"The first one that I looked at cost twelve shillings," replied Ethel,
"and I thought I could spare that much."
"Then if I pay you twelve shillings more, you can procure the chair,
and yet have something to spare. Can you earn so much?"
Ethel thought she could, as there would be no school.
And Mr. Beckford put the three half-dollars into her hand, saying, as
he did so, "It is a pleasure to me to pay you this money, because I am
perfectly sure you will be honest about it."
"Mr. Beckford would not say so if he knew—" thought Ethel, and she
almost wished to tell him the whole story; but shame or shyness kept
her silent.
She bought the chair, and arranged that it should not be sent home till
after seven o'clock, when she knew that her father and mother would
be gone to evening service, while she would be at home with the boys.
She finished her other shopping with a great deal of pleasure, making
her money stretch far enough to buy something for her father and the
boys, a pretty book for Abby, and a carved ivory case containing a yard
measure for Aunt Sally, whom she had heard lamenting the mysterious
disappearance of hers a few days before.
"Well, my daughter, you have made a long morning of it," said her
mother, as she entered the house. "Did you find what you wanted?"
"Oh yes, mother, just exactly what I wanted, and I had four shillings
left. How nice it seems to spend money that one has earned, doesn't it?"
"Yes, my dear, it is very pleasant. But I have been busy as well as
you: see here—" And opening the parlor door, she showed Ethel the room
beautifully decorated with evergreens, mixed with the red berries of
the mountain ash.
"O mother, how pretty—how very pretty!" exclaimed Ethel. "It looks
almost as pretty as the drawing room in the old house. But it will look
prettier yet when—" she caught herself up, finishing her sentence in
quite another way. "I think we shall have a pleasant Christmas after
all, mother."
"I think so too, my darling—and Ethel, if you do enjoy Christmas, I
hope you will not forget to thank the Giver of that and all your other
pleasures."
"I have a great deal to be thankful for—more than you know of, mother,"
replied Ethel in a low voice. "I will tell you after to-morrow. I would
tell you now—only—"
"I can trust you, Ethel," said her mother. "Now go and put your parcels
away before the boys come in: I think your presents will make them very
happy."
When Ethel reached her room, she bolted her door, and remained alone
for some time. When she came down again, her mother perceived that
she had been crying, but her face was so full of peace and quiet
contentment, that she would not run the risk of disturbing it by asking
her any questions.
Ethel had carried her sins, her temptations, and her thankfulness
to the foot of the Cross, and she felt that she had there received
forgiveness for the past, and strength for the future. Her late
experience had taught her that when left to herself, she was not only
no better, but it seemed not half as good as the people she had been
looking down upon for two or three days, and she had learned a lesson
of humility and self-distrust destined to be the beginning of a new
spiritual life in her soul.
The chair came at eight o'clock while her parents were in church,
and just after the boys had gone to bed, and was safely housed for
the night in a closet opening from the hall. Something else came
too—namely, an invitation from Mrs. Sarah Bertie to the whole family to
spend Christmas evening at her house, "to meet a very few friends."
When Mrs. Fletcher returned, she decided that Aunt Sally's invitation
must be accepted as a matter of course, and Ethel went to bed very
tired but very happy, and expecting a pleasant Christmas day.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Fourth.
ON Christmas morning Ethel was awakened just as the church clocks were
striking six. She jumped up at once, and lighting her candle, and
partly dressing herself, she went down stairs to dispose her presents
in the dining room.
"How cold it is!" she said, shivering, after she had finished her
arrangements.
Just then her eye fell upon the basket of kindlings and charcoal set
ready for morning use.
"I mean to make the fires," she continued, "and then it will be nice
and warm for father and mother when they come down."
No sooner said than done. Her hands defended by her dusting gloves, she
cleaned out the grate, got the fire going, and filled the tea-kettle.
Then she lighted the dining room fire, which being of wood, was quickly
despatched, and all being finished, she hastened up-stairs, and shut
her own door just as her father opened his.
"Merry Christmas, papa!" she cried out, after he had reached the bottom
of the stairs.
"Thank you, my dear, the same to you. But what is this? The witches
have been busy here, I think: or was it a little Christmas fairy which
did my work before I was up? I think the fairy had better come down and
get warm!"
[Illustration: "It is, indeed, my own dear little chair; but where did
it come from? I never expected to see it again." CHRISTMAS EARNINGS.]
"She will, papa, as soon as she gets her shoes and stockings on. It is
so cold now-a-days, that fairies have to wear something warmer than
rose-leaves."
Ethel finished her dressing and ran down as quickly as she could, to
enjoy her mother's first sight of the present.
"What is here?" asked Mrs. Fletcher, the chair catching her eye the
moment she entered the room. "It is, indeed, my own dear little chair;
but where did it come from? I never expected to see it again."
"A fairy brought it," said Mr. Fletcher, "and the same fairy has kindly
made my fires for me this cold morning. Seriously, my dear Amber,
Ethel discovered your favorite seat in a shop, and repurchased it
with a great part of her earnings and some of her holiday time, for I
understand she has to work two days yet to finish paying for it."
"So this was your secret!" said Mrs. Fletcher, kissing Ethel. "My dear
child, you could not have found any present that I should value so
much."
"That was not all the secret, mother," said Ethel. And she told her
father and mother how she had been tempted to spend the money that was
not hers, and what had saved her from doing so. "You don't know how
ashamed I felt, mother," she concluded, "when Mr. Beckford praised me
for being honest."
"I dare say!" said her mother. "You ought to be very thankful, my
darling child, that God has mercifully kept you from so great a sin."
"Indeed I am, mother; I shall always think of it when I look at that
chair. Suppose I had bought it, and then Mr. Beckford had come after
the money, what should I have done? But I hope I shall never be tempted
in that way again."
"That is, perhaps, rather too much to expect," said Mrs. Fletcher. "We
must always be subject to temptation as long as we live in the world,
but you may safely hope that God will give you strength to overcome, as
He has at this time."
The entrance of the boys here interrupted the conversation, and Ethel
had the pleasure of hearing them say, as they pulled out the contents
of their stockings, that their presents were just what they wanted.
"Now if we could only have the school-children," she thought, "I
wouldn't ask any more: but we cannot, and so I won't make myself
uncomfortable with thinking about it."
All the family went to Church, of course, and as they entered the
porch they met Abby, who was waiting to give a Christmas greeting to
Ethel. The two families sat near each other, and after the sermon and
offertory (for which Ethel had a ten-cent piece ready) the two girls
walked away together.
"Have you had any presents, Ethel?" asked Abby.
"No," replied Ethel, "you know I told you that I did not expect any.
But I have got one for you, Abby. I hope you will like it."
"I am sure I shall," said Abby, squeezing her hand. "It was very good
of you to spend your earnings for me, and I shall think a great deal
more of it on that account. I have one for you too, but I thought I
would keep it till this evening. You are invited to Aunt Sally's, I
suppose."
"Of course!" said Ethel. "We are all going."
"Was she very angry when she found out about your earning money?" asked
Abby. "I was afraid she would be so vexed that she would not give you
any Christmas present."
"She was angry at first," replied Ethel, "but she got over it. I do
like her, after all, Abby; she is so straightforward. I don't mean
about talking," she continued, seeing Abby laugh: "she is rather too
straightforward about that sometimes; but in things like this, for
instance. She wanted me to give it all up, but as soon as I told her
that I had made a bargain, and ought not to give it up, she agreed with
me directly. She made me a tempting offer too;" and she repeated her
aunt's proposition.
"You are a good girl, Ethel," said Abby, sighing. "I wish I was."
"I am sure you are quite as good as I am," returned Ethel, now really
feeling what she said. "You are a great deal more good-natured, and
I am sure you are a better scholar. But don't let us talk about
ourselves—tell me what presents you had."
The girls chatted merrily all the way home, and Ethel enjoyed the walk
very much. Some apple pies had been made, and Uncle George's turkey
got ready for roasting the day before. And now Ethel, having taken off
her church dress, busied herself in washing the potatoes and other
vegetables, and in setting the table: for they were to have rather an
early dinner, Aunt Sally having particularly requested them to be at
her house as early as half-past six o'clock.
The turkey and apple pies turned out exceedingly well, and Mr.
Mortimer's preserved ginger was declared excellent by all but little
Sidney, who complained that it bit him, and declared a preference for
apple-sauce. Then all set to work to clear away the dishes, and put the
house in order previous to dressing.
And the appointed hour found them at Aunt Sally's, the first of the
guests except Mr. Simonton. There was a noise in the kitchen which
rather surprised Mrs. Fletcher, who knew her aunt to be a strict
disciplinarian in all such matters. But Mrs. Bertie did not seem to be
at all disturbed by it.
It was nearly half-put seven when Mrs. Coles arrived, and as she sailed
into the drawing room, rustling in flounced brocade and resplendent in
ornaments, she was met with a sharp reproof from her aunt for being so
tardy.
"When I say half-past six, I mean half-past six," she replied to her
niece's excuses. "I don't mean seven nor eight. As to staying to dress,
you would have looked much better in my opinion if you had not dressed
so much. And that child, Abby, in pink silk! I thought you had more
sense."
"I told you so, mother!" said Abby in a whisper. "I knew Aunt Sally
would not like it. It looks just as if we were trying to outshine
Cousin Amber and Ethel."
If such were the case, neither Cousin Amber nor Ethel was disturbed
at it. Ethel was fast learning wisdom by the things she suffered, and
was in fair way of becoming as philosophical as could reasonably be
expected of a little girl of twelve years old.
"Well, we are all here at last," said Mrs. Bertie finally, after she
had smoothed her ruffled plumes a little. "Now, Mr. Simonton, do your
part."
Mr. Simonton smiled, rubbed his hands, bowed his old-fashioned bow
to Mrs. Bertie, and glided from the room, and the company looked at
each other, while Mrs. Bertie stood fanning herself in silence. It was
evident that something rather unusual was going on.
There was a trampling of little feet on the basement stairs, and in
the closed back parlor, then a sudden cessation of noise, and finally
a score of childish voices led by Mr. Simonton raised the glorious
old-fashioned Gloria in Excelsis. At the same moment the folding
doors were thrown open, and the eyes of the guests were greeted by an
unexpected sight. Two beautiful Christmas trees blazed with colored
lights and sugar ornaments, while around the larger one were grouped
some twenty little children, rather poorly dressed, but all evidently
in the highest spirits, and full of smiles at seeing Mr. and Mrs.
Fletcher, who on their part felt as if in a dream, as they recognized
the familiar faces of their Sunday scholars.
Good Mr. Simonton rubbed his hands and brushed up his spruce gray
whiskers, singing all the while in his splendid tenor voice, just as he
did when he led the children in Sunday-school.
[Illustration: THE CHRISTMAS TREE]
"There, nephew and niece Fletcher," said Mrs. Bertie, sweeping up to
the table when the anthem was finished, and laying her withered hand
glittering with diamonds upon the head of the nearest child; "this is
your Christmas present. I felt sure that neither of you would enjoy
your Christmas unless you had a parcel of poor children round you: so
knowing Mr. Simonton to be superintendent of your Sunday-school, I
employed him to collect these little folks together to meet you this
evening."
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Aunt Sally," said Mr.
Fletcher as soon as he could find his voice. "Nothing in the world
could have given me greater pleasure. The thought of being no longer
able to do any thing for these little ones, has been one of the
bitterest things I have experienced in all my reverses. I hope—"
And here Mr. Fletcher broke down entirely, and had recourse to his
handkerchief, while Mr. Simonton rubbed his spectacles and cleared his
throat, and Mr. and Mrs. Coles looked on in silent amazement.
"Nonsense, nephew Fletcher," said Mrs. Sally, while the bright drops
stood on her own lashes. "I have given you trouble enough in the course
of my life, and I dare say I shall give you plenty more if I live, for
I am rather too old to change my ways. But come, give your protégés
their presents and dainties, and let them go home before it grows late,
as they have already been kept longer than I intended. Nephew Coles,
if you have done staring, perhaps you will be able to render some
assistance."
In fact, Mr. and Mrs. Coles were to the last degree astonished. Mrs.
Bertie, as we have already remarked, was at first very angry at Mr.
Fletcher, and Mr. Coles had left no opportunity untried of fostering
the feeling. He had relied upon the knowledge of Ethel's late business
transactions to put the climax to his aunt's discontent, knowing
how nervously sensitive she was to any thing which touched what she
considered the honor of the family. And now to see her taking so much
pains, and going to such an expense to feast "a parcel of dirty little
Irish young ones—" so did Mr. Coles mentally designate these lambs of
the flock,—for no other purpose than to give pleasure to this very
offending nephew Fletcher—he was utterly confounded, and began to think
Mrs. Bertie had lost her wits.
Mrs. Bertie, however, seemed to be in full possession of her faculties.
She went around among the children, laughing and joking, inquiring
their names, ages, and circumstances, seeing that all were helped, and
making herself so agreeable that the children were perfectly delighted
with her. Indeed, one little girl declared to her companions, as they
were putting on their hoods to go home, that Mrs. Bertie was exactly
like the fairy godmother in Cinderella; which speech being overheard by
the girls and repeated to their aunt, greatly amused and delighted the
old lady, who declared it to be the prettiest compliment she had had
since she was a young girl.
No one in the world could be pleasanter than Mrs. Sally when she was
pleased; and this evening she seemed resolved to be pleased with every
thing and everybody. The presents were remarkably well chosen, except
that Mr. Simonton made a grimace at a diamond ring, and declared that
people would think he was growing a beau in his old age. Abby had a
gold necklace and her mother a gold bracelet, which the latter secretly
thought was not half as handsome as she expected. Ethel had a new
paint-box and a complete set of Miss Yonge's books, with which she was
greatly delighted.
"I have a present for you, Aunt Sally," she said modestly. "It is only
a yard-ribbon, but I thought you would like it, because I bought it
with my own earnings."
"Umph!" said her aunt. "What made you think so?"
"I don't know," replied Ethel, "unless it is because I should feel so
myself."
"Really, Ethel, you are a rational child, all things considered. Yes,
my dear, I am much pleased with it, and shall value it greatly—though
mind, that is not saying that I approve of your working for money. What
have you there, Abby?"
"A pin-cushion, aunt. I did not earn the money, like Ethel, but I hope
you will like it."
"Thank you, my dear—it is very pretty, indeed. Did you make it all
yourself?"
"No, aunt," replied Abby, honestly, disregarding her father's signs
for silence. "I wanted to do every stitch of it, but mother thought it
would not be pretty enough, so our sewing girl did all but the filling
up. But I mean to do the next one all myself—see if I don't."
"That is right, Abby. Speak the plain truth, whatever you do. Now for
the rest of the things."
Abby's present to Ethel was a pretty little silver-mounted magnifying
glass, an instrument for which she had heard her cousin express a wish
some time before. Mrs. Coles had no present for Ethel; and the reason
was this: she had purchased a frock for Abby, but, upon examination,
there were found in it several blemishes, which she knew very well
would be enough to make Abby refuse to wear it; whereupon she resolved
that the said frock should be her Christmas present to Ethel, who, she
thought, might by this time be glad to have a new frock, even if it
were not very perfect. She had sent it round to Aunt Sarah Bertie's for
this purpose, but Aunt Sarah had not brought it forward. Mrs. Coles
drew her aside, and inquired the reason.
"What a dunce you are, niece Coles!" was the polite reply. "Don't you
see that your cousin Fletcher would be very much hurt at your giving
her daughter a frock which you did not consider good enough for your
own? I am surprised at you."
"Well, I don't know," replied Mrs. Coles; "I should think, when they
are not above letting Ethel work for money, they need not be offended
at her receiving a present of any sort of a dress. But I suppose you
know best; only I shall not have any present for Ethel, that's all, and
I should not like to have them think I meant to neglect the child, now
that times are changed with them."
"That last remark has some sense in it," said Mrs. Bertie. "I'll manage
it for you."
And returning to the company, she said to Ethel, "There was a mistake
about your cousin Coles' present for you, child, which mistake was
partly mine; so you must not feel hurt about it."
"Of course not," said Mrs. Fletcher, seeing that Ethel did not know
exactly how to reply. "Ethel has had too many proofs of her cousin's
kindness to doubt it, and she has had quite presents enough for once."
"Well," said Mrs. Coles to herself, "I am nicely out of the scrape;
but, after all, I don't see why she should not have been glad of the
dress."
The evening passed off very pleasantly to all concerned, especially
to the children, who thought Aunt Sally had never been so agreeable
before. The party broke up at an early hour, and they found themselves
at home before half-past ten o'clock.
"Well, Ethel," said Mrs. Fletcher, "this Christmas, which you dreaded
so much, has turned out pleasantly after all, has it not?"
"Yes, indeed, mother, though I came pretty near to spoiling it too. Was
it not kind of Aunt Sally to get the school-children together to meet
us?"
"It was indeed," said Mr. Fletcher. "I never experienced a pleasanter
surprise in my life."
"How odd she is!" continued Ethel. "She never does any thing like any
one else. I don't mean ever to get out of patience with her again, if I
can help it."
"A good resolution, as regards her or any one else," said Mrs.
Fletcher, smiling. "Now go to bed, and don't keep awake to read your
new books."
It was rather hard for Ethel to put the new books aside on Monday
morning, and sit down to the pictures, which had now become an old
story, and especially difficult to say "no," when Abby, with a whole
sleigh-load of the school-girls, came for her to take a ride. But the
chair was before her to remind her of her debt, and Ethel persevered so
steadily, that by ten o'clock on Wednesday morning they were all done
and carried home.
Mr. Beckford praised her punctuality, and begged leave to present her
with a new book in token of his regard.
So Ethel returned home, feeling as though the holidays were going to be
as happy as any she had ever spent.
Pleasant indeed they were, though destined to have rather a sorrowful
termination. As the family were sitting at the breakfast table the
morning after New Year's day, a hasty ring was heard at the door, and a
messenger announced the sudden death of Mrs. Sally Bertie. She had not
rung her bell at the usual time, and her maid going to her room, found
her dead in her bed. She must have expired some hours before, as she
was quite cold, and her features and limbs were composed, as though she
had passed away in her sleep.
Mrs. Bertie had left written directions for her funeral along with her
will, in the hands of Mr. Simonton; and according to the tenor of them,
the families of both her nephews were provided with handsome mourning
at her expense.
The funeral was put off for a week, greatly to the secret annoyance of
Mr. Coles, who was all impatience to have the will opened. He had long
felt pretty sure in his own mind that Abby would be her aunt's heiress,
but recent events had somewhat shaken his confidence, and he felt
rather nervous about it. As he told his wife in the carriage going up
to the cemetery, "She was such an unaccountable old piece, no one ever
knew where to have her, or what to expect from her."
"For shame! father," said Abby, who had not been brought up to be as
respectful in her manners as was desirable. "How dare you speak so of
poor Aunt Sally, now she is dead and gone? I am sure she was always
good to us." And Abby, who really loved Aunt Sally for her own sake,
began to cry afresh.
Mr. Coles was silent, and Mrs. Coles made a moral reflection upon the
vanity of earthly things. She always had a moral reflection ready for
every occasion, and Aunt Sally used to tell her that she talked like a
copy-book.
After the funeral, the family again met at the house to hear the
reading of the will.
Mr. Coles' face was properly solemn, but he could not help glancing
around the rooms and estimating the probable value of the furniture,
&c. Mrs. Coles had already decided that she should send it all to
auction, or perhaps give it to her cousin Fletcher. Abby and Ethel sat
side by side on the sofa, Ethel holding poor little Fido, who missed
his kind mistress sadly, and watched the door eagerly with his black
eyes, as though he expected to see her enter! As often as a hand was
laid on the lock, he brightened up and wagged his tail; and at every
fresh disappointment, he gave a little whine, and drew up closer to
Ethel, as though asking her sympathy in his bereavement.
When Mr. Simonton finally read the will, it astonished every one but
himself. Mrs. Bertie began by bequeathing her wardrobe and her jewels,
of which she had a splendid collection, to her grandniece Abby Coles,
and a thousand dollars to Abby's father. The house, with its contents,
was given to Ethel, on condition that she should take care of the dog
and parrot as long as they lived. Three or four valuable pictures,
and a cabinet of shells, were to go to Mr. Simonton; there were some
legacies to servants, and then all the rest of her property, amounting
to about sixty thousand dollars, was bequeathed "to my beloved nephew
George Fletcher, in whose integrity and Christian principles I have the
utmost confidence." There was no condition attached, but Mrs. Bertie
expressed a wish that her cousin should live in the house, and keep the
furniture, at least till Ethel should come of age.