The third of December had been fixed for the day of examination, and the children at Hazel Grove were so industrious that some days before that, both the presents and the studies were completed—except the bracelet, which went on very slowly indeed—but which Grace assured Clara should be ready in time. For the last few days, when the girls were out of school, time seemed to pass as slowly with them as it did with me on the morning I sat with Madame L'Estrange expecting Cecille. Now, as then, however, it did pass.
The first of December had been a stormy day, but the next morning was as clear and bright as if no cloud had ever been seen. But it was so cold that even the children preferred gathering around the fire to running out, and for me, I could scarcely persuade myself to look out. Poor Dr. Willis! how he shivered, and how cold even his horse looked, as he drove up to the gate at Hazel Grove, where he had been sent for, to visit a servant who was sick. He came in, rubbing his hands, and declaring it was the coldest day he had felt this year. "Ah! young ladies," said he, "you none of you know the comfort of this warm fire as I do. You must ride three miles facing this northwest wind before you can really enjoy it. But even that," he added a moment after, "is better than to sit still in the house with little or no fire as some poor people must do. By the by," he continued, turning to Mrs. Wilmot, "I stopped to see Cecille and her grandmother on my way here, and very glad I was to see them enjoying a blazing fire."
"I have been thinking of them this morning, and fearing that they would not be prepared for this suddenly severe cold," said Mrs. Wilmot. "How do they get their fuel?"
"It was wanting to know that which made me call this morning. Poverty certainly sharpens the wit, for that little child"—Cecille was so small that everybody thought of her as a little child—"manages as well as any man could do. The widow Daly supplies them with fuel for a small additional charge to her month's rent. The old lady needs a warm fire, for her dress is not thick enough—she ought to have flannel."
"And has she not?"
"No—I asked Cecille about it and she colored up and looked as much distressed, poor child, as if it had been her fault that her grandmother was without it. She shall have it, she says, in a few days, as soon as she gets some money that she is expecting. I offered to lend her some till then, but her grandmother had forbidden her borrowing."
"In which I think she is very wise," said Mrs. Wilmot, "but I wish whoever owes her money, knew how much she needs it just now; they might pay her, even if it be a little before the time. No one I hope would be so cruelly unjust as to keep her out of her little earnings one day after they were due."
I could not see Clara's face as I tried to do at this time, for she was looking out of the windows, but Grace colored as violently and looked as confused as if she had been guilty of what her mother thought so wrong. Her confusion attracted Mrs. Wilmot's attention. "Grace," said she, "you do not owe Cecille any thing I hope."
"No, mamma, I paid her the last week."
Mrs. Wilmot turned to speak to Clara, but she had left the room. Dr. Willis, having warmed himself, now asked to see his patient. This withdrew Mrs. Wilmot's attention from Cecille, and she probably did not again think of what had passed,—at least she asked no more questions about it. She left the parlor with Dr. Willis, and soon after I rose to go to my room. In going there I had to pass through the library. There were heavy curtains to the windows of this room, and as I entered, I heard sobs which seemed to come from behind one of these curtains, and then Grace, who had left the parlor a little before me, saying, "Do not cry so, Clara, pray do not cry so. Let us carry Cecille what money we have—that will be some help, you know, and your father will be here this evening and give you the rest."
"How often must I tell you, Grace, that I have not any money? Did you not see me give all that I had to the jeweller?" asked Clara impatiently.
"Yes, dear Clara,—but I have some."
"But I will not take your money, I tell you, after your saving it up so carefully."
"Yes, Clara, you will take it, if you love me as you used to do; you know I did not save it up for myself, Clara,—you know I would have given it all to that poor blind man, if I had not promised you to buy a bracelet for your locket. How glad I am now that it was not enough for the bracelet, so that we can have it for Cecille."
"And if I take it for Cecille," said Clara, "I should like to know how the locket will get fastened to the bracelet."
"Oh, never mind that," said Grace, "we can sew it on now and have it fastened better by-and-by, mamma will not care how it is done. So come, Clara, I know you will feel a great deal better after you have seen Cecille and given her some money, and told her how soon you hope to have the rest for her."
I heard no more, but after I went to my room I saw the two girls, wrapped in their cloaks, set out for Cecille's; so I knew that Clara had been persuaded.
Early in the afternoon of this day the children began to gaze from the windows which looked towards the road for the carriages of their friends, who were expected to attend the examination of the next day and to take them home on the day after. In about two hours after their watch commenced, a carriage arrived with Mr. and Mrs. Ormesby, and shortly after Mrs. Williams came, but the evening passed away—it was bed-time—and nothing had been seen or heard of Mr. Devaux. Clara became so agitated that as Mrs. Wilmot bade her good-night, she said to her in an affectionate and soothing tone, "Do not look so distressed, dear child, your father will be here perhaps before you are up in the morning."
But Clara rose the next morning to fresh disappointment. Her father had not come. Knowing the cause of her anxiety, I was much interested in her feelings and observed her closely. She ate but little breakfast, and every time the door opened she turned quickly towards it.
The other children were full of interest about their presents. They had been placed on the library table when Mrs. Wilmot went into the breakfast parlor. With them was the following note, sealed, and placed so that it must attract her attention the moment she entered the room:
"Dear Mamma—Accept these keepsakes from your affectionate and grateful children, Clara, Martha, Kate, Emma, Grace, Lucy."
"Dear Mamma—
Accept these keepsakes from your affectionate and grateful children, Clara, Martha, Kate, Emma, Grace, Lucy."
Clara was so much absorbed in her anxiety about her father's delay that she seemed to have little interest in these arrangements, and Grace was occupied with her. Thus to the younger children was left the management of an affair which had occupied all their minds so long. I had undertaken to get Mrs. Wilmot to the library, so, after breakfast, calling her out of the parlor, I led the way thither and walked directly up to the table. The children followed, and were in time to see her glistening eyes as she read the note, and to receive her caresses as she raised her head and saw them standing near the door. After the first emotion of receiving the presents had subsided, they were examined and admired. "This," said Mrs. Wilmot, as she clasped the locket on her arm, "is a joint present, I suppose, from Grace and Clara. It is too expensive to have been from one."
"The bracelet only is mine, mamma," said Grace in a low voice, as if again she felt a little ashamed of her present, "Clara bought the locket herself."
"My dear Clara, how long you must have been saving your money, and how much self-denial you must have practised before you could pay for so costly an ornament! It is paid for," she added inquiringly, as she saw the color mount to Clara's very temples on hearing her praise.
"Yes, ma'am," said Clara, and Mrs. Wilmot again fastened the locket, which she had unclasped while asking her question.
"Is not this hair yours and Clara's, Grace?" asked Mrs. Wilmot, bending down her head to examine the bracelet.
"Yes, mamma."
"And who wove the bracelet for you?"
"I wove it. I know it is not handsome enough for the locket, mamma, but it was the best I could do, and I had not money enough to buy one."
"It is very neatly done, my dear, and if it were less pretty than it is, I should thank you for it far more than for a handsomer one which had cost more than you could properly give. But I thank all my children, and accept all their presents with pleasure, because I am sure they all know that they cannot be generous without first being just. You would none of you," she continued, looking tenderly round upon them, "you would none of you grieve me, by giving me that which was not really your own, and nothing is your own till it is paid for—not even the premiums you are to have to-day, and which you must now come to the schoolroom and win by well-said lessons." This was said gayly, as Mrs. Wilmot turned towards the schoolroom, whither she was followed by all the children—all light-hearted and happy, except Clara.
Poor Clara! how painfully she felt every word Mrs. Wilmot had said. Whatever were her faults, she had always been quite sure that she had one virtue—generosity, and now she began to feel that, in this instance at least, she had been very ungenerous, for she had gratified herself in making the most costly present to her mamma Wilmot at the expense of poor Cecille. And when she entered the schoolroom, there stood Cecille, whom the girls had invited. How she shrank from meeting her eye! How she dreaded to approach her, lest Cecille should ask if her father had come!
Some of Mrs. Wilmot's friends from the neighboring village arrived, and then the examination commenced. Examinations I doubt not you have all attended, but perhaps none conducted exactly as this was. The object here, was not to show which scholar was best, or how far one surpassed all others, but how good all were. Each little girl was encouraged to do her best, and they all rejoiced in the success of each one. After they had been examined in their various studies, some of their work was exhibited—among the rest, Clara's embroidery and Grace's painting. These were very highly extolled, and Cecille, being pointed out by Mrs. Wilmot as their teacher, received many compliments, and some persons from the village inquired her terms, and thought she might have several pupils there when the holidays were over. I was much pleased to hear this, as it promised greater gain for my little friend.
Clara had appeared well in all her studies, her work had been admired, her young companions had evinced their affection for her in a hundred different ways, and Mrs. Wilmot had spoken to her with more than her usual tenderness, because she saw that she was distressed by her father's delay. Yet, notwithstanding all this, Clara had never been so unhappy as on this day. All coldness, however, had vanished between her and Grace, who never passed her without a pressure of the hand, or some soothing word or action. As the day passed on and the afternoon wore away without any tidings of Mr. Devaux, the color deepened on Clara's face, and she grew so nervous and agitated, that I, who watched her closely, expected every moment to see her burst into tears. All this distress must have appeared very unreasonable to those who supposed that it was caused only by anxiety about her father, whom Mrs. Wilmot had not very confidently expected. But there were three persons present—Cecille, Grace, and I—who better understood its cause. On her father's coming would depend Clara's power of keeping her promise with Cecille. Cecille's present want of the money, of which perhaps Clara would have thought little but for the remarks of Dr. Willis on the day before, was sufficient to make her earnestly desirous of paying her: but Clara had yet another reason; she dreaded lest Mrs. Wilmot should hear of this debt.
My young readers will have learned from the remarks made by Mrs. Wilmot in the morning to her children, even at the very moment of receiving their presents, how strict was her sense of justice. No principle had she endeavored to inculcate on her pupils more earnestly than this, and Clara could not forget that she had only the day before called the person cruelly unjust, who should keep Cecille's money from her for a day. It was the first time Clara had ever desired to keep secret from Mrs. Wilmot any thing she had done, and this, my dear young friends, is the worst of all unhappiness, to have done what we are ashamed or afraid to confess. Clara had been perhaps a little vain of her locket and of her generosity, as she thought it, in making such a present, but I have no doubt she would now gladly have changed places with Grace, and have been the giver of only the humble bracelet. I do not think Grace was now at all ashamed of her bracelet—indeed she seemed to love to look upon it; and well she might, since it was a proof that not even Clara's contempt or anger, or the desire to show her regard to her mother, could make her forget the principles of justice which that dear mother had taught her. She had proved her generosity by giving all she had—all that was her own—but she had refused, for any reason, to spend that which was not her own.
The day was past, the visiters from the village had left us, and we were gathered around the parlor fire to spend our last evening together, for the next morning our little party at Hazel Grove would separate. Mrs. Wilmot had promised to return home with me for the holidays. Grace had long ago promised to spend that time with Clara, and Mrs. Wilmot had been prevailed upon to consent that Lucy should accompany her friend Martha.
The sound of carriage wheels drew Clara and Grace to the window.
"Oh, Clara!" exclaimed Grace, "it is your father."
"Yes," said Clara, joyfully, "I know the white horses,—but why do they not drive to the door? What is papa going to the stables for?"
The question was soon answered. A servant entered with a note for Mrs. Wilmot; she glanced at it and then handed it to Clara, saying, "There, my dear Clara, you will find there is no further cause for anxiety. Your father has been detained by business, but he has sent the carriage for you and Grace."
Clara had seized the offered note, and was reading with such eagerness, that I do not think she heard what Mrs. Wilmot said. As she saw from the note that her father was not coming,—still more, that he would have left home before she could arrive there the next day, on business which might oblige him to be absent for some weeks—the thought that she must either keep Cecille waiting during all that time, or make the dreaded betrayal of her fault to Mrs. Wilmot, oppressed her so much that she burst into tears.
"Clara, my dear child, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Wilmot drawing to her side. "This is something more than sorrow at not seeing your father." She paused, but Clara did not speak. "Is there any thing you wished him to do for you, my dear? Surely, if there is, you will not hesitate to speak your wish to me." Clara was still silent. "I am grieved at this silence, Clara, I thought you loved me and confided in my affection; but perhaps you would rather speak to me alone. Come with me to the library."
Mrs. Wilmot then left us, leading Clara with her. She closed the library door after her, and we could then hear only the low murmur of her voice or Clara's heavy sobs. Grace seemed very anxious. She approached the library door at one time as if she was going in,—then went to the farthest part of the room from it. At length, her mother opened the door and called her. Grace sprang to the door and was admitted. There was something sad in the tone of Mrs. Wilmot's voice, which made me certain that Clara had told her all; but I did not hear how she had told it, till many days after, when Mrs. Wilmot related the scene to me as I am about to describe it to you.
As soon as they entered, Mrs. Wilmot seated herself on a sofa, and placing Clara by her side, strove to win her confidence by every soothing and affectionate word and action. At last with great effort Clara said, "You will be so angry with me, mamma Wilmot, if I tell you, that you will never love me again."
"Clara, I am angry only with those who are obstinate in doing wrong—never with those who confess their faults and try to amend."
"But you will think me so cruel and unjust."
"Cruel I cannot believe you to have been, Clara, and if you have committed an act of injustice, and you may by confiding in me be assisted in making amends for it, it is a new reason, my child, why you should speak at once. What is it, Clara?" Mrs. Wilmot's eye rested just then on the locket which she wore on her wrist, and this prompted the question—"Clara, did you speak the whole truth to-day when you told me this locket was paid for? Do you owe nothing on it?"
"No, mamma Wilmot; nothing on that, but I owe—" she stopped.
"Not Cecille, Clara," said Mrs. Wilmot; "you could not be so thoughtless—so selfish—as to keep her hard earnings from her for a single day, for any purpose of your own. Speak, my child, and tell me it is not so."
Clara spoke not—moved not—except that her head sunk lower and lower, till it almost rested on her knees. "Tell me, Clara, if you have done this wrong, that I may make amends for it at once. Do you owe Cecille?"
"Yes," faltered Clara.
Mrs. Wilmot rose, and after calling Grace, seated herself at the library table and wrote a few lines to Cecille, in which she was about to enclose the price of a month's tuition, when Grace, who had seen her counting it out, said, "Mamma, Clara does not owe Cecille so much, she paid her some."
"Clara," asked Mrs. Wilmot, "how much do you owe Cecille?"
"I do not know exactly, ma'am."
"How much did you pay her?"
"All that Grace had. I do not know how much it was."
"How much was it, Grace?"
"One dollar and fifteen cents, mamma."
The money was enclosed, Mrs. Wilmot sealed the note and handed it to Grace, bidding her give it to a servant and tell him to take it immediately to Cecille. "But stay, Grace," she added, laying her hand on her arm and looking into her face, "you owe her nothing?"
"No, mamma—nothing," said Grace, meeting her mother's eye fully.
"God bless you, my child, for saving me that pain. I can wear your bracelet, Grace, with pleasure, for it has cost no one sorrow; but this locket, Clara,—you must receive it again, for I cannot wear it."
Mrs. Wilmot, while she was speaking, had taken the bracelet from her arm, and severing with a small penknife the silk which fastened the locket, replaced the bracelet on her wrist, confining it with a pin, and approaching Clara, laid the locket on her lap.
This was the deepest humiliation, the severest punishment that could have been inflicted on poor Clara.
She started up, flinging the now unvalued locket on the floor, and falling on her knees, clasped Mrs. Wilmot's hand, exclaiming, "Oh, mamma Wilmot! forgive me, and love me again."
Mrs. Wilmot seated herself, and raising Clara, said, "I do forgive you, my child, and it is because I love you, Clara, that I am so deeply pained by your doing wrong; but I must see some effort to amend—some proof that you have learned to regard what belongs to others, before I can again confide in you. I will give you an opportunity of recovering my confidence. You are now in my debt to the amount of one month's payment of Cecille, for I will return to Grace the money which she lent you. When, byeconomyandself-denial, you have paid this debt, I shall think that you have learned that you have no right to gratify even your amiable and generous feelings at the expense of another—that you have learned to be just before you are generous,—and then, Clara, I shall again confide in you as well as love you. But remember, it must be byeconomyandself-denial, not by any present from your father or any increase of your allowance. When this task is accomplished, give me back the locket, and I will wear it, with both pleasure and pride. Till then, you must wear it yourself, Clara. It may be useful to you by reminding you of your task and the reward of your success."
Clara wept—but more gently. There was now hope before her, and when Mrs. Wilmot kissed her and bade her good-night, though she was sad and humbled, she was more composed than she had been since telling Cecille that she could not pay her. Her fault had now been told—there was nothing to conceal, and this would have made her feel far happier than she had done, even had her punishment been much more severe than it was.
It must have been very mortifying to Clara to wear the locket herself before those who knew for what purpose she had bought it; but so anxious was she to regain her mamma Wilmot's good opinion by compliance with her wishes, that she appeared at breakfast the next morning with it on her wrist sewed to a piece of riband. She looked very unlike the lively and high-spirited Clara, for she was silent, and if others spoke to her, while answering them, she colored and seemed abashed.
Mrs. Wilmot had prepared a parting present for each of the children—for the four youngest, books, for Grace a very handsome paint-box, and for Clara, a work-box with many colored silks for her embroidery. After breakfast, calling them to her own room, she delivered these presents to them, commencing with the youngest. To all except Clara she said, that they were premiums or rewards for their good conduct. To Clara she said, the box was a mark of her affection and her approval of heras a scholar. Clara felt this distinction, and stood still without attempting to take her box.
"Why do you not take it, Clara?" asked Mrs. Wilmot.
She burst into tears as she replied, "I do not want it, mamma Wilmot, till you can love me just as well as you used to do."
"I do love you, my dear Clara, just as well as ever," said Mrs. Wilmot, kissing her; "but I will keep the box, since you wish it, until I can restore to you my full esteem and confidence, and then we will exchange gifts," touching the locket with her finger.
In an hour after this scene, we had said "good-by" to each other, and were travelling on our different roads.
Mrs. Wilmot was with me three weeks, and then returned home to prepare for receiving her children again. It was from a letter of hers that I learned what I am now going to tell you.
Clara returned wearing the locket. Did you ever read a fairy tale in which a young prince is said to have been presented with a ring that pricked his finger whenever he was in danger of doing wrong? Clara's locket was to her what this ring was to the young prince. Whenever she was about to spend money either on her own fancies or the fancies of others, it would remind her that till her debt was paid, the money in her purse was not hers, and that to be truly generous, she must first be just. A month passed, and she took to Mrs. Wilmot nearly two dollars, which was all that remained of her pocket-money after paying Cecille. Mrs. Wilmot praised her for the effort she had made to do rightly, and Clara was almost happy. Another month went by.
Cecille came to give her morning lesson, and immediately after it, Clara and Grace appeared at the door of the room in which Mrs. Wilmot was seated.
"Come in, my children," she said very pleasantly, for she thought she knew their errand.
They walked up to her. Clara paid her debt even to the last penny.
"Now, mamma Wilmot," said she, when it had been received, "can you confide in me again?"
"Yes, Clara, fully, entirely, far more than before you had ever made it necessary that I should try you as I have done. Before that trial Ihopedthat you would persevere in doing right at the expense of some pain to yourself,I am now surethat you will. I always knew that you had right feelings, Clara, and I loved you for them; I now know that you have right principles, and honor you for them. Why do you smile, Grace?"
"Because it seems so strange, mamma, that you should talk of honoring a little girl like Clara."
"A little girl, Grace, who resists the temptation to do wrong and steadily perseveres in doing right, is as deserving of honor as any one, and I repeat that I honor Clara."
Tears stood in Clara's eyes, and her cheeks were flushed with emotion.
"Then, mamma Wilmot, you will not be ashamed to wear the locket?"
"No, my love, I shall be proud to wear it."
Clara took something from Grace, saying, "You must let me put it on, Grace."
"But you must first sew it to my bracelet," said Mrs. Wilmot, taking off that which Grace had woven and which she wore tied with a piece of riband.
"No," said Clara, "here is the bracelet as well as the locket," and she produced a very handsome hair bracelet, fastened to the locket with small gold rings, and clasped it with a most triumphant air on Mrs. Wilmot's wrist.
"You did not weave this, Grace."
"No, mamma, Cecille wove it, and I paid her for it just what the jeweller pays her, and then I got Mr. Brenner to put it on the locket, and yet I have some of the money left that I have saved up these two months."
"Why, have you been saving too?"
"Yes, mamma, Clara would not let me spend my money on her, because she said you told her she must practise self-denial, and it would not be self-denial if I gave her what she wanted."
"That was being a little extravagant in your understanding of what I meant, Clara; I only intended that you should be self-denying in the use of your own money."
"Was I wrong to refuse Grace?" asked Clara anxiously.
"No, my dear—not wrong. It was more than I demanded of you, but with your understanding of my words, it was quite right."
"But, mamma," said Grace, a little impatiently, "I was going to tell you that Clara and I both have some money left, and now that we see how much we can save, we thought—that is, we wanted to ask you whether we could not do some good with it."
Mrs. Wilmot smiled.
"Don't laugh at us, mamma: it is not very foolish—is it?"
"Foolish, my child!—it is very wise; and if I smiled, it was with pleasure that my children should have had such a thought. This is being truly generous. Older people than you sometimes make the mistake of calling those generous who value money so little that they throw it away without thought or care; but the truly generous value it much, because they know that it can buy clothing for the naked, and food for the starving. What they so value, they can neither keep from those to whom it is due, nor throw away on foolish trifles. So, you see, the truly generous are just and economical. But whatgoodhave you thought of doing first with your money?"
Clara now spoke: "We thought first we would try to get some good clothes for the Sandfords, that they may go to Sunday School."
The Sandfords were the three little girls whom Clara and Grace taught. I cannot repeat to you all that Mrs. Wilmot said in reply to this proposal, but I can tell you what she did. She went with the girls to make their purchases, showed them how to lay out their money most advantageously for their little pupils, cut out the garments for them when the cloth was brought home, and directed them how to make them. In this work Martha and Lucy, Kate and Emma assisted—so that their kindly and generous feelings were awakened, and they too began to save from their own selfish gratifications to give to those who were in want.
Mrs. Wilmot now takes the children with her when she goes to visit the sick and the poor around her, and in these visits they often find some object for their charity. Sometimes it is an old woman who needs a flannel wrapper—sometimes, a child who is walking on snow and ice without shoes. These they would once, perhaps, have passed without notice; but now they do, what we all should do—they look out for opportunities to do good.
In the commencement of this book, I told you that I was again at Hazel Grove. Again Harriet and I arrived in October, when the woods were bright with many colors. We were received with even more joy than on our first visit, and though some weeks have passed since I began to tell you of my young acquaintances here, they seem quite as unwilling to hear of my return home as I then told you they were.
And I have seen Cecille too, and her good grandmother. They are still at the widow Daly's cottage, but times are greatly changed with them since we parted. Cecille is no longer a teacher for money—though she is never so well pleased as when she can gratify her companions by imparting to them some of her own accomplishments. She assists too in all their works of charity, and seems to think the poor have double claims on her because she knows what their trials are. She will leave us ere long, for Mr. L'Estrange having regained his estate, is preparing his home in France for the return of his mother and daughter, and will come for them in the Spring. Cecille will, I am sure, part with us with pain; yet she will soon forget her pain in her grandmother's pleasure—and in the midst of our sorrow, we shall none of us, I hope, be too selfish to rejoice in her prosperity.
Mrs. Wilmot's children will all spend their holidays at Hazel Grove this year. I have promised to remain with them during that time, and Madame L'Estrange and Cecille are to be with us on Christmas day. We are anticipating great enjoyment on that day. I should like to be able to tell you how it passes; but that I must do in another book,—for if I keep this till then, it will be too late to bring you Aunt Kitty's Merry Christmas.
"Who will be invited to your party?" asked Harriet of Anna Melville, the eldest daughter of my old friends, Col. and Mrs. Melville, who resided in the town of H., and to whom I had been making a visit of some weeks.
Anna was a lively good-tempered girl, who wanted only two days of being twelve years old. For the last week, she had scarcely been able to speak of any thing but the party which was to be given on her birth-day, and to which Harriet's question referred.
"Who?" said Anna in reply; "oh, all the girls I know. Let me see—there are Helen Lamar, and Lucy Liston, and Mary and Ellen Leslie—"
"Ellen Leslie," exclaimed Emma, a younger sister of Anna who stood near her listening, "Ellen Leslie—why, Anna, you surely will not ask her. You know she will get into a passion with somebody before the evening is over; or even if she should not, we shall all be so much afraid of offending her that there will be no fun."
"But, Emma, if we do not ask Ellen, Mary will not come, and you know none of us would enjoy ourselves half so much if Mary were not here."
"No, we should not; but at any rate I will take care not to bring out my handsome doll and my best teacups, for if Miss Ellen gets angry, she will not mind breaking them."
Having overheard this dialogue, I felt no little curiosity to see the two sisters who were so differently regarded by their young friends.
The two days passed away slowly enough to the expecting children; but they did pass, and the birth-day arrived. All was bustle and preparation at Col. Melville's. Anna superintended and directed and hurried every one, and was dressed herself an hour before the time appointed for her visiters. At length, just as she had become weary of watching for them, and was beginning to express her opinion that no one was coming, a group was seen approaching. Then came another and another, till twenty young girls, neatly dressed, and with smiling, happy faces, were collected. Among the latest arrivals were Mary and Ellen Leslie. I had seen them from the windows before they entered the house, and was much pleased with their appearance. They wore very simple white dresses, and their hair fell in natural ringlets over their shoulders, unconfined and without ornament of any kind. As they entered the parlor, all the girls went forward to welcome them; but it was easy to see that the gladness which all expressed was more for Mary than for Ellen—their greetings being made something in this way:
"Oh, Mary! I am so delighted to see you—and Ellen too!"
But for the conversation between Anna and Emma Melville which I had overheard, I should not have known how to account for this difference, for Ellen was not at all less pleasing in appearance than Mary. Indeed she would have impressed many persons more agreeably, for Mary's countenance, though very gentle, was very serious, while Ellen's was gay and animated.
All was pleasantness in the little party for about an hour, when the children were called to tea. I did not go to the table till they were seated. When I did, I saw that there was a cloud on Ellen Leslie's face, but what had caused it I could not discover. When tea was over, the various entertainments of the evening commenced. On one side of the parlor, around a table, was seated a group of girls playing what they called an historical game—that is, amusing themselves with cards containing questions and answers on historical subjects. In this game, the questions were held by one person, and the cards containing the answers were distributed equally among the rest of the players. As a question was asked, any girl who found among her cards an answer which seemed to her the correct one, read it. Sometimes two or three would begin to read together, and so long as they could bear to be laughed at without losing their tempers, those who made the greatest mistakes, perhaps contributed most to the merriment of the party. At this game about eight or ten girls were engaged. A few others amused themselves with dissected maps, and the rest gathered together in one corner of the room with Emma's cups and saucers, baby-house and doll.
From the brightening up of Ellen Leslie's countenance when the historical cards were produced, and her evident desire to make one in that game, I had felt quite sure that she was well acquainted with its subjects, and so it proved. For some time her answers were ready and correct, while her laugh was first and loudest at the blunders made by others. At length, the questions seemed to relate to a portion of history on which Ellen was not so much at home, and once and again her answer was followed by a laugh. In the first laugh which she thus excited Ellen made a feeble effort to join, but it was very feeble. At the second, her face flushed, she looked gloomily down, and from that time, though she sat with the cards in her hands, she did not answer a question or take any part in the game. After a while some wonder was expressed that no answers could be found to several of the questions. All around the table carefully examined their cards and declared they did not have them, except Ellen—she remained silent, and held her cards without looking at them.
"Ellen, perhaps you have them," said Anna Melville.
"You can see," said Ellen, laying her cards down before Anna.
"Oh no!" said Anna quickly, "you look at them yourself."
"I do not suppose I should know the answers if I saw them," said Ellen sulkily; "and besides, I am tired playing," and she rose from the table. As she moved off to a distant part of the room and seated herself alone, I glanced at Mary and saw her eyes fixed on her sister with such an expression of sorrowing tenderness, that for her sake I determined to try whether I could not restore Ellen to a happier mood. I approached her with a book of prints, and seating myself near her, drew a stand towards us and invited her to look at them with me. She looked as if she would like to refuse, but ashamed probably to do this to one so much older than herself, she contented herself with remaining sulkily silent, scarcely glancing at first at the pictures as I turned the leaves and announced the different subjects. At length, however, some anecdote I told attracted her attention. She asked a question—she smiled—she laughed aloud. Again I turned my eyes upon Mary Leslie. She was looking at me with a countenance so full of thankfulness and lit up with so sweet a smile, that I no longer wondered at her young companions loving her so tenderly.
The next day an old gentleman, a Mr. Villars, dined at Mr. Melville's. Mr. Villars was a widower. His wife had been a sister of Mrs. Leslie, the mother of Mary and Ellen. She had been long dead, but having never married again, he had remained much attached to her family, and having had no children of his own, he had always taken a deep interest in Mary and Ellen, petting them quite as much and perhaps scolding them a little more than their father. He was a favorite with children generally, for he interested himself in their amusements and pursuits.
"And so, Miss Anna," said he, as he entered the parlor in which we were sitting after dinner, "you had a party last night. Pray, why was not I invited? Mary Leslie made me quite envious, I assure you, by telling me of the enjoyment you had."
"And what did Ellen say?" asked the talkative and thoughtless Emma Melville.
"Oh, Ellen! I never mind her reports, for if they are not agreeable, I always suppose something has happened to put her out of temper. Poor child! poor child!"
This exclamation was made with deep feeling, and we were all grave and silent till Mr. Villars, turning to me, said, "I must not let you, ma'am, who are a stranger to her, suppose that our little Ellen has no good in her. She is, I assure you, a very affectionate child, and though she is so ready to fancy herself neglected or ill treated, and so quick to resent it, she is very grateful for kindness, and you have quite won her heart by your efforts to amuse her last evening."
"I am pleased," I replied, "to have made so agreeable an impression, but I was repaid for my efforts by the interest she excited. I believe what you say, sir, that she is affectionate and grateful—indeed, that her feelings are as quick as her temper. Forgive me if I add, that it seems to me it must be in some degree the fault of those to whom her education has been confided, that, with such qualities, she is not more pleasing and amiable."
"You are right, ma'am, it is their fault. I have done my best to correct it, but all in vain. She has been spoiled from her very birth, for her mother's health had even then begun to fail, and she was quite unequal to the management of so spirited a child. Ellen was but four years old when that gentle mother died, Mary was seven—"
"Is it possible," said I, interrupting him in my surprise, "that there is so much difference in their ages?"
"Yes," he answered, "three years. Mary is now thirteen, though she does not look like it, and Ellen is only ten. Well, as I was about to tell you, Mary at seven was a sedate, quiet, thoughtful child, and Mrs. Leslie, when she became sensible that she could not live long, used to talk much to her of Ellen's claims on her kindness, and dependence upon her tenderness, when she should be gone from them. She taught her to pray morning and evening that God would make her gentle and kind to her little sister, as her mother had been to them both. Mary, I am sure, has never forgotten or omitted that prayer."
"Poor Mary!" said I, "these were very sad thoughts and heavy cares for one so young."
"So they were, ma'am, and so I once ventured to tell Mrs. Leslie. Never shall I forget her reply. 'Ah, brother!' said she—she had always called me brother from the time of my marriage with her sister—'ah, brother! a mother, and a mother near death, sees far more clearly the dangers of her children than any other can do. My gentle Mary has a strength of character you little dream of, and though never very gay, she will not long remain unreasonably sad; but my poor Ellen,—with a nature so affectionate that she cannot be happy unless she is loved, and a temper so passionate that she will often try the forbearance of her best friends almost beyond endurance,—how much suffering is before her! Do not blame me, if before I go from her, I strive to make Mary's love for her such as her mother's would have been—such as not even her faults shall be able to overcome. Mary's path through life will be smooth, she must support Ellen through her rough and thorny way.' I did not feel that all this was right," continued Mr. Villars, "for I think that every one should bear the consequences of their own faults; but I could not argue with a dying woman, and I comforted myself that all would come right,—that Mary would forget all this, and scold and cross her sister, just as other elder sisters do," tapping Anna Melville playfully on the head as he spoke, "or that Mr. Leslie would control her. But I was mistaken, it has never come right. Mary, I verily believe, has never crossed Ellen's wishes in her life; and if Mr. Leslie has ever attempted to do so, she has almost always stormed or coaxed him out of his design,—more frequently stormed, for she has not patience for coaxing."
"And how does she get what she wishes from you?" asked Col. Melville with a smile, for he knew that Mr. Villars was very indulgent to both the children.
"Why, the cunning jade," said Mr. Villars laughing, "I will tell you how. A long time ago I repeated to her Aesop's fable of the sun and the wind, and told her, Mary was the sun and she was the wind. Then, Uncle Villars, said she, whenever I want to make you do any thing, I will send Mary to you; and she has been true to her word,—she always sends Mary."
"And what was the fable, Mr. Villars?" asked Emma Melville.
"Why, that the sun and the wind had a great quarrel once about which was the strongest, and a traveller passing by while the quarrel was at its height, they agreed that it should be decided in favor of the one which should soonest get his cloak from him. So the wind rose in its might, and blew and blew upon the poor traveller: but all in vain; he only wrapped his cloak more closely round him. Then the sun came out and beamed right down upon the man brighter and brighter, and warmer and warmer: but not long; for the traveller was very soon glad to throw off his thick, heavy cloak. So the sun conquered, as kindness and gentleness, Miss Emma, always will, sooner than blustering and storming."
I saw little more of Mary and Ellen Leslie during this visit to H., and it was more than two years before I returned there again. When I did, I found that great changes had taken place in the situation of these young girls. Their father had been dead for more than a year. Mr. Leslie was a merchant, and was thought quite rich even by his most intimate friends; yet when he died, and his affairs were examined, it was found that he was poor—so poor, that, after his debts were paid, his children would have nothing. But Mr. Villars it was thought would provide for them. He did take them to his house for a few months, till Mary, whose health had become enfeebled by her close attention to her father during his long illness, grew well and strong again;—but then reports began to be whispered about that Mr. Villars had lost much of his property through Mr. Leslie—that he was in debt, and could no longer afford to live as he had done. Then it was said that he must give up his servants, that he must let or sell his house and go to board in some cheap country place. Mary and Ellen would not go with him—he would leave them in H., for he could only pay their board—they must do something for their own support, and that could best be done among their old friends. Accordingly when I came to H., I found Mr. Villars gone, his house occupied by another family, and Mary and Ellen boarding with a widow who lived in a very plain, small house, in one of the humblest streets of H. Mary, I was told, gave lessons in music to two or three pupils, and gratefully accepted any employment offered her, either of plain sewing, embroidery, or fancy work. At first, she had some day scholars, and she would probably have soon obtained a large school, for the children were attached to her and the parents pleased with her success as a teacher, but Ellen had undertaken to assist her, and her passionate temper so often evinced itself, that both parents and children were displeased, and the school was soon broken up.
"And what does Ellen do?" I asked.
"Assist her sister in the work when she can," replied Mrs. Melville, from whom I had heard these things. "But I fear," she added, "that she much more frequently hinders than assists her. Indeed, Mary would scarce have to contend with any difficulty but for Ellen, for many would be glad to have her in their families, could she be persuaded to leave that little termagant."
"Poor Ellen!" said I, "the bad name which she contracted in childhood cleaves to her, when perhaps she may be greatly changed."
"Not if we are to trust the report of Mrs. Maclean, with whom they board. She tells sad tales of Ellen's irritability and Mary's long-suffering. To be sure, we are likely to hear the worst of the case from her, for, though an upright woman, she is irritable herself and very positive, and I dare say she and Ellen have had many quarrels."
My first visit in H. was to these children, for children they still were, though thus thrown on the world to provide for themselves, Mary being little more than fifteen and Ellen not yet thirteen. The room in which I found them was small, but Mr. Villars had seen it comfortably furnished before he left them, and it was neatly kept. Their clothing too was comfortable and neat, though very plain. But there was on Ellen's countenance an expression of sullen gloom, and on Mary's, of sweet, yet sad resignation, which was more distressing to me than even an appearance of want would have been, because it was a stronger evidence of unhappiness. Poverty cheerfully borne is but a slight evil in comparison with a repining temper. But I have learned, since that time, much more of Mary and Ellen than was then known to Mrs. Melville or any other person, and I will now tell their story from the time of their father's death, without interrupting the narrative to explain to you how I heard this or that particular.
Mary, I have already said, had nursed her father through his long, tedious illness. She had seen him grow weaker and weaker, and she was therefore in some degree prepared to see him die. But with Ellen it was very different. Mary always tried to save her pain. She would not let her spend much time in the sick-room; and indeed, though Mr. Leslie was a very fond father, and was always glad to see Ellen, he never wished her to remain long,—for, if she thought him very ill, she would weep so passionately that it agitated him, and if she thought him better, she would be very noisy in her gladness. Then, if she attempted to do any thing for him, she would move in such a hurried manner, that it was awkwardly done, if she succeeded in doing it at all. All this proceeded from Ellen's never having learned in any way to control her feelings. It was love for her father which made Ellen weep or laugh, and caused her to move in haste when she was told to hand him any thing; but Mary loved her father quite as well as Ellen, and when she saw him suffering, tears would often stream down her cheeks, yet she would keep down every sound which could call his attention to her sorrows. If he was more comfortable, you might tell it as soon as you entered the room by the bright smile upon her face, yet she never disturbed his repose by loud talking and laughing, and though delighted when called on to serve him, she knew, that really toservehim, she must move very quietly. This was what is called self-control, and without it let me tell you, my young friends, that however kind your feelings may be, however good your intentions, you will never make yourselves either useful or agreeable to others. Poor Ellen! she had it not—she had never learned to control either her temper or her feelings, and you will see how sadly she suffered in consequence.
I have told you that Mary, from being much with her father, was in some degree prepared for his death, while to Ellen it was quite unexpected. I need not tell you that to both of them it was a very sad event,—the youngest of you can feel how very sorrowful it would be to part with the father who has played with and patted you, who has nursed you in sickness, and taken care of you in health, and been kind and loving to you always,—to part with him, not for a day, or a week, or a month, or a year,—but for as long as you live,—not to have him go where, though you cannot see him, you may hear from him and know that he is well and happy, and still cares for you, but to have him lie down in the grave, the still grave, from which no voice of love can come to you. But perhaps, if you were obliged to part with your father, you would have a tender mother left to sooth you and take care of you; but Mary and Ellen Leslie had not this comfort, and when they saw their father carried out in his coffin, they might have felt that, except their kind Uncle Villars, there was no one who would care very much if they were laid alongside of him. As you grow older you will discover that persons who grieve together, who sorrow for the same things, love each other far more dearly than those who are only glad together. I cannot very well explain to you why this is, but we all feel it,—and Mary and Ellen Leslie felt it, as they lay the night after the funeral folded in each other's arms, helpless, and but for one kind heart, friendless orphans.
Yet even then poor Ellen had a grief which was all her own. "Oh, Mary! you were never in a passion with poor papa, and said angry words to him and grieved him. Oh, dear Mary! do you think he remembers them now?"
Dear children who read this little book, hear me and forget not my words,—this is the bitterest grief of all, to feel that you have given pain to that kind heart which is gone from you, which never can come back to hear your repentance or forgive your injustice. Save yourself from such sorrow by kindness and gentleness to your friends, and obedience to your parents while they are with you.
Mr. Villars soon removed these children from their now sad home to his smaller and humbler, but more cheerful residence. Mr. Villars had never been engaged in any business. His property was small, and while his wealthier friend and brother-in-law, Mr. Leslie, had surrounded his family with elegancies and luxuries, he had been obliged to content himself with comforts. I sayobliged to content himself, but I do not know that Mr. Villars ever desired more. Indeed, I should have thought him an unreasonable man if he had,—every thing around him was so neat, so perfectly comfortable, and all was kept in order so quietly by the very best old housekeeper in the country, who had lived with him ever since his wife's death, and who thoroughly understood his ways. It was no slight praise to good old Mrs. Merrill, his housekeeper, to say that she understood Mr. Villars' ways, for I assure you they were by no means so easy to understand as those of most people. Mr. Villars had lived so long alone, with nobody's tastes to consult but his own, that he had acquired all the set habits which people generally suppose to belong only to an old bachelor. He was thought very whimsical, and certainly often did things which to the rest of the world seemed very odd; and though, when he gave his reasons, every one was compelled to acknowledge them to be very good, they were often such as would have been thought of by few but himself. Mrs. Merrill was a very kind woman, and received Mary and Ellen with great tenderness, but she too had her oddities as well as Mr. Villars. Like most persons who have had little to do with children, she was constantly afraid of their getting into some trouble or mischief, and she watched these girls, the youngest of whom was then twelve years old, with as much care as if they were only four or five. Even Mary felt this unusual degree of attention to be an unpleasant restraint, but to poor Ellen, who had all her life done just as she pleased, it was perfectly intolerable, and she could not restrain the expression of her impatience under it.
"Be very careful of the light, Miss Mary, and do not put it so near the curtains, my dear," said Mrs. Merrill, on the second evening that Mary and Ellen Leslie had passed in their new home, as she was giving them their night lamp, after they had said good-night to their uncle.
"I will be very careful, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary with a smile.
"And Miss Ellen, I am busy just now and cannot go with you to your room, but your sister will untie your clothes, I dare say, if you ask her kindly, and I will come by-and-by, and see that they are nicely folded and put away."
"I always fold my clothes myself," was the somewhat ungracious reply to the good woman's well-meant offer.
As the sisters entered their room Ellen shot the bolt of her door, exclaiming, "There, we are safe from that teasing Mrs. Merrill!"
"Oh, Ellen! she is very kind, and we must not forget, my dear sister, that there are not many in the world now, who take interest enough in us to care what we do." Ellen was softened and went tearfully to bed. Mary soon followed her, and they were just comfortably arranged when some one tried to enter, and finding the door bolted, tapped.
"Whoisthat?" exclaimed Ellen impatiently.
"It is only I, Miss Ellen," answered Mrs. Merrill, "I have come to put the light out and cover you up nicely."
"The lightisout and wearecovered," was the peevish reply which arose above Mary's "Thank you, Mrs. Merrill, we are in bed already."
"Oh, Ellen! how could you speak so angrily, and hurt the kind old woman's feelings." Ellen could not bear to hurt anybody's feelings, and the next moment she was out of bed, had unbolted the door, and was running barefooted through the hall, calling to Mrs. Merrill. Mrs. Merrill was half way down stairs, but she came back, hurried and alarmed, exclaiming breathlessly, "What is the matter, my dear, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, ma'am," said Ellen very respectfully and penitently, "except that Mary said that I had hurt your feelings, and I am very sorry for it. I only meant to say we were in bed already."
"Hurt my feelings—oh dear, no! poor child! and did she make you get up for that," putting her hand kindly on Ellen's head as she spoke—"oh no! you did not hurt my feelings—I never mind what children say."
Ellen flirted off and jumped into bed more angry than ever, that Mrs. Merrill should have thought Mary had made her get up to speak to her, and that she should think her of so little consequence as not to mind what she said.
We cannot give an account of half the disputes between Mrs. Merrill and Ellen which were generally reported to Mr. Villars by both parties, until he was ready to go anywhere from his hitherto quiet home, in search of peace. And yet, when the difficulties in which he had become involved through Mr. Leslie began first to be perceived, and Mr. Villars to fear that he must leave his home, it seemed dearer to him than ever. Besides, he would say to himself, as he sat thinking over the threatened changes—What is to become of these poor children—and my old servants—and Mrs. Merrill—good Mrs. Merrill—who, I am sure, never expected to leave me, and is now too old to look out new friends? Distressed by such thoughts, it is no wonder if Mr. Villars looked sad, and sat silent for hours together, sometimes looking out of a window sometimes turning his eyes upon a book which he generally held in his hand, as an excuse for not talking; though it was easy to see that he was not reading,—or if he was, it must be the same page, over and over again, as he never turned a leaf. Mary had noticed all this, and it grieved her greatly, for except Ellen, there was no one now in the world whom she loved half so well as her Uncle Villars. She tried at first to amuse him by talking to him; but finding that, though he always answered her kindly, he would at such times soon leave the parlor where they were seated, and go, either to his own room or to the library, she determined not again to disturb him when he seemed so thoughtful. But though Mary ceased to talk to her Uncle Villars, she could not cease to observe him and to wish that she knew the cause of his sadness. This cause she at last thought she had discovered in the differences of Ellen and Mrs. Merrill. Vainly did poor Mary try to accommodate these differences, her efforts generally ended in making both of the disputants displeased with her. It must not be thought that Mrs. Merrill was cross and ill-tempered. On the contrary, all her difficulties with Ellen arose from her desire to do what was kind and right by an orphan girl placed in her charge, for Mr. Villars before he brought his nieces home had said, "There will of course, Mrs. Merrill, be many things in which these girls will require the attention of a woman to their conduct and their comforts. In these things I know I may trust to your goodness,"—and Mrs. Merrill was determined his trust should not be disappointed.
Mary and Ellen had walked out together one afternoon, and when they returned, laid their bonnets carelessly upon the table in the parlor. There they remained, till Mrs. Merrill came in to see the table prepared for tea. "Miss Mary, Miss Ellen, why, here are your new crape bonnets. You should always put them away as soon as you come in; crape is very expensive, my dears, and very easily injured."
Mary rose and removed the bonnets from the table. Ellen remained seated with her head bent over a piece of paper, on which she seemed to be drawing.
"Miss Ellen," said Mrs. Merrill, "did you hear what I said?"
"Yes, Mrs. Merrill, I heard you."
"I will put both bonnets away, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary; "I always put Ellen's away for her."
"Well, my dear Miss Mary, that may be very kindly meant in you, but it would be far better that your sister should learn to do without you."
Ellen did not even look up—Mary moved towards the door, with the hope that if the bonnet was once out of sight all would be quiet, but Mrs. Merrill saw the movement, and irritated by Ellen's disregard of what she said, she exclaimed, "Stop, Miss Mary; I am sorry to find fault with you, who are generally so good, but I do not think it right in you to interfere, when I would have your sister learn to wait on herself. I am sure it is for her own good. I am sure it is not for my sake I take the trouble."
Mary looked earnestly at Ellen, but the head was perseveringly bent down, and except that her face had become quite red and her pencil moved very fast, any one might have supposed that she had not heard a word of what was passing. There stood Mary, with a bonnet in each hand, perfectly irresolute, afraid to speak to Ellen lest she should cause her to say something saucy—afraid to oppose Mrs. Merrill, who it was evident was now very determined. At length she ventured to say, "Ellen is busy drawing, Mrs. Merrill—"
Before she could add another word, Ellen, who scorned to offer any apology for her inattention to Mrs. Merrill's wishes, threw aside the paper and pencil, saying, "I am not busy at all—I was only making marks on the paper, Mary."
"I knew it—knew it," said Mrs. Merrill; "you were only making marks to show me that you did not care for me.
"Give me that bonnet, Miss Mary," taking Ellen's from her as she spoke, and laying it again on the table, on which in the mean time she had arranged every thing for tea. "There—let it lie there till Mr. Villars comes in. I will see if he thinks that a proper place for a young lady's bonnet."
Ellen smiled scornfully.
"Oh, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary, with tears in her eyes, "do not plague poor Uncle Villars about it."
"I assure you, Miss Mary Leslie, I am not the one to plague your Uncle Villars. Many a year I have lived with him, and a quiet home we have both had of it till now, and the same will he say, I will be bound!"
"Ellen, dear Ellen, I am sure you would not do any thing to worry our good, kind Uncle Villars; come, dear Ellen, and take your bonnet up stairs."
"Mary, I wish you would let me and my bonnet alone. I did not ask you to take it up."
"Well—but, Ellen, poor Uncle Villars looks so sad already. Do not be obstinate, dear Ellen."
"I am not going to say or do any thing to Uncle Villars, Mary, and I think it's very hard if I am to be blamed for every thing—even for his looking sad; but nobody ever finds fault with me that you do not take their part."
"Oh, Ellen"—but Ellen turned away, and Mary with a heavy heart walked off with her own bonnet as she saw her Uncle Villars entering. Now, any one who has read this scene will perceive that Mrs. Merrill, although she was right in the thing itself which she would have had Ellen do, was very wrong in her manner of enforcing it. The only right way to govern any one is by giving them confidence in your kindly feelings towards them—by love. Now, Ellen was a spoiled child, and could not have confidence in the kindly feelings of any one who thwarted her. Mr. Villars saw all this, and therefore he had great patience with Ellen, and generally soothed her into some concession to Mrs. Merrill; very little would satisfy her kind spirit; and so the storm would for the time pass over. But these storms so frequently returned, that Mr. Villars felt, unless something could be done to arouse Ellen's own mind to a conviction of the evil of her temper and a determined effort to subdue it, she must always be unhappy herself, and the cause of unhappiness to others. As Mr. Villars became more interested in Ellen, as it was natural he should do from feeling that she was now wholly dependent on him, his anxiety on this subject increased, and he often found himself imagining different methods for correcting her faults.
One of Ellen's bad habits, and that which perhaps most materially interfered with Mrs. Merrill's comfort, was late sleeping, or rather lying in bed, for Ellen was in reality not asleep for an hour before Mary could induce her to rise,—but Ellen said if she was not asleep, neither was she wide awake. You may wonder that this practice should have interfered with Mrs. Merrill's comfort, as by keeping Ellen out of the way it would seem rather to promote her quiet; but Mrs. Merrill prided herself on her orderly housekeeping, and while she was too kind to let Ellen go without her breakfast, she was greatly annoyed at having to keep the table waiting for her. Mary would have taken some breakfast to her sister in their room, and so have obviated the difficulty; but this Mrs. Merrill would on no account permit, lest the carpet or the bedclothes should be slopped with tea or greased with butter. A few mornings after the scene with the bonnet, Mary having risen as usual and dressed herself, began her efforts to arouse Ellen.
"Ellen—wake, Ellen—I hear Uncle Villars moving about in his room."
Ellen, without speaking or opening her eyes, turned over and covered herself up more closely.
Mary spoke again, "Ellen—Uncle Villars has gone down stairs—he will ring the bell for breakfast presently."
Ellen did not stir.
Mary touched her,—put her arm around her and tried to raise her; Ellen flounced off to the other side of the bed, exclaiming, "Mary, let me alone."
"Oh, Ellen, jump up—there's the breakfast bell—you know nothing puts Mrs. Merrill so much out of sorts as our being too late to breakfast with Uncle Villars."
"I do not care for Mrs. Merrill's being out of sorts—cross old woman; she might just as well let me have my breakfast up here as not. I will lie half an hour longer just to spite her."
"But, Ellen, Uncle Villars—"
"Uncle Villars does not care a pin about my getting up, if he only has you to sit by him; you know that as well as I do."
"Well, I care, Ellen—"
"Oh do, Mary—go, and eat your breakfast, and let me alone."
Another ring of the breakfast bell hurried Mary off, exclaiming, "Make haste, Ellen, and you may get down yet before we are done—I will eat very slowly."
The affectionate kiss with which Mr. Villars saluted Mary was followed by the question, "Where is Ellen?"
"Miss Ellen is not awake yet, I suppose, Miss Mary."
Mary at that moment heard Ellen's step on the floor above, and answered quickly, "Oh, yes, Mrs. Merrill, she is awake and up."
"Well," said Mr. Villars with a good-humored smile, "if she is up, we may hope she will soon be down."
Mary did hope so, and she seated herself cheerfully by her Uncle Villars, while Mrs. Merrill poured out coffee. The nice hot cakes and Uncle Villars' pleasant chat made Mary quite forget her promise to eat slowly, until just as she was concluding her breakfast, Mrs. Merrill, approaching the door, said, "Your sister stays so long, Miss Mary, I will go and see if she wants any thing."
"I will go, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary, starting up; but it was too late, and she seated herself again, exclaiming, "Oh! I am so sorry."
"Poor child," said Mr. Villars, "you look as much frightened as if you were afraid that Ellen would be beaten. Mrs. Merrill may scold a little, but cheer up, I am sure she would not hurt Ellen for the world."
"Oh no, Uncle Villars, I know she would not; it was not that which made me feel sorry."
"What was it then, child?"
Mary looked down and colored as she said, "Ellen is not used to being crossed at all, you know, Uncle Villars, and Mrs. Merrill is not used to Ellen's ways, and so they do not understand each other; and—and—I am sure when they come to you, Uncle Villars, it must worry you who always lived so quietly before we came."
Mr. Villars did not see exactly what Mary was coming to, but he answered, "It has disturbed me, my dear, very much, I acknowledge, but more for Ellen's sake than my own."
"I have seen, Uncle Villars, how very badly you felt about it; and I have been thinking—perhaps—you had better send us away."
Mary gave this advice slowly and hesitatingly, and as she looked up upon concluding it, her eyes were full of tears; for Mary loved her Uncle Villars dearly, and she was old enough to know something of her own and Ellen's situation, and to feel how sad it would be for them to be sent away from the house of their best friend to live among strangers. Mr. Villars saw the tears in Mary's eyes, and he understood all her tender and generous thoughts, and drawing her to him he laid her head on his shoulder, and putting her hair aside, kissed her forehead, calling her, "Dear child—dear child." He was silent a moment, and any one who had looked closely at him would have seen that his own eyes glistened; then he added, "It is one of my chief sorrows, Mary, that we shall be obliged to part; but not for the reason you think—not on poor Ellen's account—though I sometimes hope it may be the cause of good to her."
At this moment the parlor door was thrown open, and Ellen entered hastily. She was followed by Mrs. Merrill, neither of them wearing very placid faces. Mr. Villars, not desiring to hear the complaints on either side, rose from table, and still holding Mary's hand, said, as he gave Ellen his morning kiss, "Eat your breakfast, my dear, and then come to the library; you will find Mary there, and I have something to tell you."