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MARY, OR, "SHE MADE ME DO IT." Frontispiece.
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MARY,
OR,
"SHE MADE ME DO IT."
"SEE that woman coming down the road!" said Mary Willis to her companions. "Isn't she a funny-looking body?"
"She has just come off the cars, I suppose," said another girl. "Look at her bonnet. I should think it had been made before the flood."
"Poor thing, she looks very tired," said Helen Arnold: "and see how lame the little boy is. She seems to be a stranger in town."
"Go and make acquaintance with her, Helen," said Cora Hart, with a sneer. "She is so fashionably dressed and so elegant looking, she would be a nice companion for you."
"See, she is coming this way!" exclaimed Jane Marvin. "I do believe she means to speak to us. Let us have some fun with her, girls!"
"I will have nothing to do with such fun as yours!" said Helen Arnold. "I think it is downright mean and wicked to make sport of poor and old people. Mary Willis, you had better come home with me and be out of mischief."
"Oh, of course she will!" said Jane, scornfully. "I should like to know why Mary Willis is to do as you say. You are neither her teacher nor her mistress, if you are the teacher's niece, and the oldest girl in the class. You stay here, Mary, and show her that you won't be ordered about by her."
"Come, Mary," said Helen, again. "You had much better be going home with me."
Helen spoke rather sharply, and Mary was vexed.
"I shall go home when I please, Miss Helen Arnold! I will thank you to mind your own business and let me alone."
"Very well!" replied Helen, and she walked away, feeling both grieved and angry.
She was very fond of Mary Willis, though Mary was much younger than herself. She helped her in her lessons, dressed her dolls for her, and taught her how to make pretty things for them; for Helen was very quick and skilful in all sorts of work. She was anxious that Mary should be a good girl and a good scholar, and she did keep her out of a great deal of trouble which Mary's quick temper and readiness to be led away would have brought upon her.
For a long time Mary had loved Helen more than any one else in the world, except her own mother. But when Jane Marvin came to school, she began, as she said, to put Mary up to be jealous of Helen. She told Mary that Helen did not really care for her, and that she only wished to govern and patronize her, and so show off her own goodness. She laughed at Helen's plain cheap dress and what she called her old-fashioned strict ways, and she told Mary that Helen was a regular little Methodist, and wanted to make her so. Jenny had never been in a Methodist church in her life, and knew nothing about them, but she had heard her father call people Methodists who were religious and strict in their conduct.
It may seem strange that Mary should listen to such talk against her best friend; but Mary had a great idea of being independent and having her own way: and like many other people of the same sort, she was ready to be made a fool of by any one who would take the trouble to flatter her. This Helen never did; nay, I am afraid that in her desire to be honest, she sometimes went to the other extreme and found fault with Mary when there was no reason for doing so.
If Mary had thought a little, she would have seen one great difference between Helen and Jenny. Helen never asked her for anything, and if she happened to borrow a sheet of paper or a steel pen from Mary's store, she was always careful to return it. Mary's mother was rich and Mary had a great abundance of pretty and useful things. She would often have liked to divide with Helen, for she had a generous disposition: but except at Christmas and on her birthday, Helen would never accept presents.
Jenny was very different. She not only took all that was offered her, but she had no scruple in begging for anything in Mary's desk or play-room to which she took a fancy. Mary's paper and pens, Mary's thread and needles, Mary's lunch basket, she used as if they were her own, and she had already got possession of some of Mary's prettiest and most expensive toys. Still Mary could see no fault in her new friend, and she was very much vexed at her mother because she would hardly ever ask Jenny to tea, and would never let her go to Mr. Marvin's to stay all night.
Helen went away feeling very much hurt, and Mary stayed with Jenny and the other girls. The poor woman walked slowly toward them, and when she came opposite she crossed over the street to speak to them.
"Can any of you tell me where Mrs. Willis lives?" she asked, in a sweet, pleasant voice. Her clothes were old-fashioned and worn but she looked and spoke like a lady.
Mary was starting forward to answer her, when Cora Hart pulled her back and at the same moment Jane answered, glibly:
"Mrs. Willis? Yes, ma'am, she lives in that white house up there on the hill," pointing as she spoke to a farm-house which stood about half a mile away upon the side of a steep hill.
"Does she live as far from the village as that?" asked the stranger. "I thought her house was quite near the church."
"She did live near the church," said Jane; "but her house was burned down, and she moved away up there. It is a beautiful place, but rather far-away from the village, and the hill is pretty steep. If you go round the corner by that yellow building with the stairs outside you will be in the road."
The lady thanked her for her information and turned into the street which Jenny had pointed out as leading up to the white house.
"There she goes, trudging along with her bundles," said Jenny, bursting out laughing. "I hope she will find Mrs. Willis at home!"
"Mary was for telling her right away," said Cora. "She would have spoiled all the fun, if I had not stopped her. What do you suppose she wants with your mother, Mary?"
"I dare say she is some beggar woman," answered Mary. "We have heaps of them coming to our house all the time."
"I should think you did!" said Jane, scornfully. "I don't see how your mother can encourage them. I do despise beggars!"
"Two of a trade never agree, oh, Martha?" said Cora.
"What do you mean by that, Cora Hart?" asked Jane, angrily.
But Cora only laughed scornfully and did not answer.
"Well, for my part, I think it was a real mean trick!" said Julia Davis. "Sending the poor woman all the way up that steep hill to an empty house. I wish I had just told her the truth."
"Why didn't you, then?" asked Jane. "Nobody hindered you, Miss Tell-tale; only just let me catch you getting me into a scrape, that's all!"
Julia turned away and went into her own gate without saying a word. She felt very much ashamed of herself, for she knew she had been a coward—she had been afraid to do what she knew was right.
Mary also felt uneasy as she went home. She had been taught her duty towards her neighbor, and she knew right from wrong. All the time she was eating her nice supper, she thought of the poor woman with her little lame boy toiling up the steep road only to find an empty house.
"Helen Arnold would never have done such a thing!" she said to herself, and she wished over and over again that she had gone with Helen.
It was a pleasant, dry evening, and after tea, Mrs. Willis took her work and sat down in a garden chair on the green lawn. Mary stood by her with her doll, but she did not feel like playing or talking. Her conscience troubled her more and more, and she felt very unhappy.
"I have some good news for you, Mary," said Mrs. Willis. "You have often heard me talk of your godmother, your father's sister, who married a missionary and went away to China."
"O yes, mamma!" replied Mary. "I have always wished to see her so much. You know she sent me that beautiful box of shells and curiosities."
And then Mary sighed as she thought how Jenny had begged from her some of the prettiest things, and rarest curiosities in the box.
"Well, my love, I think you will see her very soon. I had a letter from her this afternoon, in which she says she expects to sail the next week for America and will come directly to us. She has a little boy who is lame, and she is bringing him home to see if he can be cured."
"How glad I am!" said Mary. "I have so often looked at her picture—the one you said she painted herself, when she was teaching you to draw, mamma—and wished she would come home."
Mrs. Willis smiled and sighed. "You must not expect to see Aunt Mary looking like her picture," said she. "It was painted long ago, when we were both young, and she has been through a great deal since then."
Mrs. Willis sighed, and looked down on the ground. She was thinking of all that had happened since she had seen her dear sister—how she had lost her husband and all her children but Mary. Mary stood leaning on her mother's chair without speaking, till the sound of the opening gate caused her to look up. There, coming in at the gate, was that very poor woman and her little boy, whom Jane Marvin and her companions had sent "on a fool's errand," as the saying is, to the empty farm-house on the hill.
Before she could make up her mind what to do, Mrs. Willis looked up also, and met the gaze of the stranger. With a scream of delight, she started up and flew to meet her, kissing her and calling her, her dear, precious sister, her darling sister Mary!
"Come here, Mary, and see your aunt," said her mother, turning round.
Mary came forward. She trembled so that she could hardly stand, and she was very pale, but her mother did not notice her confusion.
"Now run into the house and tell Jane to get tea ready as quickly as she can," said. Mrs. Willis. "And this is my nephew and god-son Willie. But how lame he is, poor little fellow!"
"He is not always so lame," said Mrs. Lee. "But we have had a long and hard walk and he is almost tired to death. I am afraid he will not be able to stir to-morrow."
"I did not expect you till next week, at the earliest," said Mrs. Willis. "But how do you come to arrive at this time of day? The train has been in for two hours."
"I will tell you all about it, presently," replied Mrs. Lee. "Just now I am anxious to find a resting-place for Willie, who, I fear, is suffering very much from his knee."
"It does ache!" said poor Willie. "It always hurts me to go up-hill."
"Well, you shall soon rest it, my dear boy," said Mrs. Willis. "Where are your trunks, Mary?"
"They will be here to-morrow, I suppose," replied her sister. "They were left behind by some mistake, but I have telegraphed and heard that they are safe and on the way. I must keep out of sight till they come, for between dust and the long journey I look more like a beggar than a lady."
The travellers were soon washed and brushed and sat down to a bountiful meal.
"And now tell me how you came here at this time in the evening?" said Mrs. Willis.
"The matter is easily enough explained," replied Mrs. Lee. "We sailed a week sooner than we expected and had an uncommonly short voyage. We came directly on from Boston, and arrived on the train at four o'clock."
"But where have you been since?" asked Mrs. Willis.
"I am sorry to say we have been made the victims of a most malicious trick," replied Mrs. Lee. "There were no carriages at the station, and I thought I could find your house easily enough. Meeting a party of school-girls, I asked them the way, that I might be sure, and was told by one of them that your house had been burned and that you had moved into a house which she pointed out on the hill-side. If I had known how far it was I should have gone to the hotel, where, of course, I should have been set right."
"But as it was, Willie and I toiled all the way up the steep rough road to find ourselves at an empty, deserted and half-ruined house. Poor Willie broke down entirely, and I felt very much like doing the same, for we had travelled all night and were tired out. I hardly know what we should have done but for a good-natured teamster, who stopped to water his horses at the trough by the gate. I made some inquiries of him, and he not only set me right, but insisted on bringing me back to the village. Poor Willie is quite discouraged at his first experience in a Christian land, and wants to go back to China."
"I do not wonder!" said Mrs. Willis.
"I did not believe there was a girl in the village who would do such a wicked thing. Who do you suppose it could have been, Mary?"
Mary, in her corner of the sofa, murmured something, she hardly knew what. She was wishing that she were in China, or anywhere else out of the sight of her mother and aunt. Oh, if she had only gone with Helen! If she had only been brave enough to defy Jane, and set her aunt right! But there was no use in wishing.
"She was a short and rather dark girl, with a great deal of curling black hair, and bold black eyes," said Mrs. Lee. "There were several others with her, but I did not notice them so as to be able to know them again."
"It must have been Jane Marvin, I am sure," said Mrs. Willis.
She turned to Mary as she spoke, and observed her confusion. Could it be that her daughter had been engaged in the trick? At that moment her attention was diverted by poor Willie, who had been trying in vain to eat, and who now, overcome by fatigue and pain, fainted away in his chair. Mrs. Willis saw him carried up-stairs and made as comfortable as he could be, and then returned to the parlor, where Mary was curled up in the corner of the sofa, crying as if her heart would break.
"Now, Mary, I want to know all that you can tell me about this matter!" said Mrs. Willis, seating herself by Mary. "Tell me the whole truth."
Sobbing so that she could hardly speak, Mary told her mother the story.
"It is one of the most shameful things I ever heard of!" said Mrs. Willis. "How could you join in such a piece of wickedness?"
"I did not say anything, mamma," sobbed Mary.
"No, but by your silence, you consented to what Jane said, when you might have prevented all this trouble by speaking."
"I was going to tell Aunt Mary at first, but the girls pulled me back and would not let me," said Mary, hanging her head.
"Would not let you!" repeated Mrs. Willis. "How did they hinder you?"
Mary had no answer ready, and her mother continued:
"Where was Helen Arnold? I should have expected something better of her."
"She was not there, mamma," replied Mary, eagerly. "She went away before Jane began. She wanted me to go with her, but I was vexed and would not. Oh, if I had only minded her!"
"If you had only minded your own conscience and your own sense of what was right, you would not have needed Helen to keep you out or mischief," said Mrs. Willis. "If you had had one thought of doing as you would be done by, you would not have allowed a wicked, silly girl to send your aunt and your poor lame cousin Willie on such an errand."
"I did not know she was my aunt," said Mary.
"That makes no difference, Mary. You knew she was a woman with a child, and the fact that you thought you were playing a trick upon a poor person makes your fault worse instead of better. Nor do I think you mend the matter by saying that you did not speak a word. You ought to have spoken, especially when the woman inquired for your own mother."
"I know it was wicked and mean, mamma," said Mary. "I have been sorry ever since. I wish Jane Marvin had never come here!" she added, bursting into tears again. "She is always making me do bad things and leading me into mischief!"
"That is sheer nonsense, Mary. Jane could not make you do anything you did not choose, nor lead you where you did not choose to go. If you had been so very easily led, you would have been governed by Helen, whom you have known three times as long as you have known Jane, and whom you have every reason to love and trust."
"You have done very wrong, Mary—very wrong, indeed," continued Mrs. Willis, after a moment's silence. "I cannot excuse what you have done by throwing the blame on Jane. Every one of the party who allowed the cruel imposition to go on was guilty of helping on the cheat. I shall see that Miss Lyman is informed in the morning of the way in which her pupils amuse themselves, and you must expect to take your share of the blame. Now go to bed, and when you say your prayers, ask God to forgive your mean and cruel conduct."
"Won't you forgive me, and kiss me, mamma?" sobbed Mary.
"When I see that you are sensible of your fault, Mary. At present you seem inclined to throw the blame entirely upon somebody else, and to think you are to be excused because 'somebody made you' do what you knew was wicked and cruel."
Mary went away to bed crying bitterly. She had never been so miserable in all her life. It was not the first time she had been "made" by Jane to do wrong. She had done things in Jane's company which she was both afraid and ashamed to have her mother know; but she had always excused herself by thinking they were all Jane's faults.
Now, as she thought about the matter, she saw how useless and vain were all such excuses. If she was so easily led, why had she not been governed by Helen, whom she had known more years than she had known Jane months, who was always ready to give up her own convenience for her sake, and whom she had never known to do a mean action? Why was she not as easily led to do right as to do wrong?
Mary learned more about herself that wretched night than she had ever known before. She had always known that she was a sinner—now she felt it, which is quite a different thing. She thought of all the wrong things she had done lately—the whispering, and reading story-books in prayer-time, the playing truant from school and lying to conceal it—the mysterious private talks about things of which she ought never to have thought; much less spoken—the secrets kept from her mother, to whom she used to tell everything. Mary no longer tried to excuse herself. She felt her own wickedness, and with real repentance asked her Heavenly rather to forgive her for Christ's sake. Then feeling a little comforted, she went to sleep.
She was awakened in the night by her mother sending for Doctor Arnold. Poor Willie was very ill—so ill that for several days no one thought he would live. Oh, how miserable Mary was! She could find no comfort except in running up and down-stairs and waiting upon her aunt and Willie. Dr. Arnold had been informed of the cause of Willie's illness, and the next morning he came into school and told Miss Lyman the whole story, before the minister and all the scholars. All the girls concerned in the trick were obliged to beg Aunt Mary's pardon, and were not allowed any recess for the rest of the term.
Mr. Marvin took Jane out of school, and every one was glad when she was gone, for nobody loved her, not even those who had been the most ready to be governed by her. I am glad to say, however, that Jane herself was sorry when she found out how much harm she had done, and that she had almost caused the death of poor Willie. She went of her own accord and begged his pardon, when he was well enough to see her, and she gladly spent hours in reading to him and amusing him.
But she could not undo the mischief she had done. The lame knee, which might perhaps have been made well, was so strained and inflamed by the long rough walk that it could not be cured, and Willie never walked again without crutches.
Jane learned a great deal from the gentle little Christian boy and his kind mother, and I hope she will grow up a good, useful woman. I think, after all, there was more excuse for her than for Mary. Jane had never known the care and teaching of a good mother. Her mother died when she was a little baby, and she had been brought up by servants and by her father, who was a foolish and bad man. She had always heard him laugh at the Bible as an old book of fables, and at religious people as fools or knaves, and she naturally took her notion from him.
Mary, on the contrary, had every pains taken with her. She had been taught her duty towards God and her neighbor, she had the kindest of mothers, of teachers, and friends, who all tried to influence her for good.
Girls, when you are ready to excuse yourselves for doing wrong by saying somebody "made you," think whether your words are true, and whether if "somebody" had tried to "make you" do right, you would have been as easily led. Remember that God sees your heart, and He will accept no false excuses; and while He is always ready to give you His Holy Spirit to guide you, you have no right to let any human being "make you" do wrong.
"My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not."
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LOUISA, OR, "JUST ONE MINUTE." Frontispiece.
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LOUISA,
OR,
"JUST ONE MINUTE!"
"COME, Louisa, are you ready? The car will be here directly."
"In just one minute," replied Louisa, throwing down the book she had taken up for "just one minute," while she was getting ready for school, and hastening to put on her hat and gloves.
But in that minute the street-car passed. There was not another car for twelve minutes. Then the drawbridge was raised for the passage of a ship, which made a delay of ten minutes more.
The consequence of all these delays was, that though they walked themselves out of breath, Louisa and her little sister Anna were ten minutes too late for school, and poor Anna got a bad mark for no fault of her own except her good-nature in waiting for her sister.
Louisa was in many respects a good girl. She was amiable, truthful, and very obliging, yet she made more trouble and caused more disappointments than any other person in the family. She was much brighter than her sister Anna, and yet she "missed" in school three times to Anna's one. Louisa was truthful, and yet she was not to be trusted: she was obliging, yet she often disobliged those whom she tried to help, and if she was not fretful herself, she was very often the cause of fretfulness in others. All these seeming contradictions are easily explained. The answer to the riddle lay in Louisa's favorite phrase, "just one minute."
For instance. An important message was to go to papa's office and there was nobody to carry it but Louisa. Aunt Maria had written to say that she was coming to make a visit and bring her baby; but the measles were prevailing in D—, and as the baby was a delicate little thing it would not do to have her exposed to the disease. Papa had gone to his office in the city before Aunt Maria's letter came.
"I must write a note to papa and ask him to send a telegraphic dispatch to auntie," said Mrs. Winter; "and you, Louisa, must carry it, for Anna is not well enough to go out. Now, can I depend upon you to go straight to papa's office?"
"Yes, mamma, of course I will!"
Louisa meant what she said, and for once she was ready for the car when it came along. But, unluckily, to reach her father's office, she had to pass a toy shop, the window of which almost always presented some new attraction, and had many a time delayed Louisa. She did not mean to stop this time, but only to look at the window in passing. But behold, there was a grand new baby-house with the most wonderful rosewood furniture, and such a kitchen as was never seen in a dolls' house before; and there was her school-mate Jennie Atridge, looking through the glass.
"Oh, Louisa, just look here!" she exclaimed, as she saw Louisa. "Just see what a splendid doll's house! Mamma has promised me one for my birthday. I wonder if she will buy this?"
"I have got a doll's house, but it is not furnished," said Louisa, stopping "just a minute," to look in at the window. "We are going to buy the furniture next week, if Anna gets well enough to come into town. She has been sick two days with a bad cold. I wonder if we could get such a stove as that?"
"I would rather have a range," said Jennie. "See, there is a nice one over in that corner."
The "just a minute" lengthened out into ten, while the girls discussed the furniture, and when Louisa reached the office she found her father had gone out.
"He has gone over to the South End," said the office-boy, "and will not be back till noon. It is a pity you did not come before, for he has not been gone more than five minutes."
When Mr. Winter came back, he found his wife's note and sent a message directly. But it was too late. Aunt Maria had started, and arrived next day to find Anna broken out with the measles, and another of the children coming down with the same disease. The baby took it, of course, and was so ill that its life was despaired of for many days.
Louisa was very sorry, and would gladly have done anything for her aunt or for baby, but she could not undo the mischief she had done by "just one minute's" delay.
One would have expected such a severe lesson to do Louisa some good, but it did not. The truth was that Louisa had not learned to see that she was in fault. She was "unlucky," she thought: "it always happened so." She was sure that she was always ready to do anything that was wanted of her, and she could not understand why her mother should go for baby's medicine herself, instead of sending her, and why Aunt Maria would not let her put into the post-office box the letter which carried the news that baby was at last out of danger.
"Miss Louisa, will you watch these cakes for me while I run out and pick the beans for dinner?" said Mary the cook, one day.
The girls were going to have a party to celebrate Anna's birthday, and Mary had been making and frosting some of the most wonderful cakes in the world. The great table was covered with cocoanut cake, and chocolate cake, and almond cake, and Mary had just put into the oven a pan of macaroons.
"The oven is rather hot, and you must watch it, or the cakes will burn," said Mary. "Just as soon as they begin to brown, open the oven door and leave it."
Louisa promised, as usual. She had already looked at the cakes once or twice, and was just going to look again, when she heard the express man's wagon stop at the gate.
"I do wonder what he has brought this time?" said Louisa to herself. "I mean to run to the front door and see. It will not take more than a minute."
Away she ran, leaving the outside door open, and the oven door shut. The express man had brought a number of parcels, some of them containing presents for Anna from friends in the city, and of course, Louisa had to stop "just a minute" to see them opened. Meantime a beggar woman with a large basket came through the side gate and into the kitchen. No one was there. Louis had deserted her post, and Mary, supposing that she was watching the cakes, was looking over the bean vines and gathering all the beans which were fit to pickle. It was the work of a moment for the woman to slip the cakes into her big basket and slip away herself. When Louisa and Mary came back, both at the same moment, the table was bare and the kitchen full of smoke.
"There now, Miss Louisa, that comes of trusting you!" said Mary, very much vexed. "I thought you promised to stay and see to my cakes?"
"I only went out just a minute," said Louisa.
"And what has become of all the other cakes?" exclaimed Mary, turning to the table.
Louisa could only say that she did not know. The cakes were safe when she went away.
"Who was that woman I saw going out just now?" asked Mrs. Winter, who had come into the kitchen.
Louisa did not know. She had not seen any woman.
"It was one of those gypsies who are camped over beyond Savin Hill, I'll be bound!" said Mary. "There is no use in running after her. I don't see but poor Miss Anna must go without her birthday cake unless we can send into town and buy some."
"You were very much to blame, Louisa," said Mrs. Winter.
"Why, mamma, I did not know that the woman was coming in."
"That makes no difference. You knew that you had promised to watch the cakes while Mary was away, and you ought to have kept your word. You have been guilty of a breach of trust!"
"But, mamma, I only meant to be gone a minute—" Louisa was beginning, when her mother checked her sharply.
"Hush, Louisa! Don't let me hear that odious excuse again. Suppose it was only for a minute. Have you any more right to do wrong for a minute than for a day? You are always saying—'only a minute,' 'just a minute,' but your minutes are very apt to lengthen into hours. It was your stopping 'just a minute' when you were sent on an important errand which almost cost the poor little baby its life, last summer. It is your stopping 'just a minute' to read or play or do something else to please yourself, which makes you late at breakfast, at school, and at church; which makes it impossible to trust you to do the least thing or to believe your most serious premises."
"Oh, mamma! I don't tell lies!" said Louisa, crying. "I am sure I never do that."
"I call breaking a promise telling a lie, Louisa. Did you not tell Mary you would stay in the kitchen till she came back?"
"Well, I meant to stay, mamma, only—" Louisa stopped.
She did not like to say again that she only went out a minute.
"Only you thought of something else you wanted to do, and so broke your promise. The consequence is that all poor Anna's birthday cake is stolen or burnt up. I shall have to leave my work, which is very inconvenient for me, to go into town and buy more; and I shall have to use for it the money I had set apart for another purpose. You can go to your own room and stay there till four o'clock. If it were not for grieving Anna still more, you should not come down again to-day; and you must not ask me for any more pocket-money till after Thanksgiving."
Louisa went to her room crying bitterly, and feeling as though she had been very hardly used.
"Why, Louisa, why are you sitting crying up here to-day, of all days in the year?" asked Aunt Wentworth, Louisa's godmother, who had come out to Anna's party, and had gone up to Louisa's room to arrange her dress and cap. "What has happened to cause so much grief?"
"Mamma sent me up here!" sobbed Louisa. "She won't let me come down till four o'clock, and she says I cannot have one bit of pocket-money till after Thanksgiving—all of three months—only just because I went to the door a minute to see what the expressman had brought for Anna."
"Are you sure that was all?" asked Aunt Wentworth, who, like all the family, had had experience of Louisa's fault. "Was there no more than that about it?"
"Well, I couldn't help it!" replied Louisa, blushing a little. "How could I know that the beggar woman would come into the kitchen and steal the cake, or that the other cakes would burn?"
"Oh!" said Aunt Wentworth. "I begin to understand. You were left in the kitchen to take care of the cake, which was stolen. Is that it?"
"Mary did not say anything about the cakes on the table," persisted Louisa, "she only told me to watch the cakes in the oven."
"Well, and what then?"
"I just went through to the front door a minute to see what the expressman had brought for Anna, and while I was gone the cakes in the oven burned up, and a woman came in and stole all the rest of them. I am sure I could not help that!"
"But, Louisa, don't you see that if you had done your duty in watching the cakes in the oven, the cakes on the table would not have been stolen?"
Louisa did not know. She only knew it was very hard to be punished just for running to the front door a minute.
"Louisa, you are very much in fault," said Aunt Wentworth, gravely. "You know that you have done wrong, and yet, instead of being sorry, you are trying to justify yourself and throw all the blame on somebody else. Now, tell me, did you not promise to watch the cakes in the oven? Answer yes or no. Don't begin 'I only.' Did you not promise?"
"Yes, I did, then," said Louisa, sullenly.
"And is it not wrong to break a promise."
"I didn't mean to break it."
"But you did break it," interrupted Aunt Wentworth; "so how can you say you did not mean to? You did not certainly go away out of the kitchen without meaning it. That is impossible. You promised to watch, and you did not watch—that is, you broke a promise. Was not that wrong? Is not breaking a promise without reason the same thing as telling a lie?"
Louisa writhed and fidgetted. "I only meant to be gone a minute. It was not as if I had gone away to stay."
"That makes no difference, Louisa. You have no more right to sin for a minute than you have to sin for an hour, or a day. Besides your minutes never are minutes. I know how it was with your music when you used to come to our house to practise. You would take up a story-book for just a minute, and half your practise hour would be gone before you had touched the piano. The fact is that you cannot wilfully do wrong for 'just a minute.' You might just as well set the house on fire and expect it to burn 'just a minute.' What would you think of a sentinel in war time who should admit the enemy into the camp to stay 'just a minute.' When you commit a wilful sin, you make yourself the servant of sin."
"I don't see any great sin in just going to the door a minute!" said Louisa.
"The sin was not in going to the door, but in breaking your promise, as you know perfectly well," said Aunt Wentworth. "I do not at all wonder that your mother is angry with you, Louisa. You not only do not try to get the better of your fault, but you justify yourself in it: and I tell you, in all seriousness, that it is a fault which will ruin your character if you do not try to break yourself of it."
"It has come to that now that nobody can trust you to do the least thing. If you are sent on an errand, there is no certainty of your being in time. If you are set about any piece of work, however necessary, you are more likely than not to neglect it and to disappoint those who depend on you. You are losing your standing in school, instead of gaining, and you are a perpetual worry and discomfort to all around you: and all because of this miserable habit of indulging yourself 'just a minute' in doing what you know to be wrong. As I said, I do not wonder that your mother is displeased, or that she punishes you. The matter is growing very serious, and I tell you, my child, unless you repent and amend in time, your life will be a miserable failure, not only in this world but in that which is to come."
Aunt Wentworth was a very old lady, and one to whom all the family looked up with great respect. She very seldom reproved the children of her nieces, for she was one who understood to perfection the difficult art of minding her own business, and she was very indulgent and kind to young people.
Louisa had been cherishing a secret hope that Aunt Wentworth would intercede with her mother, and, as she said, "beg her off." But Aunt Wentworth had no intention of doing anything of the kind. She knew how serious Louisa's fault was, and that her mother would never have treated her so severely for one single instance of forgetfulness.
For some time after the birthday party, Louisa was more careful. She found it very unpleasant to be without spending money week after week, especially as Aunt Wentworth did not fill up her purse, as sometimes happened, when she went to visit the old lady.
There was another thing which annoyed her even more, and that was the fact that nobody asked her to do anything or accepted her services when offered. She felt that she was not trusted, and this was a worse punishment even than the loss of her pocket-money. She really tried hard to overcome her faults, and she succeeded so well that by-and-by she found herself once more trusted to do errands and other services by her mother and sisters.
But just here it was that Louisa made a great mistake. She thought because she had gained a few victories over her enemy that she was safe, and might relax her guard. She left off watching and praying against her faults, and presently she began to indulge in those "just a minute" readings of story-books and magazines when she ought to have been dressing, or reading her Bible, or learning her lessons—those "just a minute" loiterings, which made her late for school, and those "just a minute" longer morning naps which left her no time to ask God's blessing upon the duties and events of the day.
This was the state of the case when Louisa went to make a little visit to her mother's cousin, Mrs. James Perceval. It was always a treat to go and visit Cousin Frances, not only because she was a very lovely woman, but because she lived in a beautiful old place in the country, only a mile from a famous bathing beach. The house was, in fact, Aunt Wentworth's country-house, but the old lady only went out there for a few weeks in summer, and Cousin Frances kept the house open and in order the rest of the year.
Cousin Frances had been very unfortunate with her children. Three or four of them had died before reaching their third year, and one had been killed by a terrible accident. She had now only two remaining—a delicate, sweet little girl of four years old, and a baby not quite two. Louisa was fond of all children and especially of Milly, and as she was always ready to play with and amuse the little one in her own fashion—to play with the dolls, give tea-parties, and "make believe," to any extent, it is no wonder that both Milly and Milly's mamma loved her dearly.
It happened one day that Captain Perceval came with a carriage to ask his wife to ride with him.
"I should like to go very much," said Cousin Frances, "but nurse has gone into town for the day, and the other servants are busy, so I have no one with whom to leave the children."
"You can take Frank with you," said her husband; "and I am sure Louisa will take care of Milly."
"Of course I will!" said Louisa. "Do go, Cousin Frances; the ride will do you so much good."
Cousin Frances still looked rather doubtful.
"I don't wonder that you are anxious about your children, my dear," said her husband; "but surely Louisa can take care of Milly for an hour. Louisa is almost a woman now, and if she cannot be trusted for so long a time as that, what will she ever be good for?"
At last Cousin Frances consented to go, but the gave Louisa many charges about Milly.
"Be sure you keep her in sight all the time, and do not let her run about the grounds. It rained hard last night and the grass is very wet."
Louisa promised, and Cousin Frances went away. For the first half hour Milly played contentedly upon the veranda with her dolls and books and her pet rabbits, while Louisa worked at the sofa cushion she was making for Aunt Wentworth's birthday. Presently Louisa found she had mislaid some of her wool.
"What have I done with those shades of gray? Oh, I know! I left them in the summer-house last night. I hope they have not got wet. Now, Milly, you stay here and play, and I will be back in a minute."
"Why can't I go?" asked Milly.
"Because it is too wet for you. Just stay here and I will be back before you can count twenty."
Milly sat down very obediently and counted twenty two or three times, and still Louisa did not come back. Then the rabbit escaped from her and ran into the grass. Picture-book in hand, Milly pursued him, and after quite a chase, in which her shoes and stockings were wet through, she succeeded in capturing him. Then finding herself in a shady place among the trees, she sat down on the ground, and began to turn over the leaves of her picture-book, the rabbit sitting contentedly in her lap.
Meantime Louisa reached the pretty little Swiss cottage called the summer-house, where she found her worsted uninjured. Unluckily she also found something else—namely, a new book of travels with beautiful wood-cuts, which had been left there the night before.
"There now!" said Louisa, in a tone of triumph. "If I had done that, what a fuss there would have been! I mean to leave it here just to see what a hunt there will be for it. I just want to look at that picture of the leaf-butterfly a minute."
In looking for the leaf-butterfly, Louisa found many other wonderful things, and she lingered, looking at picture after picture, till the ringing of the noon-bell roused her. She hastened back to the house, but Milly was nowhere to be seen. She was not in the house nor yet in the garden. Louisa had not found her when Cousin Frances drove up.
"Where is Milly?" was of course the first question, and Louisa was obliged to confess that she did not know.
She had left her safely seated on the steps while she went for some worsted, and when she came back the child was gone.
"You were away more than a minute, Miss Louisa," said the housemaid, "for I came out here twice and did not see you. I supposed you had taken Milly up-stairs."
"I went to the summer-house for my wool," said Louisa. "I did not mean to be gone more than a minute."
"But you were gone all of half an hour," said the housemaid.
"Surely it did not take all that time to find your worsted!" said Cousin Frances.
"I took up a book just a minute," said Louisa, reluctantly.
"O yes, there it is!" said Cousin Frances. "But I cannot stop to talk now. I must go and find Milly. I might have known better than to trust your word, Louisa, but I was led to think you had improved."
After a long search, Milly was found where we left her. She had been sitting on the damp grass for about an hour, with her shoes and stockings wringing wet. She told her story very artlessly of how Cousin Louisa did not come back, and she got tired of waiting, "and then the rabbit ran away, and I ran after him, and when I caught him, I was tired and sat down to rest. I did not mean to be naughty, mamma," said the little girl, with a grieved face. "Mamma did not tell Milly not to run after the rabbit."
"No, my darling," said Cousin Frances. "If I had told you, you would have minded me. Louisa, did you not promise me not to leave the child?"
For once Louisa had nothing to say for herself, and did not try, even in her own mind, to excuse her conduct.
Milly was undressed directly, but before she could be put into bed, she complained of being very cold, and was presently attacked with a severe chill and pains in her head and chest. Before night, it became plain that Milly had inflammation of the lungs, and the next day her life was despaired of.
Never was any one more wretched than Louisa. She went home the same day, for though Captain Perceval was a Christian man and tried to forgive as he would be forgiven, he could not bear the sight of one who had, as it seemed, been the cause of his child's death. Of course Louisa's father and mother had to hear the story—indeed Louisa herself told her mother all about the matter, with many bitter tears.
"I shall always feel as if I had killed little Milly!" said she. "Cousin James said my faithlessness had caused her death, and I believe it is true."
"I am afraid so!" said Mrs. Grey, sadly. "I have always feared that your besetting sin would lead to some terrible consequences. I hoped you had seen it in its true light and were trying to conquer it."
"I thought I had conquered it, mamma," said Louisa. "I thought I had got all over it!"
"And so you left off watching and praying against it, did you not?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Oh, Louisa, that was a great mistake! You ought never to leave off watching and praying against your faults, for you can never be sure you have quite conquered, especially when a bad habit has been indulged as long as yours has been."
"But what shall I do now, mamma?" sobbed Louisa. "There is no use in my trying any more, now that I have killed poor Milly. I am afraid God will never forgive me."
"You must not think so, my poor child. I hope dear Milly may be spared to our prayers, but even if she is not, you must not despair of God's forgiveness. 'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow.'"
"But, mamma, I have been wicked so long! And I have done wrong on purpose. I have always known it was wrong to waste my time so, and to indulge myself in everything I wanted to do, excusing myself by saying that it was only for a minute. I knew all the time it was wrong to leave Milly alone so long, and yet I did it because I wanted to look at the book."
"That is what I have always told you, Louisa—that you were indulging in wilful sin. Now that you are sensible of your fault, I shall have more hopes of you than ever before. Do not distrust God's mercy, whatever you do, for that in itself is a great sin, but humbly ask His forgiveness for Jesus Christ's sake. Ask that your sins may be washed away in His blood, and that you may have the help of the Holy Spirit to keep you from sinning again!"
"Do you think He really will hear me, mamma?"
"My dear, I have no more doubt of it than I have that I am alive," said her mother.
"But even if He does, that will not bring poor Milly to life again!" said Louisa, despairingly.
"Milly is not dead yet, my dear, and it may be that God will spare her in answer to our prayers. But even if He does not see fit to do so, it is no less your duty to ask His forgiveness and to trust in His mercy for the future. You must not throw away the rest of your life, because you have failed so far."
"Good news, good news, mamma! Good news, Louisa!" cried Anna, coming in a few days after, with a beaming face. "Cousin James has just been at the office to say that Milly is out of danger. The doctor says she will get well. And oh, Louis, Milly begs to see you all the time, and Cousin James wants you to comp out to L— this afternoon. He will meet you at the station."
Louisa looked at her mother, and then rising, she went into her own room and shut the door. She did not come out for an hour, and when she did, her eyes were red with crying, but her face was calm and happy.
"Oh, mamma!" she whispered, as she was going away, "I have always heard that God was good, but I never really felt it before!"
"We will say nothing about the past, Louisa," said Cousin James that night, as Louisa, with trembling words, began to speak of the cause of Milly's illness. "Let by-gones be by-gones; but let what has happened be a lesson to you all your life. God has kindly spared us our little darling, and saved you especially from a great sorrow. Show by your actions that you are sensible of His goodness."
"Indeed, Cousin James, I hope I shall do so," said Louisa, with tears. "I said this morning that if Milly only lived, I would try never even for a moment to do what I knew to be wrong."
"That is an excellent resolution, Louisa. But you must remember that you can never keep it in your own strength. You must constantly pray for the help of the Holy Spirit, and you must constantly and faithfully watch against the first beginning of temptation. You will no doubt find the bad habit all the harder to break off because you have indulged it so long; but you have every encouragement to persevere, and if you do so, I have no doubt you will, in time, become a useful Christian woman."