“It is a tangled web we weave, When first we venture to deceive.”
I DID not know the lines I have just quoted at the time of which I am writing, but by many an hour of bitter sorrow I have proved how true they are. For some days after our picnic in the woods I was really very unhappy. Sometimes I felt as if I must go to my mother and tell her all, but pride, and a feeling of false shame, kept me back. There were not many children brought to the secret meetings of the Hussites; I had more than once been the only one allowed to be present, and I had been made rather a pet of. Our dear old pastor, Felix Gosmer, had laid his hand upon my head, saying, "Christine, you, like Timothy, have been early taught the ‘holy scriptures, which are able to make thee wise unto salvation.' May you, like his grandmother Lois and his mother Eunice, grow up a woman of unfeigned faith. The Lord bless thee and keep thee, my daughter." If I told any one, perhaps he might hear that I had been helping to decorate the Roman Catholic church, a place I knew he would think it wrong even to enter, and how grieved and disappointed he would be! I could not bear to think of it.
At other times I used to reason as Greta had done. Why should I trouble about what was really no business of mine? I gathered flowers, and gave them to my friend, and if she had not told me, I should not have thought of asking her what she wanted with them. I tried to pray, but could not. More than once mother noticed my altered manner, and asked if I was in any trouble. My reply was always "No," and as father said I was growing too fast no further notice was taken, and after a time my unhappy feelings wore off, and I almost forgot my first act of deception.
The summer as a whole passed pleasantly. For a few weeks Greta was away, having accompanied her mother on a visit to some relations who lived near the convent in which her sister was a boarder; and though I missed my friend, I felt, I hardly knew why, freer and happier than I had done for some time. My white hen walked proudly about the poultry-yard, followed by a brood of six soft, downy chicks, and though I changed my mind several times each day as to which was prettiest, I intended to give the one on which my choice fell finally as a birthday present to Greta on her return.
They came at last. Greta, who was tastefully and becomingly dressed, looked taller and I thought more charming than ever, threw her arms round me, and kissing me affectionately said, "Next Tuesday will be my birthday, yours is only a week later. One day when we were in Prague I thought of something so delightful, and it was not very hard to coax mother into letting me have my way. There is to be a double ‘fete.' You and I are to be dressed alike, and share all the honors and pleasures of the day, just as if you were my very own sister; for we love each other dearly, and I know you would never refuse to do anything that would please me, would you, Christine?" I was silent. How could I be sure that by pleasing my friend I might not be guilty of some fresh act of disobedience or deception?
Greta either did not, or would not, notice my hesitation, but rattled gaily on. She had enjoyed her visits, and had much to tell of the sights she had seen. Father Jacques had, she told me, joined their party at Prague, and spent three days with them at the country house of her uncle. He had been, she added, so kind and pleasant that every one was sorry when his short visit came to an end. They had visited the convent in which Lucilla was a boarder, and obtained permission from the Mother Superior to take her with them for a long drive. She too had grown taller, and seemed older and more womanly than when they had last seen her. "But," Greta continued, in a graver tone, "I do not know what has come over her, she hardly seems the Lucilla who went away from us not three years ago. She did not show any pleasure at seeing us, and seemed hardly willing even to kiss mother. All she thinks of is, I believe, the day when she is to ‘take the veil.' In little more than a year, she says, the convent will be her home, the Mother Superior her mother, and the nuns her sisters.
“Mother was, I think, a little hurt at first, but Father Jacques comforted her by reminding her she had received a great honor by being allowed to give her eldest daughter to the church, and that Lucilla, though so young, is quite a devotee, and, who knows! one day she may become a saint.”
“Are not all the children of God saints?” I ventured to ask, adding,"I think it says so in the Bible." “Ah! that is just like you heretics! You go to the Bible, the priest's book, for everything; I do not know anything about the Bible, for I am sure Father Jacques would not allow me to read such a book, but our saints are those who, by good works, fastings, prayers and penance have laid up merit, and so made themselves pleasing to God.”
This was very unlike the gospel I had heard from my mother's lips, but I did not know how to reply to Greta, so I was silent.
The following morning Madame Johns called upon my mother, and after greeting her warmly said, "Dear Madame De Merle, were it not that we are already friends, I should hardly have dared to take what you may consider a liberty. We are both mothers, and nothing gives us greater pleasure than to see our children happy. Greta has set her heart upon a double birthday, hers and Christine's being kept together, and begged so hard that they might be dressed as nearly alike as possible, that I directed Julie to prepare two dresses of simple white muslin, with colored sashes; Christine's sash will be pink, Greta's blue. You may have noticed she always wears blue and white, they are the colors of the Virgin Mary." As our visitor said the last words, she made the sign of the cross.
My mother said, or tried to say, a few words of thanks, but her heart, I felt, was not in them, and I saw the old troubled look in her face.
Much of my spare time, for the next two or three days, was taken up in weaving a pretty basket large enough to hold the chicken I had at last decided upon as my present to Greta, though I sometimes feared that my friend, who would, I knew, receive many pretty and some expensive presents, might not care for it; still, I had nothing else to offer.
The birthday morning came at last. Greta had planned everything. I was to be arrayed by Julie in the very pretty white dress Madame had provided for me. When the dressing was over and she had arranged the sash, and tied my hair back with pink ribbons, I was taken to Madame’s room to survey myself in a large looking-glass, purchased, I was told, in Paris. I hardly looked like the homely little girl who fed the chickens and helped to make the bread. Madame kissed me warmly, and gave me her present, a lovely work-box lined with crimson satin; Greta had one just like it, with blue fittings.
Greta seemed pleased with my present—the basket and its contents—saying that no one else had even thought of giving her a live pet. As we wanted to amuse ourselves the chicken was given into Julie's care, with many directions as to its proper feeding and treatment.
Later in the day several visitors arrived from Prague, and about three o'clock we were joined by Father Jacques, who played games and ran races, much to the delight of the younger members of our party and when we were tired of play we sat on the lawn and listened to his stories. There were many things in them I did not like, and yet they were so interesting I could not help listening. One was, I remember, about two children who were lost in a dark wood; night was coming on, and they were afraid; but when they had prayed, not to God, but to Mary, a shining angel walked by their side, and led them safely to their home. I felt it could not be a true story, and yet I wished it was.
Before saying "good-night" Greta drew me aside and said, “We must have a ramble in the woods while this glorious weather lasts. Come for me the day after to-morrow, quite early; but stay, I shall be in church till eleven o'clock. You must meet me there. You can wait in the porch and listen to the music. The organ has been repaired, and though old its tones are very fine. You will enjoy it. You must come. You need not tell your mother anything but the truth, that we are going for a walk, without saying where we are to meet. Do be quick, Christine, and say you will do as I ask you. Our friends are waiting to say good-bye." And I promised, though my conscience said loudly, "ANOTHER WRONG STEP.”