"I must then go alone," said Ellen, rising and bidding Flora good morning.
In a little while she was at the house of Araminta Thomas. Ellen entered at once upon the business of her visit, by stating what she had heard. Araminta looked confused, but denied saying that Ellen had actually told Evelyn she was engaged for the next cotillion.
"Then what did you say?" mildly asked Ellen.
"I said," replied Araminta, "that I saw you decline Evelyn's offer for your hand."
"But did not say that I told him I was engaged?"
"Not positively; I only inferred, as was natural, that you declined on that ground."
"Was your communication to Flora mere inferential?"
"It was."
"But she says you told her that you heard me say I was engaged."
"In that she is mistaken. I inferred that your refusal to dance was for the reason stated. But I did not know that it was, and, therefore only gave my own impression."
"Which Flora has taken for the truth, and so repeated."
"On my authority?"
"Yes. After having been pressed by me very closely."
"In that she was wrong. But I suppose I was as wrong in giving an impression which might not be a true one, as she has been in giving my impressions as actual facts, and making me responsible for them. But will you, as matters have taken this serious and unexpected turn, give me the exact truth. I will then, so far as in my power lies, endeavour to correct what I have done."
"Most cheerfully. You know as well as I do, that Evelyn has not acted in some things with that honour and integrity that becomes a gentleman?"
"I do."
"It was on this ground that I declined. He asked me if I was engaged in the next set? I said no. He then proffered his hand, which I declined. In a little while after, and while sitting beside you, a gentleman wished to have me as a partner. I accepted his invitation. This is the simple truth."
"And so it seems," said Araminta with a sober face, "that while you were rebuking vice, and standing up with dignified, virtuous firmness in the cause of our sex, I was misjudging you. And not only that, was so far influenced by an improper spirit as to impart to others my wrong impressions to your injury. Alas! poor, weak human nature! I feel rebuked and humbled. More for what I thought than for what I said, for out of the heart proceedeth evil thoughts. If I had not had something wrong here, I would not have been so ready to misjudge you. But all that I can do to repair the wrong, I am ready to do."
"All I ask is, that you correct Flora, and take some little care, that, where she has imparted a wrong impression, the true one is given in its place."
"That I will do with all my heart," Araminta replied. "I will see Flora this very hour."
"Do so, and you shall have not only my thanks, but my esteem and love. We are all liable to do wrong. But to confess and repair the wrong we have done, as far as we can, is noble. In so doing, power is given us to conquer in all the temptations that may assail us."
As soon as Ellen had retired, Araminta went out and called upon Flora. She found her troubled and mortified at the turn matters had taken. She tried to excuse herself for what she had done, and insisted, at first, that Araminta had actually stated all she had said of Ellen Gray's conduct. But this point she soon had to give up. Araminta was too positive, and her own memory a little too clear on the subject. In fact, when the whole truth came fully to the light, it was very apparent, that if there were any falsehood in the matter, she was the most guilty. Certain it was, that Ellen Gray was innocent, in every particular, of the charge that had been made against her.
Mrs. Marion knew nothing of all this, until the day after Ellen Gray had called upon Flora. Then her niece, whose troubled looks had not escaped her notice, gave a relation of what had occurred. It was in reply to this that the opening remarks of our story were made. When Mary Lee came in, as the reader has seen, Flora received her coldly. Mrs. Marion, on the contrary, welcomed her with genuine cordiality.
"I am glad to see you, Mary," she said—"and particularly at this time. It seems there has been a misunderstanding among you young ladies, and that Flora is not altogether pleased with the part you have taken."
"It is to see her in regard to that very matter that I am here this morning," Mary said. "I know she blames me for having told Ellen Lee what I did. But in that I acted conscientiously. I did to another as I would have another do to me. I acted towards Ellen as I would act towards Flora, were I to hear any one making statements that were calculated to injure her. The result, I think, should satisfy Flora that I was right in doing what I have done. Ellen, it now appears, was entirely innocent of the charge made against her—as I knew she must be. Araminta Thomas, to whom the report has been traced, regrets extremely, that upon her hasty inferences, so serious a matter has grown up. She acknowledged that she only inferred that Ellen told an untruth. Flora took this inference for a direct assertion, and thence came the charge of falsehood against Ellen Gray. Has not, then, the result proved that the course I took was the only right one? Does it not show that I would have been guilty of a great wrong, if, to save the feelings of any one, I had left an innocent person to bear the imputation of wrong?"
"It certainly does, Mary. And Flora cannot but see it in the same light."
"And she will, surely, forgive me the pain I have occasioned her," resumed Mary, "seeing that I had no selfish end to gain in what I did, but was moved only by the desire to vindicate injured innocence."
This appeal softened Flora's feelings toward Mary Lee. She saw that she was wrong, and that Mary was right. Mary had been governed by a high-minded regard for right. Pride soon yielded.
"Mary," said she, taking her hand, while the tears came into her eyes, "I confess that I have been wrong, and you right. I shall not soon forget this lesson. Forgive the unkind thought I have had of you, and say to Ellen, from me, that I do most sincerely regret the part I have taken in this matter."
"Will I ever learn to be guarded in my remarks!" Flora said, to her aunt, after Mary had left them. "This is the third time I have been called to account for speaking of others, within the last few months."
"Never, I suppose," Mrs. Marion replied, "until you learn to guard your thoughts as well as your words. If, like Mary Lee, you were less disposed to give credence to every disparaging report circulated about others, you would need no guard placed over your tongue. It is from the abundance of the heart that the mouth speaketh. A good man, out of the good treasure of his heart, bringeth forth good things: and an evil man, out of the evil treasure, bringeth forth evil things. Try and keep this in mind. If you are more ready to believe an evil than a good report of others, be sure that all is not right with you, and more especially, if you feel an inward pleasure in convicting them of wrong. A truly good mind is always grieved at improper conduct in others, and ever seeks to palliate, rather than to judge with severity. It gives but slow credence to evil reports. Truly regard the good of all around you, and there will be no need of placing a bridle on your tongue."
THE RICH AND THE POOR
A hot and sultry summer had passed away, and autumn was verging on toward its cooler months, with their long and quiet evenings. Occasionally a colder day than usual made a fire in the grate necessary and drew closer together the happy family of Mr. Barton in their evening circle. It was pleasant to all, thus to feel the warm fire again, and to see its deep glow reflected from loving faces.
"How good the fire feels!" said James, holding up his small hands to receive its heat, and smiling as he looked upon it.
"I think I love the winter best after all," remarked William. "It is so pleasant to sit round the fire, and feel its warmth upon our hands and face. Home feels more like home. Don't you think so, father?"
"The change of season is always pleasant," replied Mr. Barton. "Have you never noticed that, my son?"
"Oh yes! I always say, when spring comes, 'I am glad that it is spring.' And in summer-time, when fruit and flowers are so plenty, I say, 'I am glad it is summer.' And then I am glad again when the doors and windows can be closed, and we can all gather around the fire as we do now in autumn. In winter, when the snow begins to fall, I feel that it is pleasant to see the light flakes flying about gayly in the air."
"But I always think then," said Mary, the gentle, loving-hearted Mary, "of the poor children who have no warm clothing, nor good fires, as we have. I wish, sometimes, that it were always warm, for their sakes."
"And yet, my dear, the Lord knows what is best," remarked Mr. Barton, looking into Mary's sympathizing face. "The Bible says He is good to all, and kind even to the unthankful."
"I know it does; and it also says, that He pitieth us even as a father pitieth his children. But, I can't help thinking, sometimes, that there is a great deal of suffering in the world."
"And so there is, Mary, a great deal of dreadful suffering, the reason for which we sometimes find it very hard to understand. But one thing we know, and this is, that it is all from man, and not from God; and that God permits it for some good purpose—not to punish people; for the Lord never punishes any one merely for the sake of punishment, but suffers evil and sin to punish for the sake of reformation. You remember what I read to you about the Divine Providence on last Sunday evening?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did I say the Divine Providence regarded?"
"Eternal ends," replied Mary.
"Do you remember what I then told you was meant by eternal ends?"
"Whatsoever had reference to man's salvation in heaven."
"Yes, that is what I said. A great many people believe that the Lord's Providence, which is over us all, even to the smallest things, has reference to our worldly well-doing. I remember when a boy, hearing a man pray, regularly, in his family, every day, and a part of his prayer always was, that the Lord would increase his basket and his store."
"What did he mean by that?" asked James, who was listening very attentively to his father, and trying to understand all he said.
"Why, that the Lord would make him rich."
"Did the Lord make him rich?" asked Mary.
"No, my daughter, the Lord knew that to make him rich would be the worst thing for him, for it might be the means of destroying his soul."
"Then it is best for some to be rich and some poor?" said William.
"Undoubtedly it is, or all would be rich in this world's goods, and have every comfort and luxury that earth could afford them. For the goodness of the Lord would seek to bless every one in good things for the body as well as good things for the mind, if the former blessings could be given without injury to the latter. But where they cannot, they are always withheld."
"But all rich people are not good people," remarked William. "I think they are, generally, more unfeeling and selfish than poor people. I have often heard it said so; and that there was very little chance of rich people's going to heaven."
"I know this is said, but it is a great mistake. Poor people are, as a general thing, just as unfeeling and selfish as rich people, and stand no better chance of heaven. So far as poverty or riches are concerned, there is an overruling Providence regarding each, and this, as I before remarked, looks to the salvation of souls in heaven."
"Then it isn't because one man is better than another, that he is permitted to get rich, or has money left to him?"
"Not by any means, William," replied the father. "No man's state can be judged of by his external condition: for the external condition that is good for one, may be very bad for another. Ever bear this in mind, as you pass through life, and learn, no matter in what external condition the Lord places you, therewith to be content."