he looked as if he felt very bad. If I was you, miss, I
should go and beg mamma's pardon, right off, whatever I had done, and
not stay shut up here. Only think how much better it would be."
Sophie shook her head.
"Well, miss, now I call that real naughty of you, when your mamma has
been so good to you. I'm sure you ought not to be proud."
"It's not that," said Sophie, "but I know she never would forgive me."
"Oh, nonsense, don't you believe it; I know better. But I must go and
wait on the table,—so good night, miss."
So, her mother was almost sick. Sophie felt that it was her fault, and
thought what would become of her if her mother should die. She looked
at the evidence of continued care on the neatly spread tea-board, and
the book she had sent her, and felt in her heart of hearts, that no own
mother could be more kind. The time passed slowly enough, and she went
to bed before nine o'clock, to try and forget her troubles. But she had
slept so long during the day, that she could not go to sleep at once,
and she felt almost afraid to do so.
She lighted her lamp again, and taking her Bible to read herself
sleepy, she opened to the parable of the prodigal son. She read it
through again and again.
"That is what I ought to do," she thought, "if only I could. But then
even if mother forgives me, it will never be again as it was before.
She will never trust me again—how can she? Oh, how I wish I could undo
it all! If I had only minded what she told me about Laura, it would
have been well enough. I made so many resolutions when I was sick, and
I have broken them all. Oh, dear me! I don't know what to do!"
Then another thought occurred to her which made her heart beat fast.
She had offended God as well as man, and her heavenly Father was angry
with her. How could she go to sleep without asking his forgiveness?
She knew now, why she had never kept her resolutions. She had learned
that in the Church Catechism, but she had never thought of it before as
she did now. She had never asked God for his special grace by diligent
prayer, though she had said her prayers a great many times.
Sophie had strong religious feelings, and had been well taught. And now
in her time of trouble, the good seed began to spring up. Thoughtfully
she turned over the leaves of her Bible, reading a few words here and
there, till she came to a chapter in Isaiah where were a few verses
marked by her mother's hand. She read:
"He was wounded for our sins and bruised for our transgressions; the
chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with his stripes we are
healed. All we, like sheep, have gone astray; we have turned every one
to his own way, and the Lord has laid on Him the iniquities of us all."
She knew very well to whom these words referred. "My sins too," she
said. She put down the book, and sat meditating with her eyes covered
with her hand for some minutes. Then she rose from her bed, and
kneeling down beside it, she remained in that position a long time.
When she arose, she was weeping, but not bitterly; and the hopeless
expression was gone from her face. She no longer felt forsaken of God;
and trusting that He had forgiven her, she felt sure her kind mother
would do the same.
At first she thought she would go to her at once, but she remembered
what Jane had said about her headache, and thought she would not
disturb her to-night. So she lay down again, and putting out her
light, was soon asleep. She did not sleep quietly, being tormented by
uncomfortable dreams, all relating to the events of the day. Several
times she awaked herself by talking, or started up in a great fright.
At last she thought that her mother was lying on the floor in the
schoolroom; that she was dying, and calling on her for help, while
Laura Bartlett held her fast and would not let her go. Oh, how she
struggled to get free, till some one pressed her hands softly, and
said, "Sophie! Sophie! What is the matter? Wake up, my child."
Then she opened her eyes, and knew it was all a dream. Her mother was
standing over her, holding her hands and speaking to her.
"Oh, mother!" she sobbed. "I thought you were dying, and I could not go
to you."
"You were dreaming, my child; lie down now, and I will sit by you till
you go to sleep."
Sophie threw her arms round her mother's neck as she bent to arrange
the pillow, and whispered, "Oh, mamma, I was so wicked!—But I am so
sorry! Can you ever forgive me, and love me again?"
Her mother kissed her, and said gently, "I forgive you, my daughter,
with all my heart. But, Sophie, there is another whom you have offended
more than you have me, and whose forgiveness you ought to ask—your
Father in heaven, my child."
"I have, mamma; I did before I went to sleep. But I don't see how you
can ever trust me again, or any one else."
"We will talk about that in the morning, Sophie. You must not expect to
escape from the consequences of your fault, even though you repent of
it. But we will talk of that another time."
"Does your head ache now, mamma?" asked Sophie, anxiously.
"It is better, though it aches a little. It has been very bad for a few
hours this afternoon."
"And that is my fault too. Oh dear! How much harm I have done! If I had
only minded you, mamma, it never would have happened. But you don't
know half I used to do. I am ashamed to think how I used to let Laura
talk to me."
"You must not be angry with Laura, Sophie."
"I am not, mamma, now. I was at first, but now I see it was all my own
fault. But please, mamma, go back to bed. Your head will soon be worse
than ever. I shall go to sleep now, I know; and I cannot bear to see
you look so pale. Please do go to bed."
Mrs. Kennedy yielded to Sophie's earnest entreaties, and retired,
thankful from her heart to find her so truly penitent. And Sophie,
after again saying her prayers, was soon asleep.
The next morning Mrs. Kennedy had a long conversation with Sophie on
the subject of her fault, in which the latter confessed without reserve
all that she had done. And her mother was encouraged to find that she
had no disposition to justify herself at Laura's expense.
Neither did she appear confident in her own resolutions, but said,
humbly, "I am afraid to make any promises, mamma, but I will try and
be a better girl than I have ever been, and I hope God will help me. I
don't want you to trust me, mamma, but I want to stay with you, and not
be sent away."
Sophie had rather feared she should be sent to school somewhere away
from home.
"I have no thought of sending you away, my daughter. On the contrary,
I shall keep you with me more than ever, and try to do more for you. I
hope you have learned by this time, Sophie, how foolish and dangerous
a thing it is to have secrets away from your parents. Depend upon
it, they are your best friends, and any thing which you are afraid
to confide to them must be wrong. I am glad to have you have friends
and playmates of your own age, but unless you are willing to have me
acquainted with all you do and say with them, they will do you more
harm than good. Many a girl has bitterly repented all her life that she
did not make a confidant of her mother instead of some one as foolish
as herself."
Mrs. Kennedy paused a few moments and then said, "I want you to go out
with me this morning."
"Where to, mamma?" said Sophie, rather unwilling to run the risk of
meeting any one, for she felt as if the whole world must know how
wicked she had been.
"Up to Mrs. Brown's, my love. Betsey—"
"Is she worse, mamma?" asked Sophie, seeing that she hesitated.
"She is dead, Sophie. She died last evening about dark."
Sophie burst into tears.
"She passed away without suffering, and apparently without waking up at
all."
"Then I am sure she waked up in heaven, mamma," said Sophie.
"I have no doubt of it, my dear. She was in heaven in spirit before she
died: I never saw a more perfectly Christian character. Dry your eyes
now, Sophie, and let us go and see if we can do any thing. Your father
and Mr. Carroll will pay the funeral expenses, and we must see that the
mother has proper clothes."
When they arrived at Mrs. Brown's, they were taken up into the room
where Betsey had suffered so long, and where her body now lay asleep to
await for the resurrection day! A neat cap hid the scar on her face,
and her hand held a sweet white rosebud. Sophie thought, as she looked
at her, that she had never seen any thing more beautiful.
"Are you afraid to sit here alone a few minutes, my dear?" said Mrs.
Kennedy. "Mrs. Hand has lain down, and I want to speak to nurse."
"No, mamma, I am not afraid; I do not think Betsey would hurt me, now
that she is an angel."
Sophie kneeled down by the body of her friend, when she was left alone;
and there, in the presence of death and of eternal life, she prayed
that her heart might be moved as Betsey's had been; and that she might
have grace henceforth to live, not to herself but to God; and that
following her Saviour all her life, she might meet Him at last in
heaven.
And God heard that prayer and answered it!