THE BABY.
FOR some time after the events recorded in the last chapter, Sophie
felt rather unwilling to go out, or meet any of her friends. For
she could not help feeling as if she had forfeited the respect and
affection of all those she most valued. She did not find, however,
that she was treated any less kindly by Harry and Greta, or that Mrs.
Gaylord was not glad to see her.
Laura left town immediately after the affair came out, and Sophie
was spared the embarrassment of meeting her. She wrote one letter to
Sophie, who showed it at once to her mother. Mrs. Kennedy could not
help smiling to see that Laura had already learned the history of every
one in the school, and was deep in all the gossip of the establishment.
She advised Sophie not to answer the letter.
"A correspondence with Laura will do you no good, and it will use up
time which would be much better employed by that young lady in learning
to spell, an accomplishment which she seems thus far to have neglected."
Sophie had learned a lesson which she never forgot. In the loneliness
of her chamber, face to face with her wounded conscience and her
God, she had found that all her own strength was the most miserable
weakness, her own resolutions worse than useless, unless supported upon
a higher Power. She had been deprived of all stay upon herself; had
been forced to see her own folly and sinfulness, and she had been led
to the Rock that was higher than herself—the Rock of Ages—that tried
stone, the precious Corner Stone, the Sure Foundation.
She had many a conflict with herself, more than ever, for many things
now appeared to her in the light of sins, which she had never thought
so before, and she could not look back upon her past life without shame
and self-reproach. But she fought bravely, and found her strength
and courage increasing with every victory. Many of her careless and
indolent habits she now saw were merely the indulgence of selfishness,
and she addressed herself with steadiness to break them off.
"Sophie has left every door in the house open." "Sophie, here are your
overshoes by the drawing-room fire." "Sophie, you have not mended your
stockings," were sentences much less frequently heard than formerly.
It was very hard for Sophie to answer in a good-natured tone when she
was reproved, and her mother advised her never to answer at all: she
found this an excellent plan, and I would advise all my young readers
to try it. You may possibly think that these are small things to make
matters of conscience, but depend upon it, unless you find yourself
applying the religious test to every-day duties, faults, and cares, you
have good reason to distrust yourself and your attainments.
We must now ask our readers to take a long step, and pass over an
interval of several months. It was now about a year since Sophie first
saw her new mamma; how long the time seemed to look back upon! She
had learned to think of her mother as her best friend, and turned
to her for advice as naturally as if she had never known any other
counsellor. The story which had originated in Sophie's indiscretion and
Laura's gossip, had long ago died out, as Mrs. Gaylord had predicted.
And the people who troubled themselves about the matter, had come to
the conclusion that Sophie was wonderfully improved in manners and
appearance, and much better dressed than formerly, so after all it
might be as well for her to have some one to take care of her.
One pleasant morning in September, Sophie was awakened very early by
some sudden noise which startled her very much, though she could not
tell what it was. She listened, but all in the house seemed quiet, so
she lay down and went to sleep again. This time she slept rather too
long, and when she awaked the second time, the sun shone brightly into
the room. Afraid of being too late for breakfast, she dressed hastily,
and as soon as she had finished her reading and prayer, which she now
never forgot, she went down into the parlor.
There was no one there! What could be the matter? Was any one sick?
Sophie was going to knock at her mother's door, when Nancy partly
opened it and looked out.
"Why, Nancy—" Sophie began hastily, but Nancy smiled and held up her
finger, and at that moment she heard a sound such as she had never
heard in the house before—it was the cry of a little baby.
Then she knew in a moment what had happened. Her heart beat faster than
it had done since the night she had stood at the hall-door, waiting for
her new mamma to get out of the carriage, and she trembled so that she
could hardly stand.
"Is that Sophie?" said a soft voice within. "Let her come in, nurse."
"Will you be very still, dear," said Nancy, "and not worry your mother?"
Sophie nodded, for she could not very well speak, and Nancy allowed
her to enter. A little fire was burning in the grate, and a strange
woman sat before it with something in her lap, but Sophie did not look
at her. She saw only her mother lying in bed, with her face almost as
white as the pillows. Mrs. Kennedy held out her hand to Sophie, and
kissed her very tenderly. I should not like to affirm that the little
girl did not shed a few tears, and even sobbed once or twice, but Nancy
said, that "'On the whole,' she behaved very well."
"Come here, Sophie," said her father, as soon as she was released from
her mother's embrace; "come and make acquaintance with this young
gentleman."
Sophie went towards the fireplace, and there, on the strange woman's
lap, lay a little baby—certainly the smallest baby in the world, Sophie
thought, though nurse declared it was a good big boy. Well, at any
rate, there he lay, with his eyes wide open, poking his little hands
about, and puckering his little red face into all sorts of odd shapes.
"What a darling little thing!" exclaimed Sophie. "But what funny faces
it makes up!"
"They always do so at first, miss," said the nurse. "See what pretty
little hands he has!"
Sophie slipped her little finger into one of them, and the tiny little
pink claws closed upon it, to her great delight. "See, papa, he is
holding my finger. What a dear little baby! When will he be old enough
to play, nurse?"
"Not in some time yet," said Nancy. "I expect you will be wanting him
to run about by next week."
"I am not quite so foolish as that," said Sophie, smiling. "I know
babies cannot walk and talk directly, but I shall want very much to see
him grow." She turned to her mother again, and a new fear entered her
mind, as she saw how pale she was.
"I am afraid you are very sick, mamma," said she, anxiously.
"No, my love, I am only weak. I do not think I am very sick. Now go
and make coffee for papa. You must be mistress for a while, till I get
about again."
Sophie was duly installed in her mother's place at the breakfast-table,
and filled her office with great propriety and dignity: her father
gratifying her by saying that he never drank a better cup of coffee. "I
am taller than I was the last time I made coffee for you, papa. Don't
you remember how I used to get the great Dictionary to sit upon, before
mamma came?"
"You are very much improved, my daughter," said her father, "especially
for the last few months. I hope you will continue to improve. Think
how soon you will be a young lady, and how much you will have to learn
before that time!"
"I am learning a great many things now, papa. I am going over the
arithmetic the second time, and I can do any sum in the book. How
stupid I used to be about it!"
"Do you think it was altogether stupidity, Sophie?"
"No, papa," answered Sophie, "I know it was not. I used to be vexed the
moment I could not do a sum, and then I would not try again. Now I like
it quite as well as French."
After breakfast, Sophie began to consider what she should set herself
about. She thought she would not practise, as that would disturb her
mother. So she took her slate and arithmetic, and worked an hour at
her sums with great perseverance. Then she went about the parlor, and
put all the tables and book-shelves in order, and arranged some late
flowers in the vases.
"I mean to try and keep the house looking just as it would if mamma
were about," she thought, "and have every thing pleasant for my father
when he comes in."
Finally, she took her sewing, and spent the rest of the morning in her
mother's room, sewing and watching the baby. What a surprising thing
that baby was! Every contortion of its little pink countenance, its
hands and feet, its cunning little ears, and the scanty locks of hair
which appeared when its cap was taken off, all were marvels in Sophie's
eyes. If she had not been a little anxious about her mother, she would
have been perfectly happy.
Every thing went on well, and in the course of a week Mrs. Kennedy was
able to sit up a little. Greta and Harry had seen the baby, and admired
it to Sophie's full content, but Emma Gaylord had rather affronted
her, by declaring that it had a funny lump of a nose, and that she
could not tell what color its eyes were—they seemed to her to be of
no color at all. As Mrs. Kennedy only laughed, and agreed with Emma
perfectly, Sophie could only take refuge with Nancy, who joined with
her in declaring that its eyes—bless 'em—were the perfect pattern of
its father's, and so was its nose.
One evening as Sophie was coming in from feeding her chickens, and
stopped a moment on the steps to take off her overshoes, she overheard
the following conversation between the nurse and Jane:
"Miss Sophie's very fond of her little brother," said Jane.
"She's a mighty pleasant child, any way," answered Mrs. Briggs, "and
takes to the mistress the same as if she were her own. But don't you
think, Jane, dear, she'll find a difference now?"
"What do you mean?" asked Jane.
"Oh, just this. I've seen a good many ladies that were very fond of
other children just as long as they had none of their own, but the
minute their own children came, they could not abide any others."
"It won't be so with Mrs. Kennedy, I am sure," said Jane; "she is
not one of that sort. She used to have a deal of trouble with Sophie
at first, but I never saw her one particle out of patience; not half
as much as many are with their own, and I don't believe it will be
different now."
"Well, maybe not. The lady is a good lady, to be sure, and its like she
will treat them all the same. I hope so, for Miss Sophie is that fond
of her, it will break her heart to be turned off."
This was all Sophie heard, but it was enough to fill her heart with
trouble. She was naturally inclined to be rather exacting of affection,
and perhaps a little jealous; and the thought that possibly her mother
would not love her as well, threw her into great distress. She did not
really believe that such would be the case, but she could not help
thinking about it. When she went to kiss her mother and the baby good
night, she approached the cradle with different feelings from what she
had done before: she felt almost angry with the little stranger, whom
she had been so glad to see. After she had retired to her room, she
sat for some time brooding over the uncomfortable idea which had taken
possession of her.
"But how foolish I am!" she finally said, half aloud. "I should think I
might have had enough of distrusting mother. I am sure she has not made
any difference, lately, and it will be time enough to think of it when
it comes."
So Sophie read her Bible and said her prayers, and with a resolute
effort dismissing the matter from her mind, she was soon asleep.
The next morning she had almost forgotten her distress, but it was
renewed in the course of the day by Mrs. Bartlett, who seemed destined
to be Sophie's evil genius. Mrs. Bartlett had kept away from Mrs.
Kennedy's, and had rather avoided meeting her, but the latter disliking
the idea of any thing like a quarrel, had called upon her, and made a
point of treating her politely. So Mrs. Bartlett came round to make
the proper inquiries for the health of Mrs. Kennedy and the baby, and
Sophie received her and answered her queries with due politeness.
"I suppose you will find yourself quite cast into the shade now, Miss
Sophie," said Mrs. Bartlett with her accustomed delicacy.
"Why, I don't know," replied the little girl, rather at a loss what to
say. "Why should I?"
"Oh, why—because the baby is almost always the most important
personage, you know—the oldest always has to be put out of the way
even when—" Mrs. Bartlett hesitated, and then went on in quite another
direction. "I suppose your mamma will not care to superintend your
education any more, now she has a baby of her own to occupy her.
Probably she will be thinking of a school for you."
"I don't know," said. Sophie again, feeling her heart grow suddenly
heavy. "She has never said any thing about any change."
"Of course she would not be likely to mention it to you, but Mrs. Stone
remarked to me that she heard your mamma making a great many inquiries
of Miss Crosset about the school she was at in H. And Mrs. Stone said
your mamma said, she was very much interested in the subject just now:
that's all."
Sophie, feeling herself very uncomfortable, was about to try and change
the subject, but Mrs. Bartlett continued—
"If your mamma should really intend to send you away, I can recommend
the school where Laura is. It is one of the most expensive in the city,
and very fashionable. The young ladies all take their own silver forks
and spoons and napkin-rings, and they are expected to dress for dinner
every day."
"One need not go away to school for that," remarked Sophie. "Mamma
always wants me to dress before dinner."
"Your mamma is right no doubt, Miss Sophie, but I think probably she
will not be so particular now. People are always more strict with other
people's children than their own. I suppose you are very fond of the
baby, are you not?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Sophie rather shortly.
"That is quite right: you ought to love him the same as if he were
your own brother. Many people say there need be no difference in the
feeling. I cannot see how that is possible myself, but no doubt it is.
So I hope you will not be jealous even if you find yourself cast quite
into the shade. You know it is natural for people to like their own
children best."
Sophie made no answer, and Mrs. Bartlett, having "freed her mind,"
finally departed, leaving the poor girl's heart full of trouble. In
vain she told herself that it was foolish to mind what Mrs. Bartlett
said, the words would constantly recur to her mind—"You know it is
natural for people to like their own children best."
To do her justice, she strove manfully against the feelings of anger
and jealousy which she was shocked to find arising in her heart, and
never gave way without a struggle, but it made her wretched to find
that she could feel so towards the darling little baby. Especially she
dreaded being sent away to school, and when she heard her mother say
that she would need several new dresses and other articles, she feared
it was with a view to her leaving home. She did not like to say any
thing about it to her mother for fear of distressing her, otherwise she
would have told her the whole story.
But Mrs. Kennedy had eyes and ears of her own, and she had become well
skilled in reading her daughter's looks and tones. She saw that Sophie
was unhappy, and guessed that some such ideas might be at the bottom of
the trouble, so she took the first opportunity of drawing her out.
"You may take this pleasant afternoon to go home and see your children,
Mrs. Briggs," said she one day not long after Mrs. Bartlett's visit.
"Sophie does not care about going out, and she will sit here and call
Nancy if any thing is wanted."
Mrs. Briggs was much obliged and prepared to be gone accordingly, and
as soon as they were alone, Mrs. Kennedy opened the subject.
"It seems to me, Sophie, that you have not been very happy for two or
three days. Has any thing happened to make you uncomfortable?"
"You will think me very foolish, mamma, and wrong too," said Sophie,
"but indeed I have tried all I can to help it."
"Help what, my dear?"
"Feeling jealous, mamma. I don't mean to, indeed; and I do love the
little fellow dearly," said Sophie almost crying. "I never should have
thought of it, but from something I heard."
"What did you hear, my child?"
Sophie related what she had overheard from the servants, and the
substance of Mrs. Bartlett's remarks.
"I wish Mrs. Bartlett—" began Mrs. Kennedy, in a tone of irritation
very uncommon with her, but she stopped and did not finish the sentence.
"Do say you wish she was in the Red Sea, mamma," said Sophie laughing.
"I should be delighted to hear you, just for once."
"You want me to be as bad as yourself, you saucy girl," said Mrs.
Kennedy, laughing in her turn. "But, really, I wish she lived anywhere
else. I do not wonder you were made uncomfortable by her remarks. Why
did you not tell me at the time, instead of fretting yourself ill over
it?"
"I was afraid of worrying you, mamma, as you were not very strong. And
besides, I did not really believe it after all, though I could not help
thinking of it. You do not mean to send me away, do you, mamma?" asked
Sophie very anxiously.
"No, my dear child," answered her mother, "I never thought of such a
thing. Of course I shall not have quite as much time to devote to your
lessons as formerly, and I intend that you shall have a music-master at
any rate, but I shall keep you at home as long as I can, I assure you.
I shall expect you to be very useful to me for the next few years, in
various ways. You will soon be able to take a great deal of care off my
hands, and that will be very desirable for you, in order that you may
learn housekeeping. Your father tells me that you have mended all his
stockings, and sewed on the buttons since I have been sick, and Nancy
says your room and clothes are in fine order. I am very much pleased
with your improvement in these matters."
"But do you think it is true, mamma, as Mrs. Bartlett says, that—that
baby and I, for instance, can never be the same as an own brother and
sister?"
"No, Sophie," said her mother, "I do not believe it at all. I have
seen large families situated in the same way, where no one would
have thought of there being any difference. No doubt in such cases,
jealousies do sometimes grow up, but it is almost always the result of
some such impertinent meddling as this of Mrs. Bartlett. I advise you
to set yourself entirely at rest about the matter, my dear, and as far
as you can dismiss it from your mind. If you are kind and patient with
baby, he will no doubt love you. As for myself, I make no promises. I
only ask you to judge for yourself, whether I make any difference. We
have said nothing about baby's name yet; what would you like to have
him called?"