Chapter Third
Ethel’s work went on prosperously, and by the Christmas week she had finished all her pictures. Christmas came on Saturday, and on Thursday she went to carry them home.
It was rather late, and the store was full of people buying Christmas presents, so that even Mr. Beckford was hurried for once. He hastily counted over the pictures, said they were all right and very pretty, and handing her the money, he went to attend to the customers who were calling upon him.
Ethel had waited for some time in the store, and it was almost dark when she came out. She had a nervous dread of being out late in the street, and hurried home without looking at her money which she had put into her glove.
“Make haste down, Ethel,” said her mother, as she went up-stairs to put away her bonnet and shawl, “I want you to help me.”
Ethel obeyed, and dropped her money into the box without counting, or even looking at it. She was very busy all the evening helping her mother finish up the ironing and mending, that nothing might be left to do on the morrow.
When she went up to bed, however, she took her box from its hiding place, and prepared to count her treasure. She spread it out upon the table, and there among the quarters and dimes lay a bright yellow quarter-eagle!
How could it have come there? Ethel picked it up and looked at it, admiring the beauty of the coin. It almost doubled the amount of her finances, but there arose the question as to whether she had any right to it. She did not think she had earned so much, but then she could not exactly remember how many pictures she had painted.
Now the right course would have been for Ethel to go directly to Mr. Beckford, and ask him if he had intended to pay her the extra sum; but here arose a temptation.
“If this money were mine, I could buy that willow chair for mother, and a piece of pretty chintz to make a cushion for it, and yet have enough to get Tom the ten-pins he wants so much.”
If Ethel had done as she had been taught, she would have put the whole matter aside till she had said her prayers and asked to be guided in the right way. But the confidence in herself which had been increasing for some time put, had arrived at such a pitch, that she no longer felt so much the need of Divine direction. She considered herself, as she said, competent to manage her own affairs; and when a little girl or a large girl arrives at that point, that girl is in great danger of a sad fall. She began to debate the matter with herself, but consciously or unconsciously she looked only at one side of the argument.
“Mr. Beckford said I did the pictures better than any one else, and that the price he first named would not pay for the trouble; so perhaps he meant to give me more. I am sure my work is worth a great deal more than Bessy’s and Rosa’s.”
If Ethel had known Mr. Beckford better, she would have been aware, that though he often gave money away, he never on any occasion paid more than he felt himself bound to do. Neither was she entirely satisfied with her own reasoning, though she tried very hard to be so. If she had been, she would have gone to her father with the matter, and she would have said her prayers without that uneasy feeling at her heart which made them an unwelcome task; nor would the text she had lately learned in school have recurred so vividly to her memory:
“‘If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.’”
It was with the same uneasy feeling that she awoke in the morning and came down to breakfast without having again looked at her money.
At the breakfast table she was rather silent, and her father said smilingly—
“You seem rather absent, my daughter; are you calculating the amount of your capital?”
“How much have you got, Ethel?” asked little Tom.
“Perhaps Ethel would rather not tell how much she has,” remarked her mother, seeing that Ethel looked a little disturbed. “We must not question her too closely. I suppose you will like to go out this morning to make your purchases, my dear: don’t be too extravagant; you know you will want spending money after holidays are over.”
Ethel knew that very well, but she wanted still more to buy the willow chair for her mother. She put the gold piece into her purse with the rest of her money, saying to herself that a person so careful in money matters as every one said Mr. Beckford was, would never have made such a mistake, and that he must have done it on purpose. Still she did not feel easy about it, and it was not with a very light heart that she set out to make her purchases, intending first to do some errands for the family: for Ethel had learned to be quite a little market-woman, and could judge very sensibly between different qualities of sugar and tea!
She sighed as she concluded her list of small purchases at the family grocer’s, thinking of the large orders they had been accustomed to make at this time of the year.
Perhaps Mr. Mortimer thought of it too, for he said: “Is that all, Miss Ethel? We have some very nice preserved ginger, such as your mother likes: shall I send a jar of it?”
“No, thank you,” said Ethel blushing. “We cannot afford such things now,” she added quite bravely.
“The times are hard, really quite hard,” remarked polite Mr. Mortimer. “We do not sell nearly so much of such goods as we did last year. Won’t you take an orange, Miss Ethel? I know you are fond of oranges.”
Ethel had known good Mr. Mortimer ever since she could run alone, so she had no hesitation about choosing an orange from the basket that he handed her.
As soon as she left the shop, he called to the porter: “David, you carry these things directly up to Mrs. Fletcher, and carry a jar of that ginger. Say Mr. Mortimer sends it with his respects to Mrs. Fletcher. Come, look alive, will you?”
Meantime Ethel proceeded on her way, and having finished all her errands, she turned towards the shop, where she had seen the chairs, only stopping now and then to ask the price of some article at a door or window. It was a very large establishment where the chairs were kept, and there was a fine assortment of them. The little stained willow chairs which had at first pleased her so much, looked cheap and ordinary by the side of the carved rosewood, mahogany, and walnut; and chintz covers were hardly to be thought of while looking at brocatelle and velvet.
She looked from one to another, and finally found one which exactly resembled her mother’s. She inquired the price.
“That is a second-hand chair, Miss,” replied the shopman. “It was originally very expensive, but it has been used some, and I will let you have it for three dollars.”
Second-hand! Then perhaps it was the very same chair. She turned it up to look at the bottom, and there, sure enough, was her mother’s name—Amber Fletcher—written by her father’s own hand.
“How glad and surprised she would be to have it back again,” she thought. “She said she missed it more than any other piece of furniture in the house.”
Her hand was already in her pocket, when the shopman was called into the next room, and he excused himself, promising to return in a few minutes.
Left alone, Ethel walked round the chair, viewing it first in one light, and then in another, till she actually made up her mind to spend for it the gold piece, which, after all, was not hers to spend.
Priding herself upon her own and her father’s honesty, she was just about to do a mean and dishonest thing, when she was saved from it by an accident. An accident! Let us rather say a Providence, for though Ethel had come out without praying for herself, that she might not be led into temptation, yet a devout father and mother had prayed for her, and who can doubt that their prayers were answered?
The shopman had gone into the next room, as we remarked, to attend to other customers, and Ethel was roused from her meditations by hearing him say, “Yes, ma’am, it is second-hand, but just as good as new. It was made to Mr. Fletcher’s order, and he was universally allowed to have the best taste in furniture of any gentleman in town.”
“Did the Fletchers sell their furniture? I was not aware of that,” said the lady, apparently speaking to a companion. “I suppose it was an honest failure, then?”
“Oh, perfectly so, perfectly so,” said another voice, in which Ethel at once recognized Mr. Beckford’s measured tones. “Mr. Fletcher is an honorable man—most honorable—a credit to the Church and the State; and from what I have lately seen of his daughter, I should judge he was bringing up his children to tread in his steps. An excellent child, ma’am—an excellent child.”
Ethel’s face crimsoned till it was of a deeper hue than any of the chairs. Here was Mr. Beckford speaking of her in the warmest terms of praise, at the very time when she was about to cheat him. Yes, cheat was the word. Ethel now saw, through all her own sophistry, the true nature of the act she had been meditating. She looked at the little chair again, but it was with very different feelings.
“I learned my Catechism sitting on a stool by the side of that chair,” she thought; “and how many times mother has heard me say my prayers when she was sitting in it! Oh, how could I ever think of doing such a mean, wicked thing! It would be as bad as what father explained to us last Sunday—robbery for burnt sacrifice. And I have been thinking myself so much better than poor dear Abby, just because she ran in debt for some things, while I was going to get what I wanted by downright stealing.”
All these reflections passed through Ethel’s mind while Mr. Beckford and his friend were concluding their bargains in the outer room. As they turned to go out, Ethel had made up her mind what to do.
“Mr. Beckford,” said she, going to the door, “will you please to come here?”
Mr. Beckford did as she desired.
“You paid me too much money last night,” she continued, hastily producing her piece, as though afraid her courage might fail. “You gave me this quarter-eagle instead of a quarter of a dollar, and I did not see it till I got home.”
She placed the coin in his hand, feeling as much relieved as though she had dropped a burden of a hundred pounds.
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Beckford, putting the gold piece in his pocket and producing the proper change, “I missed it last evening, and intended to call in the course of the day and inquire about it, for I felt quite sure I must have paid it to you.”
Ethel felt as though a pit of destruction had yawned at her feet and closed again. “Oh, if he had come after it and I had spent it,” said she to herself, “what would have become of me?”
“I am much obliged to you for saving me the walk, however,” Mr. Beckford continued. “What do you see here that pleases you?”
“Oh, this chair, sir,” answered Ethel, blushing more and more, but feeling immensely relieved in the midst of her shame; “it used to be my mother’s, and I was wishing I could buy it back, but I shall not have money enough to do that and get the other things that I want.”
Mr. Beckford was slow of speech, but quick of sight and apprehension; he had wondered at Ethel’s confusion, and now at once the whole matter came to his mind.
“Well, well, my dear young lady,” he said soothingly, “times will change. A man of your father’s integrity cannot but do well. ‘I have been young and now am old, yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.’” He considered a little, and then asked—“How much money have you?”
“I have four dollars and a half, sir; but then I want to buy other presents, and some gloves for myself, so I must get something else for mother.”
“Would you be willing to do some work in holiday time—say on Christmas day, for instance,” asked Mr. Beckford, “supposing that I should pay you in advance?”
“I should not like to work on Christmas day, because I do not think it would be right, unless the work were very necessary indeed,” replied Ethel; “and I am sure mother would not like to have me do so; but I would not mind it on other days.”
Mr. Beckford smiled. “Your mother is very particular,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir, about such things. When we lived in the large house, she always managed so that the servants need have just as little work as possible upon Christmas day and Sundays.”
“It is a good principle,” said Mr. Beckford. “But to proceed to business. The little colored books have been so popular that I have decided to get out another edition for New Year’s. Now, if you are willing to work in play time, so as to get the pictures done by—say Wednesday noon, I will pay you in advance—a thing I seldom do—and trust to your honesty not to disappoint me: then you can buy your chair, and still have some money left.”
Ethel considered a little. She had intended to do a good many things during holidays—and she had specially reserved some interesting reading till that time. If she bought the chair, that must be given up; and then perhaps her parents might not like to have her make such an arrangement. Finally, like a wise child, she resolved to ask advice.
“Will you please wait till I can ask father, Mr. Beckford? I can run down to his office now, and then I will come up to your store and tell you.”
Mr. Beckford approved, and Ethel hastened to her father’s office, considering herself happy in finding him disengaged. She explained the matter to him in few words.
“If you make this bargain, my dear, you know you must fulfil it exactly,” said her father. “I am afraid you will find it rather dull working in holiday time, especially as the novelty is worn off, and you have spent the money beforehand.”
“Yes, father, I know that; but then I want mother to have the chair so much that I shall not mind it, and I will be sure to get them done in time. You know she was always so fond of that chair. May I, father?”
“I think I may venture to say yes,” said her father; “and I am glad to see you so unselfish, my dear. I think that will give your mother more pleasure than a great many chairs.”
Ethel felt deeply humbled by her father’s praises, and resolved that she would tell him the whole story of the gold piece upon the first opportunity. “You won’t tell mother?” she asked. “I want to surprise her with it.”
Mr. Fletcher promised, and Ethel hastened up to Mr. Beckford’s store, feeling very happy. Mr. Beckford had the drawings all ready for her.
“How much can you afford to give for your chair?” he asked.
“The first one that I looked at cost twelve shillings,” replied Ethel, “and I thought I could spare that much.”
“Then if I pay you twelve shillings more, you can procure the chair, and yet have something to spare. Can you earn so much?”
Ethel thought she could, as there would be no school.
And Mr. Beckford put the three half-dollars into her hand, saying, as he did so, “It is a pleasure to me to pay you this money, because I am perfectly sure you will be honest about it.”
“Mr. Beckford would not say so if he knew—” thought Ethel, and she almost wished to tell him the whole story; but shame or shyness kept her silent.
She bought the chair, and arranged that it should not be sent home till after seven o’clock, when she knew that her father and mother would be gone to evening service, while she would be at home with the boys. She finished her other shopping with a great deal of pleasure, making her money stretch far enough to buy something for her father and the boys, a pretty book for Abby, and a carved ivory case containing a yard measure for Aunt Sally, whom she had heard lamenting the mysterious disappearance of hers a few days before.
“Well, my daughter, you have made a long morning of it,” said her mother, as she entered the house. “Did you find what you wanted?”
“Oh yes, mother, just exactly what I wanted, and I had four shillings left. How nice it seems to spend money that one has earned, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, my dear, it is very pleasant. But I have been busy as well as you: see here—” And opening the parlor door, she showed Ethel the room beautifully decorated with evergreens, mixed with the red berries of the mountain ash.
“O mother, how pretty—how very pretty!” exclaimed Ethel. “It looks almost as pretty as the drawing room in the old house. But it will look prettier yet when—” she caught herself up, finishing her sentence in quite another way. “I think we shall have a pleasant Christmas after all, mother.”
“I think so too, my darling—and Ethel, if you do enjoy Christmas, I hope you will not forget to thank the Giver of that and all your other pleasures.”
“I have a great deal to be thankful for—more than you know of, mother,” replied Ethel in a low voice. “I will tell you after to-morrow. I would tell you now—only—”
“I can trust you, Ethel,” said her mother. “Now go and put your parcels away before the boys come in: I think your presents will make them very happy.”
When Ethel reached her room, she bolted her door, and remained alone for some time. When she came down again, her mother perceived that she had been crying, but her face was so full of peace and quiet contentment, that she would not run the risk of disturbing it by asking her any questions.
Ethel had carried her sins, her temptations, and her thankfulness to the foot of the Cross, and she felt that she had there received forgiveness for the past, and strength for the future. Her late experience had taught her that when left to herself, she was not only no better, but it seemed not half as good as the people she had been looking down upon for two or three days, and she had learned a lesson of humility and self-distrust destined to be the beginning of a new spiritual life in her soul.
The chair came at eight o’clock while her parents were in church, and just after the boys had gone to bed, and was safely housed for the night in a closet opening from the hall. Something else came too—namely, an invitation from Mrs. Sarah Bertie to the whole family to spend Christmas evening at her house, “to meet a very few friends.”
When Mrs. Fletcher returned, she decided that Aunt Sally’s invitation must be accepted as a matter of course, and Ethel went to bed very tired but very happy, and expecting a pleasant Christmas day.