Chapter IV: Stories

HENRIETTA walked home from school in any thing but a good humour. She could not flatter herself that her work would make any great figure, even with all she might be able to do to it before to-morrow, and she felt sure that some of the boastful speeches she had made at the beginning would be remembered and quoted against her. She felt vexed at Elsie for knitting "after all," as she said,—though after all what, she did not specify even to herself. So that, taking every thing together, she reached home in a mood ready to be angry with any thing or anybody who might happen to cross her path.

The first thing she saw upon entering the parlour was Cecy, propped up as usual in a corner of her own especial sofa, busily knitting on a blue sock just the colour of her own. The poor child was so deeply engaged in her work that she did not observe her sister's entrance at first. But the moment she did so, she coloured, and made a movement as if to conceal her work.

"You little meddling torment!" exclaimed Henrietta, flushing in her turn with vexation. "How dare you touch my work? I dare say you have spoiled it entirely," she continued, snatching it roughly from her hand, and thereby pulling out a whole row of stitches. "Now, just see what you have done!"

Cecilia attempted to speak in her own defence, but, as usual when agitated, the words would not come. She stammered and hesitated, and finally burst into tears and sobbed bitterly.

"What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Laurens, who had entered the parlour just in time to hear Henrietta's last hasty words. "What is the matter, Cecilia?"

But Cecy was by this time far past explanation, and could only sob hysterically.

Mrs. Laurens turned to Hetty.

"She had my work," said Hetty, too angry to see or heed any thing; "and she has pulled out the stitches and half-spoiled it. Then I took it away, and she cried,—just as she always does if any one looks at her. She is the greatest cry-baby that ever lived."

"Henrietta!" said her mother, sternly.

"Well,—I don't care. She is; and she had no business to touch my work."

"Is that your work?" asked Mrs. Laurens. "Look and see."

Hetty looked. It certainly was not hers, for it was not more than half as long.

"Well, I thought it was mine," she said; but her mother checked her.

"I do not wish to hear any thing from you at present. You may go to your room and stay there till tea-time."

Henrietta left the room, closing the door with violence, and the door of her own room also. The first thing that met her eyes was her own work, lying exactly where she had laid it on Saturday night. She walked up to it and threw it across the room.

"Hateful old thing! I wish I had never seen it! I don't care whether I ever get it done or not. Mother always sets Cecy above me in every thing. No matter what she does, she is always right and I am always wrong."

"You are certainly wrong in this case," said conscience; but Henrietta would not listen.

She put away her bonnet and satchel, and looked around for a book to read: but she could find none, except those she had read again and again.

Suddenly she remembered that there was a large pile of magazines put away in the back attic. True, her mother had forbidden her to leave her room; but she was too much out of humour to care whether she obeyed or not. She opened her door softly, stole up-stairs, and presently descended with an armful of the coveted treasures. She could not feel very happy, for she had been trained in habits of obedience and of honesty, but her temper was roused, and she was determined, as she said, to face it out.

She found plenty of entertaining matter in the magazines, and sat reading till it was nearly dark. Then she remembered her knitting, and that it must be carried to school in the morning, and she began to look around for it. What was her consternation to find it lying in the water-pail, and, of course, soaked through and through! This was a new misfortune, none the easier to bear because she had brought it upon herself. Henrietta burst into tears, and cried till she brought on a headache, which sent her to bed before tea, and—almost for the first time in her life—without saying her prayers.

People are rather apt to get up in the same humour with which they go to bed; and Henrietta rose feeling any thing but happy. As soon as she was dressed, she looked round for the unlucky knitting-work. The stocking had dried during the night: not so the ball, which was still like a wet sponge. And when she tried to knit, she found the needles covered with rust and quite immovable.

What was to be done? Again Hetty cried; but crying would not mend matters. And after several unsuccessful attempts to put it to rights, she concluded that the only way was to carry the work to her mother.

"See here, mother; what shall I do with my work?" she said, as she entered the breakfast-room. "I dropped it in the water last night, and now the needles are all rusty. I cannot knit at all."

"You should have brought it to me directly," said her mother. "I could easily have put it in order for you; but now it will be a work of time to draw out the needles and put in others. So much for one of the consequences of a fit of temper, my daughter. If you will leave it here, I will attend to it as soon as I have time."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Hetty, impatiently. "Can't you do it now, mother? All the girls are going to bring their work to school and compare their progress."

"If that is all, you can carry it as it is," replied Mrs. Laurens; "but I cannot possibly attend to it now. Cecy has had a very bad night,—thanks to her fit of crying,—and will not be able to get up to breakfast, and I must go to her immediately."

"Cecy is such a cry-baby," said Henrietta, colouring at this allusion to the scene of the day before; "one cannot look at her without her going into a fit. I should think she might learn not to cry at every little thing, when she knows it always makes her sick."

"And I should think a strong, healthy girl might learn not to hurt the feelings of a suffering younger sister, when she knows what the consequences will be," said Mrs. Laurens, much displeased. "Cecy was not the only cry-baby in the house last night."

"Cecy never does wrong," murmured Henrietta to herself. "I wish I was crooked; and then perhaps I might have some privileges now and then."

"Henrietta," said her mother, sternly, "if Cecilia could have a hundred people devoted to her every day and all day long, with nothing to do but to minister to her pleasure and alleviate her suffering, she could well afford to give them all up for the health that you enjoy without a thought of its value. You are indulging in a most wicked and unthankful temper, my child. Conquer it, or no one can tell how far it may lead you."

Henrietta dared not answer when her mother spoke in such a tone, but her heart was full of anger, which she made no attempt to put down. She hastily swallowed her breakfast, gathered her books together, and, putting the unlucky knitting in her satchel, she set out for school without kissing either her mother or Cecy.

"Good news, Henrietta!" said one of the girls, meeting her at the door. "Miss Armitage has excused us from the paper this week, of her own accord. We are to have it next week instead of composition; but Miss Armitage says we may have the time now to finish our socks, as they are so much wanted. Wasn't it clever in her,—and without being asked, too?"

At any other time, Henrietta would have joined cordially in the praises of Miss Armitage. But she was not now in the humour to be pleased with any thing: so she answered, shortly,—

"I don't see any great generosity in that, I am sure. If she had let us off altogether, there would have been some fun in it. But as long as we have to write next week, I don't see what difference it makes."

"All the difference in the world, I should think," said Lizzy Becket. "We shall have time to finish our socks this week if we don't have to write for the paper. 'I' can, I know. Let me see how far yours is done. Is that your second one?" She made a movement to take it up.

"Do let things alone, Lizzy, can't you?" said Henrietta, pushing by her. "I want to go to my seat."

"Heyday!" said Lizzy, looking after her. "Some one has got up wrong end foremost this morning, I should think. If I were you, I would go to bed and try again!"

"I think Hetty gets up wrong end foremost very often," said little Belle Chesterfield. "I used to think she was one of the best-natured girls in school, but she is downright cross very often nowadays. I wonder what is the reason?"

"'Evil communications corrupt good manners,'" said Bessy Stanley, sagely. "Take care you don't indulge in them, Belle."

"If you mean Minny Granger, there's no danger; for I can't bear her," said Belle. "She called me a little—"

"Never mind what she called you," interrupted Rose. "Minny's speeches are not worth remembering, much less repeating. Come; it is time to go into school."

At recess the girls collected with one accord in the play-room, and the stockings were all produced. They made a goodly show, and spoke well for the industry of the little workwomen. Some had finished the first of the pair; some were half-way through the second. Even Minny's had advanced as far as the middle of the foot. Hetty's was the only one which had not reached the heel. The girls, who remembered her grand speeches, looked at one another significantly. And Augusta Stephens said,—

"I am afraid you won't accomplish your two or three pairs, Hetty. If you finish these, it will be as much as you can do."

"Mine is as far forward as Elsie's, any way," said Hetty, ready to cry with mortification.

"Yes; but that is Elsie's second pair," said Augusta. "She has done more than any of us. Oh, come; what's the use of being so modest, Elsie?" she continued, as Elsie made her a sign to be silent. "You know you have; and you deserve more credit than any of us, because you have so little time."

"Oh, yes, she deserves a great deal of credit, to be sure!" exclaimed Henrietta, forgetting in her anger her promise to Minny to say nothing about the affair of the opera-glass. "Perhaps if I had had some one to help me, I might have knit two pairs as well as Elsie."

Minny pinched her arm and recalled her promise, but the mischief was done.

"What do you mean, Hetty?" said Elsie, surprised.

But Hetty would not explain.

"Never mind, Elsie," said Rose, seeing Elsie's eyes filled with tears. "We all know you too well to believe that you would do any thing dishonourable. I know, too, what a sacrifice you made to be able to knit at all. Don't be troubled," she continued, as Elsie took up her work and turned away. "Henrietta is out of humour, and doesn't know or care what she says."

"If it was any one else, I wouldn't mind so much," said Elsie, as soon as she could steady her voice. "But we used to be such good friends, and—" The words failed.

"I don't know what to think of Henrietta," said Rose. "She is very much changed."

"It is not her natural disposition; I am sure of that," replied Elsie, generously unwilling to have her former friend blamed. "I believe Minny puts things in her head."

"She ought to be ashamed to listen to them," said Rose, indignantly. "I should think any one might see through Minny. She is a vain, shallow, vulgar girl, and her mother is as shallow and vulgar as herself."

"That is some excuse for her," said Elsie; "but Rose, I can't think what they mean about the stockings. No one has ever touched them but myself: I wouldn't even let Cousin Ellen take them to try the needles."

"Of course not. Don't disturb yourself about that," said Rose. "Your character is too well-known for any one to suspect you of dishonesty. It was only a pettish speech of Henrietta's because she was mortified at her own slow progress. You know she had a great deal to say, when we began, about how much she was going to accomplish, and it was no great wonder that she felt ashamed and angry when she found herself behind the youngest girl in the school. I think if I were you, I would take no notice of the speech, but leave the matter to die of itself. I presume there will be no more heard of it."

Contrary to Rose's prophecy, a great deal more was heard of it. A number of the girls—a particularly those of Minny's party—asked Henrietta what she meant, and Henrietta could not resist the temptation of telling such an important secret. The story passed from one to another, losing nothing by transmission, till at least half the girls in school believed that Minny had seen Elsie's cousin Ellen knit both pairs of stockings in Mrs. Probert's back parlour.

When Minny was appealed to, she shook her head, looked mysterious, and dropped broken hints that she could tell a great deal more, if she chose, about that and other things. Minny concluded by inviting all the elder girls in the school, except Elsie, to meet at her mother's house the next afternoon, to knit and drink tea.

Much to her mortification, Rose Chesterfield refused point-blank, and so did the Stanleys; but all the rest accepted, some from curiosity to see a house about which they had heard so much, some because others did, some, perhaps, influenced by the prospect of a treat, &c., which Minny held out.

As Elsie was walking homeward, she was overtaken by Sarah Stone. Elsie did not particularly like Sarah, whom she suspected of a mischief-making disposition and knew to be possessed of a strong propensity to tattling; but she could not in civility run away from her, and the two walked along together.

"Are you going to Minny's party to-morrow night?" asked Sarah.

"I presume not," replied Elsie, surprised, "as this is the first I have heard of it. Is she going to have a party?"

"Why, yes, to be sure," replied Sarah,—affecting a great deal of astonishment, though she well knew that Elsie had not been invited. "She has asked all our set,—all the older girls; and every one is going. I should think Minny would be ashamed to leave you out."

"Not at all," said Elsie, steadily,—though she could not prevent her cheeks from burning at this new affront. "Minny has a right to ask whom she pleases to her own mother's house."

"But she 'is' just as mean as she can be, Elsie. Everybody knows that. Just because her father is rich, she thinks she can lord it ever every one in the school as much as she pleases. I think all rich girls are mean, for my part; don't you?"

"No, indeed," said Elsie, promptly. "I am sure the Chesterfields are not mean, nor the Stanleys, nor Augusta Stephens; and they are the richest girls in the school. I think I have known quite as many poor girls who were mean as rich ones. As for Minny, I don't pretend to like her, but there is nothing mean in her not inviting me if she did not wish to do so. And, I must say, if I were you, I should be ashamed to accept her invitation, and even receive presents from her and then talk against her behind her back."

Elsie spoke with unusual warmth and it is possible that her virtuous indignation against Sarah was a little increased by the affronts she had received from Minny. But Sarah was altogether too obtuse to be abashed by any such hints.

"You would not defend Minny," she said, mysteriously, "if you know what she and Hetty Laurens said about you. Of course it isn't true, and a great many of the girls don't believe it. But then, again, they do say it looks oddly for you to have accomplished so much more than any one else, when you began last."

"I am a great deal more used to knitting than most of the other girls," said Elsie,—not knowing how to understand Sarah's speech.

"Yes, of course: that's just what I say. 'Of course,' I said: 'Elsie knows how to knit better than any of us; and, besides, if she did get her cousin to help her, there is no great harm done. The stockings are knit all the same, and Elsie has so little time that she is excusable, if any one is.'"

"What do you mean, Sarah?" asked Elsie, very much agitated.

But Sarah was too much delighted with having found a way of tormenting Elsie to give up her amusement suddenly.

"To be sure, we did agree to knit them all ourselves, but perhaps you did not understand that,—though Henrietta says she knows you did. And, at any rate, it was mean in Minny to tell of you. But she could not know any thing and not tell it. That is quite impossible."

"What do you mean, Sarah?" asked Elsie, again. "Does any one think I had help about my work?"

"Why, yes, to be sure!" rejoined Sarah. "Minny and Hetty both say they know you had. Minny says she saw a lady knitting on that very pair of stockings that you brought in,—with the red mark. She saw you knitting on one of them at your back parlour window, and that very afternoon, she saw your cousin have that same stocking on the Milton cars. And besides, she says she has seen your mother knit on them. And that is the reason she would not ask you to her party."

"I should like to know how Minny pretends to have seen so much," said Elsie, as soon as she could recover her voice. "I have never had my sock out of the house."

"Oh, you know the back of their house is just opposite to yours," replied Sarah, rejoicing in the effect of her words. "She can look right into your window from her mother's back parlour, and with an opera-glass she could see every thing that went on in the room. Mind, I don't say she 'did,'—only that she might if she chose. But, at any rate, she ought to be ashamed of herself to tell. She does worse things than that. I know where she gets her compositions; and I sha'n't keep her secret much longer, either, if she don't mind her Ps and Qs. Now, mind, Elsie, you don't tell any one who told you."

"Well," she said, as she walked away, "she never denied it. I should not wonder if it was true, after all. I don't believe these saints are any better than other people, for my part."