The Parent's Assistant Part 49

'The old woman,' continued the doctor, 'whom you employed to buy food has escaped the fever, but she has not escaped a gaol, whither she was sent yesterday, for having defrauded you of your money.

'Mr. Fisher,' said Dr. Middleton, 'as to you, I shall not punish you: I have no hope of making you either wiser or better. Do you know this paper?'--the paper appeared to be a bill for candles and a tinder-box.

'I desired him to buy those things, sir,' said Archer, colouring. 'And did you desire him not to pay for them?' 'No,' said Archer, 'he had half-a-crown on purpose to pay for them.' 'I know he had, but he chose to apply it to his private use, and gave it to the gipsy to buy twelve buns for his own eating. To obtain credit for the tinder-box and candles, he made use of _this_ name,' said he, turning to the other side of the bill, and pointing to De Grey's name, which was written at the end of a copy of one of De Grey's exercises.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _He sneaked out, whimpering in a doleful voice._]

'I a.s.sure you, sir----' cried Archer. 'You need not a.s.sure me, sir,'

said Dr. Middleton; 'I cannot suspect a boy of your temper of having any part in so base an action. When the people in the shop refused to let Mr. Fisher have the things without paying for them, he made use of De Grey's name, who was known there. Suspecting some mischief, however, from the purchase of the tinder-box, the shopkeeper informed me of the circ.u.mstance. Nothing in this whole business gave me half so much pain as I felt, for a moment, when I suspected that De Grey was concerned in it.' A loud cry, in which Archer's voice was heard most distinctly, declared De Grey's innocence. Dr. Middleton looked round at their eager, honest faces with benevolent approbation. 'Archer,' said he, taking him by the hand, 'I am heartily glad to see that you have got the better of your party spirit. I wish you may keep such a friend as you have now beside you; one such friend is worth two such parties. As for you, Mr. Fisher, depart; you must never return hither again.' In vain he solicited Archer and De Grey to intercede for him. Everybody turned away with contempt; and he sneaked out, whimpering in a doleful voice, 'What shall I say to my Aunt Barbara?'

THE BRACELETS

In a beautiful and retired part of England lived Mrs. Villars, a lady whose accurate understanding, benevolent heart, and steady temper peculiarly fitted her for the most difficult, as well as most important, of all occupations--the education of youth. This task she had undertaken; and twenty young persons were put under her care, with the perfect confidence of their parents. No young people could be happier; they were good and gay, emulous, but not envious of each other; for Mrs.

Villars was impartially just; her praise they felt to be the reward of merit, and her blame they knew to be the necessary consequence of ill-conduct. To the one, therefore, they patiently submitted, and in the other consciously rejoiced. They rose with fresh cheerfulness in the morning, eager to pursue their various occupations. They returned in the evening with renewed ardour to their amus.e.m.e.nts, and retired to rest satisfied with themselves and pleased with each other.

Nothing so much contributed to preserve a spirit of emulation in this little society as a small honorary distinction, given annually, as a prize of successful application. The prize this year was peculiarly dear to each individual, as it was the picture of a friend whom they dearly loved. It was the picture of Mrs. Villars in a small bracelet. It wanted neither gold, pearls, nor precious stones to give it value.

The two foremost candidates for this prize were Cecilia and Leonora.

Cecilia was the most intimate friend of Leonora; but Leonora was only the favourite companion of Cecilia.

Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterprising disposition, more eager in the pursuit than happy in the enjoyment of her wishes. Leonora was of a contented, unaspiring, temperate character; not easily roused to action, but indefatigable when once excited. Leonora was proud; Cecilia was vain. Her vanity made her more dependent upon the approbation of others, and therefore more anxious to please, than Leonora; but that very vanity made her, at the same time, more apt to offend. In short, Leonora was the most anxious to avoid what was wrong; Cecilia the most ambitious to do what was right. Few of her companions loved, but many were led by, Cecilia, for she was often successful. Many loved Leonora, but none were ever governed by her, for she was too indolent to govern.

On the first day of May, about six o'clock in the evening, a great bell rang, to summon this little society into a hall, where the prize was to be decided. A number of small tables were placed in a circle in the middle of the hall. Seats for the young compet.i.tors were raised one above another, in a semicircle, some yards distant from the table, and the judges' chairs, under canopies of lilacs and laburnums, forming another semicircle, closed the amphitheatre.

Every one put their writings, their drawings, their works of various kinds, upon the tables appropriated for each. How unsteady were the last steps to these tables! How each little hand trembled as it laid down its claims! Till this moment every one thought herself secure of success; and the heart which exulted with hope now palpitated with fear.

The works were examined, the preference adjudged, and the prize was declared to be the happy Cecilia's. Mrs. Villars came forward, smiling, with the bracelet in her hand. Cecilia was behind her companions, on the highest row. All the others gave way, and she was on the floor in an instant. Mrs. Villars clasped the bracelet on her arm; the clasp was heard through the whole hall, and a universal smile of congratulation followed. Mrs. Villars kissed Cecilia's little hand. 'And now,' said she, 'go and rejoice with your companions; the remainder of the day is yours.'

Oh! you whose hearts are elated with success, whose bosoms beat high with joy in the moment of triumph, command yourselves. Let that triumph be moderate, that it may be lasting. Consider, that though you are good, you may be better; and, though wise, you may be weak.

As soon as Mrs. Villars had given her the bracelet, all Cecilia's little companions crowded round her, and they all left the hall in an instant.

She was full of spirits and vanity. She ran on. Running down the flight of steps which led to the garden, in her violent haste Cecilia threw down the little Louisa, who had a china mandarin in her hand, which her mother had sent her that very morning, and which was all broken to pieces by her fall.

'Oh, my mandarin!' cried Louisa, bursting into tears. The crowd behind Cecilia suddenly stopped. Louisa sat on the lowest step, fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces. Then, turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon the step above her. In turning, Louisa threw down the remains of the mandarin. The head, which she placed in the socket, fell from the shoulders, and rolled, bounding along the gravel walk. Cecilia pointed to the head and to the socket, and burst into laughter. The crowd behind laughed too.

At any other time they would have been more inclined to cry with Louisa; but Cecilia had just been successful, and sympathy with the victorious often makes us forget justice.

Leonora, however, preserved her usual consistency. 'Poor Louisa!' said she, looking first at her, and then reproachfully at Cecilia. Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, half with shame and half with vexation.

'I could not help it, Leonora,' said she. 'But you could have helped laughing, Cecilia.' 'I didn't laugh at Louisa; and I surely may laugh, for it does n.o.body any harm.' 'I am sure, however,' replied Leonora, 'I should not have laughed if I had----' 'No, to be sure, you wouldn't, because Louisa is your favourite. I can buy her another mandarin when the old peddler comes to the door, if that's all. I _can_ do no more, _can_ I?' said she, again turning round to her companions. 'No, to be sure,' said they; 'that's all fair.'

Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora. Leonora let go her hand; she ran on, and the crowd followed. When she got to the end of the garden, she turned round to see if Leonora had followed her too; but was vexed to see her still sitting on the steps with Louisa. 'I'm sure I can do no more than buy her another, _can_ I?' said she, again appealing to her companions. 'No, to be sure,' said they, eager to begin their play.

How many games did these juvenile playmates begin and leave off, before Cecilia could be satisfied with any! Her thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was running upon something else. No wonder, then, that she did not play with her usual address. She grew still more impatient. She threw down the ninepins. 'Come, let us play at something else--at threading the needle,' said she, holding out her hand. They all yielded to the hand which wore the bracelet. But Cecilia, dissatisfied with herself, was discontented with everybody else. Her tone grew more and more peremptory. One was too rude, another too stiff; one too slow, another too quick; in short, everything went wrong, and everybody was tired of her humours.

The triumph of _success_ is absolute, but short. Cecilia's companions at length recollected that, though she had embroidered a tulip and painted a peach better than they, yet that they could play as well, and keep their tempers better; for she was discomposed.

Walking towards the house in a peevish mood, Cecilia met Leonora, but pa.s.sed on. 'Cecilia!' cried Leonora. 'Well, what do you want with me?'

'Are we friends?' 'You know best,' said Cecilia. 'We are, if you will let me tell Louisa that you are sorry----' Cecilia, interrupting her, 'Oh, pray let me hear no more about Louisa!' 'What! not confess that you were in the wrong? O Cecilia! I had a better opinion of you.' 'Your opinion is of no consequence to me now, for you don't love me.' 'No; not when you are unjust, Cecilia.' 'Unjust! I am not unjust; and if I were, you are not my governess.' 'No, but am not I your friend?' 'I don't desire to have such a friend, who would quarrel with me for happening to throw down little Louisa. How could I tell that she had a mandarin in her hand? and when it was broken, could I do more than promise her another; was that unjust?' 'But you know, Cecilia----' 'I _know_,'

ironically. 'I know, Leonora, that you love Louisa better than you love me; that's the injustice!' 'If I did,' replied Leonora, gravely, 'it would be no injustice, if she deserved it better.' 'How can you compare Louisa to me!' exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly.

Leonora made no answer; for she was really hurt at her friend's conduct.

She walked on to join the rest of her companions. They were dancing in a round upon the gra.s.s. Leonora declined dancing; but they prevailed upon her to sing for them. Her voice was not so sprightly, but it was sweeter than usual. Who sang so sweetly as Leonora? or who danced so nimbly as Louisa? Away she was flying, all spirits and gaiety, when Leonora's eyes, full of tears, caught hers. Louisa silently let go her companion's hand, and quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her. 'Nothing,' replied she, 'that need interrupt you. Go, my dear; go and dance again.'

Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling off her little straw hat, she lined it with the freshest strawberry-leaves, and was upon her knees before the strawberry-bed when Cecilia came by. Cecilia was not disposed to be pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons; because she was jealous of her, and because she had injured her. The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten. Perhaps, to tell things just as they were, she was not quite so much inclined to kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the fall of her mandarin; but this was the utmost extent of her malice, if it can be called malice.

'What are you doing there, little one?' said Cecilia, in a sharp tone.

'Are you eating your early strawberries here all alone?' 'No,' said Louisa, mysteriously, 'I am not eating them.' 'What are you doing with them? can't you answer, then? I'm not playing with you, child!' 'Oh, as to that, Cecilia, you know I need not answer you unless I choose it; not but what I would if you would only ask me civilly, and if you would not call me _child_.' 'Why should not I call you child?'

'Because--because--I don't know; but I wish you would stand out of my light, Cecilia, for you are trampling upon all my strawberries.' 'I have not touched one, you covetous little creature!' 'Indeed--indeed, Cecilia, I am not covetous. I have not eaten one of them; they are all for your friend Leonora. See how unjust you are!'

'Unjust! that's a cant word which you learnt of my friend Leonora, as you call her; but she is not my friend now.' 'Not your friend now!'

exclaimed Louisa; 'then I am sure you must have done something _very_ naughty.' 'How?' cried Cecilia, catching hold of her. 'Let me go, let me go!' cried Louisa, struggling. 'I won't give you one of my strawberries, for I don't like you at all!' 'You don't, don't you?' cried Cecilia, provoked, and, catching the hat from Louisa, she flung the strawberries over the hedge.

'Will n.o.body help me?' exclaimed Louisa, s.n.a.t.c.hing her hat again, and running away with all her force.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _'How?' cried Cecilia, catching hold of her._]

'What have I done?' said Cecilia, recollecting herself; 'Louisa!

Louisa!' she called very loud, but Louisa would not turn back: she was running to her companions, who were still dancing, hand in hand, upon the gra.s.s, whilst Leonora, sitting in the middle, was singing to them.

'Stop! stop! and hear me!' cried Louisa, breaking through them; and, rus.h.i.+ng up to Leonora, she threw her hat at her feet, and panting for breath--'It was full--almost full of my own strawberries,' said she, 'the first I ever got out of my own garden. They should all have been for you, Leonora; but now I have not one left. They are all gone!' said she; and she hid her face in Leonora's lap.

'Gone! gone where?' said every one, at once running up to her. 'Cecilia!

Cecilia!' said she, sobbing. 'Cecilia,' repeated Leonora, 'what of Cecilia?' 'Yes, it was--it was.' 'Come along with me,' said Leonora, unwilling to have her friend exposed. 'Come, and I will get you some more strawberries.' 'Oh, I don't mind the strawberries, indeed; but I wanted to have had the pleasure of giving them to you.'

Leonora took her up in her arms to carry her away, but it was too late.

'What, Cecilia! Cecilia, who won the prize! It could not surely be Cecilia,' whispered every busy tongue.

At this instant the bell summoned them in. 'There she is! There she is!'

cried they, pointing to an arbour, where Cecilia was standing ashamed and alone; and, as they pa.s.sed her, some lifted up their hands and eyes with astonishment, others whispered and huddled mysteriously together, as if to avoid her. Leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual. 'Leonora!' said Cecilia, timorously, as she pa.s.sed. 'Oh, Cecilia!

who would have thought that you had a bad heart?' Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into tears.

'Oh no, indeed, she has not a bad heart!' cried Louisa, running up to her and throwing her arms around her neck. 'She's very sorry; are not you, Cecilia? But don't cry any more, for I forgive you, with all my heart--and I love you now, though I said I did not when I was in a pa.s.sion.'

'Oh, you sweet-tempered girl! how I love you!' said Cecilia, kissing her. 'Well, then, if you do, come along with me, and dry your eyes, for they are so red!' 'Go, my dear, and I'll come presently.' 'Then I will keep a place for you, next to me; but you must make haste, or you will have to come in when we have all sat down to supper, and then you will be so stared at! So don't stay now.'

Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she was out of sight. 'And is Louisa,' said she to herself, 'the only one who would stop to pity me?

Mrs. Villars told me that this day should be mine. She little thought how it would end!'

Saying these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon the ground; her arm leaned upon a heap of turf which she had raised in the morning, and which, in the pride and gaiety of her heart, she had called her throne.

At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity of the evening, and, pa.s.sing by the arbour where Cecilia lay, she started.

Cecilia rose hastily.

'Who is there?' said Mrs. Villars. 'It is I, madam.' 'And who is _I_?'