XI.
_CONFESSION._
Gracie expected and wished to be left to herself till it was time togo home; at least she thought she did, and she had quite made up hermind that if any one came and begged her to go down to supper she wouldsteadily refuse.
She stood there with all manner of unhappy and wretched feelings,wishing vain and fruitless wishes, as she had so often done since shehad fallen into this sin,--that she had never allowed Hattie to tempther into doing what she knew to be wrong; that grandmamma had nevermade this plan or offered to put a price on the different pieces ofwork; that she had never gone to the school, or that Nellie had neverbelonged to it; but still she did not think of wishing that she had notthought so much of herself or been so very anxious above all things tobe first.
Poor Gracie! Only those can tell how unhappy she was who havethemselves so fallen and so suffered. There was no way out of hertrouble but by confessing all the truth, and she could not bringherself to that.
She had not closed the door when she came in, and presently she heard agentle foot-fall, then Bessie's soft voice, saying, "Are you in here,Gracie?"
There was no light in the room save the faint glimmer of moonlightwhich came through the window, and as Gracie stood in the shade, Bessiedid not at first see her.
"Yes, I'm here, but I don't want any supper, and I'm not coming downtill I go home," answered Gracie, not as ungraciously as she hadintended to speak, for somehow she could not be disagreeable to dearBessie.
"Supper is not quite ready yet, and you shall have some up here if youhad very much rather not come down," said Bessie with a coaxing tone inher voice; "but you'd better come down, Gracie. They're all very sorryfor you and don't think you meant to be cross, 'cause Nellie said shewas sure something troubled you for a good many days, or you did notfeel well, and that often made people impatient, so we ought not to bemad at you."
Gracie made no answer, but presently Bessie heard a low sob.
"Gracie, dear," she said, coming closer to her little friend andputting her arms about her neck, "something does trouble you, doesn'tit? Couldn't you tell me what it is, and let me see if I could comfortyou? Sometimes it makes people feel better to tell their troubles andhave some one feel sorry for them."
The caressing touch, the tender manner, the earnest, pleading voicewere too much for Gracie, and, throwing herself down on a chair, sheburied her face in her arms and sobbed bitterly.
Bessie let her cry for a moment, for the wise little woman knew thattears often do one good for a while, and contented herself with givingsoft touches to Gracie's hair and neck to let her know she was stillbeside her and ready to give her her sympathy.
At last Gracie raised her head and said brokenly, "Oh, Bessie, I am sobad! I am so wicked!"
"I don't think being rather--rather--well, rather cross, is so very_wicked_," said Bessie, hesitating to give a hard name to Gracie'sill-temper, "and if you are sorry now and will come downstairs, we'llall be very glad to see you."
"Oh, it isn't that," sobbed Gracie. "Bessie, if you knew what I'vedone, you'd hate me. I know you would."
"No, I wouldn't," said Bessie. "I'd never hate you, Gracie. I'd only besorry for you and try to help you."
"You can't help me. No one can help me," said Gracie, in a freshparoxysm of distress.
"Can't your mamma? Mammas generally can," said Bessie.
"No, not even mamma," answered Gracie. "Oh, Bessie, I do feel as if itwould be a kind of relief to tell you; but you'd hate me, you couldn'thelp it; and so would every one else."
"Every one else need not know it because you tell me," said Bessie."Tell Jesus, and ask Him to help you, Gracie."
"Even He can't," said Gracie; "at least--at least--not unless I tellother people who ought to know it."
"Do you mean He would want you to tell it?"
"Yes, I s'pose so," almost whispered Gracie.
Bessie considered a moment. That Gracie was full of a vain, foolishpride and self-conceit, she knew; also that she was not the Gracie of ayear or two since; but that she would wrong any one she never dreamed,and she could not imagine any cause for this great distress.
"Gracie," she said, "I think by what you say that you must have donesomething to me. I can't think what it can be; but I promise not to beangry. I will be friends with you all the same."
"It was not you; no, it was not you; but, Bessie, it was such adreadful thing and so mean that you never can bear me after you knowit. You are so very true yourself."
"Have you told a story?" asked Bessie in a troubled voice.
"Not told a story, but I acted one," sobbed Gracie. "O Bessie! sit downhere and let me tell you. I can't keep it in any longer. Maybe you'lltell me what to do; but I know what you'll say, and I can't do that."
Bessie did as she was requested, and, in as few whispered words aspossible, Gracie poured her wretched story into her ears.
Bessie sprang to her feet, and her arms which she had clasped aboutGracie's neck fell away from it. It was as the latter had feared; thiswas so much worse than any thing Bessie had expected, she was herselfso truthful and upright, that her whole soul was filled with horror anddismay. No wonder that Gracie was distressed. This was indeed dreadful.
"I knew it, I knew it," said Gracie, burying her face again. "I knewyou never could bear me again. It seemed as if I couldn't help tellingyou, Bessie; but you never, never will speak to me again. I wish--Iwish--oh, I almost wish I was an orphan and had no one to care for me,so I could wish I was dead, only I'm too bad to go to God."
Sympathy and pity were regaining their place in Bessie's heart in spiteof her horror and indignation at what Gracie had done, and once moreshe sat down beside her and tried to soothe and comfort.
She succeeded in part at least. Gracie's sobs grew less violent, andshe let Bessie persuade her to raise her head. Then they sat side byside, Bessie holding her hand.
"What would you do, Bessie?" asked Gracie. "I know I ought to tell, butI don't see how I can. It will be such a disgrace, and all the girlswill have to know, and I've made such a fuss about myself, and alwaysthought I never could do any thing that was very bad. And now this."
And now this!
Yes, after all her boasting, after all her self-confidence, her beliefthat she could not and would not fall into greater sin through her ownconceit and vanity.
Bessie knew all this; knew how confident Gracie had been in her ownstrength; knew what a bitter shame and mortification it must be tohave this known; knew that it must be long before she could regain thetrust and respect of her schoolmates after this thing should once betold. During the last few months Gracie had lost much of the liking andaffection of her little friends; but not one among them would havebelieved her capable of deliberate deceit or of that which was notstrictly honest.
Ah! it was a great and terrible fall. Bessie felt this as well asGracie.
But she knew also that there was but one thing for Gracie to do; butone way in which she could have any peace or comfort once more.
Bessie was not the child for Gracie to put confidence in, if sheexpected advice that was not plain and straightforward.
"What _shall_ I do, Bessie?" she repeated.
"I think you'll have to tell, dear," said the pitying little voicebeside her.
Gracie actually shrank in a kind of terror at the thought; and yet shehad known that this was what Bessie would say.
"Oh! I can't, I can't; I never can," she moaned.
"But, Gracie, dear," said the little monitress, "I don't think youwill ever feel happy and comfortable again till you do; and Jesus isdispleased with you all the time till you do it. If you told aboutit and tried to make it up to Nellie, then He would be pleased withyou again. And then you could have comfort in that even if people wererather cross to you about it. And, Gracie, Maggie and I will not beoffended with you. I know Maggie will not; and we'll coax the othergirls not to tease you or be unkind to you about it."
"Don't you think it was so very wicke
d in me then?" asked Gracie. "OBessie! you are such a good child, I don't believe you ever have wickedthoughts. You don't know how hard it is sometimes not to do wrong whenyou want to do it very much,--when a very, very great temptation comes,like this."
"Yes," said Bessie, "I think I do, Gracie. And you are very muchmistaken when you say I never have naughty thoughts. I have them veryoften, and the only way I can make them go is, to ask Jesus to helpme, and to keep asking Him till they do go, and the temptation too.Perhaps, when you had the temptation to do this you did not remember toask."
"No, I did not," said Gracie. "But, Bessie, it never seemed to me thatI _could_ do a thing that was not quite true and honest. And I supposeit has come because I thought too much of myself and wanted too much tohave my work the best. It was not that I cared about the money, for youknow that was for Jessie and her grandfather; but I wanted every one tosay mine was the best; and it made me so mad that any one should sayNellie's was better than mine. If I had not cared so very much, Hattiewould not have persuaded me, for I _did_ know it was horribly mean. Younever had a temptation like this, Bessie."
"I don't know," said Bessie slowly. "I think I once had one somethinglike it. Don't you remember, Gracie, that time you lost your prizecomposition and we found it in the drawer of the hall-table?"
"Yes," answered Gracie, "and how cross I was about it, and how hatefulto you and Maggie."
"Well," said Bessie, "I had a very hard temptation that time. I foundthe composition first, and I wanted to leave it there and not tell anyone, 'cause I wanted Maggie to have the prize so much; and at first itdid not seem so very wrong to me, and I tried to think I _ought_ not totell, because then my own Maggie could have the prize; but I did notfeel sure about it, so I asked Jesus to let me see what I ought to do,and then I saw it quite plain, and knew I must take the composition toyou. But it was a dreadful temptation, Gracie."
"Yes," said Gracie with a sigh, feeling deeply the difference betweenherself and her dear little playmate who had so bravely resistedtemptation. For she knew how very anxious Bessie had been that Maggieshould gain the prize.
"But you did not _do_ the thing you were tempted to do," she said."What would you do if you had, Bessie?"
"I should go right away and tell my mamma; and perhaps she could findsome way to help me out of it," said Bessie. "Anyway, she ought toknow, and she will tell you what you ought to do."
"Oh, it will make mamma feel dreadfully," said Gracie. "She was alwaystelling me I would fall into trouble some day because I thought toomuch of myself; but, oh, dear! she never could have believed I would dothis. Wouldn't you feel awfully, Bessie, if you had done it?"
Yes, indeed. Bessie felt that she should; it almost seemed to her thatshe should die if she had such a weight on her mind and conscience, andshe felt for Gracie most deeply.
But still she knew that Gracie would never feel right again till shehad made confession, and she once more urged it upon her; confession toGod and man; and at last Gracie promised.
Promised with many tears and sobs; but that promise once given, shebecame in haste to have it over and to go home to her mamma at once.
"Ask your mamma to let me go home as soon as she can, Bessie," shepleaded. "Tell her I do not feel well, for I do not really. My headaches and I feel all shaky, as if I could not hold still; and I don'twant to see any one down stairs again or to have any supper."
Bessie was about to leave her to do as she was asked, when Mrs.Bradford came in.
"Gracie and Bessie," she said, "are you here? You were so long incoming that I feared something was wrong. Will you not come down andhave some supper, Gracie?"
Gracie did not speak, but held fast to Bessie's hand.
"Mamma," said the little girl, "Gracie does not feel well, and shewould like to go home as soon as you could send her. She's quitetrembling, mamma. I feel her."
Mrs. Bradford took Gracie's hand in hers and found that it was indeedcold and trembling, while her temples were hot and throbbing; forover-excitement and worry had made her really ill, and the lady sawthat she was more fit for bed than for the supper-room.
She told Gracie she should go home immediately, and putting on her hatled her down stairs, and calling Mr. Bradford, begged him to take thepoor little girl home and explain matters to her mamma.
Gracie clung to Bessie for a good-night kiss, whispering, "I will doit, Bessie; no matter what comes after, I will do it."
Mr. Bradford took her home,--it was not far from his house,--talkingcheerfully by the way and trying to keep her amused; but, though Graciefelt he was kind, she hardly knew what he was saying, her mind was sotaken up with the thought of the dreadful secret she had to confess.
Mrs. Howard was startled, as was only natural, to see her little girlcoming home so much before she had expected her; and Mr. Bradford'sassurance that he did not think there was much wrong with Gracie, andthat she would be well after a good night's sleep, did not quiet herfears, especially when she looked in Gracie's face.
She quickly undressed her and put her to bed; but, longing as Graciewas to have her confession over, she could not tell it while the nursewas in the room; and it was not until she was safely in bed, and thewoman sent to prepare some medicine, that she gave vent to the tearsshe had managed to keep back before her.
"There, there, my darling," said her mother soothingly. "You will bebetter soon. Do not be frightened; this is only a little nervousness."
"O mamma, mamma!" cried poor Gracie; "you ought not to be so kind tome. You don't know how bad, how very bad I am."
"Is there any thing especially wrong just now, Gracie?" asked hermother gently.
"Yes, mamma; oh, yes. I have--I have--put your head closer, mamma, andlet me whisper;" and then, with her face hidden against her mother'sshoulder, came the confession, made with many bitter tears and sobs.
Mrs. Howard was greatly shocked; she could hardly speak when she heardall.
"Shall you ever be able to forgive me, mamma?" sobbed Gracie. "I know,I know you think me perfectly dreadful, but if you could try me justthis once, and see if I ever do such a thing again. Indeed, I don'tthink I could. I know I am not too good to do it, as I thought I wasbefore; but I have felt so dreadfully ever since I did it, I don'tthink I could ever punish myself so again."
"I can believe that you have been very unhappy, my child," said hermother; "indeed I have seen it, though I did not know the cause. Butyou have need to ask a higher forgiveness than mine."
"I will, mamma," said Gracie; "but--but--I suppose Nellie and the otherchildren must be told?"
"I fear so, Gracie," said her mother. "Nellie must be righted and haveher own mat again, and I do not see how we are to avoid having the restof the children hear this terrible thing also. I must see Miss Ashtonin the morning and talk it over with her, and we will arrange what isbest to be done. But now you must try to be quiet and go to sleep. Youare over-excited and will be really ill, so I can allow you to talk nomore. But before you sleep, my child, make your peace with your Fatherin heaven, and ask Him to help you to bear the punishment you havebrought upon yourself by your naughty pride and ambition."
Gracie obeyed her mother as well as she was able; and, truly repentant,we may hope, at last fell into a troubled sleep.
Jessie's Parrot Page 11