Lucy stood the picture of disappointment, and screwed up her little face
ready for a good cry, when Mama said, "Look, dear, here is a note in the
work-basket."
Lucy waited for her cry to hear if there was any good news in the note.
"Read it, please, Mama," said Milly, putting the paper into her mother's
hands. She had caught a glimpse of what was written, and she could not
bear to read out the words which she knew were coming.
"For dear Milly, hoping she will like her god-mama's choice." Not a
word about either Lena or Lucy.
The latter set up a howl of disappointment, but Lena said never a word.
Her disappointment was very great--she had so made up her mind that she
would be remembered, and had spoken so decidedly on the subject before
them all. Her heart swelled with feelings of wounded pride,
disappointment, and anger, for at the moment she was angry, not only
with herself for having so hoped for it, but with Mrs. Clifford, who she
considered had behaved very unkindly to her. Though why Mrs. Clifford
should have sent her a present she could not have told you herself.
"May Lena have the hat, and me the basket, Mania?" asked Milly
pleadingly. "You like the hat best, don't you, Lena?"
Mrs. Graham was trying to comfort the weeping Lucy, who refused to be
comforted, and wept and raved at the cruelty of every one in general and
Mrs. Clifford in particular.
"No, Milly, I don't want the hat: they were both sent to you; of course
she likes you best--every one does." And with these words, and without
a kind look or word of thanks to her sister, Lena left the room.
Poor Milly! Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at the presents
that but a few minutes before she had thought of with such pleasure.
Mrs. Graham came to her side, and lifting up her face, kissed her, and
whispered, "My poor little Milly, this is a sad way to receive your
present."
"O Mama, I wish it had never come. I can never wear the hat."
"No," screamed Lucy, "it's a nasty hat--I'll spoil it," and she seized
the unoffending hat roughly; but Mrs. Graham at once took it from her,
and handing it to Milly, said, "Put it in the box again, and take it to
my room."
"Nasty horrid thing! I'll spoil you," screamed Lucy again, and thus,
screaming and struggling, the passionate child was taken by her mother
to the nursery, while Milly put the hat and work-basket away in the box,
and carried it up as told to her mother's room. Opening the wardrobe
she put the box into it, and then shut and locked the door.
"There, you are out of sight now," she said as she did so. Then sitting
down on the sofa she gave way to a burst of tears. She had looked
forward with such pleasure to receiving her promised present; in her
secret heart she had hoped that it might be the very work-basket that
had come, for she had admired it so much in the shop one day, and Mrs.
Clifford had alluded to it before she left. Now it had really been given
to her, and had brought her nothing but sorrow. Why would not Lena take
the hat? for she had said she hoped there would be one for her the same,
and Milly couldn't wear it after what Lena had said. She was sorry
there was nothing for Lucy, but she knew she would soon be comforted by
some small present, and that she should have something Milly quite
settled in her own mind; but she felt that with Lena it was very
different, nothing she had to give her would make up for the
disappointment and the wound to her self-love. It was not thus that
Milly called it; she so dearly loved her sister that she made excuses
for her in her own mind and also to her mother, who very soon came to
seek for and comfort her.
"Mama, Lena says she won't have the hat--do make her take it."
"No, dear; I don't wish her to have it. It was sent to you, and I want
my children to learn to see each other given pleasure without coveting
it for themselves or being jealous about it."
"O Mama, but it was such a disappointment to her!"
"Yes, I know it is; but Lena has brought it on herself, for I have told
her over and over again that she was raising false hopes both for
herself and Lucy, and so it has ended in sorrow to you all."
"Can't I leave it in your wardrobe and say nothing more about it?"
"The hat you may leave in my wardrobe, and you needn't wear it just
yet,--indeed there won't be an opportunity for doing so,--but the
work-basket must be taken down to the drawing-room. Both Lucy and Lena
must learn to see it, dear, without wanting it."
Milly felt somehow that Lena wouldn't mind the work-basket so much,
especially as she had a nice one of her own, while Milly's was an old
and rather shabby one, so she took it down more contentedly; now that
the hat was well out of sight, she hoped that it would soon be
forgotten.
Lena walked out of the dining-room with a swelling heart and clouded
brow. She had been very unkindly and ungently treated, she considered.
It was very hard that Milly should have everything. What right had she
to have a godmama who gave presents when she herself had not, forgetting
that the Aunt who had done so much for her was her godmother as well as
Aunt, and had done for her far more than Milly's had ever done. Running
up to her bedroom for her garden-hat, she opened the drawer where her
best hat was kept. She had thought it very pretty and nice when it was
given her, but now, as she looked at it, and compared it with Milly's
new one, she thought how shabby and plain it was. "Not even a feather!"
And she shut to the drawer with a slam, and seizing her garden-hat ran
downstairs again and out of the house. As she wandered on by herself,
all the jealous fancies that had raised their heads before, now began
slowly to return and show themselves once more. Ah me! Lena was not
only allowing them to do so unopposed, but encouraging them both to come
back and remain with her. Looking back at the house, she saw, through
the open window of her mother's room, Milly standing up, and beside her
stood Mrs. Graham. If Lena had only heard the words her sister was
saying, her heart would have softened. "It was such a disappointment to
her," the gentle voice pleaded; but unfortunately, the words were
unheard, and Lena, turning her back to the sight, walked on hurriedly.
"I knew she was Mama's favourite, she has got everything; it is me Mama
might be sorry for. Oh, I wish Aunt Mary was here!" At this thought
the tears filled her eyes, but she pressed them back; if any one saw her
crying, they would think it was because she was sorry for the hat, and
she would not let them think that Very soon she caught sight of Bessie
coming across the fields. As soon as the latter saw her, she hurried
on, calling out the moment she was within hearing, "Has the parcel
arrived?"
"Yes," said Lena, trying to speak indifferently. "But it was only for
Milly--a hat and a work-basket."
"Nothing for you?"
"No," said Lena with a shaky voice, which Bessie seeing, she slipped her
arm in hers, saying, "What a shame! And nothing for little Lucy; she
will be disappointed!"
Lena began to walk off in the direction away from the house; and Bessie,
who was always good-natured, especially when any one was in trouble,
walked beside her, and began telling her what they hoped to do the next
day, when they were to spend the afternoon in the hay-field. "Mama
wants Mrs. Graham to let Hester and the other servants come too--every
one ought to help in the hay-field."
Lena did not return home until as late an hour as she dared to, but
nothing was said by either Mama or Miss Marshall at her being a little
late, both hoping that she had had time to reflect on what had passed,
and that by this time she knew she alone had been to blame for the false
hopes she had raised for herself and her little sister. Not one word did
Lena say about the parcel or her disappointment. She would show them
she did not care. And when Milly, who was longing for an opportunity to
say something kind about it, saw that Lena did not wish the subject
mentioned, she kept silence, only trying, by being extra kind and loving
to her, to show she felt with and for her. When they were alone in
their room Lena said she was tired and sleepy, hurrying over her
undressing, and, alas! her prayers also. She did not wish to forgive,
and the girl's mind was so clouded by her wrong and jealous thoughts,
that she would not allow that she herself had any need of forgiveness.
With a cold kiss she returned Milly's clinging, loving embrace; and
prayerless--for no mere formal words, repeated from habit only, can be
called prayer--and unhappy,--for how could she be otherwise with such
thoughts as hers?--she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. So
still did she lie, that when Mrs. Graham came in to see her little
girls, as was her custom every night, Milly said softly, "Lena was
tired, Mama, and she is asleep already."
"Poor child," said her Mother, "I won't stay and talk to you, dear, for
fear of waking her. I am glad she has taken the disappointment so
quietly." After kissing Milly, she stooped over Lena, and with a tender
"God bless you, my child," she kissed her forehead softly, and left the
room.
The tears forced themselves under the closed lids, but Lena gulped them
back, and with them, all the softened thoughts that began to rise at her
mother's words; and as she drove back the good, the wrong thoughts
returned and filled the child's mind with seeds that were to reap a
bitter harvest ere long.
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*MILLY'S NEW HAT.*
"I shall be sorry to have to keep you in this afternoon, Lena," said
Miss Marshall; "but if you do not pay more attention to your lessons I
shall be obliged to."
"They are so difficult," grumbled Lena.
"That is nonsense. Milly has said hers correctly, and surely you can do
so also; you are not paying the slightest attention this morning."
"Of course Milly does it best when you help her," muttered Lena, but in
tones loud enough to be heard by her governess.
Things went on from bad to worse. Lena was in a cross, stubborn mood.
She was hugging to herself, as it were, the disappointment of the
afternoon before, dwelling upon it, and looking at it over and over
again in the light of her own wounded pride and vanity. This was the
morning of the day they had all looked forward to with such pleasure,
the day when they were all to have tea in the hay-field; and now,
instead of getting through her lessons well and quickly, she was
allowing her thoughts and attention to wander anywhere they would,
except to the one place they ought to have rested on.
"Have you got a headache, Lena?" asked Miss Marshall at length, when her
patience was nearly exhausted.
"No," was the short answer.
"Then what is the matter with you, dear?" she asked kindly.
"Nothing, only my lessons are so difficult."
"Let me try and explain them to you again," said Miss Marshall; and
taking the book she went over the prescribed task. But all her kindness
was thrown away; it was not that Lena could not, it was that she would
not learn. When the usual hour for ending morning lessons arrived, Lena
was all behind, and there was nothing to be done except to excuse her
them altogether, or to keep her in for part of the afternoon. The
latter course was what Miss Marshall resolved on.
"Lena must stay in alone," said Mrs. Graham, when she heard of this
resolution. "I am very sorry for it, my child, but I cannot help
myself. It would not be fair to deny any of the others their pleasure
because you choose to be so naughty and wilful."
All but the cook were going to the hay-field. She was remaining to look
after the house during the absence of all the others, and so Lena would
not be quite alone in the house.
"Directly you think you know your lessons you may come and join us. I
know I can trust you, my little one," said her mother kindly to the
child as she left her sitting alone in the schoolroom. For a little
while Lena sat leaning her elbows on the table and gazing into vacancy,
as she heard the voices of her mother and sisters gradually dying away
in the distance. It was very hard, she thought, sitting here all by
herself, when they were all enjoying themselves out of doors, forgetting
that it was all her own doing. Suddenly a new impulse seized her, and
bending down over her book, she began to read over her lesson. The door
opened, and Hester came in.
"Have you not gone yet, Hester?" asked Lena in surprise.
"No, Miss, I had to finish my work first. I am ready now, only waiting
for Emma. She has gone to put the salt into Miss Milly's bath. Oh,
Miss Lena, do make haste and do your lessons: only think what your
Auntie would say if she saw you now."
"She would not have been so cross and kept me in."
"Well, dear, show that you can do them as well as Miss Milly."
Hester had touched her pride with this speech, and tossing back her head
she answered, "Of course I can if I choose."
"Well then, dear, I would choose; it's a pity to lose all the fun of the
haymaking, and such a lovely afternoon as it is, too."
"I won't be long now, Hester; I will learn them."
"Shall I wait for you?"
"No, thank you, Hester, I will soon follow you."
Then with a few kindly words of encouragement Hester left the room, and
Lena applied herself to her task with such goodwill that very soon she
had learnt it correctly.
Putting away her books, she went up for her walking things. As she
passed her mother's room, the door of which was left wide open, she went
in, and going to the window looked out to see if she could see them in
the field. Not a person was to be seen--all lay so still and peaceful
in the bright sunshine, the silence only broken by the song of a bird or
the distant lowing of cattle. Turning from the window, Lena's eye fell
on the box that had come from Mrs. Clifford. It had been taken out for
some reason from the wardrobe, placed on the bed, and evidently
forgotten to be put back. Lena lingered a moment beside it. She had
not seen it except for the few moments that Milly had held it before her
on first taking it out of the box. She would like to have a good look
at it, and here was an opportunity for doing so privately and without
having to ask Milly to allow her to do so. Opening the box, she lifted
the paper and looked in. Then taking it carefully out, she turned it
round and examined it more attentively. "What a nice feather!" she
murmured. "I wonder if it looks nice on." That was very easy to
decide. Placing it on her head, she walked to the looking-glass. It
was a very becoming one, she considered, as she turned her head from
side to side to see it to every advantage. A sudden noise made her
start guiltily and turn quickly round, "for a fearful conscience makes
cowards of us all." So quickly had she turned and with such a jerk,
that off went the hat. Lena made a dash at it, but it was too late, she
could not save it. With a splash it went into the salt bath prepared
for Milly's weak ancles, and which was always taken into her mother's
room. With a cry of horror Lena snatched it out, but alas! the mischief
was done, the beautiful curly feather was soaking. Such a
miserable-looking object it was, as Lena gazed at it in dismay. Hastily
taking a towel from the rack, she rubbed away at the unfortunate hat;
then when the straw was dry, or looked nearly so, she shook it
vigorously, hoping in this way to restore the feather to its former
beauty. All the shaking and rubbing was of no use, for the feather
still remained all wet and uncurled. Holding it before the fire
sometimes did a wet feather good, Lena knew; should she take it down and
ask cook to let her hold it before the kitchen fire? As she stood
meditating she saw through the open window her father and Milly coming
towards the house. If Milly had been alone she would have run and told
her all, for all anger and pride had died away in her fright and sorrow,
for she was sorry for the mischief she had caused, but the sight of her
father made her hesitate. "He would be so angry," she thought, and the
remembrance of the stern way he had spoken to her the night she had
looked over Aunt Mary's shoulder and read her letter, came back to her.
"She could not tell him." She would wait and tell Milly afterwards, or
Mama. She would understand it was not done intentionally. Thrusting the
hat hastily into the box again, she hurried to her room, trembling and
almost in tears.
"Lena, Lena, where are you?" shouted Milly, as she bounded upstairs to
look for her, after having failed to find her in the schoolroom.
"Getting ready? Oh, I am so glad you have done. I have come back to
bring you--we all want you so much. Crying, Lena?" she continued, and
receiving no answer--"Oh, don't cry; it is all right now."
Here was Lena's opportunity to confess all, and this she determined to
do. Bursting out afresh into tears, she sobbed, "Oh, Milly clear, do
forgive me; the hat"----she went on incoherently.
Here Milly interrupted her with a kiss--"Never mind the tiresome old
hat; I never want to see it again. I love you better than all the hats
in the world."
"But, Milly, I must tell you"----
Here Colonel Graham's voice was heard calling in rather impatient tones
for them to make haste.
"There, Lena, you must come; I won't listen to one word more about the
hat;" and dragging her after her, she hurried down to join her father.
No one took any notice of Lena's tear-stained face, all attributing it
to the fact of her having been kept in; and when Mama, greeting her with
a loving kiss, the tears welled up afresh, they were thought to be only
signs of sorrow for her conduct during the morning, and only drew forth
another kiss and kind words of forgiveness, "Now, darling, run and join
the others, and all enjoy yourselves."
Though Lena joined in all the games and pleasures of the others, it was
not with the full enjoyment with which she usually did so. No one
alluded either to her having been kept at home, or to the disappointment
of the day before, except once, and that was done by Lucy, who said,
"Milly, Bessie says she expects that my present was small, and must have
got hidden among the paper."
"No, Lucy dear, I am sure there was not anything more in the box."
"Yes, so am I," said Lena, flushing scarlet, "it is very stupid of
Bessie saying such things to you."
"I believe Bessie, and she is not stupid; she is very nice--nicer than
you," and the child walked off, indignantly murmuring to herself, "I
mean to look and see, for I believe Bessie."
"I wish she would not tell Lucy such things; she never thinks how bad it
is for her." The one she alluded to being Bessie, who petted and
spoiled the child, giving her everything she asked for, and never
allowing either of her sisters to contradict her; or when they did so,
she made up for it by an extra petting.
Lena was ill at ease, and looked so tired when evening came that Mama
sent her off to bed, attributing the weary looks and subdued manner to
over fatigue from running about in the heat.
As Lena lay waiting for Milly to come to bed--for Lena had been sent off
first by Mama--she decided that she would tell Milly when she came in,
and then together they would tell their mother; but all her plans were
frustrated by the weary eyes closing in sleep before her sister came in,
and so quiet was Milly that she did not awake her.
The following morning doubts and conjectures began to trouble Lena.
Milly made such a fuss when she began to speak of the hat, and say she
would not hear a word more about it; she had said she did not care one
bit about it. Still conscience kept telling her over and over again,
that there was but one path before her, and that was a very plain and
straight one, called Truth. The longer she put off telling, the more
difficult it became. She would tell her while dressing. "Milly," she
began, just before they left the room, "I want to speak to you about the
hat."
"O Lena, please don't say anything now about it, or I shall hate it.
Mama and I decided last night that it is to be left in its box, and I
shall forget all about it: I could not wear it now."
"Could not wear it now," Lena repeated, but no one heard her, for Milly
had left the room. "Could Mama and Milly have opened the box last night
and seen what had happened? Yes, that must be it; how good and kind
Milly was to forgive her so easily. She would show her how grateful she
was, and how much she loved her and Mama too for forgiving her." She
felt she did not deserve this kind treatment, but she would try to in
the future. All that day Lena expected her mother to say something
about the feather, but not one word was said, not even when they were
alone. Lena tried very hard all that day to be good, and was gentle and
affectionate to both her sisters, especially Milly, who was so glad to
have Lena once more on amiable terms with her that she was in the best
and highest spirits.
When Mama gave her little girls their good-night kiss, Lena said, "How
good you are to me, Mama!"
"When one tries to be good oneself, darling, one always finds that
others are trying to be the same; as when one is cross, one thinks
everybody is cross too."
Lucy had not forgotten Bessie's remark, that perhaps Milly had
overlooked her present, and that very probably it had got among the
paper that formed the wrappings of the hat and work-basket. To find this
out Lucy was quite determined, but how to do so was the difficulty. She
had asked Mama if she would look, but her answer had not been
satisfactory to the child--"Milly had looked, and the paper from Mrs.
Clifford proved that only Milly was to receive anything." Lucy wanted
to see for herself. The box was in Mama's wardrobe she knew, and could
be very easily got at and searched, if only she could do so without
being seen. Some days passed away, and no opportunity occurred. One
was sure to come, for it is wonderful how opportunities do occur, for
either good or evil, when eagerly watched for. It was the case with
Lucy. Colonel and Mrs. Graham had gone to return a visit some distance
off; the two elder girls had gone with Miss Marshall, Gertrude Freeling
and her governess for a long walk to some woods in the neighbourhood.
This walk had long been talked of, but it was too far to go in their
usual walking hours, so had been arranged for a half-holiday. When
Gertrude and Miss Gifford called for the Grahams, Astbury being on the
way, they brought word that Bessie was not going with them; she would
come down later and take Lucy for a play in the fields. This was a
splendid opportunity for Lucy to search the box. Hester was busy in the
nursery, so Lucy asked leave to go and meet Bessie. This was at once
accorded, for the time fixed on for her coming was close at hand.
Instead of going out at once, Lucy went to her mother's room. Shutting
the door quietly, so that she should not be seen, she opened the
wardrobe. The box was too high for her to reach, so putting a chair
close she mounted on it, and was thus enabled easily to reach the
desired object. Placing it on the floor, she opened it, and lifting the
hat out, put it on the floor beside her, without uncovering it from the
paper in which it was wrapped. Then she made a careful but unavailing
search. The child's face grew longer and longer as the conviction was
at last forced upon her, that there was really nothing more there. It
was quite true then that she had been told the truth by Milly, and
Bessie was wrong. Anger succeeded to disappointment. Without waiting to
remove the chair or to replace the box, she turned to go; the paper
containing the hat lay before her: giving it a kick with her foot, for
Lucy had worked herself into a rage by this time, she sent hat, paper,
and all flying across the room. Then, without waiting to see the
effects of the kick, she rushed out of the room, down the stairs, and
into the garden. Bessie had not arrived, so she started off to meet
her, and pour into her ever-friendly ear her tale of woe.
*CHAPTER IX.*
*THE SPOILT FEATHER.*
Lucy had not gone very far when she saw Bessie coming towards her, not
walking along briskly and brightly as usual, but with a lagging step and
drooping head, so unlike her usual self that even Lucy, full as she was
of her own grievance, was struck by it.
"O Bessie, what is the matter? what have you been doing?"
"Nothing, except I am miserable," was the gloomy answer.
Awed and subdued, the child walked beside her in silence, until they
came to a favourite resting-place of theirs--an old tree that had been
blown down in some winter storm and still lay beside the hedge. The
branches had been chopped off, and grass and wild flowers had grown up
around it, making it both a comfortable and picturesque seat. On this
Bessie seated herself with Lucy beside her.
"Do tell me what is the matter; why are you so unhappy?" Placing her
little hand on her knee, she looked up affectionately into her
companion's face.
"They are going to send me away from here, all among strangers in a
horrid town, and I shall be wretched."
"Send you away, your Papa and Mama! Why, what have you done?" the child
asked in surprise.
"Nothing." And as she spoke the word she began to laugh in an
hysterical, nervous sort of way. Then seeing the child's bewildered
look she said, "Yes, Lucy, that's really why, because Mama says I am not
getting on with Miss Gifford, that I do nothing, so they are going to
send me to school."
"How unkind of them!"
"No, Mama could not be unkind, nor Papa either; they say it's for my
good."
"Like what they say when they give you nasty medicine." This was not
said saucily, but very gravely, for Lucy was not in a merry mood; the
news she had just heard was too serious for a joke.
"Only think," said Bessie, looking round her with loving, admiring eyes,
"to live among streets and houses, and to leave all these beautiful
fields and trees--oh, it is cruel! I can never be happy away from
here." Sure of a sympathising listener in her little companion, she
poured forth all her sorrows for the present and fears for the future.
The prospect of dear kind Bessie going away saddened little Lucy, and so
filled her thoughts that it drove away the remembrance of her own
disappointment, and she quite forgot to tell her of all that had
happened, and that she had come out to meet her with the full intention
of telling. When they parted at the garden gate, Bessie looked happier,
though I fear not one whit more resigned to the prospect in store for
her.
Lucy watched her away, and then turned and ran back to the house.
Though she was very very sorry about it, still it did not prevent her
from being eager to tell her sisters the news, sad though it was. It
gave her a feeling of importance to know something the elder ones did
not, so she felt quite disappointed at finding that none of the others
had come in. She must tell her tale to some one, so running up to the
nursery she found Hester, who listened to her news and was as interested
and sympathising as her small charge desired.
Lucy was already dressed and waiting for tea, when Lena came in, saying,
"O Lucy, there you are! Mama wants you; she is in the drawing-room;
come along quickly."
Together they entered the drawing-room, where they found Colonel and
Mrs. Graham and Milly. The latter looked very distressed, and both
parents very grave.
"What is it, Mama?" they both exclaimed.
"Have you been in your mother's bedroom to-day, Lena?" asked Colonel
Graham.
"No, Papa," was the immediate answer, and she looked frankly into her
father's face as she spoke. Not a suspicion of what was coming dawned
upon her, she had so completely made up her mind that both her mother
and sister knew of her wrong-doing and had forgiven her. At first she
had often wondered that her mother had said no word to her on the
subject. Then as the days wore on, she was only too glad to forget all
about it, and she had tried to be very good and obedient, to show her
gratitude. It was the old story with Lena, trusting to her own efforts
to repair the wrong, forgetting that there is nothing that we can do
that will cleanse us from sin; there is only One who can do that, and He
was now going to give her the opportunity to confess her fault, and to
show true repentance.
As Colonel Graham asked Lena this question, Lucy coloured and cast down
her eyes. She suddenly remembered what she had done, and how she had
left her mother's room.
"Lucy, have you been in?" There was little doubt what would be the
answer. Conscious guilt was stamped on every feature of the child's
face.
"Yes, Papa," she said timidly. Then bursting into tears, she rushed to
her mother's arms for refuge and comfort.
"Tell us all about it, my child; what did you go for?"
"To see if there was not a present for me," she sobbed.
"But Milly told you she had searched the box."
"Bessie said perhaps it had got among the paper, and you had not seen
it."
"Well, when you found it was not there, what did you do to the hat?"
"Kicked it," she murmured very low.
"Nothing else?"
"No, I did not even look at it."
"You must have done something more, Lucy," said her father. "How else
could it be in this state?" And he held out Milly's unfortunate hat.
Lucy lifted her head from her mother's shoulder and looked. "O Papa,
what a pity! how did it get like that?"
The child spoke with such an accent of truth, that the parents looked at
one another in surprise. That Lucy had not done it intentionally there
could be no doubt.
"We thought you had done it, Lucy. We found it in this state under the
washing-stand."
"I am so sorry. I never meant to spoil the hat; I only kicked it
because I was so angry;" for Lucy immediately jumped to the conclusion
that she had done the mischief, though unintentionally. Springing
forward she flung her arms round Milly, saying, "Please, please forgive
me, Milly; I did not mean to spoil your hat really."
"No, I know you did not, Lucy. I don't mind one bit now; I did at
first, because it was such a pretty one. I don't mind now; and Lena and
I will have the same like always--won't we, Mama?" said Milly sweetly as
she kissed her little sister.
What were Lena's feelings during this time? Very conflicting ones. So
Mama and Milly had not known of it all along, and now she must confess
that she had not only done the mischief, but had concealed it all this
time. Would they believe her when she told them the whole story? She
had not really meant to deceive them, she repeated over and over again
to herself. The others were too much taken up with Lucy to notice her,
or else her varying looks must have betrayed the struggle that was going
on within. As Milly ceased speaking, Lena started forward. "O Milly,"
she began, when her father's voice arrested her.
"I am glad, my child, you told me the truth at once, for if you had
tried to deceive me and denied your fault, I should have been very
angry. You see what sins jealousy and passion lead you into."
"I could not tell before Papa," thought Lena as she drew back; "if he
would be angry with little Lucy, how much more so would he be with me
who am older?" Then as Lucy sobbed out, "I really did not mean to spoil
the feather," and her mother answered, "No, dear, that must have been an
accident," the temptation that rose to Lena's mind was too strong to be
resisted by her feeble strength, and on that strength alone had she been
and still was relying. So she held her peace and let Lucy bear the
blame.
"You need not stay, dears," said Mrs. Graham to the two elder girls.
"Go to your tea; I want to have Lucy with me alone for a little while."
How the feather had been spoiled still remained a mystery. Lucy fully
and firmly believed that she had been the cause, by throwing it under
the washing-stand, though unless the floor had been wet it would not
have been so utterly ruined. It was an unsatisfactory solution of the
difficulty, but as no other could be found, they had to be satisfied
with it. How thankful Lena was when tea was over, and Miss Marshall
gave them leave to go out into the garden for half an hour.
"May I go up and see Lucy?" asked Milly.
Gaining permission, she ran after Lena to tell her where she was going,
and to ask if she would come with her.
"There is no good both going, and I want to finish my book." But not
much of the book was read that evening, when, out of sight of every one,
Lena sat down and tried to arrange her thoughts. What had she done?
Though no one was by to see her, her cheeks flushed with shame at her
conduct. What cowardice and meanness had she not been guilty of! Oh,
if she had only spoken out at the beginning, all this misery and
wickedness would have been saved. "It was not too late yet," conscience
whispered. Then the thought of what her father would say when he heard
that she had deceived them. If it was only Mama, I should not mind, so
ran her thoughts; but I dare not tell Papa, he would be so angry. Oh,
if only Aunt Mary were here I could tell her everything, forgetting, or
rather pushing away the remembrance, of One nearer and dearer than any
earthly friend, who never turns a cold or deaf ear to any of His
children, and who ever has the gentlest and most loving answer for His
repentant little ones. How, over and over again, we dread the anger of
some earthly friend, forgetting that some day we must face the just
anger of an offended God if we continue in our hardness and sin. As
Lena sat thus thinking, we may be very sure that excuses, and what she
called good reasons for keeping silence, were not long in making their
appearance. Lucy had been forgiven, and nothing more would be said on
the subject. Why should she open out such a painful thing again? She
had not told a falsehood; if Papa had asked her, she would have
acknowledged doing it. He had only asked her if she had been in her
mother's room that afternoon, and she had spoken the truth when she said
"No." Then what would Aunt Mary feel if she heard that she, her pet and
darling, had got into trouble and disgrace? No, this must never be, and
so on and on went the struggle between right and wrong, ending, alas! in
Lena's leaving it to be settled some other time. "I could not do it
to-night, I will the first opportunity;" and somehow, when an
opportunity offered itself, it was not a right one--Lena would wait for
a better. So day followed day, and still the secret was locked up in
Lena's bosom, and it seemed probable that it never would be told.
Nothing was ever said about the feather, and to all appearance no one
remembered anything about it. Still Lena was not happy. How could she
be, with such a weight at her heart? Aunt Mary had striven to train her
niece not for this life alone; and the good seed that had been sown in
love and faith was not dead, and the better thoughts would make
themselves heard. Lena was not callous or hardened; no, she was very
miserable, poor child, as all of us must be who carry about with us an
unconfessed and unforgiven sin. As day after day she kneeled, as she
had ever done in prayer, and listened to, or read God's Word, her heart
grew heavier, and sometimes the longing to tell all was so strong that
she would start up to go, then her courage would fail, and she was
afraid of what they would say; and the remembrance of her father's
words, both to herself and Lucy, would come back, and she would shrink
from the task, thinking, "I will be very good and obedient, and make up
for not telling by good conduct." At times she would forget all about
it, and be the bright, lively Lena we first knew; but some word or deed
would be sure to recall her secret, and she would have the same struggle
over again.
Her mother was sure that something was amiss, and would watch her
troubled, anxious face with loving eyes, fearing that her child was
either ill or unhappy. Could it be, she would wonder, that she was
fretting at the loss of Aunt Mary? and at this thought she would be, if
that were possible, when she was always kind and loving to her children,
more so than usual to Lena. Strange to say, that when this was the
case, it made Lena only stronger in her determination not to tell, for
she would think, "She would not be so kind to me if she knew how naughty
I had been." So day after day passed and her secret was still untold.
"Where is Lena?" asked Mrs. Graham, coming into the garden, where Milly
and Lucy were busy working at their own especial little garden.
"On the lawn, Mama. She wanted to finish a book Gertrude lent her.
Shall I call her?"
"No, dear, I will go to her," and she moved away.
Throwing down the rake with which she had been working, Milly followed.
"Mama," she began, when she was out of ear-shot of Lucy; "I don't think
Lena is very happy here."
"I am afraid, dear, that she is not well," answered her mother.
"She is so much quieter, and she is not half so fond of running about
and romping as she used to be."
"I am beginning to think this place does not suit her. It's a change
from the sea-air she has been accustomed to. I have a letter for her
from Aunt Mary; that is what I want her for."
"Oh, that will please her. There she is. Lena!" she called out as they
came in sight of her lying flat on the grass, intent on a book she was
reading.
Lena looked up as they joined her, saying, "It is such a nice book!
Milly, you ought to read it."
"I have brought you something else to read, dear," said her mother,
holding out a letter which Lena sprang up to receive; for what child is
not delighted at receiving a letter, especially if directed to itself!
As Lena was opening the envelope, Mrs. Graham said, "I heard from Mrs.
Clifford to-day. That will interest you, Milly. I wrote and asked her
to come and stay here."
At these words Lena turned round hastily, and listened anxiously to hear
the answer from Mrs. Clifford. As her mother had paused and was looking
for the letter in her pocket, Lena asked impatiently, "Is she coming?"
"Yes, dear, in a fortnight."
Lena's cheek flushed crimson, for the thought flashed through her mind,
"She will inquire about the hat."
At sight of her crimsoned cheeks Mrs. Graham and Milly at once came to
the same conclusion--"Lena has not forgotten her disappointment at not
receiving a present;" but neither took any notice of her confusion in
words.
"Shall I read you your letter, dear?" asked Mrs. Graham.
"Please, Mama," she answered, placing the letter in her hand. Then
walking slowly up and down the lawn, Mrs. Graham read the letter aloud
to the two girls, who were walking one on each side of her.
After telling her niece about the many new and interesting places she
had been visiting, she went on to say what pleasure it had given her to
hear from Mrs. Graham, how good and obedient Lena had been, ending with,
"Nothing can give me so much happiness as hearing this, dear Lena, and I
trust that I may continue to have equally good accounts until we meet
again in the winter." Lena listened to these words in silence as her
mother ended the letter.
Bessie Freeling rushed out of the house to join them, exclaiming as she
did so, "O Mrs. Graham, I came with Mama; she is in the drawing-room;
she wants to see you."
This was a happy interruption for Lena. She dreaded hearing some words
of praise from her mother, for she knew how little she deserved them.
Handing her the letter with a smile, Mrs. Graham answered Bessie, and
hurried back to the house to see Mrs. Freeling, leaving the three girls
together.
Bessie was in a state of excitement, and the moment Mrs. Graham
disappeared into the house she burst out with, "What do you think she
has come for? To ask if your mother will let one of you go to the
seaside with Gertrude and Miss Gifford, instead of me. I want to stay
here all summer. I don't want to lose a day when I have such a
miserable winter before me."
"I thought your Papa and Mama were going away too," said Milly.
"Yes, to take the boys to see Uncle Henry; but I want to come and stay
here while you go with Gerty."
Milly's face fell: she did not want to leave home. "But we can't--we
have no holidays," she said, brightening up at this thought.
Here was an escape for Lena from meeting Mrs. Clifford. Was ever
anything more fortunate? she thought, for she dreaded any remarks or
inquiries from that lady.
"I should like to go to the sea," said Lena; "I hope Mama will let me."
"Want to go away, Lena?" said Milly reproachfully. "And when Mrs.
Clifford is coming; I do so want her to know you, as well as me."
"I do hope Mrs. Graham will say 'yes.' Now, Milly, don't you go trying
to persuade Lena not to--I shan't let you speak to her until it is all
settled;" and she laughingly dragged her away, calling loudly to Lucy to
come and help her, which the moment Lucy heard her voice, she hastened
to do. And a merry struggle went on between them, in which Lena,
rejoiced at the prospect of escaping Mrs. Clifford's promised visit,
joined in, and it was in the midst of all the fun and noise that Mrs.
Graham and Mrs. Freeling joined them.
"You will consent, won't you, Mrs. Graham?" said Bessie, leaving Milly
and looking up coaxingly at her.
"Consent to have you here? Yes, with pleasure; and I think, as your
mother has kindly asked one of my children to go with Gertrude, that it
would do Lena good. She has not been very well lately, and the sea-air
may strengthen her."
"But our lessons, Mama?" said Milly.
"She will do them all the better when she is strong and well; won't you,
Lena dear?"
"I am not ill, Mama, but I should like to go to the sea."
"And I do so want to stay here," said Bessie. "O Lucy, won't we be
happy? I shall have no lessons, and we will live out of doors."
Seizing the child as she spoke, she danced her round.
"When are we to go?" asked Lena.
"In a few days," said Mrs. Freeling. "I have written about the rooms,
and we shall hear to-morrow."
"And how long shall we be away?" asked Lena nervously.
"About three weeks or a month, I hope. Will that be too long?" asked
Mrs. Freeling of her mother.
"I am afraid you will miss Mrs. Clifford's visit, dear; perhaps she will
stay longer than she says when once she is here."
Lena made no answer; and Mrs. Freeling then spoke on some other subject,
and the girls wandered off together to another part of the garden.
The few days before they were to start passed away quietly. Lena was
very glad to escape Mrs. Clifford, for she quite made up her mind that
the subject of the spoilt hat would be brought forward again during her
stay, and perhaps, in some way, her part in the proceeding might be
brought to light. This she dreaded happening more than anything. It
would be worse, far worse, than telling it herself, for in this case who
would believe that it was an accident and not done intentionally? Oh,
if she had only told it at first! Now each day made it more difficult.
How true it is that "The wicked flee when no man pursueth." Lena was
running away from an imaginary enemy. If she had remained she would
have heard no word mentioned on the subject, for Mrs. Graham had written
the whole story to Mrs. Clifford, saying, as she believed was the case,
that little Lucy had done it in a sudden fit of passion, but without any
real intention of destroying it, simply kicking it out of the way as it
was the nearest thing on which to spend her anger. And an answer had
come from Mrs. Clifford, regretting all that had happened, except the
amiable and forgiving behaviour of her little friend Milly.
*CHAPTER X.*
*AT SIDCOMBE.*
Miss Gifford and the two girls, Gertrude and Lena, had been now for some
days in their comfortable lodgings at Sidcombe, and Lena was fast
becoming very fond of her new companion. Although they had seen a great
deal of Gertrude during their stay at Astbury, both she and Milly had
looked upon her as being nearly grown up, and though liking her very
much, for she was always kind and good to them, they looked upon her in
quite a different light to that in which they looked on Bessie, not
considering her, as they did the latter, as a companion and playfellow.
There seemed to Lena more difference between her twelve and Gertrude's
fifteen years, than there was between Milly and Bessie, though the
actual difference in age was much the same. Gertrude was very different
from her sister, Bessie being much gentler and quieter in disposition.
But now, in the quiet and daily companionship of their life, the two
girls were fast becoming firm friends.
The life at Sidcombe was very pleasant, and Lena was enjoying it much.
There was nothing here to recall the secret trouble that had been
haunting her at home, and no word was ever said to call forth the
struggle between right and wrong, between deceit and truth, that had
been of daily occurrence when with her mother-and sisters. She was only
too glad to think that her secret was to remain one for ever, and that
the whole thing was an affair of the past, never to trouble her any
more.
Both Miss Gifford and Gertrude were very kind to Lena, and the days
passed in a simple but happy manner. Their mornings were spent on the
sands, and there was nothing Lena enjoyed more, when the morning bath in
the sea was over, than to lie under shelter of some rock, and listen to
Gertrude as she read aloud, for Miss Gifford said something in the way
of lessons must be done, so had fixed upon this plan, of reading out for
a certain number of hours each morning from an interesting and improving
book, certainly the pleasantest of all ways of gaining knowledge.
The afternoons and evenings were devoted to long rambles, either along
the sands, or through the pretty lanes and fields of the country round.
At first both girls were eager to wander about and explore the
neighbourhood, but very soon they grew either too lazy, or the weather
became too hot, or for some reason Lena began to tire of long walks, and
she would ask Miss Gifford and Gertrude to spend their evenings on the
water, being rowed about in the cool evening air, chatting to one
another, or listening to the many tales that their boatman, who was an
old sailor, delighted to tell them of the many places he had visited.
One afternoon Miss Gifford said she had letters to write, so the two
girls started off together for a walk.
"Where shall we go?" asked Lena.
"Suppose we go to the wood. We have only been once since we came."
"Right past that little white cottage where we saw that pretty little
girl who sold us flowers?"
"Yes, and perhaps we shall see her again. Now don't be lazy, Lena; it
will be a lovely walk."
"Can we buy some more flowers? David says that she and her mother are
very poor."
"I will run and ask Miss Gifford," said Gertrude, turning back and
re-entering the house she soon came out again, saying, "Yes, we may; and
Miss Gifford says she will come and meet us when she has finished her
letters."
They started off again, this time without returning, talking of the
little girl, whose sweet looks and gentle manner had interested them
all, and of whom their boatman David had often spoken to them, her
father, who had been a sailor like himself, having been drowned a few
years before, leaving his widow and children very poor, and in a certain
degree to David's care.
Their way lay along a shady lane, bordered with ferns and wild flowers,
tempting both girls to stop to pick and admire them more than once.
Before they reached the end of the lane, Lena said, "O Gertrude, let us
wait here for Miss Gifford; it's so hot, and I am so tired;" and she
seated herself on the bank as she spoke.
"You lazy girl!" laughed Gertrude; then seeing that she looked really
tired, added, "You take a rest, dear, while I pick some flowers and
ferns, and then I will bring them to you and we will arrange them
together."
Gertrude had joined Lena, with both hands full of floral treasures, and
they were busy arranging them into a pretty nosegay, when the sound of
footsteps caused them to look up. They so seldom met any one in these
quiet lanes, that both the girls stopped their work to see who was
coming. In a few moments their curiosity was gratified by seeing their
old friend the boatman coming towards them from the direction of the
White Cottage.
"Halloa, David!" called out Lena, "have you been for a walk?"
"Yes, Missie," answered the old man as he touched his hat.
"We are going to the wood, and to call and buy some flowers from that
little girl, Mary Roberts," said Gertrude.
"I would not go that way to-day, Miss," he answered gravely.
"Oh yes, but we want to--we mean to," said Lena.
"What is the matter, David?" asked Gertrude, seeing he looked troubled.
"I've just came from the cottage, Miss, from seeing little Mary. She's
down with the fever."
Both girls exclaimed in tones of pity, "Poor Mary!" and Gertrude added,
"Is there nothing we can do for her, David? Is she very ill?"
"Yes, Miss, she's terrible bad, and her mother is in a sad way about
her."
"Oh, do take her this," pressing into his hand the money Miss Gifford
had given them to pay for the flowers. "And we will go back and ask
Miss Gifford to help her. Come, Lena."
Both the girls were eager to hurry back to ask for assistance, but David
would not let them go until they promised they would not go near the
cottage, as he feared the fever might be infectious.
When they gave the desired promise, he thanked them, and said he would
return with the money they had given him, for small though the coin was,
it would be a help to the poor hard-working mother.
"Is she very ill, David?" asked Lena in an awed tone; "will she die?"
"She is in God's hands, Missie; the best and safest of all," he answered
reverently, adding, "She's very young, and it's wonderful what a deal of
illness young things can bear."
"How old is she?" asked Gertrude kindly.
"Twelve years, that's all."
"Just your age, Lena." Then with a friendly good-bye to the old man,
the two girls hurried off to meet Miss Gifford, and tell her of the sad
trouble that had overtaken Mrs. Roberts and her child.
They had gone but a very little way when they met Miss Gifford hurrying
towards them. When she went to post her letters, she had heard a rumour
of there being fever at Mrs. Roberts' cottage, and she had hurried after
the two girls, hoping to overtake them before they reached the cottage,
for she dreaded their running into any danger of infection. Her first
question was as to whether they had been, and it was with deep
thankfulness she heard how they had loitered on the way, and that they
had met David, who had stopped their going on.
"We may send them something, may we not?" they both asked eagerly as
they walked home.
Very soon a basket was despatched under David's care, filled with things
that Miss Gifford thought would be good for the sick child. There was
no boating that evening, both the girls declaring it would not be fair
upon their "own man," as they called David, to employ any one else, when
he had gone on an errand of kindness and mercy to his old friend's widow
and child.
Miss Gifford was naturally very anxious about the health of her two
pupils, and she remembered, with a feeling of uneasiness, how much Lena
had complained the last few days of being tired; and as she looked white
that evening after the great heat of the day, she hurried her off early
to bed, much against Lena's inclination. But Miss Gifford was firm, and
she had to obey.
The next day came news that little Mary was still very very ill, and
there was but small hope of her recovery. And the two girls spoke and
thought much of the poor little sufferer, who but a few days ago had
brought them flowers, apparently as well and with as fair a prospect of
living as either of themselves, now lying tossing restlessly about in
the clutches of that cruel fever, in the small close cottage that was
her home.
"She is not going to die, is she, Gertrude?" asked Lena. "She is so
young--only twelve."
It was not Gertrude, but Miss Gifford, that answered this remark with,
"Age has nothing to do with it, Lena dear. It is not only the aged that
God calls away. We ought all, even children, try to live good lives, so
that when our summons comes we may be ready and glad to go."
"But we can't; at least children can't always be good," said Lena.
"No, dear; but we can all try, and if we do fall, we can repent, and ask
God's forgiveness, which He never withholds, and then we need not fear."
"But David says little Mary is such a good girl, so truthful and honest,
and always been so kind to her mother and everybody; he says she is a
real little Christian," said Gertrude.
"Yes, so I was very glad to hear," answered Miss Gifford.
"It would be a dreadful thing," said Gertrude, thoughtfully, "to die
when you were doing a wrong thing."
"Little Mary is not going to die," said Lena almost passionately,
bursting into a flood of tears as she spoke.
Miss Gifford looked surprised but said nothing except, "We hope not,
dear Lena." Then drawing the weeping child to her side, she soothed her
with gentle words, until she had recovered, and regained her composure
once more.
Nothing more was said on the subject of little Mary that morning.
Gertrude opened her book and read out until it was time to return to the
house, while Lena leant with her head against Miss Gifford's shoulder,
apparently listening intently, but in reality thinking and wondering
over many things.
After dinner Miss Gifford announced that it was too hot for a walk; and
as Lena complained of having a headache, she was to lie down until it
was cool enough for them to go out, adding, as she left the room, "Poor
child, I had no idea she would have felt for others so very strongly."
As Lena lay on the bed in the darkened room, sleep was very far from
her. Although her eyes were shut, her thoughts were very busy.
Gertrude's words came back to her over and over again, "To die doing
wrong." Her head ached dreadfully, which was not to be wondered at
after her passionate fit of crying; and as Lena was not often troubled
with a headache, she began to grow nervous and frightened. Could it be
that she was going to get the fever also, like Mary Roberts? If she had
it at twelve years of age, why should not she? Yes, she was sure she
was going to be ill too; and her mother would soon be in as sad a state
about her, as David said Mrs. Roberts was about her little girl. Poor
Lena! she began to cry softly out of sheer fright. Suddenly jumping up,
she went to the table, and taking up a small hand-glass that lay there,
she took it with her to the window, and lifting the blind, looked at
herself. Such a miserable, flushed, tear-stained face she saw. Yes, it
must be the fever that made her cheeks so red. Laying down the glass,
she flung herself on the bed. Oh, if she had only told Papa and Mama
that it was she who had destroyed Milly's hat, and not little Lucy, as
she had allowed them all to believe, how much happier she would be now!
How weak and wicked she had been and still was! Oh, if Mama was only
here, she would go and tell her all; but it was too late now, Mama was
far away, and couldn't hear or see her child's sorrow, and alas! it was
her own doing, and by her own wish, they were not together. Then there
crept into her heart the sweet loving words that had been so familiar to
her all her life, but now seemed to come back to her with a stronger
power and deeper meaning than they had ever had to her before. "I will
arise and go to my Father," were the words that were ever before her as
she lay sobbing bitterly. Yes, she too would do that. Springing up, she
knelt down and prayed earnestly and truly for strength to do what was
right--to tell the truth, and remove the blame from poor innocent little
Lucy. Lena prayed as she had never prayed before in her young life, and
being calmed and comforted, she was standing meditating how she was to
carry out her good resolutions, when the door opened softly, and
Gertrude looked in.
"I came to see if you were asleep; how is your headache, dear?" she
asked.
Here was a way opened to her--an answer, as it seemed, to her prayer.
She would tell Gertrude all, and be guided by her as to the best way of
acting. Without answering her question, she sprang forward, and
throwing her arms round her friend's neck, sobbed out, "O Gertrude, I
must tell you--I spoilt the hat; I am so wicked and so miserable. Do
you think Papa will ever forgive me?"
"Spoilt what, Lena? Whatever is the matter, dear?" asked Gertrude in
amazement, and a little bit frightened at the excited state Lena was in.
She had heard about the hat being destroyed, and thought, as they all
did, that Lucy had done it; but as it was now some time since it had
happened, she had forgotten all about it. So when Lena sobbed out
again, "I spoilt the hat," she began to think it was some hat she had
destroyed belonging to herself.
"What hat, dear, do you mean?"
"Milly's; I did it, not Lucy."
"O Lena!" she exclaimed in a shocked voice.
"Don't speak like that, Gerty, please. I can't bear you to be angry
with me; I didn't mean to do it really."
"I am not angry, Lena dear; but I don't understand about it. Come and
sit down and tell me what you mean." Going to the window, she drew up
the blind and drew a chair up for Lena as well as herself; but Lena
would sit nowhere but on the floor. Crouching down at Gertrude's feet,
and hiding her face on her lap, she told her tale in broken words.
Gertrude listened, without saying one word until she had ended; then
stooping down and putting her arms round her she said, "Poor Lena, how
unhappy you must have been all this time!"
"Not since I have been here; but before it was dreadful. Do you think
they will ever forgive me?"
"Of course they will, Lena; how can you doubt it?"
"But Papa said he couldn't bear us to do a dishonourable, wicked thing;
and Gerty, he spoke so sternly, that I was afraid to tell him. And then
I thought Mama and Milly knew, and had forgiven me without telling him,"
repeated Lena again.
"Poor Lena!" was all Gertrude said again, as she stroked back the
child's hair from her flushed face, for by this time Lena had found her
way from the floor to Gertrude's lap. A long silence fell upon them.
Lena lay very still, resting her head against her kind companion's
shoulder, feeling, oh, so thankful! that the wretched secret was no
longer locked up in her own heart. At last she said, "How can I tell
them?"
"You must write to them, dear, to-night; don't put off, for it only
makes it more difficult."
"I am sure I don't know what I shall say. I shall never be able to
write it."
"Yes, you will, dear. I will help you. What made you tell me to-day,
Lena?"
"O Gerty!" she exclaimed, sitting up and looking very grave, "I have got
such a headache, and I am so hot and my cheeks so red, I am sure I am
going to have the fever like little Mary Roberts."
"O Lena, what nonsense!"
"It is not, Gertrude. I never had such a bad headache before, and I am
so hot, and I thought about what you said about dying when you were
doing wrong, so I felt I must tell; and, Gerty"--here she lowered her
voice--"I asked God to help me, and then you came in."
"Darling," was the only answer. Then a knock came to the door and the
servant's voice was heard saying, "Tea is ready."
Gertrude helped Lena to get ready, and together they went downstairs.
Miss Gifford called out in surprise as they entered the room, "My poor
little Lena, I am afraid your sleep has not done you any good. Are you
feeling ill?"
"Yes, Miss Gifford, my head aches, and I am so hot I could not sleep."
"You shall sit in the arm-chair by the window; it is so pleasant now
with the cool sea-breeze coming in, and Gerty shall give you a cup of
tea."
Lena sat very quietly, accepting all Miss Gifford's kindness in silence;
but when Gerty took her a cup of tea she whispered, "Must I tell Miss
Gifford?"
"I will tell her, dear, and how sorry you are."
"Perhaps she won't be so kind to me then; she will think me so wicked."
"She was never unkind when Bessie and I were naughty: I am sure she
won't be to you." Then raising her voice she said, "Lena wants to write
a letter home to-night, please, Miss Gifford."
"No, dear, that must wait till to-morrow; little girls with headaches
must keep quiet," was the answer.
With this Lena had to be content. In truth she was not sorry to have
nothing more to do that evening but rest quietly, feeling thankful that
she had taken that difficult first step in the right direction.
*CHAPTER XI.*
*CONCLUSION.*
Lena's fears that she too was going to have the fever proved only too
true, for by the next day she was really ill.
All she had gone through for the last few weeks--the fear of discovery,
and misery of concealment, joined with the knowledge of how wrongly she
was behaving--had tried the child. Though, alas! she had been, as all
children are, naughty over and over again, she had never before
concealed a fault and continued to do so, as she had now done week after
week; and the continual struggle that had gone on in her mind between
truth and right, and the pride and jealousy for love, that were such
strong features of her character, had told upon body as well as mind,
and made her fall an easy prey to the low fever that had broken out in
the village and neighbourhood of Sidcombe; and for the next few days she
had but a very dim and hazy idea of what was going on around her.
Fortunately the attack was in a mild form, and the weather was much
cooler than it had been before the fever broke out, heavy rain having
fallen, which cooled the air and revived the sick and drooping, and the
doctor was soon able to pronounce his little patient on the high road to
recovery.
When Lena first began to take notice of who was beside her, she
expressed no astonishment at seeing her mother's face bending over her
and hearing her whisper a few loving words in answer to her. "What is
the matter, Mama?"
"You have been ill, dear, but, please God, you will soon be well again."
Lena was quite satisfied, and asked no more questions--it only seemed
natural to have Papa and Mama beside her; but gradually the
recollections of the day before she was taken ill came back to her, and
she remembered that it was Gertrude and Miss Gifford who had been with
her then. The latter was still constantly beside her, but it was
Gertrude she wanted to see and speak to, as she remembered everything
clearly. Had she told Miss Gifford? She wondered if she had; she
certainly was not angry, for she could not have been kinder to any one
than she was to Lena.
"Mama, where is Gertrude?" she asked.
"Gone home, dear, for we were afraid of her being taken ill also if she
remained."
After a few minutes' silence Lena murmured, "My letter; I never wrote
it."
"My darling," whispered Mrs. Graham, leaning over her child and placing
her hand lovingly on her forehead, "There is no need to write--Gertrude
has told me all."
"O Mama, and are you angry? Do you still love me, when I am so wicked?"
"Still love you, my little one! You cannot doubt that we all forgive
you fully and freely. O my child, never fear to tell us everything and
anything you do or think."
Lena's arms were round her mother's neck in a moment, and she said, as
she clung fondly to her, "No, Mama, I never, never will. It was not you
I was afraid of, but Papa. I thought he would be so angry."
Lena did not think Papa stern, or one likely to cause any one fear, when
later that day he spoke a few loving words to his child; and as she
kissed him, she felt that never again would she think him stern. Her
only wonder was how she could ever have feared him, or doubted the love
of either of them ceasing because she had done wrong.
As Lena lay still that evening, her hand clasped in Mama's, and her eyes
fixed upon Papa, who was reading out her letters from Milly and
Gertrude, Lena felt so happy and contented. There was no longer any
fear in her heart, for there was nothing to be hidden, and the child's
heart swelled with gratitude as she thought how good every one had been
and now were to her.
When the letters were finished, Lena asked suddenly, "How is little
Mary; is she better?"
A moment's silence followed, and then Mama said, "Little Mary has gone
to that home where she will never have pain or suffering more, my Lena;
she is with her Saviour now, dear."
"Dead, Mama--dead! and she was only twelve years old, just my age. Her
poor mother"----
And her eyes filled with tears as she added, "And David, how sorry he
must be, he was so fond of her!"
"Yes, dear, we must pity them, but not little Mary herself; she is
happy, perfectly happy now."
"O Mama, I am so glad I did not die too, for I was not good like her,
and I hadn't told you and Papa. I meant to that very night, but Miss
Gifford would not let me write."
"God has been very good to us all, as He always is, Lena, and has spared
my little girl to us, and given her another opportunity of living and
working for Him."
"Indeed, indeed I will try."
"Now, dear, you must not talk any more or get excited. We feared to
tell you about little Mary, in case it should upset you while you were
so weak, but Papa and I decided that if you asked we would tell you the
truth; for we have all decided, have we not, that we are to have no
concealments or deceptions any more,--have we not?" she repeated.
"No, I never will; I mean," she added humbly, "I will try not to."
After that day Lena grew rapidly better, and was soon able to be taken
down to the sitting-room, where she could lie on the sofa before the
open window, inhaling the cool sea-breezes that brought back health to
the weakened frame, and colour to the pale cheeks.
Soon the day arrived when the doctor pronounced the invalid strong
enough to undertake the journey home; but before they started she begged
for and was allowed to see Mrs. Roberts, the poor widowed mother, who
gladly spoke of her little Mary, and she told Lena much of the simple
holy life her child had tried to lead; and it comforted the poor mother
to hear how her child had been, although unconsciously, instrumental in
leading and strengthening another in the right way; and it interested
Lena much to hear of the girl who, though she had seen her but once or
twice, had still been able to exercise such an influence for good on her
life.
It was the contrast between her own feeling of wrong-doing, and the
account David gave them of how Mary had tried to act, that made such a
deep impression on Lena's mind, and had been the means of bringing her,
in the true spirit of humility, to sue for pardon and strength to do
what was right. How thankful and happy Lena now felt that she had told
all, and that there was no longer in her heart or life anything that she
desired to hide from her parents.
Oh, if children would only remember that the good or evil they do
affects, not only themselves, but may, both by example and bearing, have
a powerful influence over their companions, I am sure one and all would
strive to deserve the name that David had bestowed on Mary Roberts, and
be, in deed and in truth, little Christians. How happy they would be,
not only themselves, but would make all around them equally so!
Long ere the autumn passed into winter, Lena was well and strong, and
Astbury was no longer looked upon or called a new home; and although
they were not able, now the cold and wet weather had set in, to spend
their time in the fields and garden as at first, they found there were
pleasures and joys in a country life in winter as well as in summer, and
sunshine reigned indoors, for Lena and her sisters were very happy and
loving together. Storms came occasionally, as among all small people;
but there was not only love, but perfect trust and confidence between
them all now; and when that is the case, there must be happiness in the
home circle.
Christmas was drawing very near, and with it the prospect of Aunt Mary's
promised visit. No word had been said to Miss Somerville about Lena's
wrong-doing and its long concealment. Mrs. Graham wished Lena to tell
her Aunt herself, and though at first she shrank from the task, she
acknowledged that she ought to do so, for, as she said to her mother, "I
know I ought to, Mama, for Gerty saved me the pain of telling you,
though now I should not want any one to tell you or Papa anything for
me, but then it was different."
Christmas also brought back, for her first holiday, Bessie Freeling from
the boarding-school that she had looked forward to with so much dread,
and that she had found was not so dreadful in reality as in
anticipation. Like many other things in this world that we dread and
think of as misfortunes, it turned out, as is so often the case, to be a
real blessing when it came. Bessie was beginning to see that running
about wild in the country was not all that was required to make life
either useful or happy.
The first evening of Aunt Mary's arrival Lena joined her in her own
room. Miss Somerville sat quietly in her chair before the fire, and
listened to Lena as she poured forth the account of her doings since
they had parted in the summer, ending with, "I know, Auntie, that you
must be disappointed and grieved with me after all my promises."
"I did not expect those promises to be quite fulfilled, Lena," was her
Aunt's answer.
"Did you think so badly of me as that, then, Aunt Mary?"
"Not badly, darling. I fear I thought too much of my little niece, and
helped to spoil her by being too indulgent and easy."
"Then why,--what do you mean, Auntie?"
"I mean, darling, that you spoke so confidently, and as if you were so
sure of your own strength; and Lena, you know now that our own strength
is but utter weakness when we are tempted."
Lena's eyes filled with tears, but she made no answer as her Aunt,
drawing her close to her, went on lovingly to say, "However sorry I am
about the past, I am now much more happy and hopeful about your future
than I was when we parted in the summer, for I feared you would have
many trials and temptations to go through, that you little dreamed of in
the quiet life we led together."
"You warned me, Auntie; you said I must learn to give in, and share with
Milly and Lucy."
"Yes, dear, experience teaches us many lessons, and God has been very
good to you: He has shown you the misery of wrong-doing."
"Yes indeed, Auntie, I was very miserable," interrupted Lena.
"But, my darling, if that misery has taught you to be humble and trust
less in your own strength, I cannot be sorry, but thankful for it."
"And you won't love me less?"
"Lena!" was all her Aunt said, but it was enough.
"No, no, Auntie, I didn't mean that; I know you won't. You will be like
Papa and Mama, who only seem to love me more, if that is possible;
only," she added with a smile, "Mama says the love was always there, but
I wouldn't see it."
"Thank God, dear Lena, that you do see it at last."
"It was only sometimes I didn't, when I thought they liked Milly best,
but she deserved it if they had. O Auntie, she has been so good, and so
has little Lucy; they never said one unkind word when I came home,
though I had behaved so badly."
A loud knock, and an impatient "Do let us in, Aunt Mary," from Lucy,
interrupted them.
Lena ran and opened the door, and there stood Lucy, all eagerness and
excitement, and beside her was Milly, holding a big parcel in her arms,
her face beaming with delight.
"It's for you, Lena; see, it is addressed 'Miss Graham.' It's from Mrs.
Clifford," she added softly.
"Then it must be meant for you," answered Lena, flushing scarlet and
drawing back.
"Never mind, Lena; open it quickly, do, and see what is inside," burst
out Lucy impatiently.
"It is meant for you, Lena dear, so don't be afraid to open it."
"I heard from Mrs. Clifford this morning that the box was sent," said
her mother, coming in.
Thus bidden, Lena, with her sister's help, undid the string and took off
the paper. Opening the box, Lena took out and laid on the floor two
parcels directed to Milly and herself. Then she drew out one with
Lucy's name on it. There was no mistaking what Lucy's was.
"A doll for me! Oh, how lovely! My first Christmas present!" she
exclaimed in delight.
Lena looked at hers. On the paper was written, "For dear Lena, from
Milly's godmama." Opening it, she saw a pretty soft brown hat, with a
long curling ostrich feather of the same colour, and looking up she saw
Milly holding one exactly the same in her hand.
"O Lena, how nice! We shall be exactly like, I am so glad. Aren't they
lovely?"
"Mama," said Lena, after a pause, "may I give Lucy the feather? she
deserves it, I don't;" and she tried to unfasten it as she spoke.
"Wait a moment, my child. Ask Lucy first if she would like it."
It was difficult to get Lucy to attend to anything they said, so
absorbed was she in the delights of her new doll; when she did hear, she
asked in surprise, "Give it me! what for? It's your present, Lena; you
should not give away presents--it is wrong."
"But, Lucy, you forget what I did to Milly's white one, and let you bear
the blame."
"Oh, I didn't mind; at least, I knew I did not mean to spoil the
feather; but I kicked it, you know."
"Do let me give it to her, Mama," Lena pleaded.
"I don't want it, Lena, I don't want it; you and Milly will have hats
alike. I mustn't speak of the white one. Milly and I decided we never
would; and Bessie said she would think me very mean if I did, and I
won't."
"How good you are all to me!" said Lena, giving her little sister a
kiss.
"That's because you are so much nicer now than you used to be--you are
not always"---- Here Lucy stopped, abashed at Milly's indignant
exclamation.
"Always what?" asked Lena after a moment's pause.
"Always wanting to be first, and going on about being the eldest. I
love you ever so much more now since you have been to Sidcombe;" and the
child looked round at them all, as much as to say, "There now, I have
spoken out what I really think."
"Dear Lena, I should rather have had that testimony to your character
than all the promises of last summer, and I am sure Mama agrees with
me," said Aunt Mary.
Mama's answer was a loving kiss as she placed the hat on Lena's head.
Then doing the same to Milly, said, "Now run down together, and show
them to Papa, and ask what he thinks about them; and then put them away
in your own room until Christmas morning, that day of joy, peace, and
good-will towards man."
As the two girls left the room together, Miss Somerville said to her
sister, "They are very fond of each other."
"Yes, dear," was the answer. "It makes me very happy to see their
affection. I know the value of a sister's love, and I trust that no
root of jealousy may ever again spring up to interrupt their perfect
friendship."
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