Aunt Kitty's Tales

by Madame Guizot

  CHAPTER IX.

  REPENTANCE.

  We walked home quite slowly, on Harriet's account. We had been so longaway that Florence would, I thought, have become quite tired ofloneliness and ill-humor, and quite prepared to welcome us withcheerful, friendly smiles; indeed I should not have been greatlysurprised to meet her on the way, or at least to see her in the piazzawatching for us. But we reached the house--entered the piazza--passedinto the parlor, and still no Florence was seen. I called her, but shedid not answer, and a servant told me she thought Miss Florence had goneto lie down, as she had told her that she was sick, and did not want anydinner. I went to her room immediately, and found her asleep. She hadevidently been weeping, for her face was flushed, her eyelids red andswollen, and as I stood by her, she sobbed heavily more than once.Harriet had stolen in after me without my seeing her, and as I turned todarken a window, the light from which shone directly on Florence, shelooked anxiously in my face, and asked in a whisper, "Is she very sick,Aunt Kitty?"

  I did not like to tell Harriet that I thought Florence more sulky thansick, so I only replied, "I hope not, my dear. She has cried herself tosleep, and if awoke now, will probably have a headache, so we will lether sleep on."

  When we had dined, Mary prepared to return home. Harriet had quiterecovered from her fatigue, and I proposed that she should go home withMary and spend the afternoon. She hesitated at this for a little while,and then said, "I had rather go to Mrs. O'Donnel's with you, AuntKitty."

  "But, Harriet, I would rather you should go to your uncle's."

  Seeing she still lingered by me, and looked dissatisfied, I added, "Ihave a very good reason for my wish, Harriet, which, if I should tell itto you, would, I am sure, make you go cheerfully; but I would rather youshould trust me, and do what I ask without hearing my reason. Can younot?"

  She readily answered, "Yes," and getting her bonnet, only stopped to askthat I would let her know how little Jem was as soon as I came back.This I promised, and she and Mary set out.

  It was on account of Florence that I had sent Harriet away. I had atfirst been interested in this little girl for her mother's sake, but Ihad now become much attached to her and deeply interested in her for herown sake. She was naturally a child of quick feelings and warmaffections, and I could not see her anxiety to please me, her lovingremembrance of her father and mother, her constant solicitude aboutthem, and her delight at hearing of them, without regarding hertenderly, and earnestly desiring to see that one fault removed, whichwas daily acquiring strength, and which would in time destroy all thatwas pleasing or amiable in her character. For this one fault, which I amsure I need not tell my readers was selfishness, I found, too, moreexcuse in the circumstances of Florence, than I could have found inthose of most children. She was an only child, and her fond father andmother had always so plainly shown that they considered her the firstobject in life, and thought that every thing should yield to her wishes,that Florence is perhaps scarcely very much to blame for having learnedto think so too. I had long wished for an opportunity to show Florenceher own selfishness and its great evil, and as Margaret had, while I wasat Mrs. O'Donnel's, told me what she knew of the morning's adventures, Ibelieved that this opportunity I had now found. That Mary had spoken thetruth to Florence on this subject, I did not doubt; but I was as surethat this truth had been spoken, not in love, but in anger, and thisnever profits any one. I did not think it would be necessary for me tospeak at all, for I thought Florence had now prepared for herself alesson which would tell her all I wished her to know, far more forciblythan any words of mine could do. What this lesson was, how I inducedFlorence to look at it, and what were its effects on her, you shall nowhear.

  When Florence awoke, I was sitting by her bedside, and I met her firstglance with a pleasant smile. She cast a wondering look around her, andagain resting her eyes on me, asked, "Where is Harriet?"

  "Gone home with Mary," I replied; "and I want you to make a visit, andtake a drive with me,--so get up, lazy one, and when you have washedyour face and brushed your hair, come to the parlor, and you shall havesome dinner."

  As I spoke, I playfully lifted Florence from the bed, and placed herstanding on the floor, and before she had time to ask any furtherquestions, or make any objections, I was gone. When she came out, I hadsuch a dinner prepared for her, as I knew would best please her taste,and near it stood a small basket filled with choice fruit. Florence washungry, and said little till she had finished her dinner. She then askedwhere I was going.

  "I am going to take a drive to a farmer's about four miles off, who hasthe best cherries in the neighborhood,--but first, I am going to Mrs.O'Donnel's to see her sick baby, and I want you to go with me, and helpme take her some things which I think may be of use to him."

  While speaking, I laid a small bundle on the table by Florence. Shelooked at the bundle, then at me, and then down on the floor. At lastshe spoke, "I do not want to go to Mrs. O'Donnel's."

  "Do not want to go to Mrs. O'Donnel's! I am very sorry for that, for Imust take these things to the baby. But why do you not wish to go?"

  "Mary called me selfish this morning, and--and--I do not want to gothere."

  "Mary called you selfish! I will not ask you why she did so, because, asI would not let her tell me your quarrels, I must not be partial andhear them from you; but surely to refuse to do a kind action to a sickbaby, is not the best way to convince her that she was unjust." I sawthat Florence hesitated, and pursuing my purpose, said, "Come, put onyour bonnet, and do not let Mary's petulance prevent your doing right,and deprive me of my companion."

  As she had no objection to make, Florence put on her bonnet, took up thebundle, and followed me, though I could see it was with inwardreluctance. During our walk I spoke to her cheerfully and pleasantly,leaving her but little time for thought.

  When we came in sight of the house, she became grave and silent. I, too,ceased talking. I held Florence's hand, and, as we approached the door,I could feel that she drew back; but I took no notice of her efforts,and she entered with me into the presence, to all appearance, of thedying. Florence had never before stood by the side of one so ill; and tosee the pretty, laughing baby, with whom she had played so gayly but afew days since, lying so changed; to hear his deep, groaning breath; tosee the poor mother, as she sat, shedding no tear, making no moan, butgazing on her child with a hopeless agony which none could mistake, wasenough to cause her to turn pale and burst into tears; yet I thought itprobable that Mary's angry speeches were now remembered, and that someof the bitterness of remorse was in the heart of Florence. No one movedwhen we entered. Even Dr. Franks, who was there, remained seated,holding his watch in his hand, and occasionally making a sign toMargaret to give the child some medicine which stood on a table by her.I was myself overcome, for though I had expected to find the child ill,I had not been prepared for such apparent hopelessness in his case. PoorFlorence! Her lesson was likely to be more severe than I hadanticipated.

  Seeing that I could do no good, feeling that I could speak no comfortthere, I quietly laid down what I had brought on the floor beside Mrs.O'Donnel, and taking the hand of the weeping Florence, passed out. Dr.Franks followed me. I heard his step, and turning, when we were farenough from the door not to be heard within the house, I asked himwhether he had any hope that the child would recover.

  "Only that hope," he replied, "which we feel as long as there is life.He cannot long remain as he now is; if he recover at all, he will soonshow signs of being better. If I could have been called earlier, evenhalf an hour earlier, before the child's strength had been so farexhausted, the case would have been comparatively simple, and easilyrelieved; but now--" and he shook his head despondingly.

  Florence had looked up anxiously in Dr. Franks' face while he wasspeaking. She now dropped her head, covered her face with her hands, andsobbed loudly and violently. This caused the doctor to look at her, andthat look probably reminded him of Harriet, for he said, "By the by, Inever knew Harriet so thoughtless as in t
his business. Why, when shefound I was not at home, did she not ride on for me herself, instead ofwaiting for a boy to catch and saddle another horse, a business of halfan hour at least, all which time I was riding away from here, so that itmade a difference of fully an hour in the time of my arriving. That hourwould, in all probability, have saved the child."

  Any excuse for Harriet would have seemed an accusation to poorFlorence's excited mind, and I was silent, but as the doctor said, "Thathour would in all probability have saved the child," her cries became sowild and distressing, that I moved with her farther from the house,while the doctor returned to his post.

  "What is the matter, Florence?" said I; "why are you so much distressed?Is it because you fear the baby will die?"

  "No, no, it's because I've killed him--oh! I've killed him," sherepeated, with almost frantic vehemence; "the doctor says so; the doctorsays if Harriet had rode he would have got well, and I would not letHarriet ride."

  I never felt my own helplessness, my own littleness, and God's supremepower, so much as at this moment. Here was the very lesson which I hadwished to teach Florence, which I had brought her there to learn, _thegreat evil of her selfishness_. I had wished her to see that pale,suffering baby--to feel grieved--to be angry with herself, that for atrifling amusement she had been willing to prolong those sufferings, tolengthen out his mother's sorrow,--perhaps, to make the lesson moreimpressive, I would have been willing that Florence should feel for someminutes an apprehension that the disease would terminate fatally. Buthere was no vain apprehension; the child was, to all appearance, dying;his physician believed that he would die, and I felt that, if he did,Florence would always suffer from the conviction that she had caused hisdeath. As I heard her frantic cries, and saw her agitated frame, Itrembled for the consequences. I stood awed before that Almighty Beingwho was teaching me as well as her, the great sin of selfishness, thesuffering which follows all sin, was teaching us that the only path ofsafety is that narrow path of right-doing which He has marked out forus, and that the slightest wandering from this path might lead to woesof which we had not even dreamed. These are solemn lessons, which I hopemy little readers will learn from the example of others, that they maynever, like Florence, be taught them in their own persons.

  In my fears for Florence I could find no comfort, but in the remembrancethat God, her great Teacher, was also her loving Father. While I wasstanding beside her, unable to speak, striving, with mute caresses, tosooth her agony, with a sudden movement she looked up to me, exclaiming,"Oh! beg the doctor to make him well."

  "The doctor, my dear Florence, cannot make him well; God only can dothat."

  "Well, beg God, then."

  "I will, dear Florence, and so may you, for He is as near to you as tome, and He hears the simplest prayer of the simplest child."

  In an instant she was on her knees beside me, exclaiming, in the mostimploring tones, "Oh, God! please to make the baby well,--oh! please tomake him well."

  Florence had often said her prayers, but this was probably the firsttime she had ever prayed from the heart. I stooped down to her, andsaid--"And please take this wicked selfishness from the heart ofFlorence, that she may not do such great wrong again, and bring suchsorrow on herself and others." She repeated my words slowly andsolemnly, adding, "and oh! please make the baby well," and concludingher prayer with the sacred form to which she had been accustomed, "ForChrist's sake, Amen," she rose up comparatively calm. Hers had been aprayer of such simple faith as none but a simple-hearted child, andthose who, in the words of our Saviour, become as little children, canoffer, and such prayer always brings consolation.

  "Now, Aunt Kitty, let us go back to the house:"--seeing I hesitated,Florence added, "you need not be afraid that I will make any noise; Iwill be very still. I only want to go where I can see him."

  The fear that Florence would make a noise had not been the cause of myhesitation. It was on her own account. I had wished Florence, as I havealready said, to feel the evil of her selfishness; I did not wish her toforget the pain she had suffered and was suffering; I would not havedriven away, if I could, the serious thoughts which were now in hermind; but her agitation had been so great as to make me very anxious,and I hesitated to take her back where she might be yet further excited.She appeared, however, so much in earnest in her wish, that, after alittle consideration, I thought it wisest to indulge her, and wereturned to the house. Florence seated herself on a low stool byMargaret, on whose lap the baby now lay, and watched him with scarcelyless constancy than his mother. Her lips frequently moved, and I had nodoubt that she was again asking God to make him well.

  I will not weary you by telling you how long we watched there, orthrough what changes the little sufferer passed. The sun was not yetset, when his symptoms were so materially amended that the doctor saidto Mrs. O'Donnel, "Now, my good woman, be comforted; your child isbetter, and will, I hope, with care, soon be well."

  The poor mother had uttered no sound for many hours, but now herlong-smothered feelings burst out. With a wild cry she started up, and,holding out her arms, would have caught her child to her bosom; but thedoctor, pushing her back into her seat, whispered, "Hush, hush--he issensible now, and you may frighten him into another fit."

  She hushed her cry in a moment, and remained quiet in her chair; but sheburst into tears and wept piteously. As soon as she recovered her voice,she exclaimed, "God bless you, sir; God bless you all, for it's goodyou've been to me, watching by the poor, lone woman's child, as if hehad been the rich man's son. And he will be better, you say, before Patcomes. Oh! glad am I, poor fellow, that he didn't see him at the worst."

  When I could look around for Florence, she had left the cabin. I wentout and saw her standing by the carriage, which had been some timewaiting for us. She was speaking eagerly to Henry, and as she turned tomeet me, I saw that she looked much excited, though very happy. I found,too, that her head and hands were feverish to the touch, and I becamevery anxious to get her quietly home. When I proposed going, however,Florence replied, "Not yet," and turned towards the house.

  I put my arm around her, and drawing her to me, said very seriously,"Florence, you asked God a little while ago to take away all selfishnessfrom your heart. Do you remember it?"

  "Yes," she immediately replied, "and I hope he will, now that He hasmade the baby well."

  "I am sure He will, Florence, if you only show that you were sincere inasking it, by watching your own feelings, and resisting your selfishinclinations."

  "Well, so I will," said Florence.

  "Then, my love, you will do now as I wish you. By remaining longer hereyou may make yourself sick from fatigue and excitement, and so, for thegratification of your own inclinations, give great pain to me and to allwho love you. This would be selfish, would it not?"

  "Yes," said Florence, "so it would, though I did not know it;" and sheentered the carriage without further hesitation.

  This was probably the first time that Florence had ever voluntarilyyielded her own wishes to those of another--the first generous act shehad ever performed. It may seem to my readers a very little thing, but Ifelt that Florence had resisted herself, had conquered herself, and thisis never a little thing.

  When we got home I sent the carriage on for Harriet, and giving Florenceher tea without any delay, went with her, early as it was, to her room,promising, if she went to bed at once, to sit with her till she slept.She had been accustomed by her mother to say her prayers aloud, and Iwas glad to hear, as I listened to her this evening, that she did notforget to thank God for making little Jem well. She was very muchdisposed to talk when she had lain down; but as I was desirous to keepher as quiet as possible, I told her that in the morning I would hearall she had to say, and that now I would tell her a story of her motherand myself when we were children. A story was what of all thingsFlorence most liked to hear, so she was very attentive to me, andbegged, when I had ended one, that I would tell her another. I took carethat the second should not be very interesting, a
nd before it wasfinished, Florence was in a sleep which, though at first disturbed andnervous, soon became quiet, and from which she did not awake till thesun was shining brightly on another day.