Jessie Carlton Part 14

"He needs somebody to weep over him, though, brother," interposed Mrs.

Carlton, "for otherwise he will grow up into a very wicked and dangerous manhood."

"Very true, sister. He is a spoiled child. I must write to sister Hannah about him. If rigid training, and the rod of correction, be not soon applied to him, he will become a spoiled man."

After telling Mrs. Carlton the cause of this disaster, the girls with her aid began to repair the ruin wrought by ugly Charlie. Having replaced the table, they picked up the pieces, and were relieved to find that, with the exception of the k.n.o.b of the teapot lid, and the handles of two cups, which were off, nothing was broken. Uncle Morris said he had a cement with which he could fasten on the k.n.o.b and the handles. This relieved Jessie very much. She smiled, and said:

"Oh, I am so glad! I want to keep that tea-set, for dear Aunt Lucy's sake."

Of course the tea was all spilled, and the food scattered over the carpet.

These, however, were soon replaced from the well-supplied closets of the kitchen and dining-room. In half an hour, the table was reset, and the three girls were seated, quietly eating their supper.

Did they enjoy their feast? A little, perhaps, but the upsetting of the table could not be forgotten. It chilled their spirits, and checked the flow of their joy. Thus, as always, did the evil conduct of one wrong-doer, act, like a cloud in the path of the sun, on the joy of others.

Carrie Sherwood left early in the evening, and Jessie went to her chamber with Emily to a.s.sist her in packing her trunk, so that she might be ready for an early start in the morning. When the last stray article was nicely packed, Emily threw herself back in the big arm-chair, and with a long-drawn sigh, exclaimed:

"Oh dear!"

"What's the matter?" inquired Jessie.

"Oh! nothing. Only I'm glad I'm going home."

"So am I," was the _thought_ that leaped to Jessie's lips. She was, however, too polite to utter it, and too sincere to say she was sorry, so she sat still and said nothing.

Several minutes were pa.s.sed in silence, a very unusual thing, I believe, where the company is composed of young ladies. But Jessie did not know what to say, and Emily was thinking, and did not wish to say any thing. At last she looked up and said:

"Jessie, I'm afraid I haven't behaved well since I came to Glen Morris."

Jessie again thought with Emily, and again her politeness and sincerity kept her silent. Emily went on.

"You have been very kind to me and Charlie. I'm sorry we haven't made ourselves more agreeable to you."

"Oh! never mind that," said Jessie. "I hope you will come and see me again, one of these days."

Emily then went on to tell Jessie about her thoughts and feelings. She had not forgotten the advice of Uncle Morris, nor had Jessie's example been without its influence over her. True, her old habits of self-will and falsehood, had acted the part of tyrants over her. Yet she had been secretly wis.h.i.+ng to be like Jessie. These wishes, frail as they had proved themselves to be, showed that good seed from Jessie's example had been sown in her heart. Now that she was about to return home, all her better feelings were awake, and she begged forgiveness of her cousin, promising to do her best, hereafter, to be a good, truthful, affectionate girl.

All this and much more, she said to Jessie, before they slept that night.

These confessions and purposes did Emily good. They also cheered Jessie, by causing her to hope that after all, she might be to her cousin, what Guy had been to Richard Duncan.

The next morning, directly after breakfast, the hack drove up to the door, and the cousins were borne away to the depot in care of Mr. Carlton. As the carriage left the lawn, Uncle Morris patted his niece on the head, and said:

"As vinegar to the teeth, and smoke to the eyes, so are self-willed guests to those who entertain them."

"O Uncle Morris!" exclaimed Jessie, with an air of mock gravity, which showed that, harsh as her uncle's remark sounded, she felt its justice. In fact, the departure of the ungracious cousins was to the inmates of Glen Morris, like the flight of the angry storm-cloud to a company of mariners, after weary weeks of squalls and tempests.

CHAPTER IX.

The Wizard in the Field Again.

"I'm glad they are gone, and yet I'm sorry. Em seemed sorry to go, and she cried when I kissed her good-by. I really think Em loves me after all; and if it wasn't for that ugly Charlie, she would be a nice girl. But that Charlie! Oh dear! I don't think there is another such boy anywhere. I don't wonder my uncle compares him to a burr, a sting-nettle, and a hedgehog. I'm sure he's been nothing but a plague to everybody, ever since he came here. I'm glad _he's_ gone, anyhow. And yet, poor fellow, I pity him. He must be miserable himself, or he wouldn't torment everybody else so--but I must go to work, I s'pose."

Thus did Jessie talk to herself, after seeing her cousins off. She had returned to the parlor, and seated herself in her small rocking-chair. She now drew the two pieces of cloth for her uncle's slippers, from her work-basket, and after handling them awhile with a languid air, put them in her lap, sighed, and said--

"Oh dear! I do wish these slippers were done. This is a hard pattern, and it will take me ever so many days to finish it. Heigho! I 'most wish I hadn't begun them. Let me see if I have worsted enough to finish them."

Here Jessie leaned over and began to explore the tangled depths of her work-basket. It was a complete olio. Old letters, pieces of silk, velvet, linen, and woollen, sc.r.a.ps of paper, leaves of books, old cords and rusty ta.s.sels, spools of cotton, skeins of thread and knots,--in short, almost every thing that could by any sort of chance, or mischance, get into a young lady's work-basket, was there in rare confusion. Jessie's love of order was not very large. Her temper was often sorely tried by the trouble which her careless habit caused her when seeking a pair of scissors, or a spool of cotton. It was so to-day. She plunged her hand deep into the basket, in search of the colored worsteds required for her uncle's slippers. After feeling round awhile, she drew forth a tangled mess, which she placed on her lap.

"Oh dear!" she said, in a complaining tone; "how these worsteds are tangled!"

Nimbly her fingers wrought, however, and very soon the skeins were all laid out on her knee.

"Let me see," said she, looking at her pattern; "there are one, two, three, four--five--six colors, and I have only one, two, three, four, five. Which is missing? Ah, I see: there is no _brown_. Must I hunt that basket again? It's a regular jungle--no, not a _jungle_--a jungle is a forest, mostly covered with reeds and bushes. This is a, a--a _jumble_.

Uncle, would call it a basket of confusion. Ha! ha!"

Vainly did Jessie explore her "basket of confusion." In vain did she upset its contents upon the floor, and replace them by handfuls. The missing skein of brown worsted could not be found. At last, with wearied neck, and aching head, she threw herself back in her chair, and said--

"It's no use, there is no brown worsted there. But what's that?"

In leaning back, Jessie's eyes were arrested by a new book which was on the mantle. Starting from her chair, she took down the book. It was a story-book that Guy had borrowed of his friend Richard Duncan. The pictures were beautiful, and Jessie, charmed by the promise of its opening pages, gave herself up to the leadings of her excited curiosity, and soon forgot all about worsted, slippers, cousins, and uncle. Little Impulse the wizard had baited his trap with a choice book, and Jessie was in his power again.

"Why, Guy! what brought you home so early?" asked Jessie, more than two hours later, when her brother's entrance broke her attention from the book.

"Early!" exclaimed Guy, looking at his watch; "do you call fifteen minutes past twelve early?"

"Fifteen minutes past twelve!" cried Jessie, in great surprise; "it can't be so late: your watch must be wrong, Guy."

"Then the village clock is wrong, for I timed my watch by it as I came past," said Guy. "I guess you have been asleep, Sis, and didn't notice how time pa.s.sed."

"Asleep, indeed! do you think I go to sleep in the morning? not I. But I've been reading your book, and was just finis.h.i.+ng it when you came in.

It's real interesting," said Jessie.

"Yes, it's a nice book," replied Guy, as he left the room in response to a call from Hugh, who was in the hall.

Jessie replaced the book, and sighed as she picked up the worsteds from the floor, to think that she had done nothing to the slippers that morning. However, as there was yet over half an hour to spare before dinner, and as she could go on with her work for the present, without the brown worsted, she began plying her needle with right good will.

Presently Uncle Morris came in. He had been out all the morning. Seeing his niece so busy, he smiled, and said:

"Busy as the bee, eh, Jessie? Well, it's the working bee that makes the honey. Guess the little wizard has lost heart now he has found out that my little puss has a strong will to do right, and a strong Friend to help her."

Jessie blushed and sighed. She was in what young Duncan would call a "tight place." She knew that her uncle was mistaken; that she did not deserve his praise, that by being silent she should, of her own accord, confirm his mistake and thereby deceive him. And yet, it was hard to confess her fault, under the circ.u.mstances. "What could Jessie do?"

At first she was silent. Her uncle perceiving by her manner that something puzzled and pained her, turned to his chair, and without saying another word took up the morning's newspaper and began reading.

The longer Jessie kept up his false impression, the worse she felt. Very soon, however, the voice of the Good Spirit within her gained the victory, and throwing the slipper into the basket, she rose, saying to herself, "I will tell him all about it."