Part 2

When they arrived at home, and were all collected in the parlour, Lucy's aunt desired to look at the bruises, and as she kindly bound them up, said to her,--"You have had your first lesson of experience my dear little girl to-day; it has indeed been a hard one, and I dare say will be long remembered; you were much frightened, much bruised, much disappointed, and very much mortified. I am sure I am _sorry_ for your sufferings, but if you will let them convince you, that pride--malice--selfishness--wilfulness--and obstinacy, are all faults which will make you suffer more and more as long as you keep them, you may _yet_ bless this day, as I shall most certainly, as the most fortunate of your life, and worth a _purse full_ of such pieces as that which you have so foolishly thrown away. You start, my little girl, but I assure you that all these dreadful faults were in your heart when you determined to use your father's present as you did, and kept to that determination; for I heard all your conversation with Emily on the day it was received.

"_Pride_ and _malice_, my dear Lucy," continued her aunt, "induced you to desire to dress yourself so richly, to astonish your friends, and to mortify (as you thought it would) the proud Miss Prince. Selfishness made you unwilling to part with the piece which was in fact sent to Emily, and did in no way belong to you. Wilfulness united to make you resist her advice, when she told you (and from her own experience) that you would be sorry if you dressed in this manner; and lastly, obstinacy made you feel that you 'would rather stay at home' than give up to my wishes and recommendation:--let _to-day's_ experience be sufficient for you, and I shall truly love you; go now, my dear, to bed."

Lucy, however, was more mortified and angry than repentant; she had thought so little about correcting her faults, and submitting to the government of older and wiser people, that she had a great deal more to suffer before she could resolutely set about becoming docile, obedient, humble, and submissive; she had never restrained her inclination, or controlled any of her desires or passions, and knew very little about self government; for no one had taught her till she came to her aunt's, that she ought to do so.

Emily's mother had done as she said she would, for she always kept her word in every thing. She had advised her about the gown she was to get for poor Nurse Hooper, the day after she had received her crown piece; she had done more than she had promised; she had cut and fitted the gown, and shewed Emily just how to make it all herself, so that she had double pleasure in giving it to her. It was now done and folded neatly, and Emily went with her mother to carry that, and some other little comforts, to the poor woman.

Emily's delight was full and _complete_, when she witnessed the brightened eyes and grateful countenance of Nurse Hooper, and heard her say, that, "now again she should be able to hear her dear minister, and to thank her heavenly Father for all his mercies to her, in the Lord's own blessed house;" and when on the following Sabbath, Emily stood at her mother's window, and saw the good woman walking to meeting, exactly as she had pictured her, with her psalm book and her fan nicely folded in her handkerchief, and looking so peaceful and happy, Emily thought she felt more pleasure than she had expected, and would not have exchanged her feelings, for any thing which could have been offered her.

Time passed on, and the adventures we have related were over and nearly forgotten. Lucy sometimes thought of her faults, and of the lessons which had been given her; she sometimes thought she would try more to correct them, to be more amiable, and good; and when she saw how happy Emily always appeared, and how much she was beloved, she wished she too had learned to control herself, and resist temptation, that _she_ might be as happy; but she did nothing in earnest, and when temptations came, she did not try at all. Her aunt, however, continued to take the kindest care of her, she watched for every opportunity to instruct and amend her, and she hoped that her heart was a little less selfish, her temper a little more restrained, and that she began to have more fear of doing wrong, to remember more constantly that the eye of God was ever upon her, even when she was alone and in thick darkness, and could see not only what she did do, but what she even wished to do in her mind.

One morning a few months after their ride to Brookline, while Lucy was sitting in her chamber opposite to the open door, putting together a dissected map which her father had just sent to her, she saw her aunt come up stairs and go into her own room, with a little package in her hand, wrapped in white paper and tied with twine. Lucy supposed that it had come from New York with her map, and she felt very curious to know what it could be, that her aunt had folded up so neatly in white paper. She immediately thought that her aunt had received some pretty present from New York, and she watched her to see if she opened the paper, and what she did with it, and saw that she went to her closet, stood up in a chair, and reaching to the highest shelf of her closet, opened a small trunk, and put the parcel into it; then she went to her bureau drawer, opened that, and laid something in, shut the drawer and left the chamber.

All this puzzled Lucy exceedingly; so she determined to ask her aunt as she went down stairs, what was in the paper, though she ought to have known it was impertinent to question her aunt about a thing which did not at all concern herself, and that she ought to restrain her curiosity.

"Did you get that little bundle from New York, aunt?" said Lucy.

"No, my dear," replied her aunt.

"What was in it, aunt?" continued the inquisitive little girl.

"It is nothing which it concerns you in the least to know, my dear," said her aunt; "nothing that would please you, or interest you in any way; you should be less curious."

"I wish I could see it, though," said Lucy to herself, as her aunt left her, "I don't doubt papa has sent something pretty, and I think she might have shewn it to me. I can't think what it can be; it was such a nice little package, all tied up in white paper; I wonder if it was not a pair of new ear rings. I _heard_ her say she needed a new set; I do _wish_ I could see them."

She continued to allow her curiosity to puzzle over the little white bundle, instead of trying to forget it, till her map no longer pleased her in the least; so she left it on the table, and sauntered into her aunt's room, and would not attempt to conquer her idle curiosity, but kept wondering, and wishing to know what was in the paper, that her aunt had taken so much trouble to put up so high and so secretly. It came into her head that she might get up into the same chair and look into the trunk! She saw her aunt walking at the very bottom of the garden, and thought she would never know any thing about it.

Now when this thought first came into Lucy's mind, she knew it was a wicked thought, and she did not intend at first to do so very wrong a thing; but she let it remain in her mind, and thought how easily she might do it if she pleased, till after thinking, and thinking, she determined just to try if she could reach the trunk by standing up in the chair, as her aunt had done; so she crept softly to the closet, placed the chair and got up into it, but she was not tall enough to reach the trunk; so she looked about to see what there was to put into the chair, and make it high enough, and she saw the little cricket on which she had been sitting to play with her map; so she brought that and placed it on the chair, and then she found herself quite tall enough, for she could reach the shelf with ease; she put out her hand tremblingly, for Lucy's conscience told her plainly that she _was doing very, very wrong_, and the thought made her tremble very much, but she put out her hand and tried to open the trunk. It was locked.

"Now I do know, almost, that it was something very important, since aunt has taken such particular pains to hide it away, and very likely it is something for me too, that papa has sent me, and she won't let me even see it," said Lucy; "I wonder if it was not the very key to this little trunk, that she put into her bureau drawer. I saw her go there after she left the closet. If it was the key, 'tis easy enough to get it, the _bureau_ is not high, I shall not hurt the bundle just to look at it, and I don't mean to touch it; besides, she ought to have shown it to me, if my papa sent it to her."

Lucy crept down carefully from the chair and stood before the bureau--she stopped there--for something said to her that "she was sinning;" but she did not turn resolutely away and busy herself about something else--she did not fly from temptation--but kept thinking that she might easily enough open the drawer, and see if it really was the key which her aunt had put there; till at last she said to herself, "there is no harm in just seeing if the key is in here, I am not obliged to touch it."

She gently opened the drawer; the little key lay down in front, so that she could reach it without opening the drawer any wider. She stood looking awhile--and then this temptation also was too strong; she slipped in her hand and took up the key to see if it was the very same; having it in her hand she no longer hesitated, but once more got upon the chair and put the key into the lock--she turned it--the trunk was opened--and Lucy saw the little package tied up in its white paper, laying in one corner.

O, why did not she then stop and sin no more. Alas! when we go so far wrong it is hard to find the right path back; every step we take renders return more difficult. Lucy had now gone so far out of the path of duty, that she no more thought of any thing but satisfying her curiosity. She took up the parcel, and untied the string; but what can express her great disappointment when she found it contained--only a little white sugar, as she thought it was. Lucy loved sugar, and had often taken a little pinch from the sugar dish on the table, and as she had untied the paper, thought she would just taste a little before she did it up again; she took a pinch of the sugar and was beginning to fold up the paper.

But all this had taken much more time than Lucy had expected; and before she could get it folded up, as she had found it, she heard her aunt on the stairs. And now that the poor girl was likely to be _caught_ doing this naughty thing, she felt _all at once_ how _very_ bad it was; she was _dreadfully_ frightened at the thought of her aunt's finding her in such a guilty situation, and she tried to jump down quickly, but in doing so, her sleeve caught in the fatal key, pulled over the trunk with all its contents upon her; the cricket was unsteady in the chair, it was jostled by her agitation, and Lucy, the cricket, and the trunk, all came together upon the floor with a loud noise.--Her aunt was just then at the door; she was greatly alarmed by the crash, but her fright was intolerable when she entered the chamber; the first glance told her what had happened.

"O, my poor child," said she, "have you _tasted it_," for the paper of sugar lay scattered all around the floor. Lucy was in such pain she could not answer, but the sugar on her mouth spoke for her,--"Oh run, run quickly for the Doctor," said her aunt, "she has tasted the arsenic!--she is poisoned!"

The servant who had been alarmed at the noise, and was with her in the chamber, went instantly for the Doctor. Poor Lucy, though she was suffering dreadfully from a broken leg, heard all her aunt had said, and she was certain she had spoke the truth, her countenance was so full of pity and of fright; she well knew what she suffered on her account. Lucy thought she must surely die, and to die in the very moment when she was sinning so sadly, to die in consequence of her own wicked conduct, to die in such agonies and convulsions as this poison produces--how shocking! she was already in so much distress from her broken leg, that it was exceedingly difficult to get her on the bed. No one who has not been so unfortunate as to break a bone, can tell how very painful it is.

At last the Doctor came; but before he could set the bone and relieve the distress in which poor Lucy lay, he said "he must give her most disagreeable medicines, for he feared he might already be too late." No one could tell how much or how little she had taken of the arsenic, because it was all spilled from the paper and mixed with other things; so the Doctor gave her the most powerful emetics. Fortunately for Lucy she had spilled the most of the poison as she carried it to her mouth and had but tasted it, so that the immediate attention prevented her suffering so much from that as was expected; but the fright and the pain she endured, and the quantities of medicine she took, all united to confine her a long time, and made her suffer prodigiously. Lucy remained some months very feeble; she lost much of the beauty which she had prized so highly. She was but the shadow of herself. The hours of penitence and sorrow she had passed--the tears of grief which had flowed for her many transgressions during this long confinement had reduced her strength, but they purified her heart, her repentance was sincere and her amendment sure, because she was now in earnest.

One day while her affectionate aunt was sitting beside her, Lucy looked into her mild, patient, and benevolent face, bent over her in tenderness and pity; and her little heart which had been almost bursting with its load of grief, could no longer contain its emotion. "Oh, my dear, _kind_, forgiving aunt," said she, "I do hope this last dreadful lesson of experience will make me a better girl. I would not learn from you, though you talked to me so very kindly and so often too. Nor when I suffered so much from my foolish and wicked conduct about the dress, that disagreeable day at Brookline. You shewed me then as clear as day, the lesson my heavenly Father was teaching me, by all the bad accidents I met with and all the shame I felt; but I soon forgot all that--though you told me that if I did not correct my faults with a little suffering, something worse would be sent to me. And now my great sins have brought this great punishment. Oh my dear aunt," continued Lucy, sobbing with deep repentance, "tell me, shall I forget this too?--shall I forget how patiently you have watched by me all through my sickness, and how kindly you have spoken to me, just as if I had not brought it all on myself--and though I have often, very often been cross to Emily, and never liked to share any of my good things with her, she has left all her companions, and all her plays and pleasures to come and sit up in this dark, dull room, to amuse me and wait upon me--shall I--can I forget all this as I did the other things?"

"No my dear, penitent girl," said her aunt, kissing her affectionately, "you have indeed paid most dearly, (as I have feared you would) for your instruction. I rejoice to see that you are determined to improve by these painful lessons, they will not I am sure be lost upon you; God has mercifully spared your life. When I think of your dreadful fall, and all the circumstances of that sad day, I am truly astonished that you have lived through them all, that your neck as well as your limbs was not broken; and when I remember the chance there was of your taking so much of that horrible poison into your stomach, as would have rendered all medicines useless, I shudder at the thought; you have felt the danger, and have suffered much pain--you know your own faults have caused it all--you say you repent, and if you do so sincerely you will amend."

"Oh, I do, I do repent," sobbed Lucy.

"Then be comforted my love--you will amend, and be forgiven, I am certain, and we shall all have reason to rejoice with you, and bless these distressing but most useful lessons of _experience_.