Consequences
NOBODY had time to think about Hecla. Mildred took her home, and went
off to change her own wet clothes; and for the first time in her life,
Hecla was left to her own devices.
She felt utterly miserable, and did not know what to do with herself.
Auntie Anne was away at the doctor's with Ivy; and Mrs. Prue and
Elisabeth were both busy with Miss Storey in her room, where, wrapped
in shawls and blankets, she sat shivering and icy-cold before a blazing
fire, scarcely able to speak.
The house seemed so empty, so desolate. There was nobody to speak to.
Hecla crept disconsolately from room to room, with a great weight upon
her.
She could not help knowing that all this trouble and distress had come
upon the household as a result of her own naughtiness. She wished
now—oh, how she wished it!—that she had said No to Mildred's proposal,
and had waited patiently for Auntie Anne's return from the gardener's
cottage. If only she had listened to that warning voice which spoke so
clearly in her heart, and had refused to do what she knew to be wrong,
or had turned back in time, even after having started—how happy she
might be now!
It had all been for no use. She had not found Chris; she had not
received the boat. But even if she had, what would that have mattered
in comparison?
The time seemed to her endless before at last Aunt Millicent's door
opened, and Prue came out. Hecla was watching on the stairs, a few
steps above, on the flight which led to the servants' room; and she ran
downstairs after Prue, catching her skirt.
"Oh, please, Prue—please, dear Mrs. Prue—do tell me! Is Auntie
Millicent better?"
Prue looked her grimmest.
"There, don't you be hindering of me, Miss Hecla! You've done mischief
enough for one day."
"Is Auntie Millicent ill?" asked Hecla dolefully.
"I shouldn't wonder but she's going to be. She's all over shakes and
shivers, and can't hardly say a word, she's that weak. It's pretty nigh
enough to be the death of her!"
"Oh, Prue!"
"You just let go o' my dress, Miss Hecla—" as she bustled along, Hecla
clinging still to her skirt. "I ain't got time for talk."
"But please tell me—I do want to know—about Ivy."
"She's opened her eyes; and that's about all. She don't know nobody."
"Doesn't she know Auntie Anne?"
"No—nor nobody."
"Won't she be quite well soon? Darling Mrs. Prue, please tell me!"
"Nobody can't tell. She may, and she mayn't," asserted Prue. "There's
a lot o' mischief comes often after that sort o' accident, Miss Hecla.
Why, dear me, I've had to do with a girl as fell into a river, and she
wasn't never properly herself after, not all her life long she wasn't."
Mrs. Prue shook herself free and went off, and Hecla retreated into the
dining-room. Plainly no comfort was to be had in that direction.
Would Ivy, sweet little Ivy, never be properly herself again? The
suggestion was vague, and therefore all the more terrible. Hecla
scarcely knew what she feared, but she did fear it. And she—she would
be the cause. She crouched down in a corner, half-hidden by the heavy
window-curtains, and felt very naughty and hopeless.
Then Elisabeth appeared; and even Elisabeth was for once severe. She
brought the little girl her tea and bread-and-butter, and gave her
also an admonition on her conduct, which really was not then needed,
for Hecla was already as miserable as she knew how to be. Elisabeth's
lecture proved just the one drop too much, and set her off crying
helplessly. It was impossible to eat bread-and-butter when tears came
streaming down and mixed with the food and fell into her cup, and sobs
nearly choked her.
Mrs. Prue had called Elisabeth away, and Hecla was again alone. She
left the tray, curled herself once more into the window-corner, and
cried herself into a sound sleep.
There Chris found her. He had come in to see what was happening to his
chum, half concerned for her sake, and more than half disposed to give
her a piece of his mind respecting her behaviour. But when he saw the
child's reddened and blistered face, and when he heard the pitiful
little sobs which came from time to time even in her sleep, he changed
his mind, and went straight back to the Vicarage. And ten minutes later
the Vicar himself walked in.
Something awoke Hecla; she did not know what. Half unconscious still,
she fancied it was her own mother kissing her. And then she opened
her eyes and found herself on the Vicar's knees, with her head on his
shoulder, and his kind arm supporting her.
It did not occur to her to wonder how she came there. She only felt how
good it was to be so held, and not to be told that everything was her
fault, which already she knew only too well. She gave one surprised
look up into those kind eyes, and then she clung closer to him, trying
to pull his arm more tightly round her. It was, oh, such a comfort to
be no longer all alone and desolate.
The Vicar said nothing for some time. Busy man that he was, he might
have had the whole day at his disposal, so long he remained thus,
and so quietly he held the child. But presently, with a little added
pressure, he said,—
"Tell me all about it, Hecla."
Hecla's dread broke out in words: "Will Ivy die? Must Ivy die?"
"I hope not, indeed."
"And Auntie Millicent?"
"She will be better soon, I think. Tell me how it all happened, my
child."
A few questions drew forth the sad little tale. In his mind, the Vicar
silently blamed Mildred even more than Hecla, for she was the older
girl, and she had no business to ask the others to go with her, or to
neglect Ivy when near the river. But he had at this moment only to do
with Hecla's share.
"I didn't, didn't mean to be naughty," sobbed Hecla. "But I did want so
very much to go—and—auntie—"
"If you had just waited to think, and had put up one little prayer to
be kept from doing what was wrong, all this might have been avoided."
Hecla sighed and nestled into that kind encircling arm.
"Mrs. Prue says—Mrs. Prue says—Ivy perhaps won't ever be properly
herself again."
"Mrs. Prue is anxious, no doubt, as we all are; but I hope there is no
fear of that. The doctor says Ivy is doing nicely now."
"Does he? I'm so glad." Then after a break. "And Elisabeth says—says—"
"Yes."
"She says, God doesn't love me, because I'm so naughty."
"Elisabeth is wrong. People often say that kind of thing, and it is a
very great mistake. I think she only means that God is sorry. But He
loves you always—always—even when you are naughty. Never forget that.
If little Ivy were naughty, do you think her mother could leave off
loving her? That could never happen. And you are God's little child—His
own dear little child. It is just because He loves you so dearly that
He is grieved when you are disobedient. And then you have to come back
to Him, and tell Him how sorry you are, and ask Him to forgive you and
to make you a better child, for the sake of our dear Lord Jesus Christ.
Would you like to come with me now to His footstool, and tell Him?"
"Please!" Hecla whispered.
The Vicar knelt down and made her kneel beside him, and his arm was
still round the child. "Say after me," he murmured, and he led the way
with words that she knew well, words which seemed just made for her at
that moment: only he put "I" instead of "we," that she might speak for
herself.
"Almighty and most merciful Father—I have erred and strayed from Thy
ways like a lost lamb—I have followed too much the devices and desires
of my own heart—I have offended against Thy holy laws—"
And so on to the end. Then came a few simple words of his own, telling
in what way she had acted wrongly, and how sorry she was, and how he
and she earnestly prayed that, if it were God's will, dear little Ivy
and Miss Storey might both soon be quite well again.
After which the Vicar went back to his chair, taking Hecla again upon
his knee, and she felt quiet and comforted. And presently Elisabeth
came in.
"Miss Storey wants to see Miss Hecla, please, sir."
"You may run upstairs, my child," the Vicar said, putting her down.
"And don't cry any more. I shall see you to-morrow morning again."
Hecla went gravely upstairs, wondering what Auntie Millicent would say,
and whether she would be punished, and hoping she would not be told
again that everything was her doing, because she knew that would bring
more tears. But when she went into the room she saw Auntie Millicent in
bed, looking pale and shaky, not a bit like her usual self.
And Miss Storey, instead of saying a word of blame, held out both arms.
Hecla crept into them and hid her face, and said not a word either, but
only sobbed, forgetting that she was not to cry any more; and Auntie
Millicent stroked her hair and fondled her with trembling fingers.
"I know you are sorry, Hecla," came at last in a whisper.
"Oh, auntie, I'm so dreadfully sorry," gasped the child, feeling as if
she had never known before how much she loved this kind auntie.
"Yes, I know, and you will never do so again. And we must thank
God—mustn't we?"
And they clung faster still together.
Then Dr. Evans walked in and said, "Hullo! This won't do."
"I had to see the child, Dr. Evans. I could not put off any longer."
"You should have asked my leave first."
"How is Ivy?" asked Miss Storey.
"Better, I hope. Sound asleep, and that is the great thing. Miss Anne
will be with her all night. And you are not to be anxious."
Miss Storey smiled, for that was more easily ordered than obeyed.
"We will try," she said.
"Hecla must go to bed now and to sleep. And you have to rest. News
shall be brought the first thing in the morning."
"Won't Auntie Anne come back?" Hecla asked in a very subdued voice.
The doctor answered, "No." Then he made Hecla say "Good-night," and
sent her away with Elisabeth. And he told Mrs. Prue she must be in Miss
Storey's room, in case anything were wanted in the night.
He did not tell them that there had been a time that day when he feared
little Ivy might not live many hours. She had been in great danger of
sinking from the severe shock and the sudden chill of her fall into
the water. Think what it would have meant to Hecla and to Mildred if
the little one had died! But mercifully she was now improving, and the
doctor hoped that with great care she would soon be well.
She did get well, but it was nearly a week before she was allowed to
be moved, and Miss Anne stayed all that time in the doctor's house;
and Hecla was not allowed to see Ivy. The doctor was anxious that the
little one should get really over her accident, and he insisted on
keeping her very quiet, and having no excitement at all.
By the end of a week, however, he consented to Ivy being carried across
to "The Cottage," wrapped in a blanket, for Miss Anne was longing to
be at home. Miss Storey had been very poorly all through the week, and
Elisabeth and Mrs. Prue had had to nurse her.
No doubt all this was in the end good for Hecla. She had to spend much
time by herself, which meant a good deal of leisure for thinking, and
she was dull and lonely, even though the Vicar and Chris kindly looked
in as often as they possibly could to cheer her up. But in all her
life afterwards, she would never forget that week. It seemed more like
a year than only seven days. She could not but be deeply impressed in
her little mind with the sad consequences which may follow on one small
act of disobedience—not really small, for no wrong-doing is ever really
small, only it seemed small to her. And so she would not forget the
great danger of giving in to sudden temptation.
At last the day was fixed for Ivy's return, and on that very same day,
the doctor gave leave for Miss Storey to come downstairs for the first
time, just for an hour. Hecla was wild with joy.