The Doll And Her Friends Part 5

'What is the matter, my darling?' asked Margaret.

Rose could not answer; but Sarah was there to tell the story, and do ample justice to my wrongs. Yet I could not help observing, in the midst of all her indignation, the difference of her manner towards her present hearers and towards Geoffrey. She never seemed on familiar terms with w.i.l.l.y, much less with Margaret or Rose. She neither cut jokes nor used rough language to them, but treated them with the respect due to her master's children; though, as I well knew, she was extremely fond of them, and disliked Geoffrey, in spite of her familiarity with him.

I saw Geoffrey no more that day. Rose's young friends soon arrived, and consoled both her and me by their kind sympathy and attentions. One made an elegant cap to supply the loss of my wig; another strung a blue necklace to hide the black mark round my throat; Rose herself put me to bed, and placed a table by my bedside covered with teacups, each, she told me, containing a different medicine; and the young lady who had once brought Miss Edgeworth to dine with me, charged me to lie still and read 'Rosamond' till I was quite recovered.

Next morning, as I lay contentedly performing my new part of an invalid, I heard a confidential conversation between Margaret and Geoffrey, in which I was interested.

They were alone together, and she was taking the opportunity to remonstrate with him on his unkind treatment of me.

'What was the harm?' said Geoffrey. 'A doll is nothing but wood or bran, or some stupid stuff; it can't feel.'

'Of course,' answered Margaret, 'we all know _that_. It is wasteful and mischievous to spoil a pretty toy; but I am not speaking now so much for the sake of the doll as of Rose. Rose is not made of any stupid stuff; _she_ can feel. And what is more, she can feel for other people as well as herself. She would never play you such an ill-natured trick.'

'I should not mind it if she did,' argued Geoffrey; 'I am not such a baby.'

'You would not mind that particular thing,' answered Margaret, 'because you do not care about dolls; but you would mind her interfering with _your_ pleasures, or injuring your property. You would think it very ill-natured, for instance, if she threw away that heap of nuts which you have h.o.a.rded like a squirrel on your shelf of the closet.'

'Nuts are not nonsense like dolls,' said he. 'Besides, she may have as many of mine as she likes. I tried to make her eat some yesterday.'

'Yes, and half choked her by poking them into her mouth, when she told you she did not want them. She cares no more for nuts than you for dolls. You would think it no kindness if she teazed you to nurse her doll.'

'I should think not, indeed,' answered Geoffrey, indignant at the very idea.

'Of course not. Kindness is not shown by forcing our own pleasures down other people's throats, but by trying to promote theirs. That is really doing as we would be done by.'

'But doing as we would be done by is one's _duty_,' said Geoffrey.

'I fear it is a duty of which you seldom think,' replied his cousin.

'Why, one can't be thinking of _duty_ in those kind of things,' answered he.

'Why not?' asked Margaret.

'Because they are such trifles; duties are great things.'

'What sort of things do you consider to be duties?' Margaret inquired.

'Oh, such things as letting oneself be tortured, like Regulus; or forgiving an enemy who has shot poisoned arrows at one, like Coeur de Lion.'

'Well,' said Margaret smiling, 'such heroic duties as those do not seem likely to fall in your way just now, perhaps they never may. Our fellow-creatures are so kind to us, that we are seldom called upon to fulfil any but small duties towards them, or what you would consider such; for I cannot allow any duty to be small, especially that of doing as we would be done by. If we do not fulfil that in trifles, we shall probably never fulfil it at all. This is a serious thought, Geoffrey.'

Geoffrey looked up; and as he seemed inclined to listen, Margaret continued talking to him kindly but gravely, bringing many things before his mind as duties which he had hitherto considered to be matters of indifference. But Margaret would not allow any thing to be a trifle in which one person could give pain or pleasure, trouble or relief, annoyance or comfort to another, or by which any one's own mind or habits could be either injured or improved. She maintained that there was a right and a wrong to every thing, and that right and wrong could never be trifles, whether in great things or small. By degrees the conversation turned upon matters far too solemn to be repeated by a mere plaything like myself; but I thought, as I heard her, that it might be better to be a poor wooden figure which could do neither right nor wrong, than a human being who neglected his appointed duties.

Geoffrey said little, but he shook hands with Margaret when she had finished speaking, and I noticed from that day forward a gradual improvement in his conduct. Bad habits are not cured in a minute, and he did not become all at once as gentle and considerate as w.i.l.l.y, nor as kind and helpful as Edward; but he put himself in the right road, and seemed in a fair way of overtaking them in due time. He at once left off _active_ mischief; and if he could not avoid being occasionally troublesome, he at any rate cured himself of teazing people on purpose.

And it was remarkable how many employments he found as soon as his mind was disengaged from mischief. Instead of his dawdling about all the morning calling things stupid, and saying he had nothing to do, all manner of pleasant occupations seemed to start up in his path, as if made to order for him, now that he had time to attend to them. When he relinquished the pleasure of spoiling things, he acquired the far greater pleasure of learning to make them. When Edward was no longer afraid of trusting him with his tools, it was wonderful what a carpenter he turned out. When Margaret could venture to leave drawing materials within his reach, he began to draw capitally. Good-natured Margaret gave him lessons, and said she would never wish for a better scholar. He found it was twice the pleasure to walk or play with Edward when he was thought an acquisition instead of a burden; and far more agreeable to have Rose and w.i.l.l.y anxious for his company than wis.h.i.+ng to get rid of him. But the advantages were not confined to himself; the whole house shared in them; for his perpetual small annoyances had made every body uncomfortable, whereas now, by attention to what he used to look upon as trifles, he found he had the power of contributing his part towards the happiness of his fellow-creatures, which is no trifle.

On the last day of the holidays, the young people were all a.s.sembled in the schoolroom till it was time for Edward and Geoffrey to start. While Edward was arranging various matters with w.i.l.l.y, I heard Geoffrey whisper to Margaret that he hoped she had forgiven him for spoiling that drawing of hers. She seemed at first really not to know what he meant; but when she recollected it, she answered with a smile, 'Oh, my dear Geoffrey, I had forgiven and forgotten it long ago. Pray never think of it again yourself.' Geoffrey next went up to Rose and put a little parcel into her hands. On opening it, she found a box of very pretty bonbons in the shape of various vegetables. When she admired them, he seemed much pleased, and said that he had saved up his money to buy them, in hopes she might like them for her dolls' feasts. Rose kissed and thanked him, and said she only wished he could stay and help her and her dolls to eat them. Every body took an affectionate leave of Geoffrey, and w.i.l.l.y said he was very sorry to lose him, and should miss him sadly.

Edward and Geoffrey returned to school, and I never saw Geoffrey again; but a constant correspondence was kept up between him and his cousins, and I often heard pleasant mention of his progress and improvement.

Time pa.s.sed on; what length of time I cannot say, all seasons and their change being alike to me; but school-days and holidays succeeded one another, and our family grew older in appearance and habits. Rose gradually spent less time with me, and more with her books and music, till at last, though she still kept my house in order, she never actually played with me, unless younger children came to visit her, and _then_, indeed, I was as popular as ever. But on a little friend's one day remarking that I had worn the same gown for a month, Rose answered that she herself had the charge of her own clothes now, and that what with keeping them in order, and doing fancy-work as presents for her friends, she found no time to work for dolls.

By and by, her time for needlework was fully engaged in Geoffrey's behalf. He was going to sea; and Rose was making purses, slippers, portfolios, and every thing she could think of as likely to please him.

Perhaps _her_ most useful keepsake was a sailor's housewife; but many nice things were sent him from every one of the family. I saw a trunk full of presents packed and sent off. And when I recollected my first acquaintance with him, I could not but marvel over the change that had taken place, before books, drawing materials, and mathematical instruments could have been chosen as the gifts best suited to his taste.

Edward used to come home from school as merry and good-humored as ever, and growing taller and stronger every holiday. Rose and Margaret were as flouris.h.i.+ng as he; but poor w.i.l.l.y grew weaker, and thinner, and paler.

Fresh springs and summers brought him no revival, but as they faded, he seemed to fade with them. He read more than ever; and his sisters were frequently occupied in reading and writing under his direction, for they were anxious to help him in his pursuits. His Papa and Mama sometimes said he studied too hard; and they used to sit with him, and try to amuse him by conversation, when they wished to draw him from his books.

Doctors visited him, and prescribed many remedies; and his Mama gave him all the medicines herself, and took care that every order was implicitly obeyed. His father carried him up and down stairs, and waited upon him as tenderly as even Margaret; but he grew no better with all their care. He was always gentle and patient, but he appeared in less good spirits than formerly. He seemed to enjoy going out in his wheel-chair more than any thing; but one day he observed that the summer was fast coming to an end, and that then he must shut himself up in his room, for that he minded the cold more than he used.

'I wish we lived in a warmer country,' said Rose; 'perhaps then you might get better.'

'I do not know about _living_,' replied w.i.l.l.y. 'England is the best country to _live_ in; but I certainly should like to be out of the way of the cold for this next winter.'

'Why do not you tell Papa so?' asked Rose.

'Because I know very well he would take me a journey directly, however inconvenient it might be to him.'

Rose said nothing more just then, but she took the first opportunity of telling her father what had pa.s.sed; and he said he was very glad indeed that she had let him know.

From that day forward something more than usual seemed in contemplation.

Papa, Mama, and Margaret were constantly consulting together, and Edward, Rose, and w.i.l.l.y followed their example. As for me, n.o.body had time to bestow a look or a thought upon me; but I made myself happy by looking at and thinking of _them_.

One morning two doctors together paid w.i.l.l.y a long visit. After they were gone, his Papa and Mama came into his room.

'Well, my boy,' his father exclaimed in an unusually cheerful tone, 'it is quite settled now; Madeira is the place, and I hope you like the plan.'

'Oh, Papa,' said w.i.l.l.y, 'is it really worth while?'

'Of course it is worth while, a hundred times over,' replied his father; 'and we will be off in the first s.h.i.+p.'

'The doctors strongly advise it, and we have all great hopes from it, my dear w.i.l.l.y,' said his mother.

'Then so have I,' said w.i.l.l.y; 'and, indeed, I like it extremely, and I am very grateful to you. The only thing I mind is, that you and my father should have to leave home and make a long sea voyage, when you do not like travelling, and Papa has so much to keep him in England.'

'Oh, never mind me,' said his mother; 'I shall like nothing so well as travelling, if it does you good.'

'And never mind me,' said his father; 'there is nothing of so much consequence to keep me in England, as your health to take me out of it.'

'Besides, my dear child,' said his mother, 'as the change of climate is so strongly recommended for you, it becomes a duty as well as a pleasure to try it.'

'So make your mind easy, my boy,' added his father; 'and I will go and take our pa.s.sage for Madeira.'

The father left the room, and the mother remained conversing with her sick child, whose spirits were unusually excited. I scarcely knew him again. He was generally slow and quiet, and rather desponding about himself; but he now thought he should certainly get well, and was so eager and anxious to start without delay, that his mother had some difficulty in reconciling him to the idea that no s.h.i.+p would sail till next month. She also took great pains to impress upon him the duty of resignation, in case the attempt should fail, after all, in restoring his health; and she finally left him, not less hopeful, but more calm and contented with whatever might befall him.

And now began the preparations for the voyage. There was no time to spare, considering all that had to be done. Every body was at work; and though poor w.i.l.l.y himself could not do much to help, he thought of nothing else. His common books and drawings were changed for maps and voyages; the track to Madeira was looked up by him and Rose every day, and sometimes two or three times in the day, and every book consulted that contained the least reference to the Madeira Isles.

Edward was an indefatigable packer. He was not to be one of the travellers, as his father did not choose to interrupt his school-education; but no one was more active than he in forwarding the preparations for the voyage, and no one more sanguine about its results.