Another Side of Ivy
IT was very good for Hecla to have her little cousin in the house.
She had always been an only child among grown-up people, and they had
given way to her, and had tried to make her happy. But now there was
a younger child who had to be given way to, and to be made happy; and
Hecla was expected to take her share in this.
And she was most willing to do so. Hecla had her faults, as we have
seen, and some very tiresome faults; but selfishness was not one
of them. She was ready to give up anything to Ivy, and wanted to
make presents of half her toys to the younger child. If Ivy admired
something of hers, Hecla would give it to her directly.
Another good point, already noted, was that she seldom showed jealousy.
Though she did just at first feel a little hurt to see her chum doing
things for the new little girl which he had never done for his older
friend, that was only a passing feeling, and it did not make her cross
or unhappy. It did not trouble her to see Ivy being petted and fondled
by Aunt Anne, because she was so small and lonely. And when even Miss
Storey, who in general was not fond of children, seemed from the first
to take to this little one, Hecla was not jealous, not in the least.
That was nice of her, was it not? Jealousy is such a disagreeable, ugly
fault.
And she just loved to be allowed to help in any way with Ivy. She
wanted ever so much to be trusted sometimes to take care of her. That,
too, was a good thing for Hecla, for it made her not quite so impulsive
and heedless as she had been.
By "impulsive," I mean that whatever came into her head she would do
straight off, not stopping for a moment to think whether it was right
or wrong. She was naturally what we call "impulsive,"—quick thoughts
and wishes and intentions springing up into her little mind, and being
instantly acted upon, without an idea of what might come after. Ivy was
not impulsive, but quiet and thoughtful. That made it much easier for
Ivy to fall into fewer blunders than Hecla. It made the fight against
heedlessness much harder for Hecla than for Ivy.
Ivy's pretty gentle movements seemed made for the two aunts. They were
exactly what Miss Storey thought nice and proper, and what she had
tried in vain to teach Hecla. Hecla would bounce into a room, slamming
the door behind her or leaving it flung wide open, whereas Ivy would
walk quietly in, closing the door with no noise at all, and never
tumbling over chairs or stools or rug-edges.
"She is such a little lady," Miss Storey sometimes said, with great
approval.
And Hecla wondered how anybody not grown-up could be a "lady."
It was curious to see the two children together; Hecla, years the
older, all excitement and restlessness, like quicksilver, and Ivy, so
small and young, so dignified and sensible.
Hecla really was trying to be different; but the habits of her life
could not be conquered in a day or a month, and a great deal of hard
fighting lay ahead, before she could hope to become as quiet and
thoughtful as little Ivy was by nature. Not that Hecla did not think!
She thought a great deal, but unfortunately she always seemed to give
her mind to anything and everything except the present duty.
Besides much fighting, much praying for help was needed, and that was
a habit which Hecla had to learn, as we all have to learn it. Praying
is quite as hard as fighting, if not much harder. But the more we pray
for help, the easier becomes the fighting. I think Hecla was only just
beginning to learn the A B C of that great knowledge—how to pray.
Some days she really did look up and ask in her very heart that God
would help her, for the sake of His dear Son; and some days she said
her prayers like a lesson, and never thought about the meaning of the
words.
But it often puzzled Hecla to see how things which were difficult to
her were easy to Ivy; and she would wonder why. She was too young
to understand the great difference that there is between different
people's natures. This difference, which made it much easier for Ivy
to be gentle-mannered, made it also worth a great deal more when Hecla
was gentle and considerate, for with Ivy it was natural, but with Hecla
it meant a hard fight and a victory. And a victory is always worth
gaining. The harder the fight, the more the victory is worth.
Another thing sometimes puzzled Hecla. It was that when Ivy asked
questions, the aunts never seemed to mind, and always took pains to
answer her. While, if Hecla burst out with strings of questions, she
was told not to chatter so much. She did not quickly find out the
real reason—that Ivy asked because she really wanted to understand
something, while Hecla's questions were merely because she wanted to
talk, and did not care what she said or what replies came.
But, of course, little Ivy too had her faults. She was not by any means
perfect. All children have faults; and so had she; though they were
different in kind from Hecla's faults.
For instance, though she was pretty in her ways, and generally so
sensible and reasonable, she would now and then get a sudden odd fit of
obstinacy, and would utterly refuse to do something that was wished. No
particular reason could be found for the little naughty fit; but there
it was.
The first time this happened was two or three weeks after her
arrival, when she was quite settled in and at home, and things were
going smoothly and happily. Miss Anne was teaching her as usual for
half-an-hour how to read, and she was spelling the easy words, one
after another, when she came to the word cat.
Ivy spelt it in her slow, quiet way, as she had done before—very
deliberate, and never in a hurry.
"C-a-t—tac!" she said.
"Not tac, but cat, Ivy."
Ivy immediately said "Cat," all right, and went on. Soon the same word
came again and again she spelt "C-a-t—tac."
Miss Anne corrected her afresh; and then it happened a third time, and
a fourth time; for the page she was reading was all about a cat. Aunt
Anne thought it funny and forgetful of her, and put her back at the
beginning of the lesson. And behold each time that Ivy came upon that
unfortunate word, she always said "C-a-t—tac."
"Ivy, I really don't think you can have forgotten so soon! Try to
remember," urged Miss Anne. "C-a-t spells cat, not tac. Think of Auntie
Millicent's pussy."
Ivy held her little head very upright, and her small mouth took
a positive set. Miss Anne began to understand that this was not
forgetfulness, but naughtiness. She was puzzled, for Ivy had been very
good over her lessons till that day.
"Once more, darling. Try this time," urged Aunt Anne.
Ivy was taught to call the Misses Storey "Auntie," though really they
were cousins. It seemed nicer that they should be the same to her as to
Hecla.
"Try to do better," she said.
Not a bit of it! The page was read again, and all through "cat" was
"tac."
"I think we will stop now," Miss Anne said gravely. "You must be a
little sleepy, dear. We will leave the rest."
Ivy did not seem to mind. She played solemnly with her doll till Hecla
was free, and behaved just as usual all day; so Miss Anne Storey hoped
it was only a queer little fancy, which would soon be forgotten.
But she did not know Ivy yet!
Next morning, lessons took place as always, and the same page was
begun upon anew. And every single time that Ivy came upon "c-a-t," she
regularly called it "tac." She would say "cat" properly after Miss
Anne; and as soon as the word recurred it was "tac" once more.
It really was too silly, wasn't it? I wonder if any little girl who
reads this can tell me why Ivy chose to say this particular word wrong
all through?
Miss Anne put the book down.
"Ivy, I'm afraid this is naughtiness," she said gravely.
Ivy held up her head straight, and pursed her lips together.
"What makes you behave so? Why do you not try to read better, dear?"
No answer came. Ivy said not a word.
"I don't want to punish my little pet," Miss Anne said, in her gentle
way. "But, of course, I cannot let you go on, doing wrong on purpose.
Now, I am going to try once more if you will say it rightly; and if
not, we won't do any more lessons this morning, but you must sit for
the rest of the half-hour with your face to the wall."
Ivy read five more words, then said "tac" very clearly.
Miss Anne got up slowly, with a grieved face, and put the book away.
After which she turned Ivy's chair so that the little girl's face was
towards the wall, and she could not see out of the window.
"You must sit there, Ivy, till I give you leave to move. Unless you
will come and promise me to read differently."
Ivy did not like this at all. She loved having lessons with Aunt
Anne; and she was a clever little girl, too, and really wished to be
able to read nice books. But pride would not let her give in. So she
sat upright and silent, staring at the wall, while big tears slowly
gathered and rolled down her cheeks, and a pitiful look grew in the
wide open eyes. It made Miss Anne's heart ache. Still she said nothing
till the half-hour was ended. Then she took Ivy on her knees, and wiped
away the tears.
"Sweet Ivy, what was the use of it all?" she asked.
Ivy gave a great sigh, and nestled in Miss Anne's arms, murmuring—
"I want—want—mummie."
"But mummie wouldn't like her little Ivy to be naughty."
"I want—mummie," was all Ivy would say.
"Isn't it nicer to read well—to do your best? Think—how dear mummie
out in Africa will want to hear that her little girl is getting on.
Wouldn't she be sorry to hear about to-day?"
"I—don't—know," whispered Ivy.
"I think you do know. And, Ivy pet, there is Someone else, too, Who is
grieved when His little lambs give way to a naughty spirit. Don't you
think our dear Lord Jesus wants His little Ivy to be good? I am quite
sure He does."
Ivy sighed afresh. Miss Anne kissed her, and put her down.
"Now we are going for a walk," she said; "and we are going to forget
about naughty ways and silly mistakes. To-morrow, I hope things will be
quite different. We'll make a new start, and Ivy will do her very best."
When the morrow came, Ivy really did do her best, and she never once
said "tac" for "cat."
And for some days lessons went beautifully.
And then, all at once, with no rhyme or reason—which was the more odd,
as she commonly seemed such a reasonable little girl—all at once she
started off again after the same fashion, and nothing would stop it.
For three mornings she persevered, always saying "tac" for "cat," and
holding her little head stiffly up, and pursing her lips together, and
refusing to be good.
Miss Anne began to think there would be nothing for it but to put the
little girl to bed, as a punishment for her obstinacy. And, just as she
was considering this, on the third morning, in walked Chris, with a
note from the Vicar.
"Hallo!" he uttered, at the sight of Ivy seated solemnly with her face
to the wall. "I say—what's up now!"
Miss Anne Storey told him. Then she got up, and said—
"I must look out the paper that your uncle wants. Will you wait here
for a minute, Chris?"
"May I speak to Ivy?" asked the boy.
"Certainly," Miss Anne answered, for she knew she could trust Chris.
Miss Anne left the room, and Chris walked straight across to where the
deplorable little figure sat, picked up Ivy bodily, took her place, and
planted her on his knee. Ivy submitted without a word.
"I say, this is uncommon dull!" was his first remark. "I shouldn't like
to sit here for half-an-hour! Un—common—dull!"
Ivy drew a sobbing breath. She was getting very tired of the position.
"So you can't spell cat, eh? Not spell cat! Why, you must be the
densest little dunderhead of a mortal that ever existed. Not able
to spell cat! I never heard of such a thing!" The boy spoke with
disdainful severity, while with one hand, he stroked the long
golden-brown hair.
Ivy held her head as high as it was possible to hold it.
"I can spell cat," she whispered.
"Spell it," commanded Chris. "Sharp!"
"C-a-t," began Ivy, and from sheer force of habit she said what she did
not mean to say—"tac."
Chris went into roars of laughter. He shook beneath her like a small
earthquake. He clutched Ivy, to keep her from rolling over, and roared
afresh with fit after fit of merriment, each following closely on the
last. Never before had the calm and decorous walls of "The Cottage"
echoed to such peals of laughter.
Ivy grew redder and redder, more and more shamefaced.
"Tac! Tac! Tac!" gasped Chris. "Oh, you little goosey-gander! So I
s'pose you'd say, 'Come here, pretty tac! Stroke tac's tail!' Oh, I
say!"
"C-a-t—cat," spelt Ivy with dignity.
Chris began to recover himself. "Now you're going to say that sixteen
times, to get it right," he ordered. "Come—quick—c-a-t—cat, c-a-t—cat!"
Ivy obeyed orders. She spelt the word sixteen times, patiently, and
then hid her blushing face against his shoulder.
Chris didn't mind—much—as they were alone. He was rather gratified than
otherwise. Had he known that Miss Anne was standing in the doorway,
looking on with great enjoyment, he would have promptly changed the
position of affairs.
"Now you understand! You're not going to be a little stupid any more,
eh?"
"No," murmured Ivy.
Chris' watchful ears detected a suspicious creak, and he pulled up the
drooping figure of the little girl with a jerk.
"That's all right. Come along and tell Miss Anne you're good. Come!"
And quite meekly Ivy walked up to Miss Anne, murmuring, "C-a-t—cat."
They heard no more of "tac" at lessons, but Ivy heard a good deal of
it from Chris. Many weeks passed before he ceased asking her on all
occasions, "Well, how's the pretty tac? Tac's tail all right, eh?"
It was a complete cure—of that particular word. But other words
sometimes went wrong in the same way, for little Ivy's chief fault
was a mixture of pride and obstinacy; quite different, you see, from
Hecla's faults. Each little girl had a battle to fight, and the battle
for each was not exactly the same.