KITTY did not go in at the back gate this time. She felt that she must
have done with concealment in every shape. She walked in at the front
door, and, seeing that her mother was not in the parlour, she went
straight up-stairs to her own room. Her mother was there, looking at
the books in the bookcase.
"Your desk is not locked, Kitty," said Mrs. Tremain. "You turned the
key without shutting it close, and the bolt is outside, so you can get
your money even if you do not succeed in finding your key."
"The money is not in the desk, mother," said Kitty.
There was something in her voice so strange and unnatural that Mrs.
Tremain turned hastily round. Kitty's usually rosy cheeks were as pale
as ashes, and her eyes looked large and wild.
"Why, my love, what is the matter? Have you lost your money, or what
has happened?"
"No, mamma—yes, mamma, I have lost it, but not in that way. I lent it
to Fanny Daskin, and she will not give it back to me. She says it was a
bad bill, and she tore it up, but Lizzy Gates says she saw her pay just
such a bill to Miss Perkins."
"A likely story, that your uncle would send you a bad bill!" exclaimed
Cousin Tilly, who had just come in with some water.
"But, Kitty, how long is it since you told me that the money was safe
in your desk?"
"I did tell you so, mamma. Cousin Tilly, please go down-stairs. I want
to tell mother something."
"You must change your clothes first of all, Kitty!" said Mrs. Tremain,
observing for the first time how wet Kitty was. "I think you had better
go to bed. Tilly, will you make a fire?"
As soon as Kitty was safe in bed, her mother sat down by her bedside,
saying—"Now, Kitty, tell me the whole story, and let me have nothing
but the truth this time, whatever you may have told me before."
Kitty began at the day when she lent Fanny the money, and told her
mother, without reservation, all that had occurred, not concealing the
fact that she had made an altogether false excuse in order to stay at
home on the Sunday that little Julie died.
"Why did you do so?" asked her mother.
"I did not feel as though I could meet my class, mamma! I felt so
wicked; and besides—you will think me a fool outright, mamma—I wanted
to think about what Fanny had told me—about the fortune grandfather had
left me."
"So you have heard that foolish story! There is no truth in it
whatever. Your grandfather was very rich, and after having provided
amply for each of his children and giving me the sum of money upon
which we are now living, he gave the rest of his property to various
charitable institutions. And so you have allowed this wicked girl, whom
you know to be a liar, to prejudice you against your mother, and make
you believe that she was cheating you out of what was justly your due.
Oh, Kitty!"
"Yes, mamma, I own it! She did make me think so. She told me a great
deal about it, and what fine things I could buy if I only had my
rights, as she said. She made me think that three dollars was nothing
at all, and then she got it away from me!"
"When was this?" asked Mrs. Tremain.
"Last Wednesday, mamma."
"And how many lies have you told about it since that time?"
"I don't know, mamma: a great many!"
"You told me that you had never said a word to Fanny Daskin about your
Christmas tree! Was that true?"
"No, mamma; I told her all about it. She would make me!"
"She would make you!" repeated Mrs. Tremain. "How did she make you?"
"Because I was such a fool, mamma. I don't know any other reason!" said
Kitty. "She is going away: that is one comfort!"
"It is no particular comfort to me, Kitty," said Mrs. Tremain, sadly.
"The same weakness, the same cowardice, the same love of low, coarse
flattery which has made you the prey of one person may just as easily
make you the prey of another. Flatterers are never wanting, especially
to a girl who is so unfortunate as to get the reputation of being
foolish and rich at the same time."
"Then there is no hope for me! Oh, mamma, don't say that!" said Kitty,
weeping. "Don't give me up, mamma; please, don't."
"I shall not give you up, my poor child! You will find a faithful
friend in your mother as long as she lives. But I may be taken from you
any day, and then what is to become of you? Or, what good can I do you
if you are ready to believe any one rather than me?"
"Mother, mother, don't! Please, don't!" sobbed Kitty. "Oh, what shall I
do?"
"My child, there is one hope for you, only one!" said her mother. "If
you can only be brought to see your fault! If you can be brought to see
that this weakness of yours is wickedness, then you may be led to go
for help to the only one who can help you! But as long as you think it
rather creditable to you than otherwise—rather an amiable weakness, at
the worst—"
"Indeed, mamma, I don't think so now!" said Kitty. "I see it all. It is
just what you say—just vanity and the love of flattery—that made me run
after Fanny Daskin. I was a coward, too! I could not bear to have the
girls call me stingy or mean! I—" but here Kitty's voice was lost in
sobs.
"If you really see this to be true, my daughter, I shall indeed begin
to have hopes of you. It is only when people see how much they need
help that they really seek it. No man feels his need of a Saviour till
he perceives that he is a sinner, and unable to help himself. My child,
think of all that your heavenly Father has done for you! Look around
you, and see your comfortable home; think of all the blessings you
enjoy, both temporal and spiritual! Think of the gift of his dear Son
dying for you, and bearing your sins on the cross! And then think of
your sins against him. If you do this, with prayer for the help of his
Holy Spirit, you cannot help coming to some sense of your condition. I
leave you to yourself for a time. By-and-by I will talk with you again."
Left alone, Kitty did think more seriously, more deeply, than she
had ever thought before. She saw how she had been deceived in her
estimation of herself: how much of her religion had been like that of
the Pharisee—done to be seen of men! How pleased she had been when
Fanny said that she was the only girl in school who lived up to her
profession, though she knew perfectly well that there were half a
dozen who were far more consistent than herself. She remembered how
much more pains she had taken with her class when Mr. Burgess, the
superintendent, or Mr. Parmelee, happened to be near—how anxious she
had been to display her fluency in speaking French—how, in talking
with Mr. Parmelee, when her mother was not within hearing, she had
exaggerated what she had done for the children, and how delighted she
had been to hear him say he wished all the teachers were as zealous as
Kitty.
The human heart is deceitful above all things! We have the warrants not
only of God's word, but of our own experience, for saying so. But there
are times when, by his Spirit or by his providence, sometimes by means
even of our own falls and sins, God gives us a clear sight of our own
corruption and wickedness. Such an insight did Kitty now obtain, and it
was not lost upon her. The same infinite mercy and love which showed
her her sins showed her also her Saviour, and the experience of that
day altered the whole life of Kitty Tremain.
When Mrs. Tremain came up again, she found Kitty sad and humble indeed,
but more hopeful. She had no longer any desire to justify herself at
the expense of Fanny, or any one else, and she acquiesced, sorrowfully
enough, but without remonstrance, in her mother's decision that she
must do without pocket-money for the next six months.
"I am very sorry to deprive you of it, Kitty, but I cannot trust you
with any more money until I see that you have sufficient firmness to
use it properly. For the present you must come to me for every thing
you want."
"I suppose I must give up my Christmas tree, mamma?"
"I shall not require you to give up your little party for the children,
because it would be a great disappointment to them, and because I
have promised you. But you must give up the presents, unless you can
contrive to get them in some way out of your own resources."
"Very well, mamma," said Kitty, sadly. "I know it is right that I
should be punished. Mamma, do you think I ought to give up my class?"
"No, my dear."
"But when I have been so wicked, mamma." Kitty looked anxiously at her
mother.
"My daughter, the fact that you have done wrong is no reason why you
should leave off doing right. Peter, you remember, denied his Lord, and
that more than once; yet it was to him in particular that the command
was given, 'Feed my lambs!' These lambs are committed to your charge by
Providence in a special manner, and it is for you to feed them in the
best way you can."
"Indeed I will try, then, mamma," said Kitty, with a quivering lip. "I
do love them dearly, and I don't want to give them up. Oh, if I had
only gone that last Sunday." And Kitty burst into tears, as she thought
of little Julie.
"I do not wonder you feel sadly about it, but, Kitty, do not let it
end in 'feeling.' Right feelings do us no good unless they lead to
right conduct. Remember that if through sloth, or carelessness, or
self-indulgence, you omit a duty, you have no reason to think that you
will ever have the opportunity to perform it afterwards."
"May I get up to tea, mamma?" asked Kitty.
"I think you had better not, Kitty. You are hoarse, and I fear you have
taken a bad cold. Cousin Tilly shall bring up your tea, and I will come
and sit with you afterwards, but I think you are better in bed for the
present."
The next day and the next Kitty made no objections to staying in bed,
but the third day she was able to get up and dress herself, though she
was not allowed to leave her room. Mrs. Tremain was obliged to go to T—
on business which could no longer be deferred, and as Cousin Tilly was
busy down-stairs, Kitty was left alone to occupy herself as she could.
With some trouble, she recovered her key from the place where she had
thrown it, and opened her desk. The first thing she saw was a piece
of paper, on which she had set down the presents she intended to buy.
Little Julie's name was first on the list. Kitty's tears fell fast on
the leaf.
"Poor Julie! She will not be here to be disappointed, anyhow! Oh, if I
could only think of something for them."
Kitty sat for a few minutes in deep thought. Then she unlocked an inner
cupboard in the desk where she kept her principal treasures, and drew
forth a box. It was a beautiful little box, covered with velvet, lined
with white satin, and perfumed with attar of roses. Kitty opened it and
took out the contents. There were twelve little French books, elegantly
bound, printed in colours, and each having two beautifully-coloured
pictures.
"They would be just the thing," said she.
She took them up and examined them one by one. Then she laid them down
and took the box in her hand, shutting her eyes as she inhaled the
perfume. A whole panorama came before her mind in a moment. The broad
Boulevard—the gaily-dressed people walking and sitting about, all so
good-natured and polite—the neat white-capped "bonnes," or nurses,
running and playing with their nurslings! She seemed again to be
holding her papa's hand, as he took her into the beautiful little shop
which was like a toy in itself, with its paint and gilding and green
velvet. She seemed to see the books and toys lying about, the pleasant,
smiling French woman behind the counter, the fat, white cat with his
neck and ears adorned with pink ribbons which sat purring and winking
in the window. There was a struggle going on in Kitty's mind, as her
face plainly showed.
"I do not think papa would care!" said Kitty to herself. "I am sure I
never shall forget him even if I had nothing at all to remind me of
him. Papa would wish me to do right, I know."
Kitty put the books back into their case, but her mind was made up.
"Mamma!" said she that night before she went to bed. "Would you object
to my giving the children those little French picture-books in the box?"
"No, my dear!" said her mother, kissing her, and looking very much
pleased. "Not if you can make up your mind to part with them."
"I do hate to part with them, that is the truth, mamma," replied Kitty,
candidly. "But I know the children will be so disappointed, now that
they have heard of the matter. I feel as if I owed them amends, mamma."