forcibly impressed on her imagination, it caused temporary suspension
of her reasoning faculties. Hope was too strong a stimulus for her
spirits; and when fear did take possession of her mind, it was attended
with total debility. Her vanity was now as much mortified as in the
morning it had been elated. She walked on with Mrs. Villars in silence
until they came under the shade of the elm tree walk, and then, fixing
her eyes upon Mrs. Villars, she stopped short.
"Do you think, madam," said she, with hesitation, "do you think, madam,
that I have a bad heart?"
"A bad heart, my dear! Why, what put that into your head?"
"Leonora said that I had, ma'am, and I felt ashamed when she said so."
"But, my dear, how can Leonora tell whether your heart be good or bad?
However, in the first place, tell me what you mean by a bad heart."
"Indeed, I do not know what is meant by it, ma'am; but it is something
which every body hates."
"And why do they hate it?"
"Because they think that it will hurt them, ma'am, I believe; and that
those who have bad hearts take delight in doing mischief; and that they
never do any body good but for their own ends."
"Then the best definition which you can give me of a bad heart is that
it is some constant propensity to hurt others, and to do wrong for the
sake of doing wrong."
"Yes, ma'am, but that is not all neither; there is still something
else meant; something which I cannot express—which, indeed, I never
distinctly understood; but of which, therefore, I was the more afraid."
"Well, then, to begin with what you do understand, tell me, Cecilia,
do you really think it possible to be wicked merely for the love of
wickedness? No human being becomes wicked all at once; a man begins by
doing wrong because it is, or because he thinks it is for his interest;
if he continues to do so, he must conquer his sense of shame, and lose
his love of virtue. But how can you, Cecilia, who feel such a strong
sense of shame, and such an eager desire to improve, imagine that you
have a bad heart?"
"Indeed, madam, I never did, until every body told me so, and then I
began to be frightened about it. This very evening, ma'am, when I was
in a passion, I threw little Louisa's strawberries away; which, I am
sure, I was very sorry for afterwards; and Leonora and every body cried
out that I had a bad heart; but I am sure that I was only in a passion."
"Very likely. And when you are in a passion, as you call it, Cecilia,
you see that you are tempted to do harm to others; if they do not feel
angry themselves, they do not sympathize with you; they do not perceive
the motive which actuates you, and then they say that you have a bad
heart. I dare say, however, when your passion is over, and when you
recollect yourself; you are very sorry for what you have done and said;
are not you?"
"Yes, indeed, madam, very sorry."
"Then make that sorrow of use to you, Cecilia, and fix it steadily in
your thoughts, as you hope to be good and happy, that, if you suffer
yourself to yield to your passion upon every trifling occasion, anger
and its consequences will become familiar to your mind; and in the same
proportion your sense of shame will be weakened, till what you began
with doing from sudden impulse you will end with doing from habit and
choice; and then you would, indeed, according to our definition, have a
bad heart."
"Oh, madam! I hope—I am sure I never shall."
"No, indeed, Cecilia; I do, indeed, believe that you never will; on the
contrary, I think that you have a very good disposition, and, what is
of infinitely more consequence to you, an active desire of improvement.
Show me that you have, as much perseverance as you have candour, and I
shall not despair of your becoming every thing that I could wish."
Here Cecilia's countenance brightened, and she ran up the steps in
almost as high spirits as she ran down them in the morning.
"Good night to you, Cecilia," said Mrs. Villars, as she was crossing
the hall.
"Good night to you, madam," said Cecilia; and she ran up stairs to bed.
She could not go to sleep, but she lay awake reflecting upon the events
of the preceding day, and forming resolutions for the future; at the
same time, considering that she had resolved, and resolved without
effect, she wished to give her mind some more powerful motive; ambition
she knew to be its most powerful incentive.
"Have I not," said she to herself, "already won the prize of
application, and cannot the same application procure me a much higher
prize? Mrs. Villars said that if the prize had been promised to the
most amiable, it would not have been given to me; perhaps it would not
yesterday—perhaps it might not to-morrow; but that is no reason that I
should despair of ever deserving it."
In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia formed a design of proposing
to her companions that they should give a prize, the first of the
ensuing month (the first of June), to the most amiable. Mrs. Villars
applauded the scheme, and her companions adopted it with the greatest
alacrity.
"Let the prize," said they, "be a bracelet of our own hair." And
instantly their shining scissors were procured, and each contributed a
lock of her hair. They formed the most beautiful gradation of colours,
from the palest auburn to the brightest black. Who was to have the
honour of plaiting them was now the question.
Caroline begged that she might, as she could plait very neatly, she
said.
Cecilia, however, was equally sure that she could do it much better,
and a dispute would inevitably have ensued, if Cecilia, recollecting
herself just as her colour rose to scarlet, had not yielded—yielded
with no very good grace indeed, but as well as could be expected for
the first time. For it is habit which confers ease; and without ease,
even in moral actions, there can be no grace.
The bracelet was plaited in the neatest manner by Caroline, finished
round the edge with silver twist, and on it was worked, in the smallest
silver letters, this motto, TO THE MOST AMIABLE. The moment it was
completed, every body begged to try it on. It fastened with little
silver clasps, and as it was made large enough for the eldest girls, it
was too large for the youngest; of this they bitterly complained, and
unanimously entreated that it might be cut to fit them.
"How foolish!" exclaimed Cecilia. "Don't you perceive that, if you win
it, you have nothing to do but to put the clasps a little further from
the edge? But if we get it, we can't make it larger."
"Very true," said they, "but you need not to have called us foolish,
Cecilia!"
It was by such hasty and unguarded expressions as these that Cecilia
offended; a slight difference in the manner makes a very material one
in the effect. Cecilia lost more love by general petulance than she
could gain by the greatest particular exertions.
How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect, how far she
became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given,
shall be told in the history of the first of June.
———————————
CONTINUATION OF THE BRACELETS.
THE first of June was now arrived, and all the young competitors were
in a state of the most anxious suspense.
Leonora and Cecilia continued to be the foremost candidates; their
quarrel had never been finally adjusted, and their different
pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a reconciliation.
Cecilia, though she was capable of acknowledging any of her faults
in public before all her companions, could not humble herself in
private to Leonora; Leonora was her equal, they were her inferiors;
and submission is much easier to a vain mind, where it appears to be
voluntary, than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or candour.
So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth that she even delayed making
any apology, or coming to any explanation with Leonora, until success
should once more give her the palm.
If I win the bracelet to-day, said she to herself; I will solicit the
return of Leonora's friendship; it will be more valuable to me than
even the bracelet; and at such a time, and asked in such a manner, she
surely cannot refuse it to me. Animated with this hope of a double
triumph, Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity; by constant
attention and exertion she had considerably abated the violence of her
temper, and changed the course of her habits. Her powers of pleasing
were now excited, instead of her abilities to excel; and, if her
talents appeared less brilliant, her character was acknowledged to be
more amiable; so great an influence upon our manners and conduct have
the objects of our ambition. Cecilia was now, if possible, more than
ever desirous of doing what was right, but she had not yet acquired
sufficient fear of doing wrong. This was the fundamental error of her
mind; it arose in a great measure from her early education.
Her mother died when she was very young; and though her father had
supplied her place in the best and kindest manner, he had insensibly
infused into his daughter's mind a portion of that enterprising,
independent spirit, which he justly deemed essential to the character
of her brother. This brother was some years older than Cecilia, but he
had always been the favourite companion of her youth; what her father's
precepts inculcated, his example enforced, and even Cecilia's virtues
consequently became such as were more estimable in a man than desirable
in a female.
All small objects and small errors she had been taught to disregard as
trifles; and her impatient disposition was perpetually leading her into
more material faults; yet her candour in confessing these, she had been
suffered to believe, was sufficient reparation and atonement.
Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by her mother in
a manner more suited to her sex, had a character and virtues more
peculiar to a female; her judgment had been early cultivated, and her
good sense employed in the regulation of her conduct; she had been
habituated to that restraint, which, as a woman, she was to expect in
life, and early accustomed to yield; compliance in her seemed natural
and graceful.
Yet, notwithstanding the gentleness of her temper, she was in reality
more independent than Cecilia; she had more reliance upon her own
judgment, and more satisfaction in her own approbation. Though far
from insensible to praise, she was not liable to be misled by the
indiscriminate love of admiration; the uniform kindness of her manner,
the consistency and equality of her character, had fixed the esteem and
passive love of her companions.
By passive love, we mean that species of affection which makes us
unwilling to offend, rather than anxious to oblige; which is more a
habit than an emotion of the mind. For Cecilia, her companions felt
active love, for she was active in showing her love to them.
Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, after feeling particular
instances of kindness, without reflection on the past conduct or
general character; it exceeds the merits of its object, and is
connected with a feeling of generosity, rather than with a sense of
justice.
Without determining which species of love is the more flattering to
others, we can easily decide which is the most agreeable feeling to
our own minds; we give our hearts more credit for being generous than
for being just; and we feel more self-complacency when we give our
love voluntarily, than when we yield it as a tribute which we cannot
withhold. Though Cecilia's companions might not know all this in
theory, they proved it in practice; for they loved her in a much higher
proportion to her merits than they loved Leonora.
Each of the young judges were to signify their choice by putting a
red or a white shell into a vase prepared for the purpose. Cecilia's
colour was red, Leonora's white. In the morning nothing was to be seen
but these shells, nothing talked of but the long-expected event of the
evening. Cecilia, following Leonora's example, had made it a point of
honour not to inquire of any individual her vote previous to their
final determination.
They were both sitting together in Louisa's room; Louisa was recovering
from the measles. Every one, during her illness, had been desirous of
attending her; but Leonora and Cecilia were the only two that were
permitted to see her, as they alone had had the distemper. They were
both assiduous in their care of Louisa; but Leonora's want of exertion
to overcome any disagreeable feelings of sensibility often deprived her
of presence of mind, and prevented her being so constantly useful as
Cecilia. Cecilia, on the contrary, often made too much noise and bustle
with her officious assistance, and was too anxious to invent amusements
and procure comforts for Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes
away the power of enjoying them.
As she was sitting in the window in the morning, exerting herself to
entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an old pedlar who often used
to come to the house. Down stairs she ran immediately to ask Mrs.
Villars's permission to bring him into the hall.
Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran to proclaim the news to
her companions; then first returning into the hall, she found the
pedlar just unbuckling his box, and taking it off his shoulders. "What
would you be pleased to want, Miss?" said he. "I've all kinds of
tweezer-cases, rings, and lockets of all sorts," continued he, opening
all the glittering drawers successively.
"Oh!" said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of lockets which tempted her
most. "These are not the things which I want; have you any china
figures, any mandarins?"
"Alack-a-day, Miss, I had a great stock of that same china ware, but
now I'm quite out of them kind of things; but I believe," said he,
rummaging in one of the deepest drawers, "I believe I have one left,
and here it is."
"Oh, that is the very thing! What's its price?"
"Only three shillings, ma'am." Cecilia paid the money, and was just
going to carry off the mandarin, when the pedlar took out of his
greatcoat pocket a neat mahogany case; it was about a foot long, and
fastened at each end by two little clasps; it had besides a small lock
in the middle.
"What is that?" said Cecilia, eagerly.
"It's only a china figure, Miss, which I am going to carry to an
elderly lady, who lives nigh at hand, and who is mighty fond of such
things."
"Could you let me look at it?"
"And welcome, Miss," said he, and opened the case.
"O goodness! How beautiful!" exclaimed Cecilia.
It was a figure of Flora, crowned with roses, and carrying a basket
of flowers in her hand. Cecilia contemplated it with delight. "How I
should like to give this to Louisa," said she to herself; and at last
breaking silence, "Did you promise it to the old lady?"
"O no, Miss; I didn't promise it—she never saw it; and if so be that
you'd like to take it, I'd make no more words about it."
"And how much does it cost?"
"Why, Miss, as to that, I'll let you have it for half-a-guinea."
[Illustration]
Cecilia immediately produced the box in which she kept her treasure,
and emptying it upon the table, she began to count the shillings; alas!
there were but six shillings.
"How provoking!" said she. "Then I can't have it—where's the mandarin?
O I have it," said she, taking it up, and looking at it with the utmost
disgust. "Is this the same that I had before?"
"Yes, Miss, the very same," replied the pedlar, who, during this time,
had been examining the little box out of which Cecilia had taken her
money; it was of silver.
"Why, ma'am," said he, "since you've taken such a fancy to the piece,
if you've a mind to make up the remainder of the money, I will take
this here little box, if you care to part with it."
Now this box was a keepsake from Leonora to Cecilia.
"No," said Cecilia hastily, blushing a little, and stretching out her
hand to receive it.
"Oh, Miss!" said he, returning it carelessly. "I hope there's no
offence; I meant but to serve you, that's all. Such a rare piece of
china-work has no cause to go a begging," added he, putting the Flora
deliberately into the case; then turning the key with a jerk, he let it
drop into his pocket: and lifting up his box by the leather straps, he
was preparing to depart.
"Oh, stay one minute!" said Cecilia, in whose mind there had passed
a very warm conflict during the pedlar's harangue. "Louisa would so
like this Flora," said she, arguing with herself; "besides, it would
be so generous in me to give it to her instead of that ugly mandarin;
that would be doing only common justice, for I promised it to her, and
she expects it. Though, when I come to look at this mandarin, it is
not even so good as hers was; the gilding is all rubbed off, so that
I absolutely must buy this for her. O yes, I will, and she will be so
delighted! And then every body will say it is the prettiest thing they
ever saw, and the broken mandarin will be forgotten forever."
Here Cecilia's hand moved, and she was just going to decide: "O! But
stop," said she to herself; "consider Leonora gave me this box, and it
is a keepsake. However, now we have quarreled, and I dare say that she
would not mind my parting with it; I'm sure that I should not care if
she was to give away my keepsake the smelling bottle, or the ring which
I gave her. So what does it signify; besides, is it not my own, and
have I not a right to do what I please with it?"
At this dangerous instant for Cecilia, a party of her companions opened
the door; she knew that they came as purchasers, and she dreaded her
Flora's becoming the prize of some higher bidder.
"Here," said she, hastily putting the box into the pedlar's hand,
without looking at it; "take it, and give me the Flora."
Her hand trembled, though she snatched it impatiently. She ran by,
without seeming to mind any of her companions—she almost wished to turn
back.
Let those who are tempted to do wrong by the hopes of future
gratification, or the prospect of certain concealment and impunity,
remember that, unless they are totally depraved, they bear in their own
hearts a monitor who will prevent their enjoying what they have ill
obtained.
In vain Cecilia ran to the rest of her companions, to display her
present, in hopes that the applause of others would restore her own
self-complacency; in vain she saw the Flora pass in due pomp from hand
to hand, each vieing with the other in extolling the beauty of the
gift and the generosity of the giver. Cecilia was still displeased
with herself, with them, and even with their praise; from Louisa's
gratitude, however, she yet expected much pleasure, and immediately she
ran up stairs to her room.
In the mean time Leonora had gone into the hall to buy a bodkin; she
had just broken hers. In giving her change, the pedlar took out of his
pocket, with some half-pence, the very box which Cecilia had sold him.
Leonora did not in the least suspect the truth, for her mind was above
suspicion; and besides, she had the utmost confidence in Cecilia.
"I should like to have that box," said she, "for it is like one of
which I was very fond."
The pedlar named the price, and Leonora took the box; she intended to
give it to little Louisa.
On going to her room she found her asleep, and she sat down softly by
her bed-side. Louisa opened her eyes.
"I hope I didn't disturb you," said Leonora.
"O no; I didn't hear you come in; but what have you got there?"
"It is only a little box; would you like to have it? I bought it on
purpose for you, as I thought perhaps it would please you; because it's
like that which I gave Cecilia."
"O yes! That out of which she used to give me Barbary drops. I am very
much obliged to you. I always thought that exceedingly pretty; and
this, indeed, is as like it as possible. I can't unscrew it; will you
try?"
Leonora unscrewed it.
"Goodness!" exclaimed Louisa. "This must be Cecilia's box; look, don't
you see a great L at the bottom of it?"
Leonora's colour changed. "Yes," she replied calmly, "I see that, but
it is no proof that it is Cecilia's; you know that I bought this box
just now of the pedlar."
"That may be," said Louisa; "but I remember scratching that L with my
own needle, and Cecilia scolded me for it, too. Do go and ask her if
she has lost her box—do," repeated Louisa, pulling her by the sleeve,
as she did not seem to listen.
Leonora indeed did not hear, for she was lost in thought; she was
comparing circumstances which had before escaped her attention. She
recollected that Cecilia had passed her as she came into the hall,
without seeming to see her, but had blushed as she passed. She
remembered that the pedlar appeared unwilling to part with the box, and
was going to put it again into his pocket with the half-pence.
"And why should he keep it in his pocket and not show it with his other
things?"
Combining all these circumstances, Leonora had no longer any doubt of
the truth; for though she had honourable confidence in her friends, she
had too much penetration to be implicitly credulous.
"Louisa," she began, but at this instant she heard a step, which, by
its quickness, she knew to be Cecilia's, coming along the passage. "If
you love me, Louisa," said Leonora, "say nothing about the box."
"Nay, but why not? I dare say she has lost it."
"No, my dear, I am afraid she has not."
Louisa looked surprised.
"But I have reasons for desiring you not to say any thing about it."
"Well, then, I won't, indeed."
Cecilia opened the door, came forward smiling, as if secure of a good
reception, and, taking the Flora out of the case, she placed it on the
mantel-piece, opposite to Louisa's bed.
"Dear, how beautiful," cried Louisa, starting up.
"Yes," said Cecilia, "and guess who it's for?"
"For me, perhaps!" said the ingenuous Louisa.
"Yes, take it, and keep it for my sake; you know that I broke your
mandarin."
"O! But this is a great deal prettier and larger than that."
"Yes, I know it is; and I meant that it should be so. I should only
have done what I was bound to do if I had only given you a mandarin."
"Well, and that would have been enough, surely; but what a beautiful
crown of roses! And then that basket of flowers! They almost look as
if I could smell them. Dear Cecilia! I'm very much obliged to you, but
I won't take it by way of payment for the mandarin you broke; for I'm
sure you could not help that; and, besides, I should have broken it
myself by this time. You shall give it to me entirely, and I'll keep it
as long as I live as your keepsake."
Louisa stopped short and coloured. The word keepsake recalled the box
to her mind, and all the train of ideas which the Flora had banished.
"But," said she, looking up wishfully in Cecilia's face, and holding
the Flora doubtfully, "did you—"
Leonora, who was just quitting the room, turned her head back, and gave
Louisa a look, which silenced her.
Cecilia was so infatuated with her vanity, that she neither perceived
Leonora's sign, nor Louisa's confusion, but continued showing off her
present, by placing it in various situations, till at length she put it
into the case, and laying it down with an affected carelessness upon
the bed. "I must go now, Louisa. Good bye," said she, running up and
kissing her; "but I'll come again presently;" then clapping the door
after her, she went.
But as soon as the fermentation of her spirits subsided, the sense
of shame, which had been scarcely felt when mixed with so many other
sensations, rose uppermost in her mind.
"What?" said she to herself. "Is it possible that I have sold what
I promised to keep for ever? And what Leonora gave me? And I have
concealed it too, and have been making a parade of my generosity. O!
What would Leonora, what would Louisa, what would every body think of
me, if the truth were known?"
Humiliated and grieved by these reflections, Cecilia began to search in
her own mind for some consoling idea. She began to compare her conduct
with the conduct of others of her own age; and at length, fixing her
comparison upon her brother George, as the companion of whom, from her
infancy, she had been habitually the most emulous, she recollected that
an almost similar circumstance had once happened to him, and that he
had not only escaped disgrace, but had acquired glory by an intrepid
confession of his fault. Her father's words to her brother, on that
occasion, she also perfectly recollected.
"Come to me, George," he said, holding out his hand; "you are a
generous, brave boy. They who dare to confess their faults will make
great and good men."