Chapter IX: Minny's Excuses

ENTERING upon her resolution fortified by Elsie's advice, Henrietta confessed every thing to her mother before she slept. She concealed nothing that she could remember, from her first deviation from truth in school to her disgraceful behaviour in church and the affair of the composition, throwing as little blame as possible upon Minny. Deeply grieved as Mrs. Laurens was, she could not but rejoice that her daughter had been stopped short in her career of deception, and also that she took in such a good spirit the severe lesson which circumstances had taught. She was pleased, too, that Henrietta showed no desire to excuse herself at the expense of her companion,—friend she could hardly be called,—though her eyes seemed opened to Minny's true character at last. She could not say enough in praise of Elsie's conduct both before and after the discovery.

"Only think, mother, what sacrifices Elsie was making all the time that we were treating her so,—giving up her music-lessons that she was so anxious about, and spending all her money on the soldiers, and never saying one word about it. Nobody knew but Rose."

"Why did not Rose tell?" asked her mother.

"I believe Elsie asked her not to say any thing about it," replied Henrietta.

"Rose always defended her, however, and told Minny she should believe Elsie's word before hers any day, because she had never known Elsie tell a falsehood. Minny was so angry."

"Yes, I dare say. A great many people who do not in the least scruple to tell a lie are very angry at being accused of it."

"Well, mother, I blame myself a great deal more than I do Minny. I ought to have known what sort of a girl she was. I knew long ago that she would tell stories."

"What do you mean by stories, Henrietta?" interrupted her mother.

"Why, falsehoods,—stories, mother,—real lies!"

"Say lies, then, my dear. I think if people accustomed themselves to call that sin by its right name, they would be more careful about committing it."

"To be sure," said Henrietta, "it does sound differently to say one tells a lie. But the stories Minny told did not seem of so much consequence at first; they were only about little things. And she used to rattle on so, it was amusing to hear her. I know they could not be true, of course; and that ought to have put me on my guard.

"But there was another thing, worse than that: she would pretend to think all the world of girls, and be very intimate with them, and then talk about them in their absence. There was Bessie Dwight, her cousin,—she pretended to be so fond of her when she was with her, and Bessie believed it all, and perfectly worshipped Minny; but Minny made no scruple of calling her a little fool and an affected little doll, and saying her weak eyes and head were all a pretence,—she could see well enough when she had a novel to read. I dare say she talked so about it me behind my back."

"I have no doubt of it. Bessie is not the brightest girl in the world: her weak eyes have been a great disadvantage to her, but she is no fool. And if she were, it is not her cousin's place to proclaim it."

"And she is just as honest as the day is long," said Hetty. "But, mother, don't you think it is odd that Bessie should be able to read stories when she cannot study?"

"No, my dear. Reading stories requires a very different degree of application from learning lessons. Bessie is quite right in employing her mind as far as she is able,—even though that is not very far. But, Henrietta, all these things ought to have opened your eyes to Minny's true character; and, above all, what she said about Cecy. No person of any delicacy—of any decency—would have talked to you so about your sister."

"I know it, mother, and at first it did make me very angry. But by-and-by I did not seem to care so much. And then, oh, mother! I began to be vexed about her myself. I did not like to have people know that she was my sister, and I wished she could be sent away to some asylum where she could be out of sight."

"I am heartily glad that Madam Wentworth took this public way of putting a stop to the calumnies circulated about Elsie, and I trust it will be a lesson to all of you. But, my dear child, pray do not forgot that there is One whose pardon you have to ask, and whose forgiveness is of far more consequence to you than that of any earthly friend."

"I know it, mother: I try to think of that. Elsie and I talked about it, and she said something that comforted me very much,—about the Saviour's readiness to forgive; and she said she would pray for me. It seems as though I could have some comfort in saying my prayers, now. Every time I have tried to pray, lately, I have felt as though there was a great weight hanging over me, and I could only think of that verse in the Psalms:—

"'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'"

"You had no right to expect any thing else," said her mother, "so long as you persisted in your wrong course. Your prayers were a mockery and an insult to your Maker. But I hope all that is over now. I trust you see your past sins in a just light, and truly repent of them, and that you do earnestly intend to lead a new life, trusting in God to give you grace to do so. And in that case, you may approach your heavenly Father, humbly and sorrowfully indeed, but with confidence and love."

It was hard for Hetty to go to school the next day. She felt that she had lost all title to the respect of her companions. She knew how some of them would look at her, and she dreaded meeting Minny again. But she felt that all this was part of her just punishment, and she resolved to bear it as meekly as she might. She found it, however, easier than she expected.

Elsie met her with her bright face and kind smile, and most of the girls were too much ashamed of their own part in the affair to wish to keep it in mind longer than was necessary. Most of the girls were generous; and when, at recess, they were all gathered in the play-room, and Henrietta, with tears and a faltering voice, confessed to them how wrong she had been, and begged their pardon for so misleading them, there were few who were not ready to take their own share of the blame, and assure her, with kisses and kind words in abundance, that they should not remember it against her.

Minny had come to school in a very different spirit. She was determined, as she said, to face it out, and show that she was not to be put down by any of them. She had not given up all hope of conciliating Elsie, either. She had been brought up in such an overweening idea of her own consequence that she found it difficult to believe in the possibility of any one's being indifferent to her friendship or enmity. Her anger towards Henrietta knew no bounds, and she could not think of her former friend without feeling as though she should like to crush her on the spot. She was a little late in the morning, and saw none of the girls before school; but she mingled with them at recess as if nothing had happened, and was present when Henrietta made her confession.

"What a beautiful scene!" she sneered. "Really, Miss Laurens ought to go on the stage."

Then, vexed at the indignant glances with which her amiable comment was received, she continued, with growing anger, "But I think the confession is rather incomplete. Why don't you tell how you stole your French exercises out of the key, and wrote down your dates and distances, and read the 'Arabian Nights' in prayer-time? Oh, I could add a great deal to the catalogue if I chose."

"Only nobody would believe a word you said," observed Lizzy,—bluntly, as usual. "Every one knows you do those things yourself, and a great many more. We have a shelf full of the old 'Tokens' and 'Souvenirs' at our house, Minny, and some things in them are very interesting. I think I will lend them to Miss Armitage some day."

Minny coloured very much at this intimation.

"Don't, Lizzy," said Henrietta. "Please don't. It is all true that she says. I don't deny a word of it. And I want to say another thing. It was true that Minny told me not to tell any one."

"There!" said Minny, triumphantly. "She owns it; and yet I have to bear all the blame, and be publicly disgraced, while she is to be made a saint of, because, forsooth, after it is all found out, she confesses what every one knew before."

"Nobody makes a saint of Henrietta," said Augusta. "We all know that she has done wrong, and believe that she is sorry. That is very different. It would have been easy enough, Minny, for you to quash the whole thing by telling the true story, and showing how much—or how little, rather—it amounted to. But, instead of that, you agreed to every thing Hetty said—"

"When did I?" interrupted Minny.

"Here in school, and at your own house, when she appealed to you."

"I didn't say one word!" said Minny.

"You nodded, though, and that is just the same; and you hinted, very plainly, that you could tell more if you chose. If you were so very angry at Hetty for telling, why didn't you check her, instead of encouraging her?—As you did, till you found out something which you thought made it more worth your while to coax Elsie than to coax Henrietta?"

"What a fuss about nothing!" said Minny. "I didn't think it a matter of any consequence, any way. What does it signify who knits the socks, if the soldiers only got them?"

"Nothing to the soldiers; but a good deal to ourselves," replied Rose. "It signifies much whether we are true to our engagements. It signifies much whether we really do deny ourselves for others, or whether we only want to get the credit of it. And it signifies a great deal to us whether we tell the truth or tell lies."

The ringing of the bell broke up the conversation. Minny could not but feel that she had lost, rather than gained, so far. The sympathy of the girls was clearly with Henrietta. Not even Sarah Stone said one word to imply a doubt of Hetty's sincerity, and no one was inclined to reproach her.

"So much for the humble dodge," said Minny to herself; "but I will be even with her yet."

She could find to opportunity of speaking to Elsie that day; but the next, she contrived to join her going home, and intimated that she had something of consequence to say to her. Elsie was civil, but no more, and certainly gave no encouragement to any confidence. But Minny was not easily daunted when she had a point to carry, and proceeded in her usual way:—

"I think it is my duty to tell you, Elsie, though I don't suppose you will believe me. All the girls have made up their minds that I am a liar and a slanderer,—and that is all about it; but you have more sense than the rest of them. It is very cruel and unjust; but I can bear it." And Minny forced a few tears.

"If you have any thing good to say of any one, I shall be glad to hear it," replied Elsie, coldly.

Minny was rather disconcerted, but proceeded, nevertheless:—

"You thought I was very cold to you and treated you very badly when I first came to school; and so I did; but it was because I was misled about you. I was told—Well, I may as well tell you the whole. Hetty told me that you belonged to low people; that your father was only a book-keeper, and that your mother was a very vulgar woman and did her own work, and that she took in sewing besides."

"Suppose all that had been true: would it have been any reason for insulting me?" asked Elsie. "Is one to be treated with disrespect because one is poor?"

"Why, no, not because one is poor; but then, you know, Elsie, after all, distinctions must be preserved."

"Why must they?" asked Elsie. "And what sort of distinctions?"

Minny was not quite prepared to say why, so she disregarded the question, and went on:—"If Henrietta had not misled me so, I should never have treated you as I did. Of course, if I had known what I do now, I should not have asked you why you did not go out to service, and such things."

"If you had known what you do now?" repeated Elsie. "Do you mean if you had known that I was related to rich and fashionable people?"

Now, this was exactly what Minny did mean. But she had a perception that such a meaning, put into plain English, would not sound very well in Elsie's ears, so she changed her tactics.

"No, Elsie, that was not it; but Hetty told me that you were a very different sort of person from what I find you. She said you were vulgar and coarse, and not lady-like any way; that you used bad English; and that you talked as no young lady ought to talk. Of course, I believed what she said, as you and she had been intimate so long, and I was influenced by it."

"Why didn't you judge for yourself?" asked Elsie. "You saw me every day in school and in recess, and you could easily have known how I talked and behaved."

"Yes, but, you see, I was prejudiced against you by Hetty in the first place."

"But, Minny, you knew me before you knew her," said Elsie, much disgusted. "Henrietta was not in school the last part of last term. Don't you know that you sat at her desk next to me when you first came, and that Miss Armitage told you, you would have to take some other seat when Miss Laurens returned? We sat together nearly two months before you ever saw Henrietta, and surely you were not prejudiced against me then."

Minny had nothing to say. She had quite forgotten this circumstance. It is very unfortunate for liars to have short memories.

"Moreover," continued Elsie, "I cannot believe that Henrietta told you such things about me—"

"There it is!" interrupted Minny. "You won't believe a word I say. That is the very thing I complain of,—and all because I was so unlucky as to make a mistake that time. I must say, I don't think it is acting very much like a Christian. We ought to forgive and forget, the Bible says."

"It says we ought to forgive; but I don't remember any thing about forgetting," replied Elsie. "The Bible never commands impossibilities. If you mean that we ought not to dwell upon injuries and keep up our anger by thinking about them, that I admit, and that I try to do. But, Minny, since you have spoken plainly, will you excuse me if I do the same?"

"Of course," replied Minny. "That is just what I want."

"Well, then, I will," said Elsie. "I certainly had no prejudice against you when I first knew you. On the contrary, I liked your appearance very well till, one day when Miss Armitage was reading, I happened to look over you, and I saw that you had a story-book inside your Bible, which you were reading when you ought to have been following the lesson. That was one thing I did not like: I thought it was deceitful, besides being very irreverent. Then, as I saw more of you, I could not help finding out that you told lies."

"Elsie!" interrupted Minny. "How dare you use such a word to me?"

"Because it is the only word which expresses what I mean," said Elsie. "They were not very important always; but still you said what was not true. You were not at all particular in giving in your report, and you answered 'Perfect in conduct' a great many times when I knew that you had violated several rules. And you answered 'Perfect' in history, when you had all your dates written in the palm of your hand."

"But, Elsie, I don't call that a lie, exactly," said Minny, in rather subdued tones. "Miss Armitage did not ask me whether I had whispered, or whether I knew my dates by heart."

"Oh, Minny, don't deceive yourself in any such way: pray, don't! You know what is meant when we answer 'Perfect.' It is just as bad to act a lie as to tell one. And you did tell lies, besides. You told Miss Milford that your watch was half an hour too slow, when you know you set it back yourself in the dressing-room. And then—oh, Minny!—those compositions."

"But, Elsie, I do think you are hard upon me. Henrietta does things just as bad as these."

"She did not once," said Elsie. "Hetty and I have known each other since we were little. She is passionate sometimes, and she is apt to be idle; but she was just as truthful as daylight, till—"

"Till she knew me, I suppose. Is that it?" said Minny, as Elsie paused. "You may as well speak out," she added, with a forced laugh. "You can't well say any thing worse than you have said already."

"You know, Minny, I did not want to say any thing about it, but you would make me."

"Oh, I don't blame you," replied Minny; "and I don't deny it, either."

The girls walked along silently for some distance, and Elsie began to wonder what was coming next, when Minny said, suddenly,—

"Elsie, I do really want you to like me. I don't know why, I am sure; for no one ever said such things to me before. Come; I will tell you the truth for once, and you may believe me this time, for it don't sound very well for myself: I 'did' want to make friends with you, as you said, because I found out that Madam Wentworth was your aunt, and so on; but that is not all. I feel differently about it now. I like you for your own sake. Now, if I try to do differently,—if I tell the truth, I mean, and if I am honest about my lessons, and all that,—will you try to feel differently towards me?"

"I shall feel differently without trying," replied Elsie,—"especially if you make friends with poor Hetty."

"I don't know about that," said Minny, shaking her head.

"But, Minny," continued Elsie, very earnestly, "I wish you would not think so much about pleasing me. That is a very small matter. Think how wicked it is to tell such stories. Think what the Bible says about liars,—that no one who loveth or maketh a lie shall enter the kingdom of heaven, and that all liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone."

"Is that in the Bible?" asked Minny, in surprise.

"Why, Minny, don't you know that?"

"To tell you the truth, Elsie, I don't know a great deal about the Bible, any way. I never went to Sunday-school, and no one ever made me read it at home. To be sure, I heard it in school and in church; but I never paid much attention. It did not seem any matter that concerned me."

"But it does concern you, Minny,—you, and every one. It is God's own word, and tells us of his will, and the way of salvation, and all his goodness to us. It tells us how our Lord Jesus Christ took our nature upon him to save us from our sins, and all about his life and death."

"Yes, to be sure, I know that," said Minny. "I have a kind of general idea about all those things, as I have about the History of England, you know; but I never seemed to care about them. I never thought they had any thing to do with our every-day life in school and at home. You see, Elsie, I have not had much of a chance, after all. Father is always busy down town from morning till night; and when he is at home, he is reading the papers. Mother is sick a good deal, and when she is not sick, she is going out, or getting ready to go out. They never teach me any thing.

"I used always to stay with nurse till I was eight years old, only I went down in the parlour after dinner and sometimes when we had company. Nurse was very good to me in her way, but she used to tell stories awfully; and she taught me. Mother forbade nurse going to see any of her friends when I was with her; but she always did it, and I thought it was very good fun. I never had any playmates at some, you know. Then nurse would say, 'Miss Minny, if your mother asks you where you have been, you can say so-and-so;' and I did.

"But one day it all came out. Dr. H. saw me going with nurse into a house where there were some people sick with ship-fever. Of course nurse did not know that. She would have cut her hand off before she would have exposed me to any danger; for she really did love me dearly. But the doctor told mother, and nurse was sent away. Oh, how I did cry and bog them to let her stay! But it was of no use: she had to go.

"Then I was with mother a few weeks. But she soon grew tired of that, and really she couldn't see to me very well,—she had so many engagements: so I was sent to a school in the country. It was called a very select school,—about twenty girls, big and little; and, oh, how they did go on! It was there I got into the habit of eating so many sweet things. I suppose you will think it one of my old stories if I say we did not have enough to eat; but really, Elsie, we didn't. The table was handsomely set: we had china and cut-glass, and silver forks (but we carried those and our spoons from home), and a man to wait, and all the dishes were very genteel, only there was not half enough in them. Honestly and truly, I was hungry half the time.

"Well, the express-man came every day to the house, and we used to put our money together and send to the city for cakes and candy and all such things. Sometimes we would bribe the cook to give us milk and sugar, and then we made chocolate and coffee up in our own rooms. They wouldn't let me into the secret at first, because I was so little; but they soon found out I was sharp enough, and had plenty of money besides."

"But didn't the teachers ever find you out?" asked Elsie.

"If they did, they never interfered. I have sometimes thought they must have known. But the fact was, the whole thing was a sham,—sham lessons, sham teachers, sham every thing. Miss Brownfield taught drawing; but it was precious little of the drawing we did, I can tell you. She used to do more than half the pictures herself, and then 'finish it up,' as she said; and very differently it looked after it was finished. You would hardly have known it. It was just so with every single thing.

"We used sometimes to have public-days, when Miss Hatty examined us in our studies. She would open anywhere in the book, and seemed to skip about in the most promiscuous way; but every girl knew beforehand just what was coming to her."

"Oh, Minny!" interrupted Elsie.

"Any one that went to the school will tell you the same."

"But didn't you have any religious instruction?" asked Elsie.

"Oh, yes: that was the worst of it. Yes, Elsie, I really think it was. Miss Hatty was called religious, and Miss Brownfield was called religious. There was so much humbug about the whole thing that we couldn't help seeing,—I mean about the management of the school, and the house-keeping, and all that. They pretended to teach Chemistry and the Natural Sciences, and said in their advertisements that those branches were 'taught by competent professors and illustrated by a fine apparatus and cabinets of specimens,'—when, in fact, all the apparatus I ever saw was an old, broken electrical machine, and an air-pump about as good; and they were never used as long as I stayed in the school. There was something of a geological cabinet; but nothing was labelled, and the class never was referred to it. Of course the girls saw all these things,—they couldn't help it, and of course they didn't think much of the religion that allowed them."

"Of course they didn't!" said Elsie. "Oh, how much such people have to answer for!"

"Well, Elsie, now don't you think there is some excuse for me?"

"Certainly I do," replied Elsie. "But, Minny, you are older now, and can judge and act for yourself. And I don't think all this will continue to excuse you, now that you know better."

"But it is very hard, when one is in the habit of a thing, to leave it off," urged Minny. "And besides, the girls wouldn't believe me if I tried to do better. They would say I was making believe because I had a point to carry."

"You do them injustice," replied Elsie. "They might distrust you,—and with good reason. But if you persevered, they would believe you after a while. But, Minny, their opinion is not of so much importance. They can see only the outside; but God sees the heart, you know. I don't want to preach to you," she continued; but Minny interrupted her:—

"Do say just what you think, Elsie. I do believe you are a real Christian."

"Well then, Minny, I wish you would think of him, and ask him to forgive you and make you better. You know he must be displeased with you. And, oh, Minny, think if you should die!"

"Well, Elsie," said Minny, after a pause, "will you promise me one thing?"

"I must hear what it is first," replied Elsie, gently; "because it might be something I could not possibly do."

"Of course," returned Minny. "That is what I mean."

"Well," said Elsie, "I promise you I will, if it is possible."

"All I want is this: If you see me trying to be a better girl, to tell the truth and do my lessons honestly, will you try to believe that I do it because I want to be really better, and not because I have a point to carry,—not for what I said at first?"

"Yes, indeed I will," said Elsie, warmly, "and be very glad to do it. You don't know how I hate to distrust any one. It seems so mean to be suspicious. But then, you know, I really couldn't help it. But there is one thing I want to say before I go in." (They had been standing for some minutes at Mrs. Probert's door.) "If you try to be good in your own strength, you will fail."

"How do you mean in my own strength?" asked Minny.

"I mean that you must ask God to help you, to give you his Holy Spirit in your heart, and show you what is right and what is wrong."

"That is all very well for you to say," replied Minny, shaking her head; "and I don't doubt you mean every word of it; but it won't do for me."

"Won't do for you! What do you mean?"

"It would be all a sham if I were to pretend to any religion, Elsie. I haven't one bit."

"But, Minny—"

"Yes, I know: you think it is dreadful; and so it is, I suppose. But, Elsie, it wouldn't be making a very good beginning in telling the truth, if I were to pretend to be good when I don't care any thing about it. Now, would it?"

"But why need you pretend? Why can't you be in earnest?"

Minny shook her head again. "I don't think it is in me to care about such things. No, no! I am going to try to be a better girl. That I will promise; and perhaps the other will come in time."

"It must be the reverse of that, Minny."

"Perhaps so. But I mustn't keep you standing out here in the cold any longer. Good-by."

"What a long talk you have been having with Minny!" observed Mrs. Probert, as Elsie entered the parlour. "I thought you and she were not on very good terms,—not intimate, at least."

"No, mother, not intimate; but, when she told me that she wanted to talk to me, I couldn't refuse. She is the oddest girl I ever knew. But after all, there seems to be something in her; and, if she really wants to be a good girl, one would like to help her if one could."

"Of course," replied her mother. "But do you think she is in earnest about it?"

"I am sure I don't know," replied Elsie. "She says she is. And if it was any one else, I should not think of doubting a moment; but Minny is so odd. However, time will show."