CHAPTER II.

_”BITTER HONEY FROM FAIR FLOWERS.”_

AND where, all the time, was the subject of their conversation, and of
all these kind and hospitable thoughts? Not resting, as she had been
advised, and as she needed to do, but sitting at the window of her own
room, peeping out through the blinds at the group of girls under the
tree, and straining her ears in vain to hear what they were saying.

“Of course they are talking about me,” she said to herself; “that
black-haired girl was the one we met at the door, and that one in the
white apron stopped and spoke to Mr. Hausen just in time to hear my
name. I saw her turn up her nose at it, and well she might. ‘Claribel’
for such a miserable-looking object as I am! Oh, it was cruel and
wicked to send me among such a set of strong, healthy girls all ready
to laugh at me, or to pity me, which is worse still. They might have
let me stay at home with Aunt Hepsey. Suppose I hadn’t any advantages;
what do I want of them? What should I do with accomplishments? Music
and painting indeed! I wonder Mr. Steele didn’t want me to learn
dancing as well,” said Claribel, laughing bitterly. “Yes, there they
are,” she added, glancing out of the window again. “There comes another
one to discuss the new-comer.”

We who have heard the conversation under the great ash, and who have
seen more of Flora, know how mistaken were Claribel’s ideas. But
Claribel’s mind was one which could extract poison from the most
wholesome food. She had seemed to be marked for misfortune from her
birth. She was not, as a child, “quite like other children,” people
said. Though not absolutely deformed, she had the look of being so. Her
shoulders were high and square, her head large and heavy, especially
over her eyes. A severe fall from the hands of a careless nurse, and
broken bones treated by an unskilful surgeon, had stiffened one knee
and turned her whole figure slightly awry, besides leaving a scar on
her forehead.

Then her mother died when Claribel was only six years old, and left her
to the care of an aunt, who thought Claribel’s lameness and delicate
health a sufficient excuse for indulging her in everything she fancied
and never contradicting her in anything. But Aunt Hepsey had daughters
who were not always so indulgent to her nursling’s whims, and who
sometimes revenged themselves for their mother’s partiality, as they
considered it, by taunting Claribel with her personal and mental
defects. She was no favourite with the children of the little village
school or their teacher, who, already overworked and harassed, had
little patience with the peevish, perverse child.

Altogether, it was no wonder that Claribel’s disposition should be
pretty well soured before she was twelve years old, and, as the Scotch
say, “thrawn” it certainly was. She loved Aunt Hepsey, though she did
not respect her. She hated her cousins and most of her schoolfellows.
Toward her father she felt very differently at different times. He had
always been indulgent to her in providing for her every luxury that
money would buy. And during the few days which he had ever spent with
her, he had petted and pitied her.

Sometimes Claribel thought she should be perfectly happy if she could
only live with her father, and took refuge from present discomforts in
picturing to herself the time when she should go to be his housekeeper
and see all the wonders of California. Then again, she felt that he
neglected her cruelly in leaving her to live with her aunt and cousins
in an obscure country village, and this feeling was deepened and made
permanent by a speech of her cousin Priscilla’s in the course of one of
their numerous quarrels. Claribel had said something of the time when
she should go to live with her father, and Priscilla had answered her,
scornfully,—

“Oh yes! Very much you will go to live with your father! I guess when
you do, we shall all know it. Just as if everybody didn’t know that
your father leaves you here with us because he is ashamed of your
crooked ankles, and your shoulders up to your ears, and your yellow
face, all eyes and mouth! And no wonder! I should think he would be.
You will, go and be a great lady in California about the time I am
queen of England, I expect.”

“It is no such thing, Priscilla Westcott!” exclaimed Claribel,
passionately. “My father isn’t ashamed of me.”

“Oh no, of course not,” answered Priscilla, with a mocking laugh. “Why
does he leave you here, then? Why doesn’t he take you home with him, or
send you to school somewhere and give you an education? Only because
he is ashamed of you and thinks you are a disgrace to him. I know he
wishes you had never been born. I heard him say so myself.”

This was a lie, but, like many lies, it was founded on fact. Mr.
Woodworth had once said to his sister that it might have been better
the poor little thing had never been born, she was so unfortunate.
Priscilla was one of those people who, when they are angry, say
whatever they think will hurt most, without caring or considering
whether it is true or false. She little knew the mischief she had done.
She had given her spite full swing, and having gratified it to the
utmost, was quite ready to be good-natured again and forget that she
had ever been otherwise.

But her words sunk deep into the heart of the unfortunate child, and
rankled there like poisoned arrows. When Claribel came to think them
over, a thousand circumstances seemed to confirm them. Yes, it was so.
Her last hope, her last refuge, was gone. Her father was ashamed of
her; he hated her, and wished she was dead. All her fancies about going
to live with him were mere delusions. She was doomed to spend her life
in this horrid place with people she hated, and who hated her, or only
cared for her—so the tempter whispered—for the sake of her father’s
money. Well, she did not care. Everybody despised her, and she despised
everybody. Nobody cared for anything but self, and why should she?

There was only one medicine for a mind diseased like Claribel’s, and
that was the religion of Christ. But no one proffered it to her. Aunt
Hepsey had once been a church-member when she lived at the East,
but she had married an irreligious man and moved West, and like too
many other people in the same circumstances, she seemed to leave her
religion behind her. Claribel’s mother had taught her to say her
prayers and something of the first truths of religion, but Aunt Hepsey
had not continued the lessons.

True, the children went to Sunday-school, but their attendance was
irregular and their lessons learned or not, as the fancy took them.
Then Claribel took some offence and would not go any more, and her
aunt, as usual, let her have her own way. She had a Bible which had
been her mother’s, and she kept it on her table, but she seldom looked
into it, and never thought of the possibility of its affording her any
comfort. She had never been taught to regard God as her Father; and
if she ever thought of him at all, it was with a kind of resentment
mingled with fear. Why had he made her so? Why had he taken away her
mother and given her a father who was ashamed of her? He could kill
her, she knew, and she did not care much for that, but then there
was something to come after death—Claribel remembered enough of her
mother’s lessons to feel sure of that; and what would become of her
then? She believed that her mother was happy in heaven, but she felt,
poor child, that she was not fit for any such place, and she did not
think she ever would become so. All she could do was to get as much
comfort as she could out of this life, and very little it was. The rest
must take care of itself.

When Claribel was fourteen, her father died, leaving his only child
a large fortune and a guardian in an old college friend. Mr. Steele
was a lawyer, and not a man to do anything rashly or to undertake any
trust which he did not mean to fulfil to his utmost ability. He took
a fortnight from his business and spent it in Smithopolis, making
acquaintance with Claribel and observing her circumstances and the
influences which surrounded her, and then he made up his mind. He could
not leave her where she was, neither could he take her into his own
house, for his wife was an invalid and already overburdened with a
young family.

Mr. Hausen and Mr. Woodworth were old friends. Mr. Steele knew and
respected him, and his sister had been educated at the Hausen school.
And after some consideration and correspondence, it was decided that
Claribel should be sent to Round Springs to remain till her education
was considered finished.

Aunt Hepsey exclaimed against the cruelty of sending the poor thing
away among strangers—among a set of strong, healthy, romping girls who
would laugh at her, and of teachers who would kill her with lessons and
then scold her because she did not learn them. And she pitied Claribel
till Claribel, who had at first been pleased with the idea of a change,
learned to shrink with terror from the prospect before her, and to look
on her guardian as a tyrannical oppressor made after the pattern of the
wicked guardians in the cheap novels who send their wards to starvation
schools that they might be out of the way, and thus cheated them out of
their property.

Having these ideas put into her head did not tend to make Claribel
more amiable. And during the long journey, she proved so disagreeable
a travelling companion that Mr. Steele found his pity and forbearance
taxed to the uttermost, and was thankful to get her off his hands.

“I fear you will have a hard task with the poor thing,” he had said to
Mr. Hausen. “If my wife had been well, I should have taken her home and
tried to civilize her a little. She does not seem capable of a thought
outside of herself.”

Such was Claribel Woodworth, who now sat in her pleasant little room
at Hausen school looking out at her future schoolmates and drawing her
own conclusions about them, and feeling sure that they were criticising
her. Presently the group of girls under the ash tree broke up and
went their several ways, and then Claribel laid her head down on the
window-seat and cried bitterly and hopelessly.

“Oh, I wish I had never been born! I wish I had never been born!” she
said, passionately, over and over again. “Oh, it was wicked and cruel
to send me here. It was cruel to take my mother away from me. She would
have loved me, I know. It is all cruel and hard together. Oh, mother,
mother!” Claribel had dried her tears—she seldom cried—and sat looking
out with an expression of sullen and hopeless despondency, when there
came a tap at the door.

“Come in!” said she, sharply.

Then, as the tap was repeated, she went to the door and opened it.
There stood a group which would have pleased any eyes but hers. Emma
Hausen was holding a tray on which was neatly arranged a tempting
supper, and behind her were Percy and Tilly, the one carrying a
bouquet, the other a little basket of peaches, early pears, and
hothouse grapes.

“How do you do, Claribel Woodworth?” said Emma, whom the girls had
deputed to “do the honours,” as they said. “This is Percy Dunham, and
this is Tilly Mansfield, and I am Emma Hausen, and we have come to
bring you your tea, and to see if we can do anything for you.”

For a moment Claribel was pleased and touched. Then the old evil spirit
of suspicion and jealousy came back, and she answered, “I don’t want
any tea or anything else, only to be let alone.”

The girls looked at each other in amazement, not knowing what to make
of such an address.

Then Percy said gently, “Don’t you think you had better have some tea?
I am afraid Mrs. Richardson won’t like it if we carry the things down
again.”

“Why didn’t she send a servant with it, then?” asked Claribel. Then,
as Percy hesitated, “I suppose you wanted to stare at the wild animal.
Well, look at me then; what do you think of me?”

“I don’t think you are very polite,” said Emma Hausen.

“Hush, Emma,” whispered Percy, who was always the peacemaker. “We
didn’t come to stare at you at all, Claribel. When a new scholar comes,
Mrs. Richardson always sends some of the girls to take her to the table
or to carry her up something if she can’t come down. You are about our
age, and we thought we would try to make it pleasant for you, that’s
all.”

“I don’t want it made pleasant for me,” returned Claribel; “I hate the
place and everybody in it.”

“Oh, but that is because you are homesick,” said Percy, soothingly.
“When I first came here, I felt just so—that is, I couldn’t bear the
thoughts of it—and I was afraid of everything. But I like it now, and
so will you, I hope. We will set the things down and go away if you
like, but please don’t think we came to stare at you, because we never
thought of such a thing; did we, girls?”

“Of course not,” said Tilly, bluntly; “what is there to stare at?”

If Tilly had thought for a week, she could not have said anything more
to the purpose. Claribel began to feel a little, a very little, ashamed
of herself.

“Well, perhaps you didn’t,” said she, in a somewhat more gracious tone,
“but I am such an object I always think people want to look at me.”

“I don’t see that you are an object at all,” said Tilly; “and if you
were, why should we stare at you? It isn’t your fault that you are
lame, I suppose. If you are only good-natured and nice, nobody will
care whether you are lame or not.”

“Oh yes, it is easy to say that. It is easy to be good-natured when
you are well and everything goes just to suit you; wait till your turn
comes. As for people liking me, I don’t expect them to.”

“It would be rather unreasonable if you did, I think,” thought Emma
Hausen, but for a wonder she did not say so.

The girls arranged the table neatly, and then, bidding Claribel good
evening, went away.

When Claribel was left alone with the provisions the girls had brought,
she discovered that she was hungry, and made a hearty meal. She could
not help feeling a little vexed and ashamed at her conduct.

“I wish I hadn’t spoken so,” she said to herself; “but, after all, I
dare say it was true. They just wanted to show themselves off and to
make believe they were good, and they contrived to get the first look
at me, so as to tell the others.”

“Well,” said Emma Hausen, when the door was shut, “I don’t think I
shall ever take much pains to be polite to her. Did you ever see
anything like her in all your life?”

“I don’t envy Miss Reynolds and Mrs. Richardson,” said Tilly. “Percy, I
do think you are just as sweet as an angel to answer her so, when she
was rude to you.”

“I remembered how I felt when I first came here,” answered Percy; “I
was as frightened as if I had been going into a cage of wild animals.”

“You didn’t behave like that,” said Tilly; “you acted as if you were
scared half to death if any one spoke to you, but you were always
polite. I never saw such a specimen as this in all my days.”

“Nor I, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her,” remarked Percy. “Just
think if any of us were like her! I dare say we should be as cross as
she is.”

“I am sure dear Miss Baldwin never was so cross,” said Emma, alluding
to a favourite teacher who had died a short time before. “Just think
how unfortunate she was! And nobody could ever be sweeter.”

“Miss Baldwin never seemed to think about herself at all,” observed
Percy; “she was always too busy caring for other people. But there come
the girls from boating, and there is the first tea-bell. Girls, don’t
let us say anything about this poor Claribel to the others. Perhaps she
will feel differently tomorrow, and we won’t give her a bad character
beforehand.”