Edward; 'and Harriet, take your new sister with you, and help her to
entertain your friends.'
Yes, he called me Harriet again, and afterwards invented new names for
his daughter and me, and always called us by them, apparently in jest;
yet I knew it was only because he would not hurt me with hearing our
names reversed. When Sir Edward desired us to show the children into
another room, Ann and I walked towards the door. A new sense of
humiliation arose. How could I go out at the door before Miss Lesley? I
stood irresolute. She drew back. The elder brother of my friend Augustus
assisted me in this perplexity. Pushing us all forward, as if in a
playful mood, he drove us indiscriminately before him, saying:
'I will make one among you to-day.'
He had never joined in our sports before.
My luckless play, that sad instance of my duplicity, was never once
mentioned to me afterwards, not even by any one of the children who had
acted in it, and I must also tell you how considerate an old lady was at
the time about our dresses. As soon as she perceived things growing very
serious, she hastily stripped off the upper garments we wore to
represent our different characters. I think I should have died with
shame if the child had led me into the drawing-room in the mummery I had
worn to represent a nurse. This good lady was of another essential
service to me, for, perceiving an irresolution in everyone how they
should behave to us, which distressed me very much, she contrived to
place Miss Lesley above me at table, and called her Miss Lesley, and me
Miss Withers, saying at the same time in a low voice, but as if she
meant I should hear her,
'It is better these things should be done at once, then they are over.'
My heart thanked her, for I felt the truth of what she said.
My poor mother continued very ill for many weeks. No medicine could
remove the extreme dejection of spirits she laboured under. Sir Edward
sent for Dr. Wheelding, the clergyman of the parish, to give her
religious consolation. Every day he came to visit her, and he would
always take Miss Lesley and me into the room with him.
My heart was softened by my own misfortunes, and the sight of my
penitent, suffering mother. I felt that she was now my only parent. I
strove, earnestly strove, to love her; yet ever when I looked in her
face, she would seem to me to be the very identical person whom I should
have once thought sufficiently honoured by a slight inclination of the
head, and a civil, 'How do you do, Mrs Withers?' One day, as Miss Lesley
was hanging over her with her accustomed fondness, Dr. Wheelding reading
in a Prayer-Book, and, as I thought, not at that moment regarding us, I
threw myself on my knees, and silently prayed that I, too, might be able
to love my mother.
Dr. Wheelding had been observing me. He took me into the garden, and
drew from me the subject of my petition.
'Your prayers, my good young lady,' said he, 'I hope, are heard. Sure I
am they have caused me to adopt a resolution which, as it will enable
you to see your mother frequently, will, I hope, greatly assist your
pious wishes. I will take your mother home with me to superintend my
family. Under my roof doubtless Sir Edward will often permit you to see
her. Perform your duty towards her as well as you possibly can.
Affection is the growth of time. With such good wishes in your young
heart, do not despair that in due time it will assuredly spring up.'
With the approbation of Sir Edward and Lady Harriet, my mother was
removed in a few days to Dr. Wheelding's house. There she soon
recovered! there she at present resides. She tells me she loves me
almost as well as she did when I was a baby, and we both wept at parting
when I went to school.
[Illustration]
_THE INQUISITIVE GIRL._
ANON.
Dr. Hammond was a physician in great practice in the West of England. He
resided in a small market-town, and his family consisted of one son
named Charles, and two daughters, Louisa and Sophy.
Sophy possessed many amiable qualities, and did not want for sense, but
every better feeling was lost in her extreme inquisitiveness. Her
faculties were all occupied in peeping and prying about, and, provided
she could gratify her own curiosity, she never cared how much vexation
she caused to others.
This propensity began when she was so very young that it had become a
habit before her parents perceived it. She was a very little creature
when she was once nearly squeezed to death between two double doors as
she was peeping through the keyhole of one of them to see who was in the
drawing-room; and another time she was locked up for several hours in a
closet in which she had hid herself for the purpose of overhearing what
her mother was saying to one of the servants.
When Sophy was eleven and her sister about sixteen years old their
mother died. Louisa was placed at the head of her father's house, and
the superintendence of Sophy's education necessarily devolved on her.
The care of such a family was a great charge for a young person of Miss
Hammond's age, and more especially as her father was obliged to be so
much from home that she could not always have his counsel and advice
even when she most needed it. By this means she fell into an injudicious
mode of treating her sister.
If Louisa received a note she carefully locked it up, and never spoke of
its contents before Sophy. If a message was brought to her she always
went out of the room to receive it, and never suffered the servant to
speak in her sister's hearing. When any visitors came Louisa commonly
sent Sophy out of the room, or if they were intimate friends she would
converse with them in whispers; in short, it was her chief study that
everything which passed in the family should be a secret from Sophy.
Alas! this procedure, instead of repressing Sophy's curiosity, only made
it the more keen; her eyes and ears were always on the alert, and what
she could not see, hear, or thoroughly comprehend she made out by
guesses.
[Illustration: If Louisa received a note she carefully locked it up.]
The worst consequence of Louisa's conduct was that as Sophy had no
friend and companion in her sister, who treated her with such constant
suspicion and reserve, she necessarily was induced to find a friend and
companion amongst the servants, and she selected the housemaid Sally, a
good-natured, well-intentioned girl, but silly and ignorant and
inquisitive like herself, and it may be easily supposed how much
mischief these two foolish creatures occasioned, not only in the family,
but also amongst their neighbours.
It happened soon after that, for an offence which was the cause of very
great vexation to her brother, and was the occasion of his being for a
time deprived of the friendship of Sir Henry and Lady Askham, two of Dr.
Hammond's nearest and most intimate neighbours, her father ordered
Sophy, as a still further punishment, to be locked up in her own room
till the Sunday following. This was on Friday, and Sophy had two days of
solitude and imprisonment before her. The first day she passed very
dismally, but yet not unprofitably, for she felt truly ashamed and sorry
for her fault, and made many good resolutions of endeavouring to cure
herself of her mischievous propensity. The second day she began to be
somewhat more composed, and by degrees she was able to amuse herself
with watching the people in the street, which was overlooked by the
windows of her apartment, and she began, almost unconsciously to
herself, to indulge in her old habit of trying to find out what
everybody was doing, and in guessing where they were going.
She had not long been engaged in watching her neighbours before her
curiosity was excited by the appearance of a servant on horseback, who
rode up to the door, and, after giving a little three-cornered note to
Dr. Hammond's footman, rode off. The servant she knew to be Mrs.
Arden's, an intimate friend of her father, and the note she conjectured
was an invitation to dinner, and the guessing what day the invitation
was for, and who were to be the company, and whether she was included in
the invitation, was occupying her busy fancy, when she saw her sister
going out of the house with the three-cornered note in her hand, and
cross the street to Mr. McNeal's stocking shop, which was opposite.
Almost immediately afterwards Mr. McNeal's shopman came out of the shop,
and, running down the street, was presently out of sight, but soon
returned with Mr. McNeal himself. She saw Louisa reading the note to Mr.
McNeal, and in a few minutes afterwards returned home. Here was matter
of wonder and conjecture. Sophy forgot all her good resolutions, and
absolutely wearied herself with her useless curiosity.
At length the term of her imprisonment was over, and Sophy was restored
to the society of her family. At first she kept a tolerable guard over
herself. Once she saw her father and sister whispering, and did not,
though she longed much to do it, hold her breath that she might hear
what they were saying. Another time she passed Charles's door when it
was ajar and the little study open, and she had so much self-command
that she passed by without peeping in, and she began to think she was
cured of her faults. But in reality this was far from being the case,
and whenever she recollected Mrs. Arden's mysterious note she felt her
inquisitive propensities as strong as ever. Her eyes and ears were
always on the alert, in hopes of obtaining some clue to the knowledge
she coveted, and if Mrs. Arden's or Mr. McNeal's names were mentioned
she listened with trembling anxiety in the hope of hearing some allusion
to the note.
At last, when she had almost given up the matter in despair, an
unlooked-for chance put her in possession of a fragment of this very
note to which she attached so much importance.
One day Louisa wanted to wind a skein of silk, and in looking for a
piece of paper to wind it upon she opened her writing-box, and took out
Mrs. Arden's note. Sophy knew it again in an instant from its
three-cornered shape. She saw her sister tear the note in two, throw
one-half under the grate, and fold the other part up to wind her silk
upon. Sophy kept her eye on the paper that lay under the grate in the
greatest anxiety, lest a coal should drop upon it and destroy it, when
it seemed almost within her grasp. Louisa was called out of the room,
and Sophy, overpowered by the greatness of the temptation, forgot all
the good resolutions she had so lately made, and at the risk of setting
fire to her sleeve, snatched the paper from amongst the ashes, and
concealed it in her pocket. She then flew to her own room to examine it
at her case. The note had been torn lengthway of the paper, and that
part of it of which Sophy had possessed herself contained the first half
of each line of the note. Bolting her door for fear of interruption, she
read, with trembling impatience, as follows:
'Will you
be kind enough to go to
Mr. McNeal, and tell him
he has made a great mistake
the last stockings he sent;
(charging them as silk) he has cheated
of several pounds.--I am sorry to say
that he has behaved very ill
And Mr. Arden tells me that
it must end in his being hanged
I am exceedingly grieved
but fear this will be the end.'
[Illustration: She read it with trembling impatience.]
When Sophy had read these broken sentences she fancied that she fully
comprehended the purport of the whole note, and she now saw the reason
of her sister's hastening to Mr. McNeal's immediately on the receipt of
the note, and of the hurry in which he had been summoned back to his
shop. It appeared very clear to her that he had defrauded Mrs. Arden of
a considerable sum of money, and that he was no longer that honest
tradesman he had been supposed. The weight of this important discovery
quite overburdened her, and, forgetful of her past punishment, and
regardless of future consequences, she imparted the surprising secret
to Sally. Sally was not one who could keep such a piece of news to
herself; it was therefore soon circulated through half the town that Mr.
McNeal had defrauded Mrs. Arden, and that Mr. Arden declared he would
have him hanged for it. Several persons in consequence avoided Mr.
McNeal's shop, who saw his customers forsaking him without being able to
know why they did so. Thus the conduct of this inconsiderate girl took
away the good name of an honest tradesman, on no better foundation than
her own idle conjectures drawn from the torn fragments of a letter.
Mr. McNeal at length became informed of the injurious report that was
circulated about him. He immediately went to Mrs. Arden to tell her of
the report, and to ask her if any inadvertency of his own in regard to
her dealings at his shop had occasioned her speaking so
disadvantageously of him. Mrs. Arden was much astonished at what he told
her, as she might well be, and assured him that she had never either
spoken of him nor thought of him but as thoroughly an honourable and
honest tradesman. Mrs. Arden was exceedingly hurt that her name should
be attached to such a cruel calumny, and, on consulting with Sir Henry
Askham, it was agreed that he and Mrs. Arden should make it their
business to trace it back to its authors. They found no great difficulty
in tracing it back to Sally, Dr. Hammond's servant. She was accordingly
sent for to Mr. McNeal's, where Sir Henry Askham and Mr. Arden, with
some other gentlemen, were assembled on this charitable investigation.
Sally, on being questioned who had told her of the report replied,
without hesitation, that she had been told by Miss Sophy, who had seen
all the particulars in Mrs. Arden's handwriting.
Mr. Arden was greatly astonished at hearing this assertion, and felt
confident that the whole must have originated from some strange blunder.
He and the other gentlemen immediately proceeded to Dr. Hammond's, and
having explained their business to him, desired to see Sophy. She, on
being asked, confirmed what Sally had said, adding that to satisfy them
she could show them Mrs. Arden's own words, and she accordingly produced
the fragment of the note. Miss Hammond, the instant she saw the paper
recollected it again, and winding off the silk from the other half of
Mrs. Arden's note, presented it to Mr. Arden, who, laying the two pieces
of paper together, read as follows:
'My Dear Miss Hammond,--Will you as soon as you receive this be
kind enough to go to your opposite neighbour, Mr. McNeal, and
tell him I find by looking at his bill he has made a great
mistake as to the price of the last stockings he sent; and it
seems to me (by not charging them as silk) he has cheated
himself, as he'll see, of several pounds.--I am sorry to say of
our new dog, that he has behaved very ill and worried two sheep,
and Mr. Arden tells me that he very much fears it must end in
his being hanged or he'll kill all the flock. I am exceedingly
grieved, for he is a noble animal, but fear this will be the end
of my poor dog. 'I am, dear Louisa, yours truly,
'Mary Arden.'
Thus by the fortunate preservation of the last half of the note the
whole affair was cleared up, Mrs. Arden's character vindicated from the
charge of being a defamer, and Mr. McNeal from all suspicion of
dishonesty. And all their friends were pleased and satisfied. But how
did Sophy feel? She did feel at last both remorse and humiliation. She
had no one to blame but herself; she had no one to take her part, for
even her father and her brother considered it due to public justice that
she should make a public acknowledgment of her fault to Mr. McNeal, and
to ask his pardon.
[Illustration]
_THE LITTLE BLUE BAG._
ALICIA CATHERINE MANT.
'I think,' said Agnes Clavering, a child of about eight years of age--'I
think I should like to give that pretty blue bag I admired so much the
other day at the Bazaar to my cousin Laura. She likes blue, and I know
she wishes for a new bag.'
'You will do very well, Agnes, in thus spending a part of your allowance
of pocket-money,' replied Mrs. Clavering. 'Laura is one of the kindest
little girls I know, and, being one of a large family, cannot have so
many indulgences as yourself; and I am always glad when I see you bear
this in mind.'
'I shall give it her on New Year's Day,' continued Agnes, after a few
minutes of thoughtfulness, 'for it was on that day of this year that she
gave me that pretty purse of her own making; and I shall buy a gold
thimble to put in it, and a pretty little pair of scissors with a gold
sheath, and a tortoiseshell box for needles, and some ivory winders for
cotton.'
'All these together,' replied Mrs. Clavering, 'will make a very handsome
present, and I am sure that Laura will be much pleased with it. But do
you know how long it is to New Year's Day?'
'No, mother; I do not,' replied Agnes.
'Nearly six weeks,' said Mrs. Clavering; 'but you may make your
purchases the first time we walk through the Bazaar, and then you will
have them ready against the time you require them.'
Nothing more passed at that time on the subject of the blue bag, and
that and several following days being wet, there was no opportunity of
visiting the Bazaar. During this time Mrs. Clavering and Agnes went to
dine with Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and when Agnes, on going to play with her
cousins after dinner, saw Laura's shabby workbasket, and heard her
complain of having broken her needle and hurt her finger by a hole in
her thimble, Agnes felt very glad that she had happened to recollect
what Laura wanted. She could hardly help telling her what was in
preparation for her. More than once it was on the very tip of her
tongue, and the secret certainly would have been revealed had not little
Augusta Parker suddenly fallen against a table, which stood in the
corner of the play-room and thrown its contents on the floor.
'Oh, Augusta!' said Laura, in a tone of vexation; but she checked
herself, and helping the little girl to rise, kindly asked her if she
had hurt herself.
The child, however, was unhurt, and knowing that Laura would be vexed at
the upset she had occasioned, she crept to the other end of the room,
and began playing with her little brothers.
'Oh, what beautiful shells!' said Agnes. 'Where did you get them, and
why did you not show them to me, Laura? I am so fond of shells!' For it
was a box of shells which the little Augusta had thrown off the table.
'I did not mean you to see them yet,' replied Laura--'not till the box
was full; but it does not signify now,' added the placid little girl;
and the two children sat down together to examine this little mine of
treasures.
Agnes was not at all envious of Laura's box of shells, but Agnes would
very much have liked to have had a box with shells placed in them
exactly as Laura's were. It was one of her failings to wish to have the
same toy or the same trinket which she saw in the possession of other
little girls. It was not her desire to deprive them of theirs, but she
wished to possess something exactly similar, and it had been her
misfortune from the moment of her being able to form any wishes to have
them immediately gratified. The consequence was that she was whimsical
and capricious. The favourite wax doll of to-day would be discarded on
the morrow for one of wood if she saw one of that sort in the hands of
another. Her playthings never pleased her more than two or three days,
and at the end of this time a string of new desires arose, which she
knew would be immediately met, and which consequently led the way to
others. She had only to ask and have, and this facility gradually
produced a sort of selfishness which her mother was vexed at perceiving.
Agnes was kind-hearted, and always willing that others should be
gratified, but not at her expense; and Mrs. Clavering saw that, while
any little present the child made to her friends, or charity bestowed on
some poor object, occasioned no deprivation to herself, the motives for
both could not be pure.
When she had reached her eighth year, therefore, early as it might seem,
Mrs. Clavering had set aside a purse for the use of her little girl,
which she told her was all that would be expended for her amusements
during the year, and she was anxious to see how far this arrangement
might be a check on the boundless wishes of the little Agnes. Hitherto
Agnes had gone on very well. Her father's presents, in spite of her
mother's remonstrances, had kept the purse nearly full, and at the
latter end of January it would be again replenished. But her father was
now from home. It might so happen that he would be absent till that
time, and Agnes knew that she must now use her means with caution.
As she was returning with her mother home in the carriage from her
uncle's, Agnes said:
'I should so very much like a box of shells.'
'And have you not as much pleasure in looking at Laura's?' replied Mrs.
Clavering. 'And do you not think she has some pleasure in showing you
what you have not of your own? It is very seldom indeed that she can
have this pleasure, for you have everything, and a great deal more than
she has. It so happens in this case that her father's brother has given
her what I think it would be hardly in the power of your father to buy,
for he brought them from abroad. And I hope you will be satisfied to see
them when you are with your cousin, and be very careful of expressing
any wish for them before her. For you know that she has more than once
offered you such little trifles as you have wished for when you have
seen them in her possession.'
'Oh, mother,' said Agnes, with eagerness, 'I do not want Laura's shells,
indeed! I only wanted some like them. But I will try and not think of
the shells.'
'You should not do this, Agnes,' said Mrs. Clavering; 'you should try
and think of them without wishing for them. But here we are at home.'
A few days after this a lady called on Mrs. Clavering to invite her to
go with her to look at some old china, and Agnes received permission to
be of the party. While the two ladies were occupied with the master of
the shop in looking through his assortment of china, the master's wife
very good-naturedly busied herself with Agnes, and endeavoured to amuse
her by showing her many curiosities contained on her numerous shelves.
Amongst the rest she exhibited some drawers of shells, some of which
were so like those which Agnes had seen in Laura's box that she began to
long for them, and as the prices were marked, and they did not appear
very expensive, she whispered to her mother and asked if she might
purchase them.
'Can you afford it?' whispered Mrs. Clavering in reply, and stroking at
the same time the blooming cheek that rested against hers.
'I think I can, mother,' again whispered Agnes, in a very coaxing
manner.
'If you are _sure_ you can,' once more whispered Mrs. Clavering, 'you
may; but remember the blue bag.'
Agnes returned to the tempting shell-drawer. Mrs. Clavering advanced the
money to pay for the new purchases, and on their return home Agnes
begged her mother would directly pay herself from her own purse.
'And, mother,' continued Agnes, 'I think the thimble shall be of silver
instead of gold, for a gold one will cost a great deal of money. And I
never use a gold one, and why should I give Laura one?'
'I see no reason why, certainly,' answered Mrs. Clavering, 'excepting
that it was your own proposal. I should have thought that a silver one
was quite as well, if not better; but I did not like to check your wish
of making a handsome present to your cousin. Let it be silver, if you
please; but take care that you keep money enough to pay for that, and
the other articles which you design putting into the New Year's
present.'
'Oh, I shall have plenty now, mother,' returned Agnes; 'but I think I
could not have afforded the gold thimble.'
And she went to her play-room to look at her shells, put them in order,
and see how many were wanting to complete the number which her cousin
possessed.
It now occurred to her that a box to contain them was indispensable, and
the footman's brother being a carpenter, she desired him to get one made
for her. It was soon completed, and when it came home, and was paid for,
Agnes found that it had cost just the difference between a silver and a
gold thimble. She proceeded to place her shells in order, but the box
was not half full, and while thus occupied a visitor called, who was
accompanied by her young son and a beautiful little white dog, and this
little white dog and his master called off her attention for a while
from her shells.