NOT long after a picnic in the woods had been planned, and to our delight my brother and I were invited to join the party, who on a bright spring morning set out from "Verney" to spend a long day in some woods at a distance of rather less than two miles from our village. For some days previous Greta had been more than usually kind; she had made me several small presents and really seemed to have taken a great fancy to me, while in return I loved her dearly. "How could I help it?" I asked myself, and though I sometimes thought that my mother looked grave and anxious, as she marked our growing friendship, she said little, but I believe prayed more earnestly than ever that I might not be allowed to fall into the snare, which she had only too good reason to fear was already being woven for her often wayward and too self-confident child.
It would have been difficult to find a more lovely spot than the one chosen for our picnic. Tall trees waved above our heads, not yet in full leaf, but arrayed in all the fresh beauty of early springtime, while pale primroses and sweet-scented wood violets nestled almost lovingly at their feet; the grass was as soft and smooth as a velvet carpet, many colored flowers adding greatly to its beauty, while the murmur of a brook almost at our feet, mingled with the songs of larks, thrushes, linnets and many other wild birds, all which lent a charm to the scene I can never forget.
We were a merry party. Editha and the two boys, who were nearly of her own age, skipped, sang and ran races; Greta and I, arm in arm, walked more quietly; Julie, carrying our flower-baskets, walked respectfully a little behind, while a manservant, with a well-filled luncheon basket, brought up the rear. We were all very happy; after strolling about for a little while, we found a dainty white cloth had been spread in a spot from which we had a glorious view of blue mountains and rivers, whose blue waters danced and sparkled in the sunshine till they looked almost like threads of silver, and added greatly to the beauty of the landscape. We were all ready for lunch, and I thought that cold chicken, ham sandwiches, custards and jellies had never tasted half so good before.
Soon after lunch Greta drew me aside, and said in a very earnest tone, “Christine, it is all very lovely; but I did not come here just to please the children or myself. I have something very important to do, and I want your help.
THE MONTH OF MAY
is a time in which all good Catholics pay special attention to the Virgin Mary. Father Jacques is distressed to find how this was neglected during the time that Father Andre was parish priest. Would you believe it, Christine, he found nothing in the chest which ought to hold her wardrobe except one robe of crimson velvet, very much faded; and the dress of blue satin now worn by our Lady is quite shabby and has several spots of mildew upon the skirt. Well, he has made up his mind to have at least one festival in her honor. The day after to-morrow is fixed for it; the school-children will walk round the church in procession, carrying baskets of flowers, and I am to be allowed to help the good father to decorate the church. I shall make garlands to hang upon the altar-rails, and lay the sweetest, fairest blossoms I can find at the feet of the virgin herself, so you see I shall need your help. We will bid Julie stay with the children, and go further into the woods. We may find flowers even more lovely than these.”
I did not reply; the flowers I had just gathered fell from my hand, as I stood confused and uncertain what to do or say. My parents I knew would not only object, but forbid my taking any part in what they felt to be little better than idol-worship, and my own conscience told me it would be wrong.
Greta saw my hesitation, and guessed its cause. She drew herself up proudly, her face flushed, and her whole manner seemed changed. "You are too provoking, you little heretic!" she exclaimed angrily. "It is very, very unkind, and if you persist I do not think I will ever speak to you again. You think your mother would not like it! Well, I did not know you were such a baby that you could not even gather flowers without asking her leave; but," she continued in a kinder tone, "you have never been forbidden to help decorate the church, have you?”
“No," I ventured to say, "my parents never thought I should wish to do such a thing." "Well, then, you will not disobey their orders, as they have never given you any, by helping me this afternoon. Gather flowers as fast as you can, and give them to me; you need not trouble yourself about what I want with them. Come now, be sensible, and let us be friends again." As she spoke she gave me one of her sweetest smiles, and looked so pretty in her white dress, with the sunlight falling upon her waves of dark hair, that I had not courage to make a stand for what I knew to be right.
“Do you ever deceive your mother, Greta?" I asked at length. “Well, yes, I suppose I do sometimes, when I want anything very much indeed that she would not allow me to have. But I always remember it the next time I go to confession, and Father Jacques is very indulgent to me; he gives me absolution, with sometimes some easy penance, and I have no need to trouble any more about it.”
I felt shocked and grieved that Greta could speak so lightly of what I had been taught to look upon as exceedingly wrong. Without another word I allowed her to put her arm through mine and lead me further into the woods. We were soon gathering flowers, but for me all the brightness and beauty of the day had faded. I was doing wrong, and I knew it.
WE FILLED OUR BASKETS
and gave them to Julie, who reminded us that the lengthening shadows gave warning that it was time to begin our homeward walk. The children begged to stay a little longer, but Greta complained of a headache, and I was only too glad to leave a spot that would, I felt, always remind me of my first act of deception.
Our return home was a silent and spiritless one; the younger members of our party were tired, Greta did not seem to care to talk much, and I was very unhappy. I seemed to see again the look of trouble on my mother's face that I had noticed on her return from her first visit to "Verney," and how, I asked myself, should I meet my father's eyes? Kind as they were they always seemed to look me through, and I sometimes felt as if he must know what I was thinking about.
When I reached home, mother was busy preparing the evening meal. I felt the hot blood mount into my face as, turning to me, she said kindly, "I have missed my little daughter. Have you had a happy day, Christine?" I said "Yes," and murmured something about feeding chickens as an excuse to get out of the room; but mother said, “The poultry are all fed, and have gone to roost. I knew you would be tired, so I attended to them myself. Sit down now, your father will be here directly.
He came in half an hour ago to tell me he had only two more patients to visit, and if no sudden calls came in he hoped to be able to spend the evening quietly at his own fireside.”
Only twenty-four hours before I should have been delighted. We had always thought it a great treat to have father with us for even a short time. He was so kind and pleasant, and would often tell us stories of his own boyhood, or read aloud from some useful and interesting book. But I felt on that evening I should not be happy in his presence.
When the time for our evening reading came, and our treasured Bible was brought from the secret drawer in which it was always kept, my father read the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel by John. When he came to the twenty-third verse, "Jesus answered and said unto, him, If a man love me, he will keep my words," my father closed the book and said, "True love to Christ will not need to wait for a command; it will know what will please Him; just as a loving and obedient child would be careful not to do anything that would grieve its parents, even if that thing had not been expressly forbidden." Oh, how miserable I felt! How I longed to confess my wrong-doing; but I did not, and that night cried myself to sleep.