CHAPTER VIII.MILLY'S NEW HAT."I shall be sorry to have to keep you in this afternoon, Lena," said Miss Marshall; "but if you do not pay more attention to your lessons I shall be obliged to.""They are so difficult," grumbled Lena."That is nonsense. Milly has said hers correctly, and surely you can do so also; you are not paying the slightest attention this morning.""Of course Milly does it best when you help her," muttered Lena, but in tones loud enough to be heard by her governess.Things went on from bad to worse. Lena was in a cross, stubborn mood. She was hugging to herself, as it were, the disappointment of the afternoon before, dwelling upon it, and looking at it over and over again in the light of her own wounded pride and vanity. This was the morning of the day they had all looked forward to with such pleasure, the day when they were all to have tea in the hay-field; and now, instead of getting through her lessons well and quickly, she was allowing her thoughts and attention to wander anywhere they would, except to the one place they ought to have rested on."Have you got a headache, Lena?" asked Miss Marshall at length, when her patience was nearly exhausted."No," was the short answer."Then what is the matter with you, dear?" she asked kindly."Nothing, only my lessons are so difficult.""Let me try and explain them to you again," said Miss Marshall; and taking the book she went over the prescribed task. But all her kindness was thrown away; it was not that Lena could not, it was that she would not learn. When the usual hour for ending morning lessons arrived, Lena was all behind, and there was nothing to be done except to excuse her them altogether, or to keep her in for part of the afternoon. The latter course was what Miss Marshall resolved on."Lena must stay in alone," said Mrs. Graham, when she heard of this resolution. "I am very sorry for it, my child, but I cannot help myself. It would not be fair to deny any of the others their pleasure because you choose to be so naughty and wilful."All but the cook were going to the hay-field. She was remaining to look after the house during the absence of all the others, and so Lena would not be quite alone in the house."Directly you think you know your lessons you may come and join us. I know I can trust you, my little one," said her mother kindly to the child as she left her sitting alone in the schoolroom. For a little while Lena sat leaning her elbows on the table and gazing into vacancy, as she heard the voices of her mother and sisters gradually dying away in the distance. It was very hard, she thought, sitting here all by herself, when they were all enjoying themselves out of doors, forgetting that it was all her own doing. Suddenly a new impulse seized her, and bending down over her book, she began to read over her lesson. The door opened, and Hester came in."Have you not gone yet, Hester?" asked Lena in surprise."No, Miss, I had to finish my work first. I am ready now, only waiting for Emma. She has gone to put the salt into Miss Milly's bath. Oh, Miss Lena, do make haste and do your lessons: only think what your Auntie would say if she saw you now.""She would not have been so cross and kept me in.""Well, dear, show that you can do them as well as Miss Milly."Hester had touched her pride with this speech, and tossing back her head she answered, "Of course I can if I choose.""Well then, dear, I would choose; it's a pity to lose all the fun of the haymaking, and such a lovely afternoon as it is, too.""I won't be long now, Hester; I will learn them.""Shall I wait for you?""No, thank you, Hester, I will soon follow you."Then with a few kindly words of encouragement Hester left the room, and Lena applied herself to her task with such goodwill that very soon she had learnt it correctly.Putting away her books, she went up for her walking things. As she passed her mother's room, the door of which was left wide open, she went in, and going to the window looked out to see if she could see them in the field. Not a person was to be seen—all lay so still and peaceful in the bright sunshine, the silence only broken by the song of a bird or the distant lowing of cattle. Turning from the window, Lena's eye fell on the box that had come from Mrs. Clifford. It had been taken out for some reason from the wardrobe, placed on the bed, and evidently forgotten to be put back. Lena lingered a moment beside it. She had not seen it except for the few moments that Milly had held it before her on first taking it out of the box. She would like to have a good look at it, and here was an opportunity for doing so privately and without having to ask Milly to allow her to do so. Opening the box, she lifted the paper and looked in. Then taking it carefully out, she turned it round and examined it more attentively. "What a nice feather!" she murmured. "I wonder if it looks nice on." That was very easy to decide. Placing it on her head, she walked to the looking-glass. It was a very becoming one, she considered, as she turned her head from side to side to see it to every advantage. A sudden noise made her start guiltily and turn quickly round, "for a fearful conscience makes cowards of us all." So quickly had she turned and with such a jerk, that off went the hat. Lena made a dash at it, but it was too late, she could not save it. With a splash it went into the salt bath prepared for Milly's weak ancles, and which was always taken into her mother's room. With a cry of horror Lena snatched it out, but alas! the mischief was done, the beautiful curly feather was soaking. Such a miserable-looking object it was, as Lena gazed at it in dismay. Hastily taking a towel from the rack, she rubbed away at the unfortunate hat; then when the straw was dry, or looked nearly so, she shook it vigorously, hoping in this way to restore the feather to its former beauty. All the shaking and rubbing was of no use, for the feather still remained all wet and uncurled. Holding it before the fire sometimes did a wet feather good, Lena knew; should she take it down and ask cook to let her hold it before the kitchen fire? As she stood meditating she saw through the open window her father and Milly coming towards the house. If Milly had been alone she would have run and told her all, for all anger and pride had died away in her fright and sorrow, for she was sorry for the mischief she had caused, but the sight of her father made her hesitate. "He would be so angry," she thought, and the remembrance of the stern way he had spoken to her the night she had looked over Aunt Mary's shoulder and read her letter, came back to her. "She could not tell him." She would wait and tell Milly afterwards, or Mama. She would understand it was not done intentionally. Thrusting the hat hastily into the box again, she hurried to her room, trembling and almost in tears."Lena, Lena, where are you?" shouted Milly, as she bounded upstairs to look for her, after having failed to find her in the schoolroom. "Getting ready? Oh, I am so glad you have done. I have come back to bring you—we all want you so much. Crying, Lena?" she continued, and receiving no answer—"Oh, don't cry; it is all right now."Here was Lena's opportunity to confess all, and this she determined to do. Bursting out afresh into tears, she sobbed, "Oh, Milly clear, do forgive me; the hat"——she went on incoherently.Here Milly interrupted her with a kiss—"Never mind the tiresome old hat; I never want to see it again. I love you better than all the hats in the world.""But, Milly, I must tell you"——Here Colonel Graham's voice was heard calling in rather impatient tones for them to make haste."There, Lena, you must come; I won't listen to one word more about the hat;" and dragging her after her, she hurried down to join her father.No one took any notice of Lena's tear-stained face, all attributing it to the fact of her having been kept in; and when Mama, greeting her with a loving kiss, the tears welled up afresh, they were thought to be only signs of sorrow for her conduct during the morning, and only drew forth another kiss and kind words of forgiveness, "Now, darling, run and join the others, and all enjoy yourselves."Though Lena joined in all the games and pleasures of the others, it was not with the full enjoyment with which she usually did so. No one alluded either to her having been kept at home, or to the disappointment of the day before, except once, and that was done by Lucy, who said, "Milly, Bessie says she expects that my present was small, and must have got hidden among the paper.""No, Lucy dear, I am sure there was not anything more in the box.""Yes, so am I," said Lena, flushing scarlet, "it is very stupid of Bessie saying such things to you.""I believe Bessie, and she is not stupid; she is very nice—nicer than you," and the child walked off, indignantly murmuring to herself, "I mean to look and see, for I believe Bessie.""I wish she would not tell Lucy such things; she never thinks how bad it is for her." The one she alluded to being Bessie, who petted and spoiled the child, giving her everything she asked for, and never allowing either of her sisters to contradict her; or when they did so, she made up for it by an extra petting.Lena was ill at ease, and looked so tired when evening came that Mama sent her off to bed, attributing the weary looks and subdued manner to over fatigue from running about in the heat.As Lena lay waiting for Milly to come to bed—for Lena had been sent off first by Mama—she decided that she would tell Milly when she came in, and then together they would tell their mother; but all her plans were frustrated by the weary eyes closing in sleep before her sister came in, and so quiet was Milly that she did not awake her.The following morning doubts and conjectures began to trouble Lena. Milly made such a fuss when she began to speak of the hat, and say she would not hear a word more about it; she had said she did not care one bit about it. Still conscience kept telling her over and over again, that there was but one path before her, and that was a very plain and straight one, called Truth. The longer she put off telling, the more difficult it became. She would tell her while dressing. "Milly," she began, just before they left the room, "I want to speak to you about the hat.""O Lena, please don't say anything now about it, or I shall hate it. Mama and I decided last night that it is to be left in its box, and I shall forget all about it: I could not wear it now.""Could not wear it now," Lena repeated, but no one heard her, for Milly had left the room. "Could Mama and Milly have opened the box last night and seen what had happened? Yes, that must be it; how good and kind Milly was to forgive her so easily. She would show her how grateful she was, and how much she loved her and Mama too for forgiving her." She felt she did not deserve this kind treatment, but she would try to in the future. All that day Lena expected her mother to say something about the feather, but not one word was said, not even when they were alone. Lena tried very hard all that day to be good, and was gentle and affectionate to both her sisters, especially Milly, who was so glad to have Lena once more on amiable terms with her that she was in the best and highest spirits.When Mama gave her little girls their good-night kiss, Lena said, "How good you are to me, Mama!""When one tries to be good oneself, darling, one always finds that others are trying to be the same; as when one is cross, one thinks everybody is cross too."Lucy had not forgotten Bessie's remark, that perhaps Milly had overlooked her present, and that very probably it had got among the paper that formed the wrappings of the hat and work-basket. To find this out Lucy was quite determined, but how to do so was the difficulty. She had asked Mama if she would look, but her answer had not been satisfactory to the child—"Milly had looked, and the paper from Mrs. Clifford proved that only Milly was to receive anything." Lucy wanted to see for herself. The box was in Mama's wardrobe she knew, and could be very easily got at and searched, if only she could do so without being seen. Some days passed away, and no opportunity occurred. One was sure to come, for it is wonderful how opportunities do occur, for either good or evil, when eagerly watched for. It was the case with Lucy. Colonel and Mrs. Graham had gone to return a visit some distance off; the two elder girls had gone with Miss Marshall, Gertrude Freeling and her governess for a long walk to some woods in the neighbourhood. This walk had long been talked of, but it was too far to go in their usual walking hours, so had been arranged for a half-holiday. When Gertrude and Miss Gifford called for the Grahams, Astbury being on the way, they brought word that Bessie was not going with them; she would come down later and take Lucy for a play in the fields. This was a splendid opportunity for Lucy to search the box. Hester was busy in the nursery, so Lucy asked leave to go and meet Bessie. This was at once accorded, for the time fixed on for her coming was close at hand. Instead of going out at once, Lucy went to her mother's room. Shutting the door quietly, so that she should not be seen, she opened the wardrobe. The box was too high for her to reach, so putting a chair close she mounted on it, and was thus enabled easily to reach the desired object. Placing it on the floor, she opened it, and lifting the hat out, put it on the floor beside her, without uncovering it from the paper in which it was wrapped. Then she made a careful but unavailing search. The child's face grew longer and longer as the conviction was at last forced upon her, that there was really nothing more there. It was quite true then that she had been told the truth by Milly, and Bessie was wrong. Anger succeeded to disappointment. Without waiting to remove the chair or to replace the box, she turned to go; the paper containing the hat lay before her: giving it a kick with her foot, for Lucy had worked herself into a rage by this time, she sent hat, paper, and all flying across the room. Then, without waiting to see the effects of the kick, she rushed out of the room, down the stairs, and into the garden. Bessie had not arrived, so she started off to meet her, and pour into her ever-friendly ear her tale of woe.CHAPTER IX.THE SPOILT FEATHER.Lucy had not gone very far when she saw Bessie coming towards her, not walking along briskly and brightly as usual, but with a lagging step and drooping head, so unlike her usual self that even Lucy, full as she was of her own grievance, was struck by it."O Bessie, what is the matter? what have you been doing?""Nothing, except I am miserable," was the gloomy answer.Awed and subdued, the child walked beside her in silence, until they came to a favourite resting-place of theirs—an old tree that had been blown down in some winter storm and still lay beside the hedge. The branches had been chopped off, and grass and wild flowers had grown up around it, making it both a comfortable and picturesque seat. On this Bessie seated herself with Lucy beside her."Do tell me what is the matter; why are you so unhappy?" Placing her little hand on her knee, she looked up affectionately into her companion's face."They are going to send me away from here, all among strangers in a horrid town, and I shall be wretched.""Send you away, your Papa and Mama! Why, what have you done?" the child asked in surprise."Nothing." And as she spoke the word she began to laugh in an hysterical, nervous sort of way. Then seeing the child's bewildered look she said, "Yes, Lucy, that's really why, because Mama says I am not getting on with Miss Gifford, that I do nothing, so they are going to send me to school.""How unkind of them!""No, Mama could not be unkind, nor Papa either; they say it's for my good.""Like what they say when they give you nasty medicine." This was not said saucily, but very gravely, for Lucy was not in a merry mood; the news she had just heard was too serious for a joke."Only think," said Bessie, looking round her with loving, admiring eyes, "to live among streets and houses, and to leave all these beautiful fields and trees—oh, it is cruel! I can never be happy away from here." Sure of a sympathising listener in her little companion, she poured forth all her sorrows for the present and fears for the future.The prospect of dear kind Bessie going away saddened little Lucy, and so filled her thoughts that it drove away the remembrance of her own disappointment, and she quite forgot to tell her of all that had happened, and that she had come out to meet her with the full intention of telling. When they parted at the garden gate, Bessie looked happier, though I fear not one whit more resigned to the prospect in store for her.Lucy watched her away, and then turned and ran back to the house. Though she was very very sorry about it, still it did not prevent her from being eager to tell her sisters the news, sad though it was. It gave her a feeling of importance to know something the elder ones did not, so she felt quite disappointed at finding that none of the others had come in. She must tell her tale to some one, so running up to the nursery she found Hester, who listened to her news and was as interested and sympathising as her small charge desired.Lucy was already dressed and waiting for tea, when Lena came in, saying, "O Lucy, there you are! Mama wants you; she is in the drawing-room; come along quickly."Together they entered the drawing-room, where they found Colonel and Mrs. Graham and Milly. The latter looked very distressed, and both parents very grave."What is it, Mama?" they both exclaimed."Have you been in your mother's bedroom to-day, Lena?" asked Colonel Graham."No, Papa," was the immediate answer, and she looked frankly into her father's face as she spoke. Not a suspicion of what was coming dawned upon her, she had so completely made up her mind that both her mother and sister knew of her wrong-doing and had forgiven her. At first she had often wondered that her mother had said no word to her on the subject. Then as the days wore on, she was only too glad to forget all about it, and she had tried to be very good and obedient, to show her gratitude. It was the old story with Lena, trusting to her own efforts to repair the wrong, forgetting that there is nothing that we can do that will cleanse us from sin; there is only One who can do that, and He was now going to give her the opportunity to confess her fault, and to show true repentance.As Colonel Graham asked Lena this question, Lucy coloured and cast down her eyes. She suddenly remembered what she had done, and how she had left her mother's room."Lucy, have you been in?" There was little doubt what would be the answer. Conscious guilt was stamped on every feature of the child's face."Yes, Papa," she said timidly. Then bursting into tears, she rushed to her mother's arms for refuge and comfort."Tell us all about it, my child; what did you go for?""To see if there was not a present for me," she sobbed."But Milly told you she had searched the box.""Bessie said perhaps it had got among the paper, and you had not seen it.""Well, when you found it was not there, what did you do to the hat?""Kicked it," she murmured very low."Nothing else?""No, I did not even look at it.""You must have done something more, Lucy," said her father. "How else could it be in this state?" And he held out Milly's unfortunate hat.Lucy lifted her head from her mother's shoulder and looked. "O Papa, what a pity! how did it get like that?"The child spoke with such an accent of truth, that the parents looked at one another in surprise. That Lucy had not done it intentionally there could be no doubt."We thought you had done it, Lucy. We found it in this state under the washing-stand.""I am so sorry. I never meant to spoil the hat; I only kicked it because I was so angry;" for Lucy immediately jumped to the conclusion that she had done the mischief, though unintentionally. Springing forward she flung her arms round Milly, saying, "Please, please forgive me, Milly; I did not mean to spoil your hat really.""No, I know you did not, Lucy. I don't mind one bit now; I did at first, because it was such a pretty one. I don't mind now; and Lena and I will have the same like always—won't we, Mama?" said Milly sweetly as she kissed her little sister.What were Lena's feelings during this time? Very conflicting ones. So Mama and Milly had not known of it all along, and now she must confess that she had not only done the mischief, but had concealed it all this time. Would they believe her when she told them the whole story? She had not really meant to deceive them, she repeated over and over again to herself. The others were too much taken up with Lucy to notice her, or else her varying looks must have betrayed the struggle that was going on within. As Milly ceased speaking, Lena started forward. "O Milly," she began, when her father's voice arrested her."I am glad, my child, you told me the truth at once, for if you had tried to deceive me and denied your fault, I should have been very angry. You see what sins jealousy and passion lead you into.""I could not tell before Papa," thought Lena as she drew back; "if he would be angry with little Lucy, how much more so would he be with me who am older?" Then as Lucy sobbed out, "I really did not mean to spoil the feather," and her mother answered, "No, dear, that must have been an accident," the temptation that rose to Lena's mind was too strong to be resisted by her feeble strength, and on that strength alone had she been and still was relying. So she held her peace and let Lucy bear the blame."You need not stay, dears," said Mrs. Graham to the two elder girls. "Go to your tea; I want to have Lucy with me alone for a little while."How the feather had been spoiled still remained a mystery. Lucy fully and firmly believed that she had been the cause, by throwing it under the washing-stand, though unless the floor had been wet it would not have been so utterly ruined. It was an unsatisfactory solution of the difficulty, but as no other could be found, they had to be satisfied with it. How thankful Lena was when tea was over, and Miss Marshall gave them leave to go out into the garden for half an hour."May I go up and see Lucy?" asked Milly.Gaining permission, she ran after Lena to tell her where she was going, and to ask if she would come with her."There is no good both going, and I want to finish my book." But not much of the book was read that evening, when, out of sight of every one, Lena sat down and tried to arrange her thoughts. What had she done? Though no one was by to see her, her cheeks flushed with shame at her conduct. What cowardice and meanness had she not been guilty of! Oh, if she had only spoken out at the beginning, all this misery and wickedness would have been saved. "It was not too late yet," conscience whispered. Then the thought of what her father would say when he heard that she had deceived them. If it was only Mama, I should not mind, so ran her thoughts; but I dare not tell Papa, he would be so angry. Oh, if only Aunt Mary were here I could tell her everything, forgetting, or rather pushing away the remembrance, of One nearer and dearer than any earthly friend, who never turns a cold or deaf ear to any of His children, and who ever has the gentlest and most loving answer for His repentant little ones. How, over and over again, we dread the anger of some earthly friend, forgetting that some day we must face the just anger of an offended God if we continue in our hardness and sin. As Lena sat thus thinking, we may be very sure that excuses, and what she called good reasons for keeping silence, were not long in making their appearance. Lucy had been forgiven, and nothing more would be said on the subject. Why should she open out such a painful thing again? She had not told a falsehood; if Papa had asked her, she would have acknowledged doing it. He had only asked her if she had been in her mother's room that afternoon, and she had spoken the truth when she said "No." Then what would Aunt Mary feel if she heard that she, her pet and darling, had got into trouble and disgrace? No, this must never be, and so on and on went the struggle between right and wrong, ending, alas! in Lena's leaving it to be settled some other time. "I could not do it to-night, I will the first opportunity;" and somehow, when an opportunity offered itself, it was not a right one—Lena would wait for a better. So day followed day, and still the secret was locked up in Lena's bosom, and it seemed probable that it never would be told. Nothing was ever said about the feather, and to all appearance no one remembered anything about it. Still Lena was not happy. How could she be, with such a weight at her heart? Aunt Mary had striven to train her niece not for this life alone; and the good seed that had been sown in love and faith was not dead, and the better thoughts would make themselves heard. Lena was not callous or hardened; no, she was very miserable, poor child, as all of us must be who carry about with us an unconfessed and unforgiven sin. As day after day she kneeled, as she had ever done in prayer, and listened to, or read God's Word, her heart grew heavier, and sometimes the longing to tell all was so strong that she would start up to go, then her courage would fail, and she was afraid of what they would say; and the remembrance of her father's words, both to herself and Lucy, would come back, and she would shrink from the task, thinking, "I will be very good and obedient, and make up for not telling by good conduct." At times she would forget all about it, and be the bright, lively Lena we first knew; but some word or deed would be sure to recall her secret, and she would have the same struggle over again.Her mother was sure that something was amiss, and would watch her troubled, anxious face with loving eyes, fearing that her child was either ill or unhappy. Could it be, she would wonder, that she was fretting at the loss of Aunt Mary? and at this thought she would be, if that were possible, when she was always kind and loving to her children, more so than usual to Lena. Strange to say, that when this was the case, it made Lena only stronger in her determination not to tell, for she would think, "She would not be so kind to me if she knew how naughty I had been." So day after day passed and her secret was still untold."Where is Lena?" asked Mrs. Graham, coming into the garden, where Milly and Lucy were busy working at their own especial little garden."On the lawn, Mama. She wanted to finish a book Gertrude lent her. Shall I call her?""No, dear, I will go to her," and she moved away.Throwing down the rake with which she had been working, Milly followed. "Mama," she began, when she was out of ear-shot of Lucy; "I don't think Lena is very happy here.""I am afraid, dear, that she is not well," answered her mother."She is so much quieter, and she is not half so fond of running about and romping as she used to be.""I am beginning to think this place does not suit her. It's a change from the sea-air she has been accustomed to. I have a letter for her from Aunt Mary; that is what I want her for.""Oh, that will please her. There she is. Lena!" she called out as they came in sight of her lying flat on the grass, intent on a book she was reading.Lena looked up as they joined her, saying, "It is such a nice book! Milly, you ought to read it.""I have brought you something else to read, dear," said her mother, holding out a letter which Lena sprang up to receive; for what child is not delighted at receiving a letter, especially if directed to itself!As Lena was opening the envelope, Mrs. Graham said, "I heard from Mrs. Clifford to-day. That will interest you, Milly. I wrote and asked her to come and stay here."At these words Lena turned round hastily, and listened anxiously to hear the answer from Mrs. Clifford. As her mother had paused and was looking for the letter in her pocket, Lena asked impatiently, "Is she coming?""Yes, dear, in a fortnight."Lena's cheek flushed crimson, for the thought flashed through her mind, "She will inquire about the hat."At sight of her crimsoned cheeks Mrs. Graham and Milly at once came to the same conclusion—"Lena has not forgotten her disappointment at not receiving a present;" but neither took any notice of her confusion in words."Shall I read you your letter, dear?" asked Mrs. Graham."Please, Mama," she answered, placing the letter in her hand. Then walking slowly up and down the lawn, Mrs. Graham read the letter aloud to the two girls, who were walking one on each side of her.After telling her niece about the many new and interesting places she had been visiting, she went on to say what pleasure it had given her to hear from Mrs. Graham, how good and obedient Lena had been, ending with, "Nothing can give me so much happiness as hearing this, dear Lena, and I trust that I may continue to have equally good accounts until we meet again in the winter." Lena listened to these words in silence as her mother ended the letter.Bessie Freeling rushed out of the house to join them, exclaiming as she did so, "O Mrs. Graham, I came with Mama; she is in the drawing-room; she wants to see you."This was a happy interruption for Lena. She dreaded hearing some words of praise from her mother, for she knew how little she deserved them. Handing her the letter with a smile, Mrs. Graham answered Bessie, and hurried back to the house to see Mrs. Freeling, leaving the three girls together.Bessie was in a state of excitement, and the moment Mrs. Graham disappeared into the house she burst out with, "What do you think she has come for? To ask if your mother will let one of you go to the seaside with Gertrude and Miss Gifford, instead of me. I want to stay here all summer. I don't want to lose a day when I have such a miserable winter before me.""I thought your Papa and Mama were going away too," said Milly."Yes, to take the boys to see Uncle Henry; but I want to come and stay here while you go with Gerty."Milly's face fell: she did not want to leave home. "But we can't—we have no holidays," she said, brightening up at this thought.Here was an escape for Lena from meeting Mrs. Clifford. Was ever anything more fortunate? she thought, for she dreaded any remarks or inquiries from that lady."I should like to go to the sea," said Lena; "I hope Mama will let me.""Want to go away, Lena?" said Milly reproachfully. "And when Mrs. Clifford is coming; I do so want her to know you, as well as me.""I do hope Mrs. Graham will say 'yes.' Now, Milly, don't you go trying to persuade Lena not to—I shan't let you speak to her until it is all settled;" and she laughingly dragged her away, calling loudly to Lucy to come and help her, which the moment Lucy heard her voice, she hastened to do. And a merry struggle went on between them, in which Lena, rejoiced at the prospect of escaping Mrs. Clifford's promised visit, joined in, and it was in the midst of all the fun and noise that Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Freeling joined them."You will consent, won't you, Mrs. Graham?" said Bessie, leaving Milly and looking up coaxingly at her."Consent to have you here? Yes, with pleasure; and I think, as your mother has kindly asked one of my children to go with Gertrude, that it would do Lena good. She has not been very well lately, and the sea-air may strengthen her.""But our lessons, Mama?" said Milly."She will do them all the better when she is strong and well; won't you, Lena dear?""I am not ill, Mama, but I should like to go to the sea.""And I do so want to stay here," said Bessie. "O Lucy, won't we be happy? I shall have no lessons, and we will live out of doors." Seizing the child as she spoke, she danced her round."When are we to go?" asked Lena."In a few days," said Mrs. Freeling. "I have written about the rooms, and we shall hear to-morrow.""And how long shall we be away?" asked Lena nervously."About three weeks or a month, I hope. Will that be too long?" asked Mrs. Freeling of her mother."I am afraid you will miss Mrs. Clifford's visit, dear; perhaps she will stay longer than she says when once she is here."Lena made no answer; and Mrs. Freeling then spoke on some other subject, and the girls wandered off together to another part of the garden.The few days before they were to start passed away quietly. Lena was very glad to escape Mrs. Clifford, for she quite made up her mind that the subject of the spoilt hat would be brought forward again during her stay, and perhaps, in some way, her part in the proceeding might be brought to light. This she dreaded happening more than anything. It would be worse, far worse, than telling it herself, for in this case who would believe that it was an accident and not done intentionally? Oh, if she had only told it at first! Now each day made it more difficult. How true it is that "The wicked flee when no man pursueth." Lena was running away from an imaginary enemy. If she had remained she would have heard no word mentioned on the subject, for Mrs. Graham had written the whole story to Mrs. Clifford, saying, as she believed was the case, that little Lucy had done it in a sudden fit of passion, but without any real intention of destroying it, simply kicking it out of the way as it was the nearest thing on which to spend her anger. And an answer had come from Mrs. Clifford, regretting all that had happened, except the amiable and forgiving behaviour of her little friend Milly.CHAPTER X.AT SIDCOMBE.Miss Gifford and the two girls, Gertrude and Lena, had been now for some days in their comfortable lodgings at Sidcombe, and Lena was fast becoming very fond of her new companion. Although they had seen a great deal of Gertrude during their stay at Astbury, both she and Milly had looked upon her as being nearly grown up, and though liking her very much, for she was always kind and good to them, they looked upon her in quite a different light to that in which they looked on Bessie, not considering her, as they did the latter, as a companion and playfellow. There seemed to Lena more difference between her twelve and Gertrude's fifteen years, than there was between Milly and Bessie, though the actual difference in age was much the same. Gertrude was very different from her sister, Bessie being much gentler and quieter in disposition. But now, in the quiet and daily companionship of their life, the two girls were fast becoming firm friends.The life at Sidcombe was very pleasant, and Lena was enjoying it much. There was nothing here to recall the secret trouble that had been haunting her at home, and no word was ever said to call forth the struggle between right and wrong, between deceit and truth, that had been of daily occurrence when with her mother-and sisters. She was only too glad to think that her secret was to remain one for ever, and that the whole thing was an affair of the past, never to trouble her any more.Both Miss Gifford and Gertrude were very kind to Lena, and the days passed in a simple but happy manner. Their mornings were spent on the sands, and there was nothing Lena enjoyed more, when the morning bath in the sea was over, than to lie under shelter of some rock, and listen to Gertrude as she read aloud, for Miss Gifford said something in the way of lessons must be done, so had fixed upon this plan, of reading out for a certain number of hours each morning from an interesting and improving book, certainly the pleasantest of all ways of gaining knowledge.The afternoons and evenings were devoted to long rambles, either along the sands, or through the pretty lanes and fields of the country round. At first both girls were eager to wander about and explore the neighbourhood, but very soon they grew either too lazy, or the weather became too hot, or for some reason Lena began to tire of long walks, and she would ask Miss Gifford and Gertrude to spend their evenings on the water, being rowed about in the cool evening air, chatting to one another, or listening to the many tales that their boatman, who was an old sailor, delighted to tell them of the many places he had visited.One afternoon Miss Gifford said she had letters to write, so the two girls started off together for a walk."Where shall we go?" asked Lena."Suppose we go to the wood. We have only been once since we came.""Right past that little white cottage where we saw that pretty little girl who sold us flowers?""Yes, and perhaps we shall see her again. Now don't be lazy, Lena; it will be a lovely walk.""Can we buy some more flowers? David says that she and her mother are very poor.""I will run and ask Miss Gifford," said Gertrude, turning back and re-entering the house she soon came out again, saying, "Yes, we may; and Miss Gifford says she will come and meet us when she has finished her letters."They started off again, this time without returning, talking of the little girl, whose sweet looks and gentle manner had interested them all, and of whom their boatman David had often spoken to them, her father, who had been a sailor like himself, having been drowned a few years before, leaving his widow and children very poor, and in a certain degree to David's care.Their way lay along a shady lane, bordered with ferns and wild flowers, tempting both girls to stop to pick and admire them more than once. Before they reached the end of the lane, Lena said, "O Gertrude, let us wait here for Miss Gifford; it's so hot, and I am so tired;" and she seated herself on the bank as she spoke."You lazy girl!" laughed Gertrude; then seeing that she looked really tired, added, "You take a rest, dear, while I pick some flowers and ferns, and then I will bring them to you and we will arrange them together."Gertrude had joined Lena, with both hands full of floral treasures, and they were busy arranging them into a pretty nosegay, when the sound of footsteps caused them to look up. They so seldom met any one in these quiet lanes, that both the girls stopped their work to see who was coming. In a few moments their curiosity was gratified by seeing their old friend the boatman coming towards them from the direction of the White Cottage."Halloa, David!" called out Lena, "have you been for a walk?""Yes, Missie," answered the old man as he touched his hat."We are going to the wood, and to call and buy some flowers from that little girl, Mary Roberts," said Gertrude."I would not go that way to-day, Miss," he answered gravely."Oh yes, but we want to—we mean to," said Lena."What is the matter, David?" asked Gertrude, seeing he looked troubled."I've just came from the cottage, Miss, from seeing little Mary. She's down with the fever."Both girls exclaimed in tones of pity, "Poor Mary!" and Gertrude added, "Is there nothing we can do for her, David? Is she very ill?""Yes, Miss, she's terrible bad, and her mother is in a sad way about her.""Oh, do take her this," pressing into his hand the money Miss Gifford had given them to pay for the flowers. "And we will go back and ask Miss Gifford to help her. Come, Lena."Both the girls were eager to hurry back to ask for assistance, but David would not let them go until they promised they would not go near the cottage, as he feared the fever might be infectious.When they gave the desired promise, he thanked them, and said he would return with the money they had given him, for small though the coin was, it would be a help to the poor hard-working mother."Is she very ill, David?" asked Lena in an awed tone; "will she die?""She is in God's hands, Missie; the best and safest of all," he answered reverently, adding, "She's very young, and it's wonderful what a deal of illness young things can bear.""How old is she?" asked Gertrude kindly."Twelve years, that's all.""Just your age, Lena." Then with a friendly good-bye to the old man, the two girls hurried off to meet Miss Gifford, and tell her of the sad trouble that had overtaken Mrs. Roberts and her child.They had gone but a very little way when they met Miss Gifford hurrying towards them. When she went to post her letters, she had heard a rumour of there being fever at Mrs. Roberts' cottage, and she had hurried after the two girls, hoping to overtake them before they reached the cottage, for she dreaded their running into any danger of infection. Her first question was as to whether they had been, and it was with deep thankfulness she heard how they had loitered on the way, and that they had met David, who had stopped their going on."We may send them something, may we not?" they both asked eagerly as they walked home.Very soon a basket was despatched under David's care, filled with things that Miss Gifford thought would be good for the sick child. There was no boating that evening, both the girls declaring it would not be fair upon their "own man," as they called David, to employ any one else, when he had gone on an errand of kindness and mercy to his old friend's widow and child.Miss Gifford was naturally very anxious about the health of her two pupils, and she remembered, with a feeling of uneasiness, how much Lena had complained the last few days of being tired; and as she looked white that evening after the great heat of the day, she hurried her off early to bed, much against Lena's inclination. But Miss Gifford was firm, and she had to obey.The next day came news that little Mary was still very very ill, and there was but small hope of her recovery. And the two girls spoke and thought much of the poor little sufferer, who but a few days ago had brought them flowers, apparently as well and with as fair a prospect of living as either of themselves, now lying tossing restlessly about in the clutches of that cruel fever, in the small close cottage that was her home."She is not going to die, is she, Gertrude?" asked Lena. "She is so young—only twelve."It was not Gertrude, but Miss Gifford, that answered this remark with, "Age has nothing to do with it, Lena dear. It is not only the aged that God calls away. We ought all, even children, try to live good lives, so that when our summons comes we may be ready and glad to go.""But we can't; at least children can't always be good," said Lena."No, dear; but we can all try, and if we do fall, we can repent, and ask God's forgiveness, which He never withholds, and then we need not fear.""But David says little Mary is such a good girl, so truthful and honest, and always been so kind to her mother and everybody; he says she is a real little Christian," said Gertrude."Yes, so I was very glad to hear," answered Miss Gifford."It would be a dreadful thing," said Gertrude, thoughtfully, "to die when you were doing a wrong thing.""Little Mary is not going to die," said Lena almost passionately, bursting into a flood of tears as she spoke.Miss Gifford looked surprised but said nothing except, "We hope not, dear Lena." Then drawing the weeping child to her side, she soothed her with gentle words, until she had recovered, and regained her composure once more.Nothing more was said on the subject of little Mary that morning. Gertrude opened her book and read out until it was time to return to the house, while Lena leant with her head against Miss Gifford's shoulder, apparently listening intently, but in reality thinking and wondering over many things.After dinner Miss Gifford announced that it was too hot for a walk; and as Lena complained of having a headache, she was to lie down until it was cool enough for them to go out, adding, as she left the room, "Poor child, I had no idea she would have felt for others so very strongly."As Lena lay on the bed in the darkened room, sleep was very far from her. Although her eyes were shut, her thoughts were very busy. Gertrude's words came back to her over and over again, "To die doing wrong." Her head ached dreadfully, which was not to be wondered at after her passionate fit of crying; and as Lena was not often troubled with a headache, she began to grow nervous and frightened. Could it be that she was going to get the fever also, like Mary Roberts? If she had it at twelve years of age, why should not she? Yes, she was sure she was going to be ill too; and her mother would soon be in as sad a state about her, as David said Mrs. Roberts was about her little girl. Poor Lena! she began to cry softly out of sheer fright. Suddenly jumping up, she went to the table, and taking up a small hand-glass that lay there, she took it with her to the window, and lifting the blind, looked at herself. Such a miserable, flushed, tear-stained face she saw. Yes, it must be the fever that made her cheeks so red. Laying down the glass, she flung herself on the bed. Oh, if she had only told Papa and Mama that it was she who had destroyed Milly's hat, and not little Lucy, as she had allowed them all to believe, how much happier she would be now! How weak and wicked she had been and still was! Oh, if Mama was only here, she would go and tell her all; but it was too late now, Mama was far away, and couldn't hear or see her child's sorrow, and alas! it was her own doing, and by her own wish, they were not together. Then there crept into her heart the sweet loving words that had been so familiar to her all her life, but now seemed to come back to her with a stronger power and deeper meaning than they had ever had to her before. "I will arise and go to my Father," were the words that were ever before her as she lay sobbing bitterly. Yes, she too would do that. Springing up, she knelt down and prayed earnestly and truly for strength to do what was right—to tell the truth, and remove the blame from poor innocent little Lucy. Lena prayed as she had never prayed before in her young life, and being calmed and comforted, she was standing meditating how she was to carry out her good resolutions, when the door opened softly, and Gertrude looked in."I came to see if you were asleep; how is your headache, dear?" she asked.Here was a way opened to her—an answer, as it seemed, to her prayer. She would tell Gertrude all, and be guided by her as to the best way of acting. Without answering her question, she sprang forward, and throwing her arms round her friend's neck, sobbed out, "O Gertrude, I must tell you—I spoilt the hat; I am so wicked and so miserable. Do you think Papa will ever forgive me?""Spoilt what, Lena? Whatever is the matter, dear?" asked Gertrude in amazement, and a little bit frightened at the excited state Lena was in. She had heard about the hat being destroyed, and thought, as they all did, that Lucy had done it; but as it was now some time since it had happened, she had forgotten all about it. So when Lena sobbed out again, "I spoilt the hat," she began to think it was some hat she had destroyed belonging to herself."What hat, dear, do you mean?""Milly's; I did it, not Lucy.""O Lena!" she exclaimed in a shocked voice."Don't speak like that, Gerty, please. I can't bear you to be angry with me; I didn't mean to do it really.""I am not angry, Lena dear; but I don't understand about it. Come and sit down and tell me what you mean." Going to the window, she drew up the blind and drew a chair up for Lena as well as herself; but Lena would sit nowhere but on the floor. Crouching down at Gertrude's feet, and hiding her face on her lap, she told her tale in broken words. Gertrude listened, without saying one word until she had ended; then stooping down and putting her arms round her she said, "Poor Lena, how unhappy you must have been all this time!""Not since I have been here; but before it was dreadful. Do you think they will ever forgive me?""Of course they will, Lena; how can you doubt it?""But Papa said he couldn't bear us to do a dishonourable, wicked thing; and Gerty, he spoke so sternly, that I was afraid to tell him. And then I thought Mama and Milly knew, and had forgiven me without telling him," repeated Lena again."Poor Lena!" was all Gertrude said again, as she stroked back the child's hair from her flushed face, for by this time Lena had found her way from the floor to Gertrude's lap. A long silence fell upon them. Lena lay very still, resting her head against her kind companion's shoulder, feeling, oh, so thankful! that the wretched secret was no longer locked up in her own heart. At last she said, "How can I tell them?""You must write to them, dear, to-night; don't put off, for it only makes it more difficult.""I am sure I don't know what I shall say. I shall never be able to write it.""Yes, you will, dear. I will help you. What made you tell me to-day, Lena?""O Gerty!" she exclaimed, sitting up and looking very grave, "I have got such a headache, and I am so hot and my cheeks so red, I am sure I am going to have the fever like little Mary Roberts.""O Lena, what nonsense!""It is not, Gertrude. I never had such a bad headache before, and I am so hot, and I thought about what you said about dying when you were doing wrong, so I felt I must tell; and, Gerty"—here she lowered her voice—"I asked God to help me, and then you came in.""Darling," was the only answer. Then a knock came to the door and the servant's voice was heard saying, "Tea is ready."Gertrude helped Lena to get ready, and together they went downstairs.Miss Gifford called out in surprise as they entered the room, "My poor little Lena, I am afraid your sleep has not done you any good. Are you feeling ill?""Yes, Miss Gifford, my head aches, and I am so hot I could not sleep.""You shall sit in the arm-chair by the window; it is so pleasant now with the cool sea-breeze coming in, and Gerty shall give you a cup of tea."Lena sat very quietly, accepting all Miss Gifford's kindness in silence; but when Gerty took her a cup of tea she whispered, "Must I tell Miss Gifford?""I will tell her, dear, and how sorry you are.""Perhaps she won't be so kind to me then; she will think me so wicked.""She was never unkind when Bessie and I were naughty: I am sure she won't be to you." Then raising her voice she said, "Lena wants to write a letter home to-night, please, Miss Gifford.""No, dear, that must wait till to-morrow; little girls with headaches must keep quiet," was the answer.With this Lena had to be content. In truth she was not sorry to have nothing more to do that evening but rest quietly, feeling thankful that she had taken that difficult first step in the right direction.
CHAPTER VIII.
MILLY'S NEW HAT.
"I shall be sorry to have to keep you in this afternoon, Lena," said Miss Marshall; "but if you do not pay more attention to your lessons I shall be obliged to."
"They are so difficult," grumbled Lena.
"That is nonsense. Milly has said hers correctly, and surely you can do so also; you are not paying the slightest attention this morning."
"Of course Milly does it best when you help her," muttered Lena, but in tones loud enough to be heard by her governess.
Things went on from bad to worse. Lena was in a cross, stubborn mood. She was hugging to herself, as it were, the disappointment of the afternoon before, dwelling upon it, and looking at it over and over again in the light of her own wounded pride and vanity. This was the morning of the day they had all looked forward to with such pleasure, the day when they were all to have tea in the hay-field; and now, instead of getting through her lessons well and quickly, she was allowing her thoughts and attention to wander anywhere they would, except to the one place they ought to have rested on.
"Have you got a headache, Lena?" asked Miss Marshall at length, when her patience was nearly exhausted.
"No," was the short answer.
"Then what is the matter with you, dear?" she asked kindly.
"Nothing, only my lessons are so difficult."
"Let me try and explain them to you again," said Miss Marshall; and taking the book she went over the prescribed task. But all her kindness was thrown away; it was not that Lena could not, it was that she would not learn. When the usual hour for ending morning lessons arrived, Lena was all behind, and there was nothing to be done except to excuse her them altogether, or to keep her in for part of the afternoon. The latter course was what Miss Marshall resolved on.
"Lena must stay in alone," said Mrs. Graham, when she heard of this resolution. "I am very sorry for it, my child, but I cannot help myself. It would not be fair to deny any of the others their pleasure because you choose to be so naughty and wilful."
All but the cook were going to the hay-field. She was remaining to look after the house during the absence of all the others, and so Lena would not be quite alone in the house.
"Directly you think you know your lessons you may come and join us. I know I can trust you, my little one," said her mother kindly to the child as she left her sitting alone in the schoolroom. For a little while Lena sat leaning her elbows on the table and gazing into vacancy, as she heard the voices of her mother and sisters gradually dying away in the distance. It was very hard, she thought, sitting here all by herself, when they were all enjoying themselves out of doors, forgetting that it was all her own doing. Suddenly a new impulse seized her, and bending down over her book, she began to read over her lesson. The door opened, and Hester came in.
"Have you not gone yet, Hester?" asked Lena in surprise.
"No, Miss, I had to finish my work first. I am ready now, only waiting for Emma. She has gone to put the salt into Miss Milly's bath. Oh, Miss Lena, do make haste and do your lessons: only think what your Auntie would say if she saw you now."
"She would not have been so cross and kept me in."
"Well, dear, show that you can do them as well as Miss Milly."
Hester had touched her pride with this speech, and tossing back her head she answered, "Of course I can if I choose."
"Well then, dear, I would choose; it's a pity to lose all the fun of the haymaking, and such a lovely afternoon as it is, too."
"I won't be long now, Hester; I will learn them."
"Shall I wait for you?"
"No, thank you, Hester, I will soon follow you."
Then with a few kindly words of encouragement Hester left the room, and Lena applied herself to her task with such goodwill that very soon she had learnt it correctly.
Putting away her books, she went up for her walking things. As she passed her mother's room, the door of which was left wide open, she went in, and going to the window looked out to see if she could see them in the field. Not a person was to be seen—all lay so still and peaceful in the bright sunshine, the silence only broken by the song of a bird or the distant lowing of cattle. Turning from the window, Lena's eye fell on the box that had come from Mrs. Clifford. It had been taken out for some reason from the wardrobe, placed on the bed, and evidently forgotten to be put back. Lena lingered a moment beside it. She had not seen it except for the few moments that Milly had held it before her on first taking it out of the box. She would like to have a good look at it, and here was an opportunity for doing so privately and without having to ask Milly to allow her to do so. Opening the box, she lifted the paper and looked in. Then taking it carefully out, she turned it round and examined it more attentively. "What a nice feather!" she murmured. "I wonder if it looks nice on." That was very easy to decide. Placing it on her head, she walked to the looking-glass. It was a very becoming one, she considered, as she turned her head from side to side to see it to every advantage. A sudden noise made her start guiltily and turn quickly round, "for a fearful conscience makes cowards of us all." So quickly had she turned and with such a jerk, that off went the hat. Lena made a dash at it, but it was too late, she could not save it. With a splash it went into the salt bath prepared for Milly's weak ancles, and which was always taken into her mother's room. With a cry of horror Lena snatched it out, but alas! the mischief was done, the beautiful curly feather was soaking. Such a miserable-looking object it was, as Lena gazed at it in dismay. Hastily taking a towel from the rack, she rubbed away at the unfortunate hat; then when the straw was dry, or looked nearly so, she shook it vigorously, hoping in this way to restore the feather to its former beauty. All the shaking and rubbing was of no use, for the feather still remained all wet and uncurled. Holding it before the fire sometimes did a wet feather good, Lena knew; should she take it down and ask cook to let her hold it before the kitchen fire? As she stood meditating she saw through the open window her father and Milly coming towards the house. If Milly had been alone she would have run and told her all, for all anger and pride had died away in her fright and sorrow, for she was sorry for the mischief she had caused, but the sight of her father made her hesitate. "He would be so angry," she thought, and the remembrance of the stern way he had spoken to her the night she had looked over Aunt Mary's shoulder and read her letter, came back to her. "She could not tell him." She would wait and tell Milly afterwards, or Mama. She would understand it was not done intentionally. Thrusting the hat hastily into the box again, she hurried to her room, trembling and almost in tears.
"Lena, Lena, where are you?" shouted Milly, as she bounded upstairs to look for her, after having failed to find her in the schoolroom. "Getting ready? Oh, I am so glad you have done. I have come back to bring you—we all want you so much. Crying, Lena?" she continued, and receiving no answer—"Oh, don't cry; it is all right now."
Here was Lena's opportunity to confess all, and this she determined to do. Bursting out afresh into tears, she sobbed, "Oh, Milly clear, do forgive me; the hat"——she went on incoherently.
Here Milly interrupted her with a kiss—"Never mind the tiresome old hat; I never want to see it again. I love you better than all the hats in the world."
"But, Milly, I must tell you"——
Here Colonel Graham's voice was heard calling in rather impatient tones for them to make haste.
"There, Lena, you must come; I won't listen to one word more about the hat;" and dragging her after her, she hurried down to join her father.
No one took any notice of Lena's tear-stained face, all attributing it to the fact of her having been kept in; and when Mama, greeting her with a loving kiss, the tears welled up afresh, they were thought to be only signs of sorrow for her conduct during the morning, and only drew forth another kiss and kind words of forgiveness, "Now, darling, run and join the others, and all enjoy yourselves."
Though Lena joined in all the games and pleasures of the others, it was not with the full enjoyment with which she usually did so. No one alluded either to her having been kept at home, or to the disappointment of the day before, except once, and that was done by Lucy, who said, "Milly, Bessie says she expects that my present was small, and must have got hidden among the paper."
"No, Lucy dear, I am sure there was not anything more in the box."
"Yes, so am I," said Lena, flushing scarlet, "it is very stupid of Bessie saying such things to you."
"I believe Bessie, and she is not stupid; she is very nice—nicer than you," and the child walked off, indignantly murmuring to herself, "I mean to look and see, for I believe Bessie."
"I wish she would not tell Lucy such things; she never thinks how bad it is for her." The one she alluded to being Bessie, who petted and spoiled the child, giving her everything she asked for, and never allowing either of her sisters to contradict her; or when they did so, she made up for it by an extra petting.
Lena was ill at ease, and looked so tired when evening came that Mama sent her off to bed, attributing the weary looks and subdued manner to over fatigue from running about in the heat.
As Lena lay waiting for Milly to come to bed—for Lena had been sent off first by Mama—she decided that she would tell Milly when she came in, and then together they would tell their mother; but all her plans were frustrated by the weary eyes closing in sleep before her sister came in, and so quiet was Milly that she did not awake her.
The following morning doubts and conjectures began to trouble Lena. Milly made such a fuss when she began to speak of the hat, and say she would not hear a word more about it; she had said she did not care one bit about it. Still conscience kept telling her over and over again, that there was but one path before her, and that was a very plain and straight one, called Truth. The longer she put off telling, the more difficult it became. She would tell her while dressing. "Milly," she began, just before they left the room, "I want to speak to you about the hat."
"O Lena, please don't say anything now about it, or I shall hate it. Mama and I decided last night that it is to be left in its box, and I shall forget all about it: I could not wear it now."
"Could not wear it now," Lena repeated, but no one heard her, for Milly had left the room. "Could Mama and Milly have opened the box last night and seen what had happened? Yes, that must be it; how good and kind Milly was to forgive her so easily. She would show her how grateful she was, and how much she loved her and Mama too for forgiving her." She felt she did not deserve this kind treatment, but she would try to in the future. All that day Lena expected her mother to say something about the feather, but not one word was said, not even when they were alone. Lena tried very hard all that day to be good, and was gentle and affectionate to both her sisters, especially Milly, who was so glad to have Lena once more on amiable terms with her that she was in the best and highest spirits.
When Mama gave her little girls their good-night kiss, Lena said, "How good you are to me, Mama!"
"When one tries to be good oneself, darling, one always finds that others are trying to be the same; as when one is cross, one thinks everybody is cross too."
Lucy had not forgotten Bessie's remark, that perhaps Milly had overlooked her present, and that very probably it had got among the paper that formed the wrappings of the hat and work-basket. To find this out Lucy was quite determined, but how to do so was the difficulty. She had asked Mama if she would look, but her answer had not been satisfactory to the child—"Milly had looked, and the paper from Mrs. Clifford proved that only Milly was to receive anything." Lucy wanted to see for herself. The box was in Mama's wardrobe she knew, and could be very easily got at and searched, if only she could do so without being seen. Some days passed away, and no opportunity occurred. One was sure to come, for it is wonderful how opportunities do occur, for either good or evil, when eagerly watched for. It was the case with Lucy. Colonel and Mrs. Graham had gone to return a visit some distance off; the two elder girls had gone with Miss Marshall, Gertrude Freeling and her governess for a long walk to some woods in the neighbourhood. This walk had long been talked of, but it was too far to go in their usual walking hours, so had been arranged for a half-holiday. When Gertrude and Miss Gifford called for the Grahams, Astbury being on the way, they brought word that Bessie was not going with them; she would come down later and take Lucy for a play in the fields. This was a splendid opportunity for Lucy to search the box. Hester was busy in the nursery, so Lucy asked leave to go and meet Bessie. This was at once accorded, for the time fixed on for her coming was close at hand. Instead of going out at once, Lucy went to her mother's room. Shutting the door quietly, so that she should not be seen, she opened the wardrobe. The box was too high for her to reach, so putting a chair close she mounted on it, and was thus enabled easily to reach the desired object. Placing it on the floor, she opened it, and lifting the hat out, put it on the floor beside her, without uncovering it from the paper in which it was wrapped. Then she made a careful but unavailing search. The child's face grew longer and longer as the conviction was at last forced upon her, that there was really nothing more there. It was quite true then that she had been told the truth by Milly, and Bessie was wrong. Anger succeeded to disappointment. Without waiting to remove the chair or to replace the box, she turned to go; the paper containing the hat lay before her: giving it a kick with her foot, for Lucy had worked herself into a rage by this time, she sent hat, paper, and all flying across the room. Then, without waiting to see the effects of the kick, she rushed out of the room, down the stairs, and into the garden. Bessie had not arrived, so she started off to meet her, and pour into her ever-friendly ear her tale of woe.
CHAPTER IX.
THE SPOILT FEATHER.
Lucy had not gone very far when she saw Bessie coming towards her, not walking along briskly and brightly as usual, but with a lagging step and drooping head, so unlike her usual self that even Lucy, full as she was of her own grievance, was struck by it.
"O Bessie, what is the matter? what have you been doing?"
"Nothing, except I am miserable," was the gloomy answer.
Awed and subdued, the child walked beside her in silence, until they came to a favourite resting-place of theirs—an old tree that had been blown down in some winter storm and still lay beside the hedge. The branches had been chopped off, and grass and wild flowers had grown up around it, making it both a comfortable and picturesque seat. On this Bessie seated herself with Lucy beside her.
"Do tell me what is the matter; why are you so unhappy?" Placing her little hand on her knee, she looked up affectionately into her companion's face.
"They are going to send me away from here, all among strangers in a horrid town, and I shall be wretched."
"Send you away, your Papa and Mama! Why, what have you done?" the child asked in surprise.
"Nothing." And as she spoke the word she began to laugh in an hysterical, nervous sort of way. Then seeing the child's bewildered look she said, "Yes, Lucy, that's really why, because Mama says I am not getting on with Miss Gifford, that I do nothing, so they are going to send me to school."
"How unkind of them!"
"No, Mama could not be unkind, nor Papa either; they say it's for my good."
"Like what they say when they give you nasty medicine." This was not said saucily, but very gravely, for Lucy was not in a merry mood; the news she had just heard was too serious for a joke.
"Only think," said Bessie, looking round her with loving, admiring eyes, "to live among streets and houses, and to leave all these beautiful fields and trees—oh, it is cruel! I can never be happy away from here." Sure of a sympathising listener in her little companion, she poured forth all her sorrows for the present and fears for the future.
The prospect of dear kind Bessie going away saddened little Lucy, and so filled her thoughts that it drove away the remembrance of her own disappointment, and she quite forgot to tell her of all that had happened, and that she had come out to meet her with the full intention of telling. When they parted at the garden gate, Bessie looked happier, though I fear not one whit more resigned to the prospect in store for her.
Lucy watched her away, and then turned and ran back to the house. Though she was very very sorry about it, still it did not prevent her from being eager to tell her sisters the news, sad though it was. It gave her a feeling of importance to know something the elder ones did not, so she felt quite disappointed at finding that none of the others had come in. She must tell her tale to some one, so running up to the nursery she found Hester, who listened to her news and was as interested and sympathising as her small charge desired.
Lucy was already dressed and waiting for tea, when Lena came in, saying, "O Lucy, there you are! Mama wants you; she is in the drawing-room; come along quickly."
Together they entered the drawing-room, where they found Colonel and Mrs. Graham and Milly. The latter looked very distressed, and both parents very grave.
"What is it, Mama?" they both exclaimed.
"Have you been in your mother's bedroom to-day, Lena?" asked Colonel Graham.
"No, Papa," was the immediate answer, and she looked frankly into her father's face as she spoke. Not a suspicion of what was coming dawned upon her, she had so completely made up her mind that both her mother and sister knew of her wrong-doing and had forgiven her. At first she had often wondered that her mother had said no word to her on the subject. Then as the days wore on, she was only too glad to forget all about it, and she had tried to be very good and obedient, to show her gratitude. It was the old story with Lena, trusting to her own efforts to repair the wrong, forgetting that there is nothing that we can do that will cleanse us from sin; there is only One who can do that, and He was now going to give her the opportunity to confess her fault, and to show true repentance.
As Colonel Graham asked Lena this question, Lucy coloured and cast down her eyes. She suddenly remembered what she had done, and how she had left her mother's room.
"Lucy, have you been in?" There was little doubt what would be the answer. Conscious guilt was stamped on every feature of the child's face.
"Yes, Papa," she said timidly. Then bursting into tears, she rushed to her mother's arms for refuge and comfort.
"Tell us all about it, my child; what did you go for?"
"To see if there was not a present for me," she sobbed.
"But Milly told you she had searched the box."
"Bessie said perhaps it had got among the paper, and you had not seen it."
"Well, when you found it was not there, what did you do to the hat?"
"Kicked it," she murmured very low.
"Nothing else?"
"No, I did not even look at it."
"You must have done something more, Lucy," said her father. "How else could it be in this state?" And he held out Milly's unfortunate hat.
Lucy lifted her head from her mother's shoulder and looked. "O Papa, what a pity! how did it get like that?"
The child spoke with such an accent of truth, that the parents looked at one another in surprise. That Lucy had not done it intentionally there could be no doubt.
"We thought you had done it, Lucy. We found it in this state under the washing-stand."
"I am so sorry. I never meant to spoil the hat; I only kicked it because I was so angry;" for Lucy immediately jumped to the conclusion that she had done the mischief, though unintentionally. Springing forward she flung her arms round Milly, saying, "Please, please forgive me, Milly; I did not mean to spoil your hat really."
"No, I know you did not, Lucy. I don't mind one bit now; I did at first, because it was such a pretty one. I don't mind now; and Lena and I will have the same like always—won't we, Mama?" said Milly sweetly as she kissed her little sister.
What were Lena's feelings during this time? Very conflicting ones. So Mama and Milly had not known of it all along, and now she must confess that she had not only done the mischief, but had concealed it all this time. Would they believe her when she told them the whole story? She had not really meant to deceive them, she repeated over and over again to herself. The others were too much taken up with Lucy to notice her, or else her varying looks must have betrayed the struggle that was going on within. As Milly ceased speaking, Lena started forward. "O Milly," she began, when her father's voice arrested her.
"I am glad, my child, you told me the truth at once, for if you had tried to deceive me and denied your fault, I should have been very angry. You see what sins jealousy and passion lead you into."
"I could not tell before Papa," thought Lena as she drew back; "if he would be angry with little Lucy, how much more so would he be with me who am older?" Then as Lucy sobbed out, "I really did not mean to spoil the feather," and her mother answered, "No, dear, that must have been an accident," the temptation that rose to Lena's mind was too strong to be resisted by her feeble strength, and on that strength alone had she been and still was relying. So she held her peace and let Lucy bear the blame.
"You need not stay, dears," said Mrs. Graham to the two elder girls. "Go to your tea; I want to have Lucy with me alone for a little while."
How the feather had been spoiled still remained a mystery. Lucy fully and firmly believed that she had been the cause, by throwing it under the washing-stand, though unless the floor had been wet it would not have been so utterly ruined. It was an unsatisfactory solution of the difficulty, but as no other could be found, they had to be satisfied with it. How thankful Lena was when tea was over, and Miss Marshall gave them leave to go out into the garden for half an hour.
"May I go up and see Lucy?" asked Milly.
Gaining permission, she ran after Lena to tell her where she was going, and to ask if she would come with her.
"There is no good both going, and I want to finish my book." But not much of the book was read that evening, when, out of sight of every one, Lena sat down and tried to arrange her thoughts. What had she done? Though no one was by to see her, her cheeks flushed with shame at her conduct. What cowardice and meanness had she not been guilty of! Oh, if she had only spoken out at the beginning, all this misery and wickedness would have been saved. "It was not too late yet," conscience whispered. Then the thought of what her father would say when he heard that she had deceived them. If it was only Mama, I should not mind, so ran her thoughts; but I dare not tell Papa, he would be so angry. Oh, if only Aunt Mary were here I could tell her everything, forgetting, or rather pushing away the remembrance, of One nearer and dearer than any earthly friend, who never turns a cold or deaf ear to any of His children, and who ever has the gentlest and most loving answer for His repentant little ones. How, over and over again, we dread the anger of some earthly friend, forgetting that some day we must face the just anger of an offended God if we continue in our hardness and sin. As Lena sat thus thinking, we may be very sure that excuses, and what she called good reasons for keeping silence, were not long in making their appearance. Lucy had been forgiven, and nothing more would be said on the subject. Why should she open out such a painful thing again? She had not told a falsehood; if Papa had asked her, she would have acknowledged doing it. He had only asked her if she had been in her mother's room that afternoon, and she had spoken the truth when she said "No." Then what would Aunt Mary feel if she heard that she, her pet and darling, had got into trouble and disgrace? No, this must never be, and so on and on went the struggle between right and wrong, ending, alas! in Lena's leaving it to be settled some other time. "I could not do it to-night, I will the first opportunity;" and somehow, when an opportunity offered itself, it was not a right one—Lena would wait for a better. So day followed day, and still the secret was locked up in Lena's bosom, and it seemed probable that it never would be told. Nothing was ever said about the feather, and to all appearance no one remembered anything about it. Still Lena was not happy. How could she be, with such a weight at her heart? Aunt Mary had striven to train her niece not for this life alone; and the good seed that had been sown in love and faith was not dead, and the better thoughts would make themselves heard. Lena was not callous or hardened; no, she was very miserable, poor child, as all of us must be who carry about with us an unconfessed and unforgiven sin. As day after day she kneeled, as she had ever done in prayer, and listened to, or read God's Word, her heart grew heavier, and sometimes the longing to tell all was so strong that she would start up to go, then her courage would fail, and she was afraid of what they would say; and the remembrance of her father's words, both to herself and Lucy, would come back, and she would shrink from the task, thinking, "I will be very good and obedient, and make up for not telling by good conduct." At times she would forget all about it, and be the bright, lively Lena we first knew; but some word or deed would be sure to recall her secret, and she would have the same struggle over again.
Her mother was sure that something was amiss, and would watch her troubled, anxious face with loving eyes, fearing that her child was either ill or unhappy. Could it be, she would wonder, that she was fretting at the loss of Aunt Mary? and at this thought she would be, if that were possible, when she was always kind and loving to her children, more so than usual to Lena. Strange to say, that when this was the case, it made Lena only stronger in her determination not to tell, for she would think, "She would not be so kind to me if she knew how naughty I had been." So day after day passed and her secret was still untold.
"Where is Lena?" asked Mrs. Graham, coming into the garden, where Milly and Lucy were busy working at their own especial little garden.
"On the lawn, Mama. She wanted to finish a book Gertrude lent her. Shall I call her?"
"No, dear, I will go to her," and she moved away.
Throwing down the rake with which she had been working, Milly followed. "Mama," she began, when she was out of ear-shot of Lucy; "I don't think Lena is very happy here."
"I am afraid, dear, that she is not well," answered her mother.
"She is so much quieter, and she is not half so fond of running about and romping as she used to be."
"I am beginning to think this place does not suit her. It's a change from the sea-air she has been accustomed to. I have a letter for her from Aunt Mary; that is what I want her for."
"Oh, that will please her. There she is. Lena!" she called out as they came in sight of her lying flat on the grass, intent on a book she was reading.
Lena looked up as they joined her, saying, "It is such a nice book! Milly, you ought to read it."
"I have brought you something else to read, dear," said her mother, holding out a letter which Lena sprang up to receive; for what child is not delighted at receiving a letter, especially if directed to itself!
As Lena was opening the envelope, Mrs. Graham said, "I heard from Mrs. Clifford to-day. That will interest you, Milly. I wrote and asked her to come and stay here."
At these words Lena turned round hastily, and listened anxiously to hear the answer from Mrs. Clifford. As her mother had paused and was looking for the letter in her pocket, Lena asked impatiently, "Is she coming?"
"Yes, dear, in a fortnight."
Lena's cheek flushed crimson, for the thought flashed through her mind, "She will inquire about the hat."
At sight of her crimsoned cheeks Mrs. Graham and Milly at once came to the same conclusion—"Lena has not forgotten her disappointment at not receiving a present;" but neither took any notice of her confusion in words.
"Shall I read you your letter, dear?" asked Mrs. Graham.
"Please, Mama," she answered, placing the letter in her hand. Then walking slowly up and down the lawn, Mrs. Graham read the letter aloud to the two girls, who were walking one on each side of her.
After telling her niece about the many new and interesting places she had been visiting, she went on to say what pleasure it had given her to hear from Mrs. Graham, how good and obedient Lena had been, ending with, "Nothing can give me so much happiness as hearing this, dear Lena, and I trust that I may continue to have equally good accounts until we meet again in the winter." Lena listened to these words in silence as her mother ended the letter.
Bessie Freeling rushed out of the house to join them, exclaiming as she did so, "O Mrs. Graham, I came with Mama; she is in the drawing-room; she wants to see you."
This was a happy interruption for Lena. She dreaded hearing some words of praise from her mother, for she knew how little she deserved them. Handing her the letter with a smile, Mrs. Graham answered Bessie, and hurried back to the house to see Mrs. Freeling, leaving the three girls together.
Bessie was in a state of excitement, and the moment Mrs. Graham disappeared into the house she burst out with, "What do you think she has come for? To ask if your mother will let one of you go to the seaside with Gertrude and Miss Gifford, instead of me. I want to stay here all summer. I don't want to lose a day when I have such a miserable winter before me."
"I thought your Papa and Mama were going away too," said Milly.
"Yes, to take the boys to see Uncle Henry; but I want to come and stay here while you go with Gerty."
Milly's face fell: she did not want to leave home. "But we can't—we have no holidays," she said, brightening up at this thought.
Here was an escape for Lena from meeting Mrs. Clifford. Was ever anything more fortunate? she thought, for she dreaded any remarks or inquiries from that lady.
"I should like to go to the sea," said Lena; "I hope Mama will let me."
"Want to go away, Lena?" said Milly reproachfully. "And when Mrs. Clifford is coming; I do so want her to know you, as well as me."
"I do hope Mrs. Graham will say 'yes.' Now, Milly, don't you go trying to persuade Lena not to—I shan't let you speak to her until it is all settled;" and she laughingly dragged her away, calling loudly to Lucy to come and help her, which the moment Lucy heard her voice, she hastened to do. And a merry struggle went on between them, in which Lena, rejoiced at the prospect of escaping Mrs. Clifford's promised visit, joined in, and it was in the midst of all the fun and noise that Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Freeling joined them.
"You will consent, won't you, Mrs. Graham?" said Bessie, leaving Milly and looking up coaxingly at her.
"Consent to have you here? Yes, with pleasure; and I think, as your mother has kindly asked one of my children to go with Gertrude, that it would do Lena good. She has not been very well lately, and the sea-air may strengthen her."
"But our lessons, Mama?" said Milly.
"She will do them all the better when she is strong and well; won't you, Lena dear?"
"I am not ill, Mama, but I should like to go to the sea."
"And I do so want to stay here," said Bessie. "O Lucy, won't we be happy? I shall have no lessons, and we will live out of doors." Seizing the child as she spoke, she danced her round.
"When are we to go?" asked Lena.
"In a few days," said Mrs. Freeling. "I have written about the rooms, and we shall hear to-morrow."
"And how long shall we be away?" asked Lena nervously.
"About three weeks or a month, I hope. Will that be too long?" asked Mrs. Freeling of her mother.
"I am afraid you will miss Mrs. Clifford's visit, dear; perhaps she will stay longer than she says when once she is here."
Lena made no answer; and Mrs. Freeling then spoke on some other subject, and the girls wandered off together to another part of the garden.
The few days before they were to start passed away quietly. Lena was very glad to escape Mrs. Clifford, for she quite made up her mind that the subject of the spoilt hat would be brought forward again during her stay, and perhaps, in some way, her part in the proceeding might be brought to light. This she dreaded happening more than anything. It would be worse, far worse, than telling it herself, for in this case who would believe that it was an accident and not done intentionally? Oh, if she had only told it at first! Now each day made it more difficult. How true it is that "The wicked flee when no man pursueth." Lena was running away from an imaginary enemy. If she had remained she would have heard no word mentioned on the subject, for Mrs. Graham had written the whole story to Mrs. Clifford, saying, as she believed was the case, that little Lucy had done it in a sudden fit of passion, but without any real intention of destroying it, simply kicking it out of the way as it was the nearest thing on which to spend her anger. And an answer had come from Mrs. Clifford, regretting all that had happened, except the amiable and forgiving behaviour of her little friend Milly.
CHAPTER X.
AT SIDCOMBE.
Miss Gifford and the two girls, Gertrude and Lena, had been now for some days in their comfortable lodgings at Sidcombe, and Lena was fast becoming very fond of her new companion. Although they had seen a great deal of Gertrude during their stay at Astbury, both she and Milly had looked upon her as being nearly grown up, and though liking her very much, for she was always kind and good to them, they looked upon her in quite a different light to that in which they looked on Bessie, not considering her, as they did the latter, as a companion and playfellow. There seemed to Lena more difference between her twelve and Gertrude's fifteen years, than there was between Milly and Bessie, though the actual difference in age was much the same. Gertrude was very different from her sister, Bessie being much gentler and quieter in disposition. But now, in the quiet and daily companionship of their life, the two girls were fast becoming firm friends.
The life at Sidcombe was very pleasant, and Lena was enjoying it much. There was nothing here to recall the secret trouble that had been haunting her at home, and no word was ever said to call forth the struggle between right and wrong, between deceit and truth, that had been of daily occurrence when with her mother-and sisters. She was only too glad to think that her secret was to remain one for ever, and that the whole thing was an affair of the past, never to trouble her any more.
Both Miss Gifford and Gertrude were very kind to Lena, and the days passed in a simple but happy manner. Their mornings were spent on the sands, and there was nothing Lena enjoyed more, when the morning bath in the sea was over, than to lie under shelter of some rock, and listen to Gertrude as she read aloud, for Miss Gifford said something in the way of lessons must be done, so had fixed upon this plan, of reading out for a certain number of hours each morning from an interesting and improving book, certainly the pleasantest of all ways of gaining knowledge.
The afternoons and evenings were devoted to long rambles, either along the sands, or through the pretty lanes and fields of the country round. At first both girls were eager to wander about and explore the neighbourhood, but very soon they grew either too lazy, or the weather became too hot, or for some reason Lena began to tire of long walks, and she would ask Miss Gifford and Gertrude to spend their evenings on the water, being rowed about in the cool evening air, chatting to one another, or listening to the many tales that their boatman, who was an old sailor, delighted to tell them of the many places he had visited.
One afternoon Miss Gifford said she had letters to write, so the two girls started off together for a walk.
"Where shall we go?" asked Lena.
"Suppose we go to the wood. We have only been once since we came."
"Right past that little white cottage where we saw that pretty little girl who sold us flowers?"
"Yes, and perhaps we shall see her again. Now don't be lazy, Lena; it will be a lovely walk."
"Can we buy some more flowers? David says that she and her mother are very poor."
"I will run and ask Miss Gifford," said Gertrude, turning back and re-entering the house she soon came out again, saying, "Yes, we may; and Miss Gifford says she will come and meet us when she has finished her letters."
They started off again, this time without returning, talking of the little girl, whose sweet looks and gentle manner had interested them all, and of whom their boatman David had often spoken to them, her father, who had been a sailor like himself, having been drowned a few years before, leaving his widow and children very poor, and in a certain degree to David's care.
Their way lay along a shady lane, bordered with ferns and wild flowers, tempting both girls to stop to pick and admire them more than once. Before they reached the end of the lane, Lena said, "O Gertrude, let us wait here for Miss Gifford; it's so hot, and I am so tired;" and she seated herself on the bank as she spoke.
"You lazy girl!" laughed Gertrude; then seeing that she looked really tired, added, "You take a rest, dear, while I pick some flowers and ferns, and then I will bring them to you and we will arrange them together."
Gertrude had joined Lena, with both hands full of floral treasures, and they were busy arranging them into a pretty nosegay, when the sound of footsteps caused them to look up. They so seldom met any one in these quiet lanes, that both the girls stopped their work to see who was coming. In a few moments their curiosity was gratified by seeing their old friend the boatman coming towards them from the direction of the White Cottage.
"Halloa, David!" called out Lena, "have you been for a walk?"
"Yes, Missie," answered the old man as he touched his hat.
"We are going to the wood, and to call and buy some flowers from that little girl, Mary Roberts," said Gertrude.
"I would not go that way to-day, Miss," he answered gravely.
"Oh yes, but we want to—we mean to," said Lena.
"What is the matter, David?" asked Gertrude, seeing he looked troubled.
"I've just came from the cottage, Miss, from seeing little Mary. She's down with the fever."
Both girls exclaimed in tones of pity, "Poor Mary!" and Gertrude added, "Is there nothing we can do for her, David? Is she very ill?"
"Yes, Miss, she's terrible bad, and her mother is in a sad way about her."
"Oh, do take her this," pressing into his hand the money Miss Gifford had given them to pay for the flowers. "And we will go back and ask Miss Gifford to help her. Come, Lena."
Both the girls were eager to hurry back to ask for assistance, but David would not let them go until they promised they would not go near the cottage, as he feared the fever might be infectious.
When they gave the desired promise, he thanked them, and said he would return with the money they had given him, for small though the coin was, it would be a help to the poor hard-working mother.
"Is she very ill, David?" asked Lena in an awed tone; "will she die?"
"She is in God's hands, Missie; the best and safest of all," he answered reverently, adding, "She's very young, and it's wonderful what a deal of illness young things can bear."
"How old is she?" asked Gertrude kindly.
"Twelve years, that's all."
"Just your age, Lena." Then with a friendly good-bye to the old man, the two girls hurried off to meet Miss Gifford, and tell her of the sad trouble that had overtaken Mrs. Roberts and her child.
They had gone but a very little way when they met Miss Gifford hurrying towards them. When she went to post her letters, she had heard a rumour of there being fever at Mrs. Roberts' cottage, and she had hurried after the two girls, hoping to overtake them before they reached the cottage, for she dreaded their running into any danger of infection. Her first question was as to whether they had been, and it was with deep thankfulness she heard how they had loitered on the way, and that they had met David, who had stopped their going on.
"We may send them something, may we not?" they both asked eagerly as they walked home.
Very soon a basket was despatched under David's care, filled with things that Miss Gifford thought would be good for the sick child. There was no boating that evening, both the girls declaring it would not be fair upon their "own man," as they called David, to employ any one else, when he had gone on an errand of kindness and mercy to his old friend's widow and child.
Miss Gifford was naturally very anxious about the health of her two pupils, and she remembered, with a feeling of uneasiness, how much Lena had complained the last few days of being tired; and as she looked white that evening after the great heat of the day, she hurried her off early to bed, much against Lena's inclination. But Miss Gifford was firm, and she had to obey.
The next day came news that little Mary was still very very ill, and there was but small hope of her recovery. And the two girls spoke and thought much of the poor little sufferer, who but a few days ago had brought them flowers, apparently as well and with as fair a prospect of living as either of themselves, now lying tossing restlessly about in the clutches of that cruel fever, in the small close cottage that was her home.
"She is not going to die, is she, Gertrude?" asked Lena. "She is so young—only twelve."
It was not Gertrude, but Miss Gifford, that answered this remark with, "Age has nothing to do with it, Lena dear. It is not only the aged that God calls away. We ought all, even children, try to live good lives, so that when our summons comes we may be ready and glad to go."
"But we can't; at least children can't always be good," said Lena.
"No, dear; but we can all try, and if we do fall, we can repent, and ask God's forgiveness, which He never withholds, and then we need not fear."
"But David says little Mary is such a good girl, so truthful and honest, and always been so kind to her mother and everybody; he says she is a real little Christian," said Gertrude.
"Yes, so I was very glad to hear," answered Miss Gifford.
"It would be a dreadful thing," said Gertrude, thoughtfully, "to die when you were doing a wrong thing."
"Little Mary is not going to die," said Lena almost passionately, bursting into a flood of tears as she spoke.
Miss Gifford looked surprised but said nothing except, "We hope not, dear Lena." Then drawing the weeping child to her side, she soothed her with gentle words, until she had recovered, and regained her composure once more.
Nothing more was said on the subject of little Mary that morning. Gertrude opened her book and read out until it was time to return to the house, while Lena leant with her head against Miss Gifford's shoulder, apparently listening intently, but in reality thinking and wondering over many things.
After dinner Miss Gifford announced that it was too hot for a walk; and as Lena complained of having a headache, she was to lie down until it was cool enough for them to go out, adding, as she left the room, "Poor child, I had no idea she would have felt for others so very strongly."
As Lena lay on the bed in the darkened room, sleep was very far from her. Although her eyes were shut, her thoughts were very busy. Gertrude's words came back to her over and over again, "To die doing wrong." Her head ached dreadfully, which was not to be wondered at after her passionate fit of crying; and as Lena was not often troubled with a headache, she began to grow nervous and frightened. Could it be that she was going to get the fever also, like Mary Roberts? If she had it at twelve years of age, why should not she? Yes, she was sure she was going to be ill too; and her mother would soon be in as sad a state about her, as David said Mrs. Roberts was about her little girl. Poor Lena! she began to cry softly out of sheer fright. Suddenly jumping up, she went to the table, and taking up a small hand-glass that lay there, she took it with her to the window, and lifting the blind, looked at herself. Such a miserable, flushed, tear-stained face she saw. Yes, it must be the fever that made her cheeks so red. Laying down the glass, she flung herself on the bed. Oh, if she had only told Papa and Mama that it was she who had destroyed Milly's hat, and not little Lucy, as she had allowed them all to believe, how much happier she would be now! How weak and wicked she had been and still was! Oh, if Mama was only here, she would go and tell her all; but it was too late now, Mama was far away, and couldn't hear or see her child's sorrow, and alas! it was her own doing, and by her own wish, they were not together. Then there crept into her heart the sweet loving words that had been so familiar to her all her life, but now seemed to come back to her with a stronger power and deeper meaning than they had ever had to her before. "I will arise and go to my Father," were the words that were ever before her as she lay sobbing bitterly. Yes, she too would do that. Springing up, she knelt down and prayed earnestly and truly for strength to do what was right—to tell the truth, and remove the blame from poor innocent little Lucy. Lena prayed as she had never prayed before in her young life, and being calmed and comforted, she was standing meditating how she was to carry out her good resolutions, when the door opened softly, and Gertrude looked in.
"I came to see if you were asleep; how is your headache, dear?" she asked.
Here was a way opened to her—an answer, as it seemed, to her prayer. She would tell Gertrude all, and be guided by her as to the best way of acting. Without answering her question, she sprang forward, and throwing her arms round her friend's neck, sobbed out, "O Gertrude, I must tell you—I spoilt the hat; I am so wicked and so miserable. Do you think Papa will ever forgive me?"
"Spoilt what, Lena? Whatever is the matter, dear?" asked Gertrude in amazement, and a little bit frightened at the excited state Lena was in. She had heard about the hat being destroyed, and thought, as they all did, that Lucy had done it; but as it was now some time since it had happened, she had forgotten all about it. So when Lena sobbed out again, "I spoilt the hat," she began to think it was some hat she had destroyed belonging to herself.
"What hat, dear, do you mean?"
"Milly's; I did it, not Lucy."
"O Lena!" she exclaimed in a shocked voice.
"Don't speak like that, Gerty, please. I can't bear you to be angry with me; I didn't mean to do it really."
"I am not angry, Lena dear; but I don't understand about it. Come and sit down and tell me what you mean." Going to the window, she drew up the blind and drew a chair up for Lena as well as herself; but Lena would sit nowhere but on the floor. Crouching down at Gertrude's feet, and hiding her face on her lap, she told her tale in broken words. Gertrude listened, without saying one word until she had ended; then stooping down and putting her arms round her she said, "Poor Lena, how unhappy you must have been all this time!"
"Not since I have been here; but before it was dreadful. Do you think they will ever forgive me?"
"Of course they will, Lena; how can you doubt it?"
"But Papa said he couldn't bear us to do a dishonourable, wicked thing; and Gerty, he spoke so sternly, that I was afraid to tell him. And then I thought Mama and Milly knew, and had forgiven me without telling him," repeated Lena again.
"Poor Lena!" was all Gertrude said again, as she stroked back the child's hair from her flushed face, for by this time Lena had found her way from the floor to Gertrude's lap. A long silence fell upon them. Lena lay very still, resting her head against her kind companion's shoulder, feeling, oh, so thankful! that the wretched secret was no longer locked up in her own heart. At last she said, "How can I tell them?"
"You must write to them, dear, to-night; don't put off, for it only makes it more difficult."
"I am sure I don't know what I shall say. I shall never be able to write it."
"Yes, you will, dear. I will help you. What made you tell me to-day, Lena?"
"O Gerty!" she exclaimed, sitting up and looking very grave, "I have got such a headache, and I am so hot and my cheeks so red, I am sure I am going to have the fever like little Mary Roberts."
"O Lena, what nonsense!"
"It is not, Gertrude. I never had such a bad headache before, and I am so hot, and I thought about what you said about dying when you were doing wrong, so I felt I must tell; and, Gerty"—here she lowered her voice—"I asked God to help me, and then you came in."
"Darling," was the only answer. Then a knock came to the door and the servant's voice was heard saying, "Tea is ready."
Gertrude helped Lena to get ready, and together they went downstairs.
Miss Gifford called out in surprise as they entered the room, "My poor little Lena, I am afraid your sleep has not done you any good. Are you feeling ill?"
"Yes, Miss Gifford, my head aches, and I am so hot I could not sleep."
"You shall sit in the arm-chair by the window; it is so pleasant now with the cool sea-breeze coming in, and Gerty shall give you a cup of tea."
Lena sat very quietly, accepting all Miss Gifford's kindness in silence; but when Gerty took her a cup of tea she whispered, "Must I tell Miss Gifford?"
"I will tell her, dear, and how sorry you are."
"Perhaps she won't be so kind to me then; she will think me so wicked."
"She was never unkind when Bessie and I were naughty: I am sure she won't be to you." Then raising her voice she said, "Lena wants to write a letter home to-night, please, Miss Gifford."
"No, dear, that must wait till to-morrow; little girls with headaches must keep quiet," was the answer.
With this Lena had to be content. In truth she was not sorry to have nothing more to do that evening but rest quietly, feeling thankful that she had taken that difficult first step in the right direction.