Maggie looked flushed and uncomfortable, and held a small parcel in her hand; but, after she had said good-morning to Mrs. Howard a fit of shyness came over her, and she could not tell her errand.
So Bessie spoke for her.
"Mrs. Howard," said the little girl, who was herself rather confused, but who felt bound to help Maggie out of her trouble, "Maggie has come to bring you back the mat. She thinks it is rather better for her not to do it."
"Did you find you had undertaken too much, Maggie, my dear?" asked the old lady encouragingly.
"N-n-no, ma'am," whispered Maggie, plucking up a few crumbs of courage as she heard the kind tone, "no, it was not that; but we thought I'd better bring it back to you."
"But you must have some reason," said Mrs. Howard. "Can you not tell me what it is? Has Gracie been saying any thing unkind to you?"
"Gracie has not said any thing to me about it, ma'am," said Maggie rather evasively.
"Please don't ask us, Mrs. Howard," said Bessie gravely. "Maggie and I overturned our minds about it, and thought we'd better bring back the mat; but we do not want to tell tales."
"Then I shall not ask," said Mrs. Howard; but from the very fact that Bessie had innocently begged that they might not be pressed to "tell tales," she felt that her suspicions were tolerably correct. Gracie's desire to be first, and the fear that others should excel, or even equal her, were becoming so great that they often blinded her to what was just and kind.
"There are plenty of pretty things that we can make, Mrs. Howard," said Maggie, "and I would rather not do any thing that any one might think was not my share."
"Very well, dear, as you please," answered the old lady; "but since you do not choose to make this I shall not give it to any one else."
When Maggie and Bessie had gone, the old lady put on her bonnet and went around to her son's house, where she found her little grand-daughter at home.
"Gracie," she said, after a little talk, "Maggie Bradford came to see me just now, bringing back the mat which she was to have worked for the fair. Do you know any reason why she should have done so?"
"Why, no, grandmamma!" answered Gracie, turning her eyes upon her grandmother in unfeigned and unmistakable surprise, which left no doubt of the perfect truth of her answer.
"Think," said the old lady, believing that she might have forgotten. "You know you were not pleased that I should give Maggie the two things to make for me; have you said any thing that could hurt her feelings, and show her that you were displeased?"
"I never said one word to Maggie about the mat, grandmamma," said Gracie, "and I can't see how"—she paused, as if struck by some sudden thought, and coloring, added uneasily—"I did talk to Hattie about it, and I was rather provoked, because I did not see why Maggie should have a better chance than the rest to make so much for the fair. And—and—perhaps Hattie went and told Maggie; but it was real mean of her if she did; and besides there was nothing for Maggie to be so mad at, and make such a fuss about."
"Maggie was not 'mad,' as you call it, Gracie; so far from it that she would say nothing to throw blame upon you or any one else," said her grandmother; "but it was plain that she had been vexed and hurt."
"Gracie," said her mother who sat by, "it would be a sad thing if you should show yourself so wanting in feeling and gratitude as to say unkind things of Maggie, or to injure her in any way, especially in such a matter as this."
"Well, mamma, and I'm sure I wouldn't," said Gracie, with a little pout. "I am very fond of Maggie, and I wouldn't do a thing to her; but I did feel rather provoked about the mat, only I did not mean her to know it. I'm just going to ask Hattie if she told her what I said."
Gracie was really uncomfortable. She remembered that she had in a moment of pettishness, made one or two remarks to Hattie which she would not have cared to make in Maggie's hearing; but she would not willingly have offended the latter. She knew very well to what her mother referred when she spoke of Maggie. How a year ago when a prize had been offered for composition by Miss Ashton's uncle, she and Maggie had been believed to stand far ahead of the rest; how her own composition, all ready for presentation, had been lost, and that through her own inordinate vanity; how Maggie and Bessie had found it, and like the honorable little girls they were, had brought it at once to her, although they believed that by so doing Maggie was deprived of all chance of the much wished-for prize. It was true that neither she nor Maggie had gained it, for it had fallen to Nellie Ransom; but that did not lessen, or should not have lessened, Gracie's gratitude to her little friend; and as her mother said, it ill became her to nurse any feeling of jealousy towards Maggie.
"Gracie," said her mother, "can you remember exactly what you said about Maggie?"
"No, mamma," answered the child, looking thoughtful and a little troubled; "but it was not much, I think."
"I am afraid," said Mrs. Howard, "that a very little sometimes becomes much in Hattie's keeping. I do not know that she really wishes to make mischief, but her love of talking and her want of strict truthfulness lead her to exaggerate, and also, I fear, to repeat many a thing with a very different meaning from that which the speaker intended. The more I see of her, the plainer does this become to me; and I fear, Gracie, that she is not a safe friend for you."
"Mamma," said Gracie, in a tone of some offence, "you'd never think that Hattie could make me learn to tell stories, do you? Why, I never told a falsehood in my life, and I'm sure I'd never think of doing such a thing."
"I am sure I hope not, my child," said her mother, "but I fear temptation for you, Gracie; and I think Hattie encourages you in your great fault, your self-conceit and desire for admiration. And, although I do not think that you ever mean to be untruthful, my daughter, your idea of your own merits often leads you into exaggeration of these, and makes you unwilling to see them in others."
Gracie pouted, and put on the expression she always wore if she were found fault with.
"Mamma," she said, "I think that is a very horrid character to give any one; and I am sure you need not think I ever could tell a falsehood or do any thing mean to any one."
"I do not say you would, Gracie. I only want you to beware of temptation."
"I shan't fall into temptation, no fear of that," said Gracie almost scornfully; not scorn of her mother, but of the idea that she was not quite able to take care of herself, and that she could be led into wrong-doing.
"And I shall be obliged to say," continued Mrs. Howard, "that I do not think it best for you to be so much with Hattie. She is doing you no good. I cannot keep you apart altogether, but you must not ask me to let you have her here so often, nor can I allow you to go to her house as much as you have done. When I see you have a more gentle and humble spirit, Gracie, and learning to stand by another strength than your own, I may not so much fear evil companionship for you; but this very belief that you cannot fall makes you all the more ready to do so."
Gracie flounced out of the room in high displeasure, muttering to herself as she went upstairs that her mother always thought "every one better than me," and "it was very unjust," and "just as if I could fall into the temptation of telling a story."
Mrs. Howard sighed, and looked troubled, as she well might; and so did grandmamma, as they talked together on this subject, and considered what was best to be done with Gracie. Her overwhelming desire for admiration; her wish to be first in every thing; her self-conceit and impatience of reproof were day by day growing stronger and stronger, and overrunning all that was fair and lovely in her character. It was, as the mother had said, difficult to break off all intercourse between her and Hattie, although it was certain that the latter was exercising no good influence on Gracie; for the two families were intimate, and it was impossible, without giving offence, to keep the two children entirely apart. Moreover, they were schoolmates, and had grown really fond of one another, although Gracie was losing confidence in Hattie, as she could not but perceive that she had by no means a strict regard for truth.
But little did Gracie dream that Hattie's influence or example could ever lead her astray in this way.
VI.
JEALOUSY.
DAYS went by, and all was progressing famously for the fair; at least so thought the little workers. New offers of help came in; new articles were promised, and some even sent, early as it was, and these were committed to Miss Ashton's keeping until the appointed day—the first of June—should arrive. Mrs. Bradford promised all the ice-cream that should be needed for the refreshment table; Mrs. Howard the strawberries; another mamma offered jelly; two or three cake; Mr. Powers promised a quantity of French bonbons; and from all sides came offers of flowers. Mr. Stanton, the little Bradfords' "Uncle Ruthven," said he would furnish flags and banners enough to deck the piazza; and mammas, grandmammas, aunts, and cousins were coaxed and wheedled out of so many bright ribbons for the same purpose, that it might have been supposed that they were expected to go in grave colors for the remainder of their days.
And if you had seen the doll that Miss Annie Stanton and her sister-in-law were dressing as a baby!
If you had but seen that doll!
With a face so sweet, and so like a "real live baby" that it almost startled one to come upon it unawares in some place where the real live baby could not have been found! such hands and feet! and oh, such a fitting out! Day by day the progress of that doll's wardrobe was watched with eager, delighted eyes by Maggie, Bessie, Belle, and Lily, who had more opportunities for this than the rest of the children. These last were, however, invited in every now and then, to see the wonder as it grew; and that doll became the great object of interest, in comparison with which the remainder of the fair arrangements were as nothing. Every thing that was dainty and pretty and cunning was furnished for the baby doll; not only clothes without number, but also a tasteful cradle lined and trimmed with blue silk, white muslin, and lace; and a baby basket, furnished completely with all that the most exacting infant could require. In short, this was plainly to be the grand attraction of the fair, at least in the eyes of the younger portion of its patrons, for the fame of the doll spread far and wide, and great was the curiosity of those who had never had the opportunity of witnessing its beauties.
And the question arose and was eagerly discussed, who was to be the munificent purchaser? who, oh! who, the fortunate possessor? Papas and mammas were besieged with petitions and coaxings, but wisely declined making positive promises till the price of the wonderful prize should be fixed, and the doll herself put up for sale. Money-jugs were broken, and "savings banks" emptied, that the contents might be counted over and over to ascertain if there was any possibility that they might reach the sum which would probably be required; allowances were saved up in the same hope.
The only trouble about it was, that as Maggie Bradford said, "only one could have the doll, and so all the rest were doomed to disappointment, which made it a case in which it would be well if one man's meat were every other man's poison."
Jessie and her grandfather were cared for in the meanwhile. Miss Ashton had interested several of her friends in them; the children had done the same with their parents; and Mr. Bradford, Mr. Norris, and one or two other gentlemen had been to see old Malcolm, and finding that there was little or no probability of his cure while he remained in the cold, damp shanty, where he had been living for the last few months, had furnished him with more comfortable lodging.
Jessie's wares were also finding a good market, and every week she came down into the city with a number. Some of these she sold to such purchasers as came in her way, and whatever were left over she carried to Miss Ashton, and put in her hands for the fair.
She was also making some particularly choice articles which she kept back for exhibition and sale on that occasion; and among them were half a dozen boxes of straw and bright-colored ribbons, with an initial letter woven in beads upon the top of each. There had been but four of them at first, bearing respectively an M, a B, a G, and a D, standing for Maggie, Bessie, Gracie, and Dora; for Jessie looked upon these as her first friends, because they had first become interested in her story. But Bessie having mentioned that Belle and Lily were "just like ourselves, and my sister and I would be pleased to buy boxes for them at the fair," Jessie completed two more with an L for Lily, and a B for Belle. There was a delightful amount of mystery respecting these boxes, for each one of the six knew what had been done for the other five; Jessie telling her in confidence, and leaving her with the suspicion that the same pleasure was in store for her. Not on any account would any one of them have spoken of this suspicion; oh dear, no! but was quite prepared to be very much surprised if a box bearing her initial should turn up at the fair.
Maggie and Bessie owned a pretty little pony, the gift of their Uncle Ruthven; at least Fred said it was "Uncle Ruthven's present," but Mr. Stanton said it was Fred's. For, having offered Fred the choice of a present for himself as a reward for the pains he had taken to break himself of some troublesome faults, the generous brother asked for a pony for his little sisters. He and his brother Harry each owned one, and he wished Maggie and Bessie to enjoy the same pleasure. So Uncle Ruthven had bought the pony and equipped him, but he declared it was Fred's gift to the little girls, and I think he was about right.
However that was, the pony had given no small amount of pleasure, and this was still farther increased when Belle's papa gave her one.
It was a pretty sight to see two of the little girls on these ponies, escorted by Harry and Fred, and the whole party under the care of one of the papas, or Uncle Ruthven, or sometimes of old James, the coachman. Belle and Bessie rode as yet with a leading string to the pony's rein, but Maggie had grown to be a fearless little rider, and had no idea of being led. Lily would have been welcome to a ride now and then if she had chosen, but "the one thing in the world" which Lily feared was a horse, and she declined the most pressing offers of this nature.
Now that the days were becoming so mild and pleasant, these rides took place quite frequently, and they were hardly looked forward to more eagerly by the children than they were by old Malcolm and Jessie, who delighted to see the little girls on horseback, and were always on the watch to meet them and receive a kind word.
"I know who I think will have the best piece of work," said Lily, one day after school, when the little girls were discussing the arrangements for the fair as they prepared to go home.
"Who?" asked Gracie quickly. "Maggie, I s'pose. You always think Maggie and Bessie do every thing better than anybody else."
"Well, and so they do," answered Lily, unwilling to allow that her favorite playmates could be outdone in any thing by another,—"so they do; but it's not Maggie this time."
"Who then?" asked Dora.
"Nellie Ransom," said Lily. "Have you seen her mat?"
No: none of the others had seen Nellie's mat; but now curiosity was all on tiptoe, and a general desire to see her work took possession of the class.
"Bring all your works to-morrow, and let's see which is the best," said Lily.
"Gracie's is, I know," said Hattie.
"If you have not seen the others you don't know," said Lily.
Hattie whispered something to Gracie and laughed; but Gracie still wore the displeased look she had put on when Lily declared Nellie's work must be the best.
For, during the whole of the last year, Gracie had been nourishing an intense and bitter jealousy of Nellie Ransom. As has been said before, Nellie was by no means as quick and brilliant a child as Gracie, but she was more persevering and industrious, and so made up for the lack of natural talent. She was the only child in the school who could keep up with Gracie in several studies, such as composition and arithmetic; and in all they learned these two generally stood in advance of the rest.
And to outstrip Nellie, to be always the first, the very first was Gracie's great ambition. She believed herself to be by far the wiser and cleverer of the two, but she was anxious that every one else should acknowledge it also.
A year ago, when Miss Ashton's uncle had offered a prize for the best composition,—the occasion to which Mrs. Howard had referred when warning her little daughter against jealousy of Maggie Bradford,—the chances had seemed to lie between Maggie and herself; but to the astonishment of every one, Nellie's composition had proved the most deserving, and taken the much-coveted prize.
Since that time Gracie's wish to excel Nellie in all things had known no bounds, and it is really to be feared that she was rejoiced at heart when her painstaking and industrious little schoolmate missed in her lessons, or failed in any work she undertook.
So now the fear that Nellie's mat should prove to be more neatly worked than her own took complete possession of her, for it was not only the desire to be first, but the desire to outstrip Nellie especially, that filled her heart and made her envious and jealous.
It was agreed that Nellie, Gracie, and Dora should each bring her mat to school the next morning, so as to compare their work and see which was likely to bring the highest price.
Accordingly this was done, and the children all gathered early, anxious to decide on the respective merits of the three pieces of embroidery.
All were well done, neatly and evenly worked; but there could be no doubt of it, even to Gracie's unwilling eyes,—Nellie Ransom's was somewhat the best. It was really astonishing for a child of her age. She was naturally handy with her needle, and had taken so much pains with this mat that it would have done credit to a much older person. The simple pattern was straight and even, and the stitches of the filling in lay in neat, regular rows, the worsted smooth and unfrayed, and not a speck or spot of any description to be seen upon the whole piece.
Gracie's was very nearly a match for it; indeed, had the two pieces been looked at separately it might have seemed that there was nothing to choose between them; but laid side by side and closely compared, Nellie's would certainly bear off the palm.
"Why, Nellie," said Dora, whose own work was by no means despicable, "how beautifully you have done it. I don't believe a grown-up lady could have worked it better. I know Mrs. Howard will say it's the best."
Quiet Nellie colored and dimpled with pleasure. Praise was pleasant to her, as it is to all; but, although she would have been glad to have her work pronounced the best, it was with no overwhelming desire to outdo her companions. Nellie did her very best, but when another did better, she could be content with the feeling that it was not her own fault that she was excelled, and was ready to sympathize with her more fortunate classmate.
"That will be priced ten dollars for certain and positive," said Lily, holding up the mat and regarding it with admiration. "It is lovely, Nellie. They are all very nice, 'specially Gracie's, but yours is the best."
"It's not a bit better than Gracie's," said Hattie.
"Don't you encourage Gracie more than she deserves," said Lily admonishingly. "She's pretty nice, but don't you puff her up too much."
"I know something about you," said Hattie teasingly.
"Well, know away," answered Lily scornfully. "You're always knowing something about somebody; and you want me to ask you what you know about me; but I don't want to know, and I'm not going to have you say some of the girls said hateful things of me. Besides—oh! I forgot; I b'lieve I was rather anti-politing;" and Lily, who was about to say that Hattie always made things seem worse than they were, put a check upon her saucy little tongue and turned once more to Nellie.
One might have thought that Lily had worked the mat herself to see her pride and satisfaction in it.
"Dora has done more on hers than Nellie and Gracie," said Belle. "Their two are pretty nearly the same. Let's see; Gracie has only two more rows done than Nellie; no, Nellie has two more done than Gracie—oh!—why—this is Gracie's, isn't it? I can hardly tell them apart, they are both so very nice."
For, handing the mats about from one to another, the same mistake occurred more than once, Gracie's being taken for Nellie's or Nellie's for Gracie's, and they had to be held side by side before they could be distinguished. The children laughed and thought this rather funny; and it gave Gracie some hope that hers might be judged to be the best, after all. She would take more pains than ever.
The thought of the mats and of outdoing Nellie was so busy with her that she did not give her usual attention to her lessons that morning; and, as the consequence, lost her place in the spelling-class, and was in a peevish humor for the rest of the day.
Fresh cause of displeasure befell her at the close of school, when Miss Ashton said she thought it as well that the May Queen should be chosen soon.
"Oh! we want Maggie, of course," said Lily.
"Maggie again?" said Miss Ashton, smiling.
"Yes'm," said Belle. "Maggie is used to it, and she makes the prettiest queen, so we'd rather have her; wouldn't we, girls?"
There was a general murmur of assent, save from two voices.
"Why don't we make some one else May Queen this year?" asked Hattie. "We might have Gracie."
"Hattie," said Lily, endeavoring to make her voice of reproof one of extreme mildness, "as you have not been so very long in the school, it would be better if you let the old inhabitants be the judges."
"Well, anyhow, I don't see why Maggie always has to be May Queen, and when she don't go to the school either," said Gracie pouting, and leaning back against her desk with a discontented air, till, catching Miss Ashton's eye fixed sadly and reproachfully upon her, she hung her head and looked ashamed.
"Be-cause," said Lily with emphasis, "she's the prettiest child of our acquaintance. Not all the prettiness of all the rest of us make up one-half Maggie's prettiness, and she's not one bit vain or stuck-up about it either; and if she and Bessie don't just belong to the school, they belong to us, and so it's just the same. Whoever wants Maggie, hold up their hand."
Up went every hand at once, save those of Gracie and Hattie, and presently Gracie's followed the example of the others, though half unwillingly.
"Now," said Lily triumphantly, "that's voted, and for ever after let him hold his peace."
The last allusion was perhaps not exactly clear either to Lily or her hearers; but it was thought extremely fine, and as having clinched the matter without farther argument. Miss Ashton laughed, and asked if Lily and Belle would undertake to let Maggie know that she was elected May Queen, which they readily promised to do.
But the next morning these two little friends returned to school, and told their astonished and disappointed classmates that Maggie positively refused to be May Queen. Why they could not say, but all their persuasions had proved of no avail. Maggie was not to be "coaxed," and would give no reason for her refusal, though she had "seemed to feel awfully about it," Lily said, and had "cried about it" before they left. Bessie had been as much mystified as they were, and even Maggie's mamma, when appealed to, said that she knew of no reason why Maggie should decline the offered honor. Maggie, however, had said she would "tell mamma and Bessie," but she could tell no one else.
Miss Ashton, when informed of Maggie's refusal, said that she would call on her and see what could be done, and until then the matter might rest.
"Hattie," said Gracie, drawing her "intimate friend" into a corner during recess, "did you tell Maggie Bradford what I said about her being Queen twice?"
"Well—no," said Hattie, hesitating at first, but then uttering her denial boldly as she saw the frown gathering upon Gracie's brow.
Gracie looked at her as if she only half believed her, for she was learning to doubt Hattie's word, and although she was greedy of her flattery, she could not help feeling that her chosen friend was not sincere.
"You know you've told a good many things I did not mean you to," said Gracie, "and I wouldn't like not to be friends with Maggie, or to let her think I'm hateful."
And Hattie declared over and over again that she had never said one word to Maggie on the subject.
"I do feel badly about it," said Gracie remorsefully. "I wish I had never said I thought Maggie ought not to be May Queen. Maggie's been my friend this ever so long, since I was quite little; and I believe I had rather the girls chose her. I've a good mind to write her a note, and tell her I wish she would be Queen."
All the other children had left the school-room to go down and play on the piazza, and Gracie and Hattie were alone together.
"I wouldn't," said Hattie; "you are the one who ought to be May Queen, 'cause you are the smartest child in the school."
Gracie believed this, and thought Hattie gave her no more than her due; still, although she liked to hear Hattie say it, the compliment did not turn her from her purpose.
VII.
A MISFORTUNE.
AS the two children talked, Gracie had been putting a few stitches in her mat.
"I b'lieve I'll do it," she said. "I'll tell Maggie we all want her to be May Queen."
"Then she'll know you've said something about it," said Hattie anxiously, feeling that this proceeding was likely to bring her into trouble.
"No, she needn't," said Gracie; "perhaps she does think I don't want her to be, 'cause at Christmas she knew I was mad about it."
"Are you going to beg her pardon?" asked Hattie.
"No," said Gracie, with one of her scornful tosses of her head. "I think I see myself doing such a thing! But I can write her a little note, and tell her we are all sorry because she won't be May Queen, and beg her to change her mind. I might do as much as that for Maggie," she added to herself.
Hattie tried to dissuade her no longer, and Gracie laid the mat down upon her desk, opened the lid, and took out a slip of paper and a pen. She dipped the pen in the ink, wrote, "My dear Maggie," at the top of the sheet, and then paused, biting the top of her pen.
"I can't think what to say, or how to begin it," she said. "My dear Maggie, I am very sorry—no. I had better say we—we are very sorry that you—that you—oh, pshaw! I've a great mind not to do it"—here she dipped her pen in the ink again, and so carelessly that it came forth quite too full. "Oh, bother!" she exclaimed with increasing ill-humor; "look at this hateful pen;" and, forgetting the precious piece of work which lay so near at hand, she gave a careless fillip to the pen which spattered forth the ink.
Gracie gave another impatient exclamation, and pushed away the paper, saying,—
"I shan't do it; if Maggie likes to be so foolish about nothing, she just can;" but she did not see the extent of the mischief she had done till Hattie said in a tone of great dismay,—
"O Gracie! just see what you've done!"
And there upon her beautiful mat was a great spot of ink.
Gracie gave a horrified little cry, and, snatching up the mat, thoughtlessly sopped up the spot with her handkerchief, thereby spreading and smearing it till it grew to the size of a two-cent piece, and left an ugly blotch on the bright blue worsted.
"What shall I do? oh! what shall I do? It's spoiled; it's quite spoiled!" she said despairingly.
"I don't believe it is; maybe it can be taken out," said Hattie, though she was almost as much startled as her little companion. "I'll bring some water, and we'll try to take it out."
"No, no," said Gracie; "I wish I had not touched it at all. We'll only make it worse; and I'll ask mamma to try as soon as I go home. Oh, dear, dear, dear! what shall I do? Grandmamma will surely say Nellie's is the best now. That hateful girl!"
"It's a great shame if she does," said Hattie. "Nellie is always trying to get ahead of you; and she don't deserve it, and I don't think your grandmamma is fair to you. She ought to think her own grandchild's work is the best."
"I suppose Nellie will just be glad when she sees what has happened to me," said Gracie, whose jealous eyes could now see nothing that was good or fair in Nellie's conduct.
Innocent, kind-hearted Nellie, who would not willingly harbor an unkind or unjust thought of another!
"I shan't let her see it," she continued, hastily rolling up the mat and putting it into her desk, as she heard the other children coming. "Don't say a word about it, Hattie, not to any one."
Hattie promised, really grieving herself for Gracie's misfortune, for she truly loved her, and was anxious that she should be the first.
This was to be a black day for Gracie; but all through her own jealousy and pride.
Her mind was so taken up with the remembrance of the defaced mat that she could not keep her thoughts upon her lessons; and, although she had known her history very well, her attention wandered so much that she answered incorrectly more than once.
Seeing, however, that something had disturbed her, Miss Ashton made allowances, and gave her one or two opportunities to correct herself and bring her thoughts back to the task before her.
But it was all in vain; Gracie had already lost her place in the spelling-class, and gone down below Dora Johnson and Laura Middleton; and now the fear of a fresh mortification, and of giving Nellie her place at the head of the history class added to her confusion, and she floundered more and more hopelessly. Nellie begged too that she might have still another chance, when at last Miss Ashton passed the question to her; but again Gracie failed and was obliged to yield her place.
Angry, mortified, and jealous, Gracie showed such determined ill-temper towards her generous little classmate, that Miss Ashton was obliged to reprove her, but without effect.
Again she called Gracie to order, and this time more severely.
The angry and wilful child hesitated for one moment, then pride and passion burst all bounds, and she answered Miss Ashton with such insolence, such ungoverned and unjustifiable impertinence that the whole class stood aghast.
There was a moment's perfect stillness. Miss Ashton turned very pale, and laying her book down upon the table, covered her face with her hand, while the children looked from her to Gracie and back again, in utter dismay and astonishment.
Then the stillness was broken by a piteous, "Oh, dear!" from poor little Belle, who finished with a burst of tears, and her example was followed by more than one of the others.
Miss Ashton raised her head.
"Go into the cloak-room, Grace," she said quietly.
Gracie was herself frightened at what she had done; but her pride and temper were still farther roused by the shocked and disapproving looks of her schoolmates, and she stood for an instant with determined stubbornness, while the words, "I won't," formed themselves upon her lips.
But they were not uttered, for there was something in Miss Ashton's face which checked her; something which not one of the little flock had ever seen before; and when the lady repeated her words in the same calm tone,—
"Go into the cloak-room," Gracie turned away and obeyed.
It was with head held high, and scornful look, however, that she passed out, although bitter shame and regret were burning in the poor, foolish little heart. But she called up all her pride and jealousy to stifle the better feeling which urged her to run to her teacher, and, in the face of the whole school, confess her fault, and beg Miss Ashton's pardon for the insulting words she had spoken.
"What will she do, I wonder," she said to herself; "will she tell mamma? What will mamma say, and papa too?" and, as the recollection of her parents' oft-repeated warnings against the pride and vanity which were her besetting sins came back to her mind, she could not but feel that this was the consequence of allowing them to gain such a hold upon her.
She felt it, for conscience would make itself heard; but she would not acknowledge it even to herself, and drowned the reproving whisper with such thoughts as,—
"Well, then, why is Miss Ashton so unjust? She is always trying to make me miss and lose my place. She is always glad when any one goes above me. She never praises me as much as I deserve;" and such unjust and untrue accusations.
It might be that Miss Ashton did not always bestow upon Gracie all the praise she would have given to another for a perfect lesson or good composition, for she did not think much praise good for her, as it only seemed to minister to Gracie's over-weening vanity. But only eyes that were wilfully blind and suspicious could find the slightest injustice or unkindness in her treatment of any one of her little scholars, and her gentleness and patience might have won gratitude from the most stubborn young heart.
But Gracie would not listen to the promptings of her better spirit; and the recollection of the dismayed and averted looks of her schoolmates added fuel to the flame of her angry pride. Even the ever admiring Hattie had looked shocked at her outburst.
"I don't care," she said again to herself. "It's only 'cause they know I am so much cleverer than any of them, and they are jealous of me. That hateful Nellie! She was so proud to go above me."
Wretched and unhappy, she spent the time in her solitude till the close of school, when the other children came into the cloak-room for their hats.
No one said a word to her, for they had been forbidden to do so; and if they had occasion to speak to one another they did so in whispers, as if something terrible had happened, and a great awe had fallen upon them. She sat in a corner, sullen and defiant, trying to put on an appearance of the utmost indifference, but succeeding very poorly. She even tried to hum a tune, but something rose in her throat and choked her. She scarcely knew what to do; whether or no to rise, and take her hat, and go down as usual to find the nurse, who was probably waiting for her below; and while she sat hesitating, one and another of her young companions passed out, as if glad to hurry from her presence, and she was left once more alone.
She had just taken down her hat, when Miss Ashton came in, and, handing her a note, said gravely,—
"Give this to your mother, Gracie," and left her again.
Ashamed and alarmed at the thought of what might follow when she should reach home, but with her pride and anger not one whit abated, Gracie went slowly on, giving short and snappish answers to the inquiries of her nurse, who plainly saw that something was wrong.
But she dared not face her mother when she should hear of her misconduct; and when they entered the house, she thrust the note into the hand of the maid, bidding her give it to Mrs. Howard, and ran quickly up to her own little room.
There she stayed, wondering and waiting. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, half an hour passed away, and still her mamma did not come.
Was it possible? could she really hope that the note had not been one of complaint of her conduct?
No, that could never be; there was the bell for the children's early dinner. Well, she would go down and act as if nothing had happened. But could she with this uncertainty of how much or how little mamma knew?
But there was mamma's step, and now Mrs. Howard entered the room. One half glance at her face and Gracie's eyes fell. It was enough to show her that her mother knew all.
"Mean old thing!" she said to herself, meaning Miss Ashton. "She's gone and told, and now I s'pose I'll be punished."
"Gracie," said her mother, "I suppose you scarcely need to be told what is in this note which Miss Ashton has sent me."
Gracie stood with head erect, pouting lip, and defiant eyes, idly tossing back and forth the tassel of the window curtain with as much indifference as she could assume.
"Has it come to this, my child," continued Mrs. Howard sorrowfully, "that you have allowed conceit and self-will to gain such a hold upon you, that you could wilfully and deliberately insult your teacher? I have been sure that you would fall into trouble, Gracie, for I knew that such foolish pride must sooner or later have a fall, but I could not have believed that you would be guilty of this. What did you say to Miss Ashton?"
"I don't care," said Gracie passionately, without directly answering her mother's question. "It was all true, every word of it. She's as hateful as she can be, and unjust and mean;" and Gracie went on, pouring forth a torrent of invective and reproach against Miss Ashton and Nellie Ransom, without paying the slightest heed to her mother's commands to be silent. It was the long pent-up feeling of jealousy and ill-will and pride, that she had been nourishing for months past, and which now burst all bounds and swept every thing before it.
Respect, and even obedience towards her mother, reason, justice, and truth itself were totally lost sight of, as she poured forth accusation after accusation against the offenders, and upheld her own conduct in all she had done and said.
"And you have said all this to Miss Ashton, perhaps?" said her mother sternly, when the angry child at last came to a pause.
"It is true enough if I did," muttered Gracie again, though her passion was by this time beginning to cool down in a measure. "I'm sure I wish I never went to her hateful old school."
"It is more than probable that Miss Ashton wishes so now; but I shall leave you to think over what you have said to me and to Miss Ashton, and to find out how much of it is true. One thing Miss Ashton desires,—that you do not return to her school till you are ready to acknowledge your fault, and to apologize for your impertinence. And until this is the case, you must remain in your room. Your meals will be sent to you, and I shall not allow your brothers and sisters to have any intercourse with you till you are ready to make such amends as you can. You may send for me when you have any thing to say to me. Oh, Gracie, Gracie!"
With which words, spoken in a sad, despondent tone, Mrs. Howard went away, closing the door upon her stubborn, rebellious little daughter.
Gracie stood where her mother had left her, not one whit softened or humbled; for now her angry pride began to accuse her mother also of injustice and partiality and unkindness.
"Everybody in the world takes part against me," she said to herself; "but I don't care. Indeed, I won't beg Miss Ashton's pardon, not if I stay here a year. Mamma makes such a fuss about her being so kind and patient and all that. She's paid for teaching me, so it's nothing so wonderfully good. I hope I never will go back to the school where that hateful Nellie is."
Soon the door opened, and the nurse appeared, bearing a tray on which was Gracie's dinner. She set it upon a table, placed a chair, and went away without a word to her.
"I don't care," said Gracie once more, "no one need talk to me if they don't want to. I'm just as good as they are, and I'd just as lief stay here by myself."
She sat down before the dinner-tray, trying to believe that she would "just as lief eat her dinner alone;" but she found it was not so agreeable after all. She wondered what they were doing downstairs; if the children were chattering as merrily as usual, or if her absence made any difference in the family enjoyment. She had little appetite, as may be supposed, and left the nicely served meal scarcely touched.
But it must not be thought that she had any idea of yielding or acknowledging herself in the wrong. By and by she heard her brothers and sisters coming upstairs, then their voices in the nursery as they prattled to one another; and she knew that they were being made ready for their afternoon airing. Then tiny feet pattered along the hall, and little May's voice sounded through her closed door,—
"Am oo dood now, Dacie? We'm doin out, Dacie; am oo most dood? Pease don't be naughty dirl, Dacie," and the soft little hand tapped upon the panel as the baby voice pleaded.
"Come away, darling. Gracie may come out when she is good and says she is sorry," said mamma's voice; and Gracie knew that her mother had led the little pet away.
But all this only seemed to harden her. May was such a darling, the sweetest and dearest of all her brothers and sisters, Gracie thought; and, although the sweet, coaxing voice had touched her, she only found in her mother's interference fresh cause of offence.
"Mamma tries to set even May against me, and I s'pose she's been telling all the children what I did," she thought; "but I don't care. I believe they'll grow tired of having me away before I am tired of staying here. There's plenty for me to do. I can read, and I'll work on my mat."
But here it suddenly flashed upon her that she had not brought her mat home with her. Being sent away in disgrace and not returning to the school-room before leaving, she had quite forgotten it, and it still lay there in her desk. And that stain upon it, too, which she had intended to ask her mother to take out if possible. Mamma would not feel like doing it for her now, and she could ask no favors from her. Not unless she repented and—and—apologized to Miss Ashton. And this last she would not do; no, never, never.
She heard the children going downstairs, stood at the window and watched them get into the carriage and drive away with mamma, and began to wish that she were there too. And such a lovely afternoon, it was too bad to be shut up here. But still she never blamed herself for her imprisonment; no, mamma, Miss Ashton, Nellie, any one was in the wrong, but not her own wilful, stubborn little self. What was to be the end of this she did not know, but Gracie had no thought of yielding.
She whiled away the afternoon as she best could; but every thing seemed to have lost its zest. Her prettiest story-books had no interest; her dolls were "stupid" and poor company; even her stock of pretty materials for articles for the fair seemed less attractive than usual as she turned them over, and her work "would not go."
This was the first time in her life that Gracie had ever been punished in such a manner; and apart from the disgrace, which she was determined not to feel, she was a child who was fond of society and did not know how to bear being deprived of it.