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.