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.