Bessie in the City
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That evening it seemed as if "chance," as he called it, was again about to favor him. Mrs. Stanton and Miss Annie were there, and after dinner all the ladies and the younger children were gathered in the parlor; while the two boys were at their lessons in the little study-room at the head of the stairs. Mr. Moore was out. Mr. Bradford had left the room a short time since, saying he, too, must go out for a while, and the servants, George knew, were at their tea. Now was his time.
Making some excuse to leave the parlor, he ran up-stairs till he reached the first turning. The door of the study-room stood ajar. Pshaw! The boys would hear him. He peeped in. No one there but Harry, studying after his usual fashion, with his elbows on the table, his head between his hands, and his fingers thrust into his ears to shut out all sound that might take his attention from his book. Fred must have gone to his own room in the third story. He should hear him if he came down. Headlong, noisy Fred was sure to give notice of his coming.
But he must make haste. There is not a moment to lose. Almost forgetting his caution in his guilty hurry, he ran quickly up the few remaining steps, and along the hall to Mrs. Bradford's room. He stole in as he had done once before. The jet of gas in the burner over the dressing-bureau which held the coveted prize was turned down very low, but the bright fire dancing in the grate made the room quite light enough for his guilty purpose.
He opened the drawer and took up the box. How light it was! and there was no rattle of pennies, none of what dear little Maggie had called, in the joy of her heart, "her log-cabin music." He touched the spring, and the box flew open. Empty! He stood for a moment looking into it, then turned it up to the firelight to make sure there was nothing within. As he did so, he heard steps behind him; a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up with a start, he saw Mr. Bradford's face sternly bent upon him, while at his elbow he met Fred's clear, honest eyes blazing with scorn and indignation. His own fell to the ground, and there he stood, like the mean, pitiful thing he was, trembling and cowering, the open box still in his hand.
There was a moment's silence, and then Fred broke forth.
"So it was you, you rascal! you mean, sneaking, cowardly thief! You are the fellow that robs little girls of their hard-earned money! You – you – you – " Fred's passion was choking him.
"Hush, hush, my son!" said Mr. Bradford, sadly; "it is not for you to reproach this unhappy boy. Leave him to me. Go to your play, if you can play after what you have seen."
Fred laid both his own hands on that which rested on George's shoulder. "Take your hand from him then, father; he is not fit to be touched by an honest man, by an honorable gentleman! A thief!"
"Go, go, Fred, and do not speak of this till you see me again."
Fred obeyed, as he knew he must when his father spoke in that tone.
"Now," said Mr. Bradford sternly to the guilty boy, "go in there;" and he pointed to the door of his dressing-room.
Trembling, and fearing he knew not what, but not daring to disobey, George did as he was told. Mr. Bradford followed, silently put beyond George's reach everything on which he might lay his hands, locked every drawer and closet, and then turned to leave the room.
George started forward. "What are you going to do?" he stammered.
"Leave you here till your father comes. I cannot deal with you, for, thank God, you are not my child."
"Oh, don't, don't!" said the wretched boy, falling on his knees. "Oh, I did not mean to – I was only looking – he will punish me so – I would not have taken – "
"Hush, hush," said Mr. Bradford, "and do not kneel to me. Do not add to your sin by trying to deny it, but think over what you have done; and when your poor father comes, be ready to make confession to him, and to the God against whom you have sinned."
"But don't tell father; he will be so angry; he minds such things so much. He – he never would forgive me."
"And yet the son of such a father could do this terrible thing? I grieve to tell him, George; rather, far rather, even for my own sake, would I pass over this in silence, and let you go unpunished; but it is a duty I owe to you, as well as to him, not to let you go on unchecked in sin. I see, too, poor boy, that it is the fear of punishment, not of distressing your kind father, which makes you so anxious that I should not tell him. You do not yet see your guilt, unhappy child; you only dread the pain and shame which it has brought upon yourself."
As Mr. Bradford ceased speaking, Mr. Moore's short, quick step was heard in the hall, and the next moment he rapped upon the door. Fred, going down-stairs, had met him coming in, and was asked where George was. He had answered, "Up-stairs;" but he had been so shocked and distressed by what he had seen that Mr. Moore had noticed his manner, and asked if anything were wrong with George. Fred would not say what the trouble was, but told Mr. Moore where he would find his son.
Mr. Bradford opened the door.
"Fred told me that George was here," said Mr. Moore, looking much disturbed. "What is wrong?" he asked, as he saw his son's guilty, miserable face.
"Will you tell your father, George, or shall I?" asked Mr. Bradford.
But George only cried and sobbed, saying, "he did not mean to – it was very hard – he was only looking" – till Mr. Moore once more asked Mr. Bradford to explain what all this meant.
Mr. Bradford told the story in as few words as possible, – how his little daughters had shown George the secret of the box, telling him why they were laying by the money; how that morning two of the notes had been missed, and the false one found in their place (as he spoke, taking the bill from his pocket-book and handing it to Mr. Moore); how Mrs. Bradford had put the rest of the money in a safer place; and lastly, how he and Fred had just seen George go to the drawer and take out the box, as if with the intention of adding to his sin by a new theft.
It was a hard thing for Mr. Bradford to do; he knew how he should feel himself if one of his own boys had done this. He was very much grieved for his friend, and when he had told all as gently as possible, he went away, and left him alone with his unhappy son. What passed between them it is not necessary to tell you. George would have denied his guilt even now, but the false note in his father's hand made this impossible.
Maggie and Bessie did not see him again, for Mr. and Mrs. Moore left the next morning at an hour even earlier than they had intended; for after this terrible sorrow had come upon them, they felt that they could not bear to meet any of Mr. Bradford's children again.
Perhaps you may like to know how Fred and his father discovered George's guilt. It so happened that Fred's quick temper had brought him into more trouble at school, and he did not know exactly how to act in the matter. He had finished his lessons, and was thinking this over when he heard his father come up-stairs and go to his dressing-room.
"I've a great mind to tell papa, and see what he says of it," he said to himself. To think and to do were with Fred one and the same thing; and the next moment he was with his father, asking if he would wait and hear his story. He might have been sure of that; Mr. Bradford always had time to spare if his children needed his help or advice.
Fred told his story, and they were sitting talking it over in low tones when George's step was heard in the next room. The dressing-room was quite in the shade, and though George neither saw nor heard those who were within, he himself was plainly seen through the open door, at his guilty work.
And now, like our Maggie and Bessie, we need have no more to do with this poor boy, and will take leave of him. The little girls were not told that the thief had been discovered. Their mother thought it would only shock and distress them, while it could serve no good purpose for them to know it. They wondered, and talked of it between themselves for a few days; and then there were so many pleasanter things to think of that they forgot all about it.
XV.
THE SNOW
THESE were indeed pleasant times, and very happy children were our Maggie and Bessie. The only trouble was that night would come, and put an end to first one and then another of these delightful days, and that, as Maggie said, they had to stop enjoying themselves "just to go to sleep."
"I wish the sun always shone in this country," she said, "and that night never, never came."
"What would the little children on the other side of the world say to that?" said papa. "If you had the ruling of day and night, and kept the sun all the time on one side, how do you think they would like to have it always night?"
"Oh! I did not think about that," said Maggie. "I suppose it would be pretty selfish. I guess I had better wish for two suns, one on our side, and one on theirs."
"Or, better still, rest satisfied that our heavenly Father has ordered all things, night and day, sun, moon, and stars, as is best for his own glory and the happiness and comfort of all his creatures," said Mr. Bradford. "I think even my wide-awake Maggie would tire of the light of the sun if it should shine for the twenty-four hours, day after day, and the quiet, blessed night never come, when we might close our tired eyes, and take the rest we need."
"Could we not sleep in the day-time if we were tired, papa?"
"We might sleep, but not as well or as pleasantly as we now do when all is dark and quiet."
"Then if I was to wish for two suns, I'd better wish we should never be tired or sleepy."
"So you might go on wishing forever, and if you had the power, changing first one and then another of the wise laws which our Father in heaven has made for the good of all. And what distress and confusion this would make! What a miserable, unhappy world this would be if you, or some other weak, human creature who cannot see the end from the beginning, and cannot tell what would be the consequence of his wishes, were allowed such power. No, we may thank God, not only that he does what is best for us, but also that he has allowed none but himself to be the judge of this."
"So I had better be contented to have the night as it is, papa; is that what you mean? Perhaps other people would not like to have things as I did, and they might think I was a very disagreeable child to have them my way; and I should not like that at all."
"I would not be glad if there was never any night," said Bessie, who was always more ready than her sister to go to rest.
"Then I wont wish it," said Maggie; "and I shall just always try to think 'our Father' knows best, even if I don't feel quite suited myself."
One afternoon, about dark, it began to snow, much to the children's delight; for grandmamma had promised a sleigh-ride whenever it should be possible. All night the soft, feathery flakes fell gently and steadily, so that in the morning the ground was covered thickly with a beautiful white mantle.
Since the weather had become cold, each day, after breakfast, Maggie and Bessie were allowed to throw out crumbs for the sparrows and chickadees, who came about the house to find something to eat. The birds seemed to know the hour almost as well as the children, and seldom came for their breakfast before the right time. But on this morning the little girls were scarcely down-stairs, when their brother called them to come and see what a flock of their pets had already gathered on the piazza and window-ledge. For the ground being all covered with snow, there were no stray crumbs or seeds to be found; and the chickadees and sparrows, being early risers, found themselves hungry and in need of their regular breakfast rather sooner than usual; and now the prints of their tiny feet were to be seen all over the snow, while twice the ordinary number of birds hopped about the piazza, or perched upon the railing and window-ledge, chirping away, twitching their little heads from side to side, and watching the children with their bright, twinkling eyes as if asking what made them so late.
Away ran Maggie to ask Patrick for a piece of bread, and came back with a rush and a jump and a sudden shove at the window which put every mother's bird of them to flight. In her hurry to feed them, she quite forgot that they were so easily startled, and was much distressed when she saw them all flying off in a great fright.
However, the bread was crumbled and thrown out; and by the time prayers were over, the whole flock were back again, pecking away with much satisfaction, and twittering and chirping as if they were telling each other what very kind people lived in this house, and how thankful they should be for such good friends. At least, this was what Maggie told Franky they meant, as he watched them with his chubby face pressed close against the window-pane.
"No shoes and stottins," said he. "Poor birdies! Dere foots too told. Mamma buy shoe for birdies."
His little sisters thought this very sweet and funny in Franky, and they hugged and kissed him till he thought he had said something very fine, and kept repeating it over and over again.
Pretty soon it stopped snowing, and the sun came out. Then Maggie and Bessie were much amused in watching the people clearing the snow from the sidewalks, and the boys snow-balling one another. Presently Mrs. Bradford missed Franky from the room. As she had the baby, she could not go after him, but sent Maggie.
She ran from room to room, but could not find her little brother. When she opened the nursery door, and put in her head, she rather wondered to see the bureau-drawers open, and several things lying scattered over the floor; but she did not think much about it, for there was no one there, and she must find Franky. As she went down-stairs again, she saw the back-door was standing open, and went to shut it. Here she met Franky coming in with very rosy cheeks, and his face all smiles, as if he were well pleased with himself.
"Oh, Franky!" said Maggie, "what made you go out in the cold with no hat and coat? Didn't you hear me calling you?"
"Yes," said Franky.
"Then why didn't you come?"
"Me too busy," said the little boy; and away he ran into the parlor, while Maggie went to shut the door. To her great surprise, she saw the piazza strewn with shoes and stockings, – her own, Bessie's, and Franky's, and even a pair or two of baby's little worsted socks. She came in, and followed Franky.
"Franky," said Mrs. Bradford, "did you not hear mamma calling?"
"Yes'm," said he again, "but me too busy."
"But you must always come right away when mamma calls. What were you doing?"
"Me dave de birdies shoes and stottins," said Franky; "dere foots too told."
Then Maggie told her mother what Franky had done, and nurse coming in just then, Mrs. Bradford sent her to see. Sure enough, the little rogue had gone up-stairs, and filling his skirt with his own and his sisters' shoes and stockings, had scattered them upon the piazza, thinking that the birds could make use of them. Maggie and Bessie thought this a most capital joke, and even nurse, who was much displeased, could not help smiling as she heard their merry peals of laughter. Mamma did not scold Franky, for she did not think he meant to do anything naughty, but she told him he must never do so again, and that the birds did not need shoes and stockings to keep their feet warm.
"But, mamma," said Maggie, "how is it the birds do not have their feet frozen in the snow and the cold? If we were to go hopping about with bare feet, it would hurt very much, and we would be sick; but the sparrows do not mind it at all."
"Because God has fitted them, dear, as he has all his creatures, for the life which he means them to lead. He has given to the sparrows and chickadees, not soft, tender feet like yours, but horny claws on which they can hop over the snow and gravel without feeling the cold, or being hurt. See by this how he has cared for all he has made; the smallest or weakest bird or animal is known and watched over by his all-seeing eye. When our Saviour was on earth, he chose these little birds to teach us a most precious lesson. Once when he was talking to his disciples, after telling them that they were to fear God, and not man, he wished to show them how constant and watchful was God's care of his people, and he said, 'Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore; ye are of more value than many sparrows.' A Roman farthing was less than a cent and a half, so that one of these sparrows cost less than a penny, and this was meant to teach us that if each of these little birds which was worth so small a sum is known and remembered by the Almighty; if not one of them can fall and die unless he sees it, how great must be his care and love for us, whom he has called 'of more value than many sparrows,' and for whom he gave his only Son to die upon the cross. It is a very sweet and comforting thought to know that he never forgets us, and that no harm can come near us, unless he knows and permits it."
"And it ought to make us think that he sees what we are doing, and knows if we are even a little bit naughty. Ought it not, mamma?" said Bessie.
"Yes, darling, and it should make us very careful not to grieve or displease him by even a wicked thought or angry feeling."
"'Cause when he sees it, he thinks we are ungrateful about his Jesus," said the thoughtful little Bessie.
This was Saturday and a holiday, when the children had no lessons, and the boys did not go to school; and about twelve o'clock Harry and Fred came in with Tom Norris, Walter Stone, and Johnny Ransom; they were all four going into the yard to build a snow-man, and Harry begged that his sisters might go, too, saying that he and Fred would take care of them. Mamma had no doubt of this, and she said Maggie might go, but she was afraid to have Bessie play in the snow, lest she should take cold. Maggie said she would not go if her sister might not; but Bessie told her to go, and she would stand at the library-window and watch them at their work. Maggie still hesitated, but her mother said she would see that her sister did not feel lonely while she was gone, and having been well wrapped up, she at last went with the boys.
To say that Bessie was not disappointed and did not very much wish that she, too, might have a share in the delightful play, would not be true. But though a tear came into her eye as she saw the others run off, she bore it bravely.
"Mamma, you would be sure to let me go if you thought it best; wouldn't you?" she asked, lifting her face to her mother to be kissed.
"Indeed, I would, my sweet child; you may be certain mamma would never take from you any pleasure she thought safe for you; but it would be wrong and foolish in me to let you go when you would probably take cold and be sick. And now what shall we do to amuse ourselves. If you like to stand by the window and see the boys, I will bring my work and tell you a story, or we will sit by the fire, and I will read to you."
Bessie chose the first, for she said that would be two pleasures at one time.
When Mrs. Bradford came back with her work-basket, Bessie was standing on a chair by the window, and she turned to her mother with a very bright face.
"Mamma," she said, "come and see what a nice time Maggie is having. I think I am 'most glad you didn't let me go, 'cause if I was playing myself, I could not see how much she 'joys herself. Just hear her laugh!" and Bessie laughed merrily herself.
Mamma stooped and kissed her sweet-tempered, generous little daughter, who, instead of fretting and making herself and others miserable because she could not do as she wished, not only contented herself with the pleasures which were left to her, but really tried to find comfort in her very disappointment.
Maggie did indeed seem to be enjoying herself. The boys had begun their snow-man, but she found that rather hard work, and, having asked leave, was snow-balling her playfellows with all her might. She was not very apt to hit them, for her small hands could not take very sure aim in her thick worsted mittens; but whenever she missed her mark, she became only more eager, and, hit or miss, her gleeful laugh rang out all the same. Mrs Bradford found that no story was needed; so engaged was Bessie in watching the frolicsome antics of her sister, that she had no thought of anything else. In the height of her play, Maggie did not forget every few moments to stop and kiss her hand and nod and smile at the two dear faces in the library-window. When her mother thought she had been out long enough, she called her in, and she came all glowing and rosy with her play in the fresh, cold air.
"Tom says the sleighing is splendid. I hope grandmamma wont forget us."
"No fear of that," said mamma; and she had scarcely spoken when Aunt Annie's smiling face appeared at the door.
"Well, little polar-bear, where did you come from?" she asked, taking hold of the bundle of furs and wrappings which called itself Maggie.
"Out of the icebergs to eat you up," growled Maggie, pretending to be the bear Aunt Annie had called her.
"Very well, sir, I suppose you have a good appetite since you have come so far; but, of course, if I am eaten up, you cannot expect my mother to go sleigh-riding with the fellow that has made a meal upon her child."
When Maggie heard this, she declared that she was no longer a polar-bear, but just Aunt Annie's own little niece, who would not eat her up even if she were starving, and whom it was quite safe to take sleigh-riding. Both she and Bessie were wild with delight. They could scarcely eat their dinner, and the moment it was over, ran away to the nursery to be dressed for the ride.
When the sleigh came to the door, Aunt Annie said she had two polar-bears to ride with her, and pretended to be quite alarmed. But both the bears proved to be very well-behaved, and neither bit nor scratched; although they did now and then hug a little as they sat, the one between mamma and grandmamma, and the other between Aunt Annie and Aunt Helen; for Aunt Helen had come from Riverside to make her mother a visit and to stay till after Christmas.
"We are to have a Christmas tree, Aunt Helen," said Maggie.
"And all our people are to come," said Bessie.
"We have a great deal to do yet," said Maggie. "There are a great many presents to buy, and Christmas will be here one week from yesterday, mamma said so. Aunt Annie, you said you would take us shopping for those things mamma is not to know about."
"Very well," said Aunt Annie, laughing. "I suppose I may as well give up Monday to it, if your mother will let you go."
Mamma was quite willing it should be so, if the weather were fine. The things which she was not to know about were her own, and papa's Christmas presents. The book-marks were all worked. Those for Colonel and Mrs Rush were quite finished and laid away; but the two which were intended for papa and mamma still wanted the ribbon, and this was one of the things to be bought. Then Maggie was to buy some trifle for papa, and Bessie one for mamma. They were not trifles to them, however, but very great and important purchases, and there was a great deal of whispering and hiding in corners. It was rather a singular circumstance, but one which was very convenient, that mamma never asked what they were doing, or even seemed to see that they were engaged with some work in which she was not asked to help.
They had a lovely drive. All the sleighs and cutters in the city seemed to have turned out for the first fine sleighing; and the air was full of the jingling of the merry bells, and the shouts and laughter of the boys as they pelted each other with snow-balls, or went skimming along on their sleds. The Central Park looked beautiful in its pure white dress which lay so smoothly, just as it had fallen from the hand of the kind Father above; and Maggie said the trees and bushes thought white feathers were becoming, and so had dressed themselves out as if they were going to a Christmas party.
XVI.
SHOPPING FOR CHRISTMAS
ON Monday afternoon Aunt Annie came for the children, according to promise, and Aunt Helen was with her.