DISAPPOINTMENT
[Illustration] THE birthday of the twins had arrived; but the sun rises
late on the twenty-fourth of December, and Dora was up, dressing by
candlelight, long before his first beams shone on the sheet of pure
white snow which had fallen during the night.
It might be supposed that Dora's thoughts would be on the words of
advice which she had heard on the previous night; but though these
words had made some impression at the time, it was by no means upon
them that the girl's mind was running when she awoke in the morning.
Dora was thinking of her embroidery work—that work of which she had
been so proud, that work which had cost her so dear. Nothing that Miss
Clare had said dwelt so much on the memory of her niece as the simple
observation, "It wants a little more scarlet, I think."
For on the mantelpiece of the room now occupied by Dora there chanced
to stand a glass bottle, corked and labelled; and by the light of her
candle Dora had noticed that "SCARLET INK" was printed upon the label.
The sight of that little bottle had aroused in the mind of the girl new
hopes, and again turned her energies into the channel of work.
"My supply of scarlet silk ran short, and I was not able to get another
skein at the shop," thought Dora. "Aunt is quite right, there is not
enough of scarlet mixed with the purple and blue; it is that which
spoils the effect of my curtains. I wonder that no one noticed that
before! But I have a skein of white silk with me, and why should I not
dye it myself with that beautiful scarlet ink? This is a capital idea!
The school children do not come till the afternoon; I should have time
to dye my silk before breakfast, and after breakfast to work enough
scarlet into my pattern to give a brilliant effect to all that part
which is most easily seen. How pleased Aunt Theodora will be to find
that I have taken her hint, and that I grudge no extra trouble to make
my work complete! How very lucky it is that she put that ink into my
room!"
Dora actually forgot both her prayers and her Scripture reading on
that birthday morning in her impatience to get downstairs, and quietly
remove her inner veil and curtain from the model, before any other
member of the family should enter the room where it was kept. With
rough hair, and dress only half-buttoned, Dora noiselessly opened her
door, and then crept down the staircase, and into the sitting-room in
which the Tabernacle stood, covered from the dust by large sheets of
silver paper. There was no one in the room except the housemaid, who
was employed in opening the shutters to let in the light of morning.
The model, as we know, was made to be taken to pieces at will; but
as Dora's sot of curtains was the innermost of all, it cost her some
time and trouble to remove them. She pursued her occupation while the
housemaid went on with that of lighting the fire and dusting the room,
and was at last able to disengage the whole of the embroidered portion
of the drapery of the little Tabernacle. With this Dora returned to her
own apartment, and she laid her work on the pretty little table which
her aunt had placed for her convenience.
"I must be quick about the dyeing," she said to herself, "for I hear
Lucius whistling upstairs in the passage, and little Elsie running
about in the room just over my head. The family is now all astir, and
in a quarter of an hour the prayer-bell will ring. If I don't dye
my silk scarlet at once, I shall be sadly delayed in my work, for I
cannot, of course, use it for sewing until it is perfectly dry."
Dora took the bottle of ink down from its place on the mantelpiece, and
in a great hurry set about removing the sealing-wax which covered the
cork, for the bottle had not yet been opened. It was a tolerably easy
matter to break off the edges of the red wax, but Dora did not find it
easy at all to pull out the cork, which was low in the narrow neck of
the bottle, and happened to be a very tight fit.
"Dear! Dear! How troublesome this is!" she exclaimed, hunting about
for her stout pair of nail scissors to help her in forcing out the
obstinate cork.
"Good-morning, Dora dear, many happy returns of the day to you!" cried
the merry voice of Elsie, as she tapped at the door of her sister's
room.
"Thank you, darling, don't come in now; I'll soon be downstairs—I'm not
quite ready!" called out Dora, who had just succeeded in finding the
scissors.
She heard the little feet patter down the stairs.
"Happy birthday to you, Dora! Mind you're not late, Miss
Twelve-years-old!" This time it was the voice of Lucius at the door.
"No, no, I'll not be late; I'll be down in ten minutes!" cried Dora,
digging her scissors vigorously into the cork.
The clatter of Lucius's boots showed that he followed little Elsie.
"Oh! This cork, this tiresome cork!" exclaimed Dora. "There, it's out
at last."
And setting the opened bottle on the table, she turned round in a great
flurry to get from her box the skein of silk which was to be changed
from white to scarlet.
"More haste, less speed." Dora was not the first who had proved the
truth of that proverb. She whisked round so rapidly that her dress
struck the top of the bottle, which she had carelessly set down in a
place that was not very safe. The bottle was knocked over, but it fell
upon something soft which lay upon the table, so that it was neither
broken, nor did it make enough noise in falling to attract Dora's
attention. It was not till she had found the skein (which she had some
trouble in doing) that on turning back to the table she perceived the
mischief caused by her hasty movement.
What a start and exclamation of distress poor Dora gave when she saw on
the table her embroidery lying actually under the overturned bottle,
and soaked through and through with the scarlet ink, which had flowed
in abundance from it!
Dora stood for a moment as if rooted to the spot, scarcely able
to believe her own eyes. She then darted forward, caught up the
half-emptied bottle in one hand, and the stained, dripping linen in the
other. The first glance at the embroidery showed the poor girl that the
mischief done was utterly beyond repairing; in one minute, the fruit of
all her long toil had been completely destroyed!
"Oh, it is all my own fault—all my own fault—it could not have
prospered!" cried out Dora, in a loud tone of anguish, as she put down
first the bottle, then the embroidery, and then, hiding her face with
her scarlet-stained fingers, she burst into a passion of weeping.
That cry, that weeping, reached the ears of her aunt, who had just
approached her door, carrying with her the destined gifts for the
twins—the Indian scarf, and the brooch with the miniature set in pearls.
"My darling girl, what is the matter?" exclaimed Miss Clare, opening
the door in alarm.
There was no need to repeat the unanswered question; the bottle, the
little heap of embroidered linen dripping with scarlet ink, told their
own story plainly enough. Miss Clare saw the nature of the accident
which had happened, and, with kind sympathy for her niece's great
disappointment, folded her affectionately in her arms.