image005
Emily turned over her book.
"You do not seem very much interested in your book," he remarked kindly. "Perhaps you would like to return it, and try something else."
"I don't care about it," she replied, pettishly enough. "The Sunday books are all stupid alike, I think. Perhaps the limit is in me," she added, rather frightened after she had spoken, as she remembered hearing that Mr. Fletcher had selected most of the books himself.
"Possibly," returned Mr. Fletcher, a little drily.
"Perhaps if I could read your book, I might be interested in that," continued Emily. "You seem to find it so very entertaining."
"You can look at it if you please," said Mr. Fletcher, spreading it on the table, which it pretty nearly covered. "Can you read black letter?"
"A little," replied Emily.
He turned to the curiously illuminated title page, with its quaint illuminated border of angels, and palm trees, and Scripture characters, all very much mixed up with each other, and Emily saw with surprise that the book was neither more nor less than a Bible!
"What a curious Bible," said she. "It must be very old."
"It is one of the oldest specimens of the printed English Scriptures," replied Mr. Fletcher, pointing to the date, which showed that the volume was printed in the reign of King Edward the Sixth. "I suppose this may have been a church Bible, in the days when the parish was obliged to have a copy of the sacred Scriptures chained to the church desk, to be read to the people at proper times. We can imagine the bluff country gentleman, and the gentle dames, with their maids and children, and a few of the common people, gathered round to hear the reading of the Holy Word, of which most of them had hitherto known only by report, and by the brief snatches read in the church service. Perhaps some of the martyrs who suffered for the truth in the next unhappy reign, may have gathered strength and patience from these very pages."
"How interesting it must have been to them," said Emily, roused from her listlessness, and turning over the pages with a feeling almost of reverence for a book which had outlived so many changes. "It seems strange to think of thus hearing, for the first time, of Joseph and his brothers, and Moses in the ark of bulrushes, and all those stories that one has known ever since one can remember."
"And the baby in the manger at Bethlehem, and the appearance of the angels to the shepherd, and all the wonderful history," continued Mr. Fletcher. "Some unhappy sinner straying in, and shrinking into a corner away from the noble and virtuous dames who sat near the chancel, may have first wept and then repented at hearing of her who anointed Jesus's feet, and wiped them with the hairs of her head, and those very ladies may have felt more inclined to stretch out a helping hand to their erring fellow creature, as they listened to his declaration. 'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven for she loved much.'
"Or some old father and mother, whose gallant and goodly son, who should have been the stay of their declining years, had gone down in the Mary Rose, King Henry's great ship which was sunk at Plymouth with hundreds of sailors and gentlemen of England's best blood on board,—such a father and mother may have listened with tears which were not wholly sorrowful to that story of the grave at Bethany which was a cave, and of which Jesus said, 'Take ye away the stone.'"
"It must seem strange to read the Bible for the first time," said Emily, after a pause. She stopped again, and added rather timidly, "I don't see how it is Mr. Fletcher, that you who are such a scholar, and have studied so much, can take such pleasure in reading the Bible. I should think you must have learned it all by heart long ago."
"I suppose, Emily," said Mr. Fletcher, "that the very wisest man living could not read the Bible in the right spirit, without learning something from its pages. The most accomplished scholar I ever met,—a man who knew more languages than I can tell you, and who had read more deeply in the great book of nature than falls to the lot of most men—was never weary of studying the Holy Scriptures. It is a mine which can never be exhausted—a spring which will never run dry."
Emily sighed. "I used to like to read it when I lived at home," said she, "but it is different here."
"Why," asked her companion.
"I don't know exactly. I suppose it is because I have so much to do, and my head is so taken up with other studies."
"But for the first three or four weeks of school, you seemed very much interested in your Bible lessons," remarked Mr. Fletcher. "I think you found much more difficulty then than now in keeping up with your other classes; yet you always found time to study your Bible lesson during the week, and you often came to me with questions which I was very happy to answer. What is it that makes the difference?"
Emily was silent. She did not know exactly what to say.
"Is it not that you have allowed your head to be taken up with other things than your lessons—things which burden your conscience more than your mind?" continued Mr. Fletcher gravely but kindly. "Is it not that you have left off some things without which no reading of God's word is of much avail? I think when you first came here, you would hardly have been willing to spend the time of morning prayer in reading a story book, even if you had been quite certain of not being found out."
Emily's eye fell, and her color rose under the penetrating look which was fixed upon her. She well knew to what he alluded, and that it was not the only time she had sinned in the same way.
"I do not wish to press into your confidence, my child," continued Mr. Fletcher kindly, "but I feel a deep interest in you, as in all my scholars, and I very much fear that you are not walking in the way of wisdom which is the path of peace. Tell me, are you as happy now, as when you were more attentive to your religious duties?"
"I am not as happy as I was before I came to school," said Emily with bitterness, "and I wish with all my heart, that I had never been sent here."
"Yet you liked it very much at first!"
"I did not know much about it," returned Emily. "It was all new; and beside, things were different them."
"I admit that," said Mr. Fletcher. "There was a very different spirit in the school at that time from the one that prevails now. A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump."
He seemed speaking more to himself than to her, and she dared not ask him what he meant.
"But however that may be," he continued, "it makes no difference to you. If you are living in habitual neglect of your religious duties—God not being in all your thoughts—you cannot be good or happy any where—no, not if you were in heaven itself, and the sooner you return to the right path, the better it will be to you, and the more easily you will find it. Be warned in time, my child! You may wander so far from that plain and narrow way, as never to find it again."
"Oh, if I dared tell him every thing!" thought Emily.
She looked up as this thought crossed her mind, and saw the Professor's dark eyes fastened upon her, as though he would read her very soul. She waited almost in terror for his next word, but he only repeated,—
"Be warned in time!" and returned to his reading.
If he had any idea of the true state of the case, he had evidently no idea of forcing her to the confession which she was almost ready to make of her own accord. Happy had it been for her if she had done so! But as she was deliberating, came Shame, and cowardly Fear, picturing to her mind the disgrace, the loss of her high position in school, the displeasure of her father and Mrs. Pomeroy's anger. She listened to the tempter, and locked her guilty secret in her heart again.
After a little silence she said—
"If I wanted to be like what I was before, I should not know how."
"Return to God and He will return to you," said Mr. Fletcher, briefly.
"That is just the very point," said Emily, impatiently. "I don't know how to go to work to return."
"The only way of going to God is in prayer," said Mr. Fletcher. "You know that as well as I do. If you have left off prayer, you must begin it again, and if you are indulging in sin, you must forsake it."
"I never feel like praying now," said Emily. "It was different when I was at home. Everything was so quiet and peaceful there."
"Pray whether you feel like it or not," was the answer. "Your feelings are not of so very much consequence. Act rightly, and you will soon feel rightly. The best, and indeed the only way to bring one's mind and heart to a proper state, is to perform one's known duty."
This was new and not very acceptable doctrine to Emily, who had, been taught by her aunt's precepts, and perhaps a little by her example, to attach altogether too much importance to states of feeling and mental impressions. She would gladly have gone on talking about herself for an hour longer, but Mr. Fletcher gave her no encouragement to do so. He had returned to his book, and when Emily complained that her prayers now never seemed to have any wings, he only answered rather sternly, "If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."
Janet came in at this moment with her hands full of bright-colored rose berries and cedar leaves, which she had arranged into a bouquet for Kitty, and Emily slipped out and escaped to her own room. Her conscience troubled her more than ever, and again and again she wished she had had the courage to open her mind to Mr. Fletcher, whom she could not help suspecting of knowing already more of her affairs than he chose to tell. "If I had not been so foolish at first," she said to herself, "if I had kept on reading my Bible and praying, as I knew I ought to do, I should never have been drawn into the matter, and I don't believe but that Delia would have had more real regard for me. I believe she loves me well enough now, and she was certainly very kind in helping me about those bills; but I don't think she respects me as she does Lucy and Janet, or even Annette. I heard her say once, 'You all laugh at Annette, and yet she has more sense about some things than any of you. You will never see her laughed into doing anything wrong.'
"Those miserable bills! They were the beginning of all the trouble—no, the first trouble was in being afraid to say my prayers, for fear Delia would laugh at me. And now, here is this affair of hers with Mr. Hugo, and no one knows how it will end, and I dare not say a word for fear of her telling Mrs. Pomeroy of me. I am thankful for one thing—that she does not know anything about the money I found; if she did, I should be her slave in good earnest. But, oh dear, if I only knew what to do!"
Emily burst into tears and cried a long time. That night she read her Bible carefully, and tried to pray; but as she said, her prayers had no wings, and left her feeling more wretched and heavy laden than before, while the sentence with which Mr. Fletcher had concluded their conversation seemed to ring in her ears, and to be repeated again and again, "If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."
She knew the right way. She knew that she should find neither rest nor peace till she had confessed her sin, not only to God, but also to the fellow creature she had wronged, and made all the reparation in her power. But whenever she thought of this, the vivid image of the dreaded consequences of her faults rose up before her, and she dared not proceed.
Still she persevered in her devotions, though she found little or no benefit from them, unless might be the constantly increasing conviction that she could never be happy with such a load of concealed guilt upon her conscience.
It happened, that a day or two after the conversation we have recorded, she was invited by one of the day scholars to spend some time with her. Mrs. Pomeroy saw no objection to her accepting the invitation, and Emily was only too happy to snatch at anything which promised her some little diversion. Abby Carson was a lively, merry girl, of about her own age, and she expected a good deal of pleasure from her society. The day passed very pleasantly in various employments and diversions; but when the hours began to draw toward bed-time, a struggle arose in Emily's heart. She knew that she was to sleep with Abby—should she put her resolution to the test by kneeling down and saying her prayers, or should she act as she had done before in Delia's case? She knew what she ought to do well enough, but what she should do was another question.
Abby's frankness, however, removed her difficulties. She was delaying and fidgeting about undressing, when her companion said—
"If you want to read and say your prayers, Emily, don't let me hinder you. There is a Bible on the table."
"Thank you," said Emily, relieved, and blushing for herself. "Here I will do just as if I were in my own room."
She sat down and found her place as she spoke, and, at Abby's request, read her chapter aloud. She could not help feeling a little self-righteous, as she observed that Abby lay down without even the semblance of a prayer. "After all," she thought, "I am not the worst person in the world."
"Don't you say your prayers, Abby?" she asked, after they were both in bed and the light was put out.
"Not very often," replied Abby. "I used to say them when I slept in the nursery, but since I have had a room to myself, I have got out of the habit of it; and besides, to tell you the truth, I do so many wrong things, every day, I am ashamed to say them."
"That is not the way to be any better," said Emily. "It is only adding sin to sin."
"I know it, and I wish with all my heart that I were a Christian, but I am not, and there is the end of it. I mean to be different some day."
"Some day may never come," said Emily.
"Well, I know that too. I think about these things, Emily, though I am so wild and careless sometimes. But I am going to turn over a new leaf after holidays, and you will see how much better I shall be. There will be some comfort in saying my prayers, when I am not in a scrape every day of my life."
"Mr. Fletcher would say that was like curing one's self and then sending for the doctor," observed Emily. "How do you expect to get strength to do so much better if you do not pray for it?"
"I don't know!" said Abby, sighing. "I only know that I hav'nt got it now. But, Emily, I should not think that your ways and Delia's would suit very well. She seems to be anything but a religious character."
"Delia is not so much worse than any body else," said Emily. "I know she is not what she ought to be about such things, but she has a great deal of sense and feeling, and I cannot help thinking that she will come round after a while. One thing is, that her step-mother professes to be very pious, and Delia dislikes her so much, that I think it sets her against the whole subject."
"I wonder at that, too," said Abby. "Mother has known Mrs. Mason from a child, and she thinks all the world of her. I was telling her one day, what Delia said about her step-mother, and she said if Delia had any trouble, it must be all her own fault, for there was never a better temper, or better principles than hers."
"Delia thinks it is all artfulness and hypocrisy in her," observed Emily, "but I don't believe any one else would have suited her any better. She was angry at having a step-mother at all, just as I should be. I believe I should hate the best woman that ever lived, if she was my father's second wife."
"Then I think you would do very wrong," said Abby with spirit; "I don't believe any girl ever loved her mother better than I did mine, and she had only been dead a year and a half, when my father married again. But as soon as I heard of it, I made up my mind to make the very best of her, however she might turn out, and to do every thing in my power to make her comfortable in the house. So the day she was coming, I put her room in the neatest order I could, and arranged flowers in the vases, although I could not help crying every now and then, when I thought how my dear mother had used these very things. It did seem hard thus to have a stranger come into her place so soon, but as I said, I had determined to make the very best of it, and the minute she came into the house, though it seemed as though I should choke, I went and kissed her, and called her mother."
"What did she say?" asked Emily, much interested.
"She did not say much, only kissed me and called me her dear child, but I heard her tell father afterwards that she felt as though a thousand pounds was lifted off her mind when I called her mother. So, you see, I had my reward that time. If one has a difficult thing before one, it is so much easier to do it the very minute one has a chance, than it is if one puts it off, and then while you are delaying very likely something happens which makes it almost impossible for you to do it at all."
Emily thought of the money, and gave an unqualified assent. "But how have you got on since?" she asked.
"Oh, nicely!" replied Abby. "She takes such good care of the children, and makes father so happy, that I could not help liking her, though we do not agree about some things exactly. But then I know, of course, it is my place to give way, and as it takes two to make a dispute, we never have any. She is really very kind to me, too, so that it is no great matter if she is a little fussy sometimes. But if I had begun by quarreling, or even by crying and fretting, I dare say I should have ended by disliking her as much as Delia does Mrs. Mason."
"You don't do Delia justice, Abby. It is harder for her than it would be for many people, she has such strong feelings."
"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Abby, not very elegantly. "What is the use of strong feelings, or deep feelings, if they don't make people act rightly? If feeling was all, I could be as good a Christian as any body, but it is when it comes to action that I find the trouble. I am no believer in that sort of Christianity. However, as far as Delia is concerned, I don't mean to judge her. She may be quite different from what I have thought her—indeed, I think she must be, or you and she would not agree so well."
Emily sighed and blushed, as she remembered how little opportunity she had given Delia of commenting upon her religion, either in principle or in practice. She was somewhat uplifted in her own esteem, however, by what had passed that evening, forgetting how near she had come to yielding, and that she had been saved from it more by Abby's frankness than by any courage of her own; and she resolved that on the very first evening of Delia's return, she would show her that she did not fear her ridicule, when the cause of religion was concerned.
She spent several days very pleasantly at Mrs. Carson's, becoming more and more attached to Abby, as she saw how much she did to render home happy. With a great many excellent and lovable qualities, and a sincere desire to do her duty, Mrs. Carson was, as Abby said, a little fussy, and she sometimes interfered unnecessarily in Abby's plans and projects, in a way which would have been very vexatious to most girls of her age, but Abby took every thing pleasantly, contriving to avoid collisions, and giving up when it was irresistible with a perfect good grace.
"She is better than I am," thought Emily upon one of these occasions, "though she does not make any pretensions to piety, but I am resolved that I will turn over a new leaf. Delia shall see that I am determined to do right in the future, whatever I may have done in the past. I have been very wicked, I know, but I hope I have repented, and, as to making restitution, that is just impossible, and no one is called upon to do what is impossible."
So did Emily reason, and so did she resolve. What her reasonings and resolutions amounted to, we shall perhaps see in future.
EMILY'S good resolution lasted at least a week after school commenced. It opened on Wednesday, and Delia did not return till the following Monday, so that she had her room to herself for that time. She had succeeded in lulling her conscience into a certain degree of quietness, and the exact performance of the routine of religious observances which she had imposed upon herself, gave her a feeling of self-righteousness, so that she found herself, upon the whole, more comfortable than she had been for a long time back. Still there was all the time, at the bottom of her heart, an uneasy consciousness that all was not as it should be.
Her lesson upon Sunday was thoroughly learned and well recited, which was not the case generally in the class, and Emily rather expected some particular commendation, but Mr. Fletcher only said, "Very well, Emily," and she could not help thinking that his tone and manner were both sad and severe.
"If he knows anything about the matter, why don't he tell of it and have done?" she thought, rather impatiently. "I believe I should be almost glad to have it come out by accident. Almost anything would be better than to have it hanging over one's head forever."
Several of the girls noticed how serious Emily seemed, and, after they returned to their rooms, one of them remarked upon it, adding, "I wonder how long it will last?"
"Till Delia Mason comes back, and no longer," said Bella Faushane. "Delia can twist Emily round her finger, and she does it too."
"Perhaps Emily may have more stability about her than you think," remarked Lucy, who had always a kind word for every one. "She is very persevering about some things."
"That is true," said Bella, "and I may do her injustice; but I have noticed that there is nothing Emily dreads so much as ridicule. The mere making a little blunder in class, if it is noticed, seems to render her miserable for all day. I do not believe she will have the courage to say her prayers once if Delia laughs at her, and laugh at her she will, unless I am very much mistaken. Now here is Annette, who was afraid to go down the other night, lest Mr. Hugo should ask her a question in French, and who cries if she happens to make a mistake in repeating her text at the table. Yet, if it were a case of conscience, I believe she would be no more afraid of the den of lions than Daniel himself."
"Oh, well! That is different," said Annette. "Saying one's prayers is a thing one ought to do, and so one has to do it, whether one is afraid or not."
"A grand sentiment, awkwardly expressed, my dear child, as Mr. Fletcher would remark," said Bella, who was very fond of Annette, though she laughed, as all the girls did, at her simplicity. "But, tell me, Annette, is it not also a duty to improve in French, so long as our parents send us here especially for that purpose?"
"I suppose it is," said Annette, after some consideration.
"But in order to improve, is it not necessary to practice speaking at every proper opportunity?"
Annette assented after a little more thought.
"Well then," continued Bella, pursuing her Souatic method of reasoning, "does it not plainly follow that it is your duty to speak French, whether you are afraid or not, or whether you like it or not?"
"I believe it is," said Annette, "but I never thought of it in that way before. Thank you, Bella."
"Annette has a new idea," said Janet Graves, as Annette left them, and went to her own room.
"And she will practice upon it, too," said Bella. "Notice her at the breakfast table, and see if she does not speak French."
Contrary to the expectation of the girls, that unpopular institution, the French table, had not been abolished, and the rule remained in force. Even as Bella had predicted, Annette made a heroic effort, and not only asked for all she wanted in French, but actually came out with several sentences of original conversation in that language, which had evidently been carefully meditated beforehand. The girls who had been present at the conversation the day before, looked at each other and smiled; but there was no expression of ridicule in the smile, for they respected the strength of principle which prompted Annette to do bravely that which she so much disliked, so soon as she was convinced that it was her duty.
Delia returned on Monday, full of spirits, boasting of the "grand times she had had," and pitying Emily for her dull holidays.
"What did you do with yourself all the time?" she asked.
"Oh, I read and walked, and helped take care of Kitty," said Emily; "and then I spent four days with Abby Carson, which I enjoyed very much. On the whole, it was not so tiresome as I expected."
"Did you have any lessons?" asked Delia.
"Only reading Latin with Mr. Fletcher. He says I improve very fast, and I never took so much interest in it before. What an excellent teacher he is!"
"He is well enough," said Delia. "I never could discover any of the extraordinary things about him that the other girls see or imagine; but I confess to being a little afraid of those black eyes of his. But how do the girls like Mr. Hugo?"
"We have not had a recitation yet," replied Emily.
She had been dreading the introduction of this topic, for she had fully made up her mind that she ought to tell Delia that she would have nothing more to do with the matter. Unlike Annette, however, to acknowledge an obligation and to fulfil it were with Emily two very different things. To do her justice, she did make an effort, but instead of speaking boldly at once, she began by saying,—
"I wish you would not go on with that, Delia. I am sure you will be sorry some day, and then it will be too late."
"I will be the judge of that, my dear," returned Delia. "You know I told you that, before."
"But your father—"
"My father knows nothing about it, and need not know. It may very likely never come to anything, and then there will be no harm done. Moreover, my father has not been so very careful of my comfort or interest, that I should submit all my affairs implicitly to his will. He need not have brought a strange woman into the house to tyrannise over me, if he had wanted me to stay at home. She has trained Ron and Alice so that I cannot do anything with them, and Alice had the impudence to tell me that I had no business to speak so to my mother. Mother, indeed!"
"Mrs. Carson said she used to know your mother, and always thought her a very nice woman," remarked Emily.
"Mrs. Carson is a step-mother herself, and of course she is bound to stand up for the whole tribe," returned Delia. "But, now tell me, who has come back, and whether there are any new scholars? I have not seen any as yet. And how is Kitty? I have brought her some beautiful preserved strawberries from home. Mrs. Mason is an excellent housekeeper. I will say that much for her. I don't know but I might get to like her after all, if it were not for the pride of the thing."
Emily answered these questions and a batch of others, such as always come up at such times, and the tea bell rang before any further allusion was made to Mr. Hugo.
Delia might have been excused from evening study, it being the custom of the house to require no duties from new comers on the first day, but she asked particularly about the lessons, and was soon apparently busily engaged in writing her exercise. Not far off sat Annette, working with grammar, dictionary, and phrase book, as laboriously as though her daily bread depended upon it. The outward actions of the two girls were very much alike, and even an acute observer might have seen nothing to choose between them, but how different did they appear in the eyes of Him who seeth the mind and the heart!
Emily did not feel at all satisfied with herself. After all her resolutions she had failed in the very first effort to keep them, and that being the case, what encouragement had she to proceed? She did not, however, give up at once, but when the nine o'clock bell rang, sending all to their rooms, she sat down resolutely to the table, and took up her Bible.
"What in the world are you doing?" asked Delia. "You are not studying your Sunday lesson so early in the week?"
"No," replied Emily, coloring, and resisting a strong impulse to tell a falsehood, "but think it is a good plan to read a little every night, don't you?"
"I don't see any particular use in it, I must say," returned Delia, "but of course there's no harm in it if you like to do it, but don't be late, that's all."
"I won't," said Emily, going on with her reading, but very much annoyed and distracted by the consciousness that Delia was smiling as she curled her hair, and dreading more and more the ordeal of kneeling down to say her prayer. She read on, and on, almost without taking the sense of a single word, until Delia exclaimed,—
"You will certainly be late, Emily. The bed bell will ring directly, and you have not even begun to undress."
"I will hurry," replied Emily. She closed her book, and added, with a great effort, "I must say my prayers first."
"Say them, and welcome," returned Delia, "but I am afraid they will not save you from a mark, and I should not like to be imperfect in deportment the very first week, if I were you."
Emily knelt down without replying, but, as may be imagined, her mind was in any thing but a devotional state. She could not at first compose herself sufficiently to remember even a form of words, and the bell rang before she had finished the Lord's prayer. She started up and began to undress as fast as possible, but she had not nearly finished when the door opened, and Miss Thomas, who was going her rounds in the regular discharge of her duties, as officer, put her head into the room.
Miss Thomas' passion for neatness and punctuality have been noticed before. Her temper, never very placid, had already been severely ruffled by several untoward events, such as finding her own towel fallen into the slop jar, and various skirts, hoops, etc., belonging to the young ladies, scattered upon the floors of their respective apartments, instead of being neatly disposed for the night. She reproved Emily sharply, would listen to no excuses, telling her that three-quarters of an hour was time sufficient for any young lady to prepare for bed, and concluded by saying that she should give her a mark, which she need not seek to have excused. All this did not, of course, tend to the increase of Emily's serenity.
"Hateful, cross old thing!" said she, as the door finally closed upon Miss Thomas and her lecture. "I wish she were in Jericho!"
"And just as you were being so extra good too," returned Delia, laughing. "But never mind, Emily, you can call it persecution for righteousness sake, you know."
"You are very provoking, Delia," retorted Emily. "I do believe you are glad to have me get into a scrape, just that you may have the pleasure of saying, 'I told you so!'"
"Upon my word, your devotions don't seem to have improved your temper," said Delia, not without reason. "I am sure I did all I could to save you from trouble. I don't object to your saying as many prayers as you like, only as I have told you before, consistency is a jewel."
Emily felt that Delia had some reason for her remarks, and checked the sharp answer which rose to her lips, but her frame of mind was any thing but amiable or Christian. As one goes to sleep at night, so one is very apt to awake in the morning, and she opened her eyes with that unpleasant feeling which every one has experienced at one time or another, that something very disagreeable had happened which she did not exactly remember.
Delia was already up, curling her hair at the dressing-table, and looking as neat and bright as ever, while Emily's uncurled locks hung tangled and uncomfortable around her face—another circumstance to remind her of course of the night before. Delia made no remark upon them, however, but assisted Emily to arrange her hair neatly and comfortably, straightened and smoothed the tumbled collar and sleeves, and sewed on a missing button. She generally delivered a little lecture upon neatness upon these occasions, for the most perfect tidiness was one of her good qualities, and she had already rendered Emily an essential service in reforming her rather careless habits.
At this time, however, she never even alluded to the subject, but chatted pleasantly of matters at home, and at which Emily felt grateful for her forbearance. She hoped that Delia would go out and leave her alone fur a few minutes, but no such thing occurred, and the breakfast bell rang before she had quite made up her mind what to do. So the previous preparations for the day's duties and trials was again lost.
Things had by this time fallen nearly into their usual train, in which, though as all the girls had not yet returned, it was impossible to arrange the classes accurately. When will parents learn that it is quite as important to their daughters as to their sons, to return regularly and promptly to their duties? Boys are for the most part sent back to school, or college, on the very day of the opening, but girls are allowed to linger at home for two, three, or four days, or even a week or two after the school commences, to the great annoyance of the teachers and their own equal disadvantage. Mrs. Pomeroy had waged war on this custom for years, but with little success, and there were always at least half a dozen behind hand to produce confusion in classes, and vexation to teachers. On this occasion it was Mr. Fletcher's Latin class which clashed with Mr. Hugo's French, and of course Mr. Fletcher gave way to the stranger till matters could be arranged.
"I am glad the Latin was put aside," said Almira to Emily, as they gathered up their books, and went down together to the lecture room. "I would not miss this first recitation for any thing—it will be so odd to write French to a gentleman. Do you know I don't think Mr. Fletcher likes him very much!"
Emily had somehow received the same impression, though she could not tell how, and she asked her companion what made her think so. But Almira would not tell, only she did not believe he did. The large class was assembled in the lecture room, quite filling the raised seats in front of the apartment, before Mr. Hugo made his appearance. Some of the girls were looking over their lessons, some were occupied with their personal appearance, some simpering and giggling in that indescribable flutter which characterizes a certain style of young women (and some who are not so young) when there is a prospect of seeing a strange individual of the male sex. Delia sat on one of the front seats, quite composed and collected, though Emily thought she had rather more color than usual.
Punctually at the striking of the clock the Professor made his appearance, and mounted the platform without seeming in the least disconcerted by the array of young ladies. He did look slightly annoyed when Mrs. Pomeroy came in and seated herself upon one of the back benches, and he glanced at her in no very friendly way from under his bushy eyebrows. But the head of Minerva over the clock was not more impenetrable than Mrs. Pomeroy, and as she calmly took out her knitting, as though she had quite made up her mind to hear the lesson through, Mr. Hugo had no alternative but to proceed.
The lesson began with a general examination upon the principles of French Grammar, especially the verbs, that having been Mademoiselle's great hobby. The young ladies did themselves much credit, and Mr. Hugo not only professed himself satisfied, but paid a graceful compliment to their former teacher. He then dictated while they wrote, (an admirable plan by the way,) and then requested to see the exercises.
Only three young ladies beside Delia and Emily were prepared in this part of the lesson, and to the surprise of every body, one of these was Annette. She blushed visibly as she gave in her paper, but looked pleased at receiving a kind "very well, Annette!" from Mrs. Pomeroy, while Bella whispered to Lucy, who sat beside her, "You were right, after all. We shall see her a good French scholar yet."
Mr. Hugo glanced at all the papers, said they were very neatly written, and that he would return them the next morning; requested the young ladies to be particular in endorsing their names on the outside of their exercises, to prevent mistakes, and dismissed the class with a bow. His method of teaching seemed admirable, and as his manners were quiet and gentlemanly, Mrs. Pomeroy decided that she had done very well in engaging him, and said as much to Mr. Fletcher.
"I have seen so little of him that I am not prepared to judge, at present," was Mr. Fletcher's reply. "I cannot say, however, that I am pleased with the expression of his face."
Though Mrs. Pomeroy often asked Mr. Fletcher's opinion upon matters connected with the school, she was not apt to attach much importance to it, unless it coincided with her own. Mr. Fletcher had advised her to learn more of Mr. Hugo before engaging him, but she had thought the recommendation quite satisfactory which he had brought from his late employer in L., and his manners and accent were those of a gentleman. She could not help thinking that some of Mr. Fletcher's distrust of him arose from annoyance at his advice having been disregarded, and hinted es much, but Mr. Fletcher only smiled, and made no reply.
The class next day was very much the same that it had been the day before, except that Mr. Hugo returned the exercises he had taken the day before, commenting upon the faults he had marked in each. Poor Annette's paper was covered with many lines, notwithstanding the pains she had taken, and Emily felt sorry for her as the Professor handed it back with the not very encouraging remark, that it did not contain one perfectly correct sentence. Her own was pronounced "tres bien," and Delia's also seemed without a flaw, though she did not open it, but placed it carefully in her book.
When the class was dismissed, Emily lingered a moment to talk to Bella and Lucy, who were endeavoring to console Annette for her failure, and on trying the door of her room she found it locked. It was a moment or more before Delia opened it, and Emily thought she looked a little confused, but she made no remark.
"Let us go and see Kitty," said Delia, after school was dismissed in the afternoon. "I have not called on her yet, and I want to take her my strawberries."
Kitty was dressed and sitting by the fire in Mrs. Pomeroy's room, wrapped in the warm knitted shawl which had been Emily's Christmas present to her. She was very grateful for the strawberries, and still more for the remembrance that prompted the gift.
"Every one is so good to me," said she, "that I don't know how to thank them. Just see what a beautiful shawl Emily made for me! Aunt says it is the prettiest one she ever saw." And she ran on about it till Emily was glad to turn her attention to something else, by asking her how she contrived to amuse herself. The question only gave the sweet little girl still farther opportunity of expatiating upon the goodness of every one about her.
Janet had made her a beautiful picture book, which she could look at when she was unable to read. Miss Thomas had brought her a lovely little bird from New York, which sang all day long, and Mr. Fletcher always came to her as soon as school was out, and told her such charming stories, and he had taught her kittens to play ball just as Grip did. Then she returned to the shawl, and displayed all its beauties, till Delia laughingly declared she was growing jealous, and carried Emily off.
"What a sweet little creature she is!" she remarked, after they had left the room. "I should almost be willing to be sick, too, to be so good and gentle. And she is so cheerful, too, notwithstanding all she suffers. I don't see how it is that she contrives to keep up such good spirits, do you?"
Emily thought she could understand the source of Kitty's cheerfulness, but she felt every day less and less inclined to converse on such matters with Delia, so she turned the subject by reminding her companion that if they meant to walk in the yard, it was time they were about it. Hoods and furs were quickly donned, and they were soon pacing up and down the sunny walk, in front of the house, where many of their companions, in twos and threes, were enjoying the same exercise.
"Do look at those girls," said Belle Faushane, as she joined them, and directed their attention to some three or four young ladies (so styled by courtesy) who had stopped in their promenade as near to the gates as rules permitted, and were evidently trying to attract the attention of some young men who were passing. "What fools they do make of themselves! Every boy that passes, they stop short and look at him. If I were so very anxious for a beau, I would not show it quite so plainly. There is Almira Crosby, a grown up woman, almost."
"Quite grown up, I should say," interrupted Delia, laughing; "at best it is to be hoped that she would not grow any taller."
"Well, but do see her, shaking her long curls, and simpering at that little slip from the Academy. And there is Sue Dayton, waving her handkerchief. What a fool she is!"
"Hush, hush, don't call such hard names!" said Lucy Spencer, while Delia and Emily laughed at Belle's vehement indignation. "Sue is very steady sometimes—when she is with steady people. I must allow that she is something of a chameleon, and takes her color a good deal from her surroundings. If she were always with good girls, she would be a good girl herself."
The girls laughed, but Emily had an uneasy feeling that Lucy's remarks might apply to herself, as well as to Susan.
"I wish Mrs. Pomeroy would make Almira cut off those curls," pursued Belle, who was apt, when excited, to give more than a sufficient license to her tongue. "I am sure she would have more in the inside of her head, if there were less on the outside. It runs to ringlets, instead of to brains."
"Thank you," said Emily, laughing, as she thought of her own heavy braids. "I suppose that is partly meant for me."
"Oh, your hair is of a more solid character," returned Belle. "It is not of the wavy and willowy kind. But see, girls, there is Mrs. Pomeroy looking out of the library window. She will be out here in a moment, and then for an explosion. I would not be in Sue Dayton's shoes for something."
Even as she had prophesied, Mrs. Pomeroy no sooner caught sight of the group of girls which had so roused Belle's indignation, than her cap disappeared from the window, and in a moment, more appeared at the door, while in imperative tones she called—"Almira Crosby, Anne Prior, Susan Dayton, come into the house!"
Horror-struck, they obeyed, and were seen no more that evening, nor did they again "take their walks abroad," in the front of the house, for a long time afterward.
For two or three days every thing went on quietly, and Emily began to hope that Delia had given up her whims. She still persisted in saying her prayers at night, though they were often sadly hurried and formal, and she took great pains with all her daily duties, so that she seemed in a fair way to recover her original standing in school.
Lucy rejoiced in this apparent amendment, for she had been attached to Emily from the first, and even Belle, who had less confidence in her stability, began to think she had done her injustice.
Even Emily herself was more comfortable than she had been for a long time. She had now become fully convinced that her guilty secret was confined to her own breast, which was great satisfaction to her, and her perseverance in saying her prayers (from which, however, Delia never said a word to dissuade her) gave her a much better opinion of herself. This went on for some days, when an event occurred which at once dispelled her fancied security, and showed her her true condition.
It happened one day that Delia awoke with a violent sick head-ache, a disorder to which she was somewhat subject. She persisted in getting up to breakfast, and tried to keep about as usual, but with all her resolution, the pain and sickness overcame her, and she was obliged to go to bed. Emily would have been excused to wait upon her, but this Delia would not hear of, assuring her that she should be better alone, and that it was not worth while for her to lose her lessons.
Emily darkened the room and arranged the pillows for her friend, and then prepared to go down to the French class.
"Be sure you bring up my exercise!" said Delia, rousing herself as Emily went out. She seemed about to add more, but a fresh paroxysm of pain seized her, and she sank back with a groan.
Emily closed the door softly, and went down stairs to the lecture room, where the class was already assembled, receiving a short and sharp rebuke from the Professor for being behind hand. She made her excuses by saying that Delia was sick, which Mr. Hugo graciously accepted, and then proceeded with the lesson.
Annette's exercise was ready as usual, and Mr. Hugo encouraged her with the remark that she was making great improvement. To do him justice, he was really in most respects an excellent teacher, though his temper and patience were of the shortest. He was not the man to explain and simplify, and go over a lesson with a dull scholar, as Mr. Fletcher did. If one did not understand at once, that was the end of the matter, but then his expositions were remarkably clear, and his manner of speaking fixed the attention, even in spite of one's self.
"I will take Delia's exercise to her, if you please," said Emily, as the class was dismissed.
Mr. Hugo looked first surprised, and then doubtful. "Did she tell you to ask for it?" said he, holding it in his hand, as though undecided what to do.
"Certainly, sir!" replied Emily, wondering at the question.
Mr. Hugo finally handed it to her, with an injunction not to lose it, and to give it to no one but Delia herself. Two or three of the girls were standing round the hall stove, discussing some point in the lesson, apparently relating to Annette's exercise.
"I am sure Annette is right," said Janet Graves; "I remember talking over that very thing with Mademoiselle last year. It is too bad, to charge the poor child with more mistakes than she makes. I will look back at some of my old books, and see what can find about it."
"Look at Delia's exercise, Emily, and see if he has corrected it there," said Annette. "Delia and myself are writing in the same place."
Unthinkingly Emily opened the carefully folded paper, and cast her eyes over it, but a single glance showed her that it was not an exercise at all, and she hastily refolded it, and turned away, saying that she must go and see how Delia was.
"Only just look at that one thing, Emily," persisted Annette; "because I really want to know whether it is right or not."
But Emily was already out of hearing.
"How queerly she acted!" said Almira Crosby. "What possible harm could it do Delia to have her exercise looked at?"
"I don't believe that was it," said Annette. "She was in a hurry, that was all. You are always imagining things, Almira."
"I keep my eyes and ears open," said Almira, significantly; "and that is more than some folks do. There are not many things going on in this house, that I do not see into."
"Especially when they are none of your business," said Belle. "We all know what a benevolent interest you take in other people's concerns, Almira. It is rather a pity you should not devote a little of your spare time to your own affairs, and so save yourself from disgrace now and then. I don't believe there has been one Friday since school commenced, that you have not been deficient in something."
"That is none of your business, any way," retorted Almira. "But as to Delia Mason, she is very close with her affairs. She thinks she can turn every one round her finger, as she does Emily, but she may find herself mistaken some day. You must allow that it was very curious in Emily to make such a fuss about showing a French exercise."
"What a great quantity of bricks you are making, without any straw at all," said Belle, impatiently. "What was it, after all? Annette asked to look at Delia's exercise, and Emily said she was in a hurry, and must go and see to Delia herself. You all know that Delia is sick, and what was more natural than that Emily should want to get back to her?"
"Dear me, what did I say? You need not be so angry, Belle. I am sure I have no ill-will against Emily, but I do think it was odd that she should not want to show that exercise!"
Emily, meanwhile, had escaped to her room. Delia was now sleeping heavily, her head-aches usually going off in this way, so she sat down by the darkened window in silence, and began to consider what she ought to do.
The hasty glance she had taken at the paper, showed her that it was certainly not a French exercise—not Delia's hand writing at all. It was clearly a letter. Emily now saw through several things which had puzzled her very much of late. Delia's great industry in writing her French exercise, which she always copied carefully, and about which she would accept no assistance, though she had always heretofore, been glad to avail herself of Emily's help in her French lessons—her punctuality at recitations, being always in the school-room several minutes before any one else. All these matters now become plain as daylight.
Instead of abandoning her schemes, Delia was prosecuting them with vigor, and holding a close correspondence with her lover in the very face of her schoolmates and teachers. Emily could not but wonder at her boldness.
Then the thought occurred to her, that after all she might be entirely mistaken in the character of the document. It was probably some private paper of Mr. Hugo's, which he had given her by mistake. This seemed such a likely supposition, that she accepted it at once, and was ready to laugh at herself for her fears, but then the Professor's peculiar manner, recurred to her memory, and she was again in doubt. Finally, she wished to take another look and satisfy herself. She opened the paper and glanced at it. There was no mistake! It was clearly a letter, addressed to his beloved Delia, and signed with the Christian name of Mr. Hugo.
She was just folding it again, when the sound of her own name startled her, and looking round, she beheld Delia setting up in bed, and gazing at her with pale cheeks and lips, and eyes that flashed fire.
"How dare you look at my papers?" was the question uttered in a voice of such concentrated anger, that she could hardly believe it to be Delia's.
"What harm is there in looking at your French exercise?" returned Emily, with a presence of mind which surprised herself. "There is nothing private in that, is there?"
Delia recovered herself with a visible effort and said more calmly, "There is no use in our trying to deceive each other, Emily. You have seen now, if you did not know before, that that paper is not an exercise."
"I have," replied Emily, "much to my regret. I hoped you had given up the whole thing."
"Did I not tell you that I would never give it up?" asked Delia. "I should be very foolish to do so now, when I have the game in my own hands."
"You must not expect me to help you about it," said Emily firmly. "I will have nothing more to do with it."
"What is the matter now?" asked Delia coolly. "Another fit of conscience, I suppose. They don't last long, that is one comfort."
"You will find it will last this time, however," said Emily with spirit. "I am determined not to have that on my conscience at any rate, and so I tell you frankly, that you need not ask me to help you in any way or shape. I love you, Delia, and I won't have any thing to do with your ruining yourself, as I am sure you will."
"Thank you," said Delia composedly, "perhaps your affection for me may lead you to betray me to Mrs. Pomeroy."
"I do not think I shall do that, though I will not promise. I think if you persist, it will be my duty to do so."
"I hope your duty will lead you to confess your sins at the same time," said Delia, betraying no signs of perturbation, but rising from her bed and beginning to arrange her hair and dress as she spoke.
"About the debts do you mean. That is all settled, and the bills are paid, so there is no more to be said about it."
"Unless Mrs. Pomeroy should happen to ask you where you get your money to pay them. I think you would find that rather an embarrassing question."
"Mrs. Pomeroy knows that Cousin David sent me some money, and I borrowed some of you. It is against rules to borrow I know, but,—"
"But you know," said Delia, interrupting her; "that your cousin only sent you ten dollars; and I lent you five, while the bills amounted to almost twice that amount. Where did the rest of the money come from, and how did it happen that you did not have it on Wednesday evening, and did have it on Thursday morning? Isn't it, then, rather a curious coincidence between that fact and the circumstance that a ten dollar bill was unaccountably lost about that very time? And wont Mrs. Pomeroy be very apt to put these circumstances together, even if no body does it for her? Kitty, poor child, need not have been so very grateful for her shawl, if she had known whose money paid for it."
Emily did not answer, and Delia turning round to observe the effect of her words, discovered that her room-mate had fainted away.
STARTLED as she was by the unexpected effects of her words, Delia did not lose her presence of mind. She gently turned the key in the door, and then applying herself to a judicious use of such restoratives as were within reach, she had soon the satisfaction of seeing Emily open her eyes. She seemed bewildered at first, and asked what was the matter.
"You fainted," replied Delia, quietly, continuing to bathe her head.
"Do you feel better?"
Emily looked at her for a moment, and then as the tide of recollection rushed back upon her mind, she turned away her head, and burst into a passion of tears and hysterical sobs.
"Listen to me Emily," said Delia firmly, but not unkindly, and taking Emily's hand in hers. "This will never do. You must command yourself and be quiet, or I shall have to send for Mrs. Pomeroy, and then an exposure will be inevitable. For your own sake, make an effort and compose yourself."
"I wish she did know all about it," said Emily, as soon as she could speak, "and then it would be over."
"I think you are mistaken there," replied Delia. "You do not know as much of schools as I do. Are you quite prepared to take the consequences?"
"What consequences?"
"In the first, place, expulsion from the school. Mrs. Pomeroy, as you well know, values the reputation of her school above every thing else in the world. Do you think she would keep a girl in the house who had deliberately robbed an orphan child, and that child Kitty Mastick, whom she loves as the apple of her eye? It is true she might send you away privately, but that would make little difference. The whole affair would soon become known, and your reputation would be ruined forever. Then where would you go? You have no home. Your father—"
Emily groaned, but Delia pitilessly pursued her course—
"Your father, as you always say, detests nothing so much as dishonesty in money matters, and from what you have told me of him, I imagine that he would visit such a sin more severely upon the head of his own daughter, than upon that of a stranger. If you were terrified at the very idea of his knowing that you had made a little bill at a store, with what sort of feeling will you tell him that you have stolen money enough to send you to the Penitentiary?"
"I wish I were dead—I do wish I were dead," said Emily despairingly.
"That is quite useless; and if all Mr. Fletcher says is true, you would not improve your condition much by dying. No, Emily, the case is simply this. You must listen to reason and be guided by me, and I promise you that I will be your friend; but then you must be willing to do something for me in return. I can save you from expulsion and disgrace, and I will do so, but it must be on my own terms."
"And how do I know that you will not bring me to disgrace instead of saving me from it?" demanded Emily.
"Simply because I have not yet done so," replied Delia. "Though I have known your secret from the beginning, I have never before hinted my knowledge even to you, nor should I have done so now, if you had not forced it upon me."
"But to have disgrace always hanging over my head—always to be under—" Emily shuddered without finishing the sentence. "No, Delia, I cannot bear it. I must confess and have it over at once; I will go to Mrs. Pomeroy this minute."
She tried to rise from the bed as she spoke, but her head was still giddy—the room seemed to turn dark, and she nearly fell. Delia caught her, replaced her on the bed without speaking, and then turning the key in the lock, she opened the door as if to go out.
"Where are you going?" asked Emily, fearing she knew not what.
"I am going to ask Mrs. Pomeroy to give me another room-mate," said Delia decidedly. "If she asks me the reason, of course I shall have to tell her the whole story."
"You forget that I have also a story to tell!"
"And who will believe you? You have no proof. No one has seen the letter but yourself, and it is not now in existence; while I have my corrected exercise to show, and all the girls will bear witness to my conduct in class. You have told Mrs. Pomeroy more than one lie already, and she will think you have manufactured this story, simply out of revenge. I repeat again, you have not one particle of proof for your story, while I have plenty for mine."
Emily had nothing to say. She saw how completely she had ensnared herself, and that Delia had her altogether in her power.
"At the same time," continued Delia, her tone relenting a little, "I have not the least desire to make an ungenerous use of my knowledge. I do not want to injure you, and I think I have proved it by not betraying you at the time of the inquiry. I repeat, if you will be guided entirely by me, I will save you from disgrace and ruin, and all things shall go well. You have no occasion to trouble yourself as to how my affairs are likely to turn out. I am perfectly well able to manage them myself. Take your choice! Promise to be guided by me, and to help me when I wish it, or prepare yourself for expulsion from school, perhaps for being discarded by your father, for the ruin of your reputation, and of all your prospects in life. It is now half past eleven. I give you till twelve o'clock to make up your mind."
"You are so hard upon me, Delia!" pleaded poor Emily.
"I have no desire to be so," returned Delia, in a softened tone. "I want to serve you if I can. How many girls in this school would have done for you what I have done? Do you think Lucy Spencer or Belle Faushane would have gone on treating you just the same as before, if they had known what I know? Would they have lent you money without the least chance of being repaid, or risked disgrace for themselves to keep it from you? I don't say these things by way of upbraiding you, Emily; you know very well that is not my way. I only wish to set before you the reasons you have for confiding in me. But I will say no more. I leave you to make your own decision."
Delia took up her book, and seating here by the window was soon apparently absorbed in study.
The tumult in Emily's mind maybe better imagined than described. At one moment she thought she would confess, at all hazards. Then came the thought of all the train of consequences which Delia had set before her. Mrs. Pomeroy's anger—the stern wrath of her father, of whose uncompromising temper she had already had some experience, and who would feel himself involved in her disgrace—the contempt of her schoolmates, with whom she had always been a favorite, and the loss of the good opinion of Mr. Fletcher—all these lay in her way. What a despicable hypocrite they would think her, especially after her late religious professions!
How Almira Crosby, and Sue Dayton, and all that set of girls would triumph, not only over her, but over Lucy and Belle, and all the religious girls in the school. There would be some reason in what they were always saying—that after all, people were no better for being so pious. The cause of true religion in the school would receive a wound, through her fault, from which it might be years in recovering. Would it not be better, if only upon that account, to conceal the matter, even though such a concealment involved the necessity of a certain complicity in Delia's designs, which, after all, might never come to any thing?
Delia was not the only one in the school who did such things. There was Jane Emmons—she corresponded all last term with a young gentleman she had never seen, sending her letters in those of his sister, and all the girls knew she did, but nothing came of it, and Almira Crosby had almost always some love affair in hand. Delia was shrewd enough, and would keep herself from disgrace, and suppose she did marry Mr. Hugo, what harm would there be in that? A great many people married teachers. Mrs. Pomeroy's own niece had done so, and every one thought it a fine thing for her. Besides, Delia was so determined, that she would have her own way at any rate, so that by interfering she probably would succeed in ruining herself, without saving her friends.
And then came the bitter reflection that she had indeed no proof of her assertions, while Delia had plenty of them. Who would believe a thief and a convicted liar?
Then, after all, something might turn up. Delia or Mr. Hugo might go away, or she might leave school herself—her father might send her some money, or perhaps—she shuddered at the idea that she could find relief in such a supposition—perhaps he might never return. Was it not better to run the chances of concealment, rather than those of exposure?
Was it not better, at least, to wait? At any rate, she did not see that she could do any thing else at present, but accede to Delia's proposition, and by and by she might take advantage of some favorable time and set the matter right, so far as it was now possible to do so. By confessing at present, she could do nothing but harm to herself, to Delia, and the cause of religion. She should leave school some time, and then she could write to Mrs. Pomeroy, tell the whole story, and enclose the money. At present she could only keep silence.
The twelve o'clock bell rang as she came to this conclusion, and Delia closed her book and turned round.
"Well, Emily!"
"I don't see what I can do, except to follow your advice," said Emily. "I have no choice. But oh, Delia, don't ask me to do any thing else that is wrong! I have sins enough upon my conscience already."
"I have not asked you to do any thing, except to keep silence," returned Delia. "All the rest I can manage myself. You are not obliged to know any more than I choose to tell you, and if I want you to give me any active help, I will be sure to contrive matters so that no harm shall happen to you."
"That is true," said Emily, catching eagerly at the first part of the reply, and hardly heeding the concluding sentence. "It is only keeping silence, after all, and Mrs. Pomeroy herself says, she never wants us to tell of each other. I promise you, Delia."
"That is acting like my own sensible Emily," said Delia, kissing her. "I was sure you would come to the right view of the case at last, and I promise you in return, that I will never betray your secret so long as you are faithful to me. Not only that, but I will take care that other people do not suspect you. You must be aware that there are many prying eyes about this house, besides Mrs. Pomeroy's. Almira Crosby and her set would be perfectly delighted to find out one of the 'pious girls,' as they call them, in such a scrape."
"I thought of that," said Emily, in a low tone.
"I don't pretend to be influenced by such considerations, myself," continued Delia, "though I think it very bad taste to talk upon those subjects as Almira does—but if I were—however, that is not what I was going to say. You know how prying Almira is. She was never quite satisfied about that money, and she is always hinting that she will find out about it some day. But I know how to manage her ladyship, and I think I can insure you from any mischief from that quarter. I know too many of her secrets for her to be very willing to offend me."
"How much better off people are, who have no secrets at all," sighed Emily. "I don't suppose either Lucy or Belle ever had a concealment in their lives—"
"There are about half a dozen girls in this school whom we can thoroughly respect!" said Delia, with considerable feeling. "There is Lucy to begin with, and there is Janet Graves, though the girls do call her the Queen of Sheba, and Belle, though she is not always careful enough of what she says, and poor dear Annette, and three or four others, who have a right to call themselves Christians. I should not mind exchanging places with any of them. As for the rest—I did not mean to hurt your feelings," she added, seeing the tears in Emily's eyes, "but you must be aware that it is not possible for me to consider you very consistent."
Emily sighed. "I cannot blame you, Delia. I don't think I shall ever make any more pretensions in that way. Oh, how I wish I had never come to school."
"It seems to me that your religious principles could not be worth much, if they only kept you out of trouble just so long as you could not get into it," replied Delia. "But never mind that now. The dinner bell will ring in a few minutes, and you will not have more than time to get ready. Try to sit up, and I will brush your hair for you."
"I don't believe I can possibly go down to dinner," said Emily. "Every thing turns dark to me the moment I rise up. I shall faint at table, if I try."
"I don't believe you can, indeed," said Delia, watching her friend's changing color. "Lie down again, and I will make your excuses, and get Mrs. Pomeroy to send you something. You had better lie still till tea-time, and if Mrs. Pomeroy comes to see you, take care you don't betray yourself. I shall tell her that you stood too long at the blackboard, and fainted away in consequence. Mr. Hugo does keep the girls up there an unconscionable time. I shall speak to him about it."
Delia was as good as her word. Her excuse was accepted, and she obtained permission to carry up Emily's dinner herself. Mrs. Pomeroy soon followed to ascertain Emily's condition, satisfied herself that the attack was not a dangerous one, and would be best treated by allowing the patient to lie still, excused her from duty, and sent her an entertaining book to read; rather to the disgust of Miss Thomas, who was accustomed to look upon all illness among the girls as only a pretext to escape from school duties, and who thought that Emily might as well have amused herself with her algebra and slate.
By tea-time, Emily was so far recovered as to be able to go down, but all the girls noticed her paleness and want of appetite. Delia had told all inquirers that Emily had fainted in consequence of standing too long at the blackboard, and they were all very ready to believe it—the blackboard exercise being a very unpopular innovation introduced by Mr. Hugo.
Almira connected Emily's illness with the affair of the exercise, and decided that there must be something in it after all, but on hinting her suspicions to Delia, she received from that young lady such an answer as convinced her that she had much better hold her peace.
All things now went on in their accustomed train for some time. Delia handed in her exercise every day, and received a paper in return, but Emily neither knew nor sought to know whether the correspondence was continued. Mr. Hugo won golden opinions from all sorts of people about the house, unless it might be from Mr. Fletcher, who never expressed any opinion whatever. The girls liked him because he gave moderate lessons, and explained them clearly—and Mrs. Pomeroy was pleased with his manners, and thought his appearance creditable to the school. Emily regarded him with mingled disgust and terror, but she kept out of his way, and never spoke to him if she could help it.
The end of February was marked with extraordinary mild weather for the season. The brook in the garden babbled as freely as in summer, there was no ice on the lake, and warm clothing was really burdensome. If it had only been as pleasant under foot as over head, the weather would have been delightful; even as it was, many long walks were enjoyed in spite of the mud, and woeful were the complaints of the laundress at the number of white skirts and stockings that the young ladies put in the wash. The only really dry promenades in the neighborhood were the long paved walks in the garden, which being swept every day, were always clean and pleasant, and consequently very popular.
"How I should like to come down here by moonlight, sometime," said Emily, one afternoon, when nearly the whole school were amusing themselves on these walks.
"You had better let Miss Thomas hear you say 'moonlight,'" said Belle Faushane, laughing. "She would think you were all ready to make a runaway match to-morrow, and she would watch you as a cat watches a mouse."
"It would not be very difficult to escape from her if she did," observed Emily. "She is so near-sighted that she cannot distinguish countenances six yards off. I would wear spectacles, if I was in her place."
"It would be much better," said Lucy, "but she is so absurdly sensitive on the subject, that there is no use in talking to her about it. The only time I ever got into disgrace with her, was by asking her very innocently, why she did not wear glasses. She did not get over it for a week, and I got more marks during that week than I ever had before or since. But she is a good soul, in spite of her crotchets."