"So she is," said Janet. "It is a pity she should think so much of her personal appearance, for it really injures her influence in the school. I should think any woman could be above thinking all the time, whether she was looking as pretty as she possibly could. It seems so degrading."
"There spoke the Queen of Sheba!" said Emily laughing.
Janet laughed, too. She had borne the nickname too long to be sensitive about it, and she had long ago learned the great secret that the best way of disarming ridicule is to laugh one's self. She could well afford to be laughed at a little, as notwithstanding her dignified carriage and grand airs, as the girls called them, her obliging disposition made her a general favorite in the school, and all the little girls especially, all but worshipped her. She accepted the sobriquet of Queen of Sheba with a perfectly good grace, and answering to it as readily as to her own name, and she had borne it so long that even Mrs. Pomeroy ceased to look grave when she heard it.
"I really should like to come down here by moonlight," said Emily to Delia, after the other girls had left them. "The moon will be almost full to-night, and it will be as bright as day."
"I am coming out," said Delia quietly, "and as I want you to come with me, your desire will be gratified."
"You don't really mean it," said Emily, surprised. "How in the world will you manage to get permission!"
"I shall take it," replied Delia.
"But how will you get out?"
"Easily enough. We will go to bed as usual, but without entirely undressing, and wait till every thing is quiet. Then we will put on our frocks and cloaks, and taking the water pitcher, we will go down quietly and slip out of the garden door. Miss Thomas is officer, and she sleeps as sound as a log, and besides, if she does catch a glimpse of us, she is so near-sighted she will never know who it is."
"But suppose she comes down and catches us?"
"Then we will say we went out for some water, which is no very heinous crime. Some of the girls do so every little while, and even they are caught, there is very little said about it."
Emily could not help feeling some misgiving, but she had been so passive in Delia's hands, that she hardly thought of dissenting from any plan that the other proposed. Then, too, she really enjoyed the idea of a ramble in the garden by moonlight, and as she said, "There was no more harm in walking by moonlight than by daylight," forgetting that the harm lay not in the nature of the act itself, but in the disobedience it involved.
But as the Scotch poet remarks in the oft quoted lines—
"The best laid schemes of mice and menGang aft agley."
About sunset, the sky became overcast, and a heavy winding wind coming up from the southwest, drove before it such a tremendous shower of rain, that Emily decided at once that the expedition must be given up.
Delia was not quite so ready to be convinced. She looked dismayed when the first burst of rain rattled against the window, but prophesied that it would not last long, and that the sky would be as bright as ever in half an hour. But the clouds thickened more and more—the wind came in heavier and heavier gusts, and shook the building sensibly. Presently one of the large school-room windows was driven in with a tremendous crash, the glass flying half across the room, and at the same time, a bright flash was followed by a terrific peal of thunder which shook the building like an earthquake.
A scene of confusion ensued, such as that school-room had seldom seen. A chorus of shrieks rose up from the terrified girls, who all thought the building had been struck by lightning. Even Miss Gilbert uttered a terrified exclamation. Alice Parker fainted away, and Almira Cosby went into hysterics, while even the most energetic and sensible of the girls were paralyzed for the moment.
Good Mr. Holz, who had come into the school-room for a missing book, rushed to the window and put his head out with a vague idea of doing something, when the wind catching his wig, it was carried up into the air, and borne away to parts unknown. Having offered this propitiatory sacrifice to the powers of the elements, Mr. Holz returned to his place, meekly conscious of the comical appearance of his bald head, as contrasted with his heavy moustache and whiskers, and seemed to be pondering as to what he should do next.
Another loud peal of thunder augmented the alarm of the girls, and at the same moment, a gust of wind extinguished the remaining light, all but a solitary gas jet over the desk, which happened to be covered by a shade. A new burst of shrieks was heard above the roar of the elements, and the confusion was at its height, when a man's voice made itself heard, calm and clear amid all the tumult—
"What is the meaning of all this noise? Let me have silence instantly!"
The noise was hushed on the instant, and all eyes were now turned to the desk, where stood Mr. Fletcher. His cloak was dripping with wet, as though he had just come in, but he stood composedly at his post, looking with flashing eyes, upon the disorderly assembly.
"Silence!" he commanded again, as a hysterical sob made itself heard. "Almira Crosby, sit up and be quiet."
Almira's sobs ceased. Much as she feared the storm, she feared Mr. Fletcher more.
"It is impossible for you to stay here," he continued in a quiet way, as though in the exercise of his ordinary school duties. "The window cannot be repaired immediately, and the room is quite cold. You will therefore go quietly to the dining room, and take your seats there with as little confusion as possible. Miss Graves, Miss Spencer, Miss Mason, you seem to have your wits about you: please take charge of the little girls; Miss Faushane and Annette will attend to Miss Parker; Miss Gilbert will you have the kindness to go before and see that the lamps are lighted."
The confusion was quelled at once. Every one felt relieved at leaving the exposed school-room, while the coolness and promptitude displayed by Mr. Fletcher calmed the fears of the most timid. Lucy, Janet, and Delia, each took one or two of the little ones by the hand; Miss Parker roused herself by a brave effort, and all were soon quietly seated in the dining room, which was sheltered from the wind, and where the closed blinds kept out the glare of the lightning.
Mr. Fletcher was too wise to expect impossibilities. He had seen upon his first entrance into the school-room, that authority was absolutely needful, and he had used it accordingly. But he also saw that the girls' minds were in no condition for study, and he did not require it of them, while at the same time, he endeavored to divert them from their fears. He spoke of a thunder storm in winter as a thing unusual, indeed, but by no means unprecedented, and described two or three remarkable instances which he had witnessed in different parts of the globe. Then, in answer to some questions, he diverged to other incidents and scenes of his extensive travels, describing scenery and manners with that vividness which belonged to him, and which kept every one's attention entranced as long as he chose to speak.
After a time, seeing that the painful excitement had passed away, he returned again to the events of the evening. He uttered a mild reproof for the alarm, and the lack of presence of mind which had been manifested by the girls in general, "with some honorable exceptions," and recalled to their thoughts the fact that wind and storm fulfil the word of the Almighty, who is also the All-wise and the All-merciful, and to whom the night is as clear as the day. Even the giddiest of the girls felt ashamed of her terror as she listened.
And they were few who did not join heart and soul in the prayer which followed these remarks.
By bed-time, the minds of all were tranquilized and prepared for repose. The storm, too, had passed over, and the moon was shining as brightly as ever.
"You will hardly think of taking a walk to-night," said Emily to Delia, as they were undressing. Since the day of their memorable explanation, she had given up even the semblance of prayer, feeling it to be, as indeed it was, only a mockery of the Almighty.
"No, indeed," replied Delia, "nothing would tempt me to go."
"Mr. Fletcher complimented you on having your wits about you," pursued Emily, "but I think you were as much frightened as any of us. I saw you turn pale at every clap of thunder, and even when all the rest of us were attending to Mr. Fletcher's stories, you seemed to be listening to the wind."
"I was very much frightened," replied Delia, "but you know it is not my way to make a fuss about things. Do you know, Emily, I could not help feeling as though it were a warning?"
"I had the same feeling," replied Emily.
"A thunder storm is not like any other danger," pursued Delia, thoughtfully. "One is so perfectly helpless. In sickness, or an accident, or even in case of fire, there is always something that one can do, but in a storm there is nothing for it but to sit still and await one's doom. I suppose really religious people feel differently, though Alice Parker was as much alarmed as any one. She was the only person that fainted."
"You know her health is very delicate," said Emily, apologetically. "But about the storm—I felt just as you did—that it was a warning. Oh, Delia, let us take it so. Let us leave off doing wrong, and try to do as we ought. I am sure we shall both be happier in the end. Just think, if we had been killed, where should we be now?"
Emily hid her face, and wept bitterly, and even Delia seemed affected, and said seriously that she would think of it. She evidently desired to avoid further conversation upon the subject, and Emily could not force it upon her.
"To-morrow!" said Delia to herself, as so many have said before her. To-morrow came, and found her seriousness vanished. She made light of her alarm of the night before, and when Emily adverted to their conversation, she turned it off with a jest and an allusion to the past, which silenced Emily completely.
"A thunder storm is not enough to convert me, Emily. It will require an earthquake, at the very least, and then you will see that I shall stay converted. My religion will not be of the intermittent kind."
Of course the storm and its result were the subjects of conversation for the day, and many were the jokes uttered at the expense of the hysterical young ladies, and of poor Mr. Holz, whose wig had been discovered by Cornelius Agrippa, lying on the ground in the farthest part of the garden, and brought to his master by that sagacious quadruped, who was clearly under the impression that he had discovered a rare specimen of the animal kingdom.
"You may laugh, if you please," said Belle, who always took the part of the meek little music master. "Mr. Holz at least tried to do something. He did not think only of himself, as most of the rest of us did. Wasn't Mr. Fletcher grand, though? I wonder what it is about him, that always governs every body on the instant. Even Almira acknowledged the force of his genius last night. Which did you fear most, Almira, the thunder or the Professor?"
"Well, I am afraid of him," said Almira, sulkily, "and I cannot bear him. For my part, I think it was very hard-hearted in him to show so little regard to our feelings. He told me to be quick, as though I had been a dog."
"You should have minded the first time," said Belle. "Besides, you know that you made more than half of it. It was not more than five minutes after we got into the dining room, before I saw you eating the cake you stole from the tea-table."
"Perhaps it was the consciousness of the theft that shamed her," remarked some one in the group. "But Alice fainted away, and Mr. Fletcher did not scold her at all."
"Thunder always makes me faint," said Alice. "It is not because I am afraid, either, for I should like to watch the storm coming up, if it did not make me sick. I suppose it must be something in the air. I had been feeling very unwell for some time before the window blew in, but I thought I would brave it out. You know I never could make the experiment with the electrical machines, because they made my head ache so."
"Yes, and if it had been any one but you, Mr. Fletcher would say it was affectation," returned Almira.
"Oh, Almira!" said Lucy. "I think there are a good many girls in this school whose word Mr. Fletcher would take in such a case."
"Well, I was frightened for one, I confess," said Annette, "though I tried hard not to show it on account of the children, for I remembered how I was first taught to be afraid of thunder."
"How?" asked some one.
"By seeing other people afraid. I had never thought of such a thing till I was almost five years old, but I used to stand at the window and watch the flashes. About that time a lady came to our house, who was afraid of all sorts of things, especially of thunder. It was not long before a storm came up, and she flew round the house, shutting all the windows and doors—"
"A very unphilosophical thing to do," interrupted Janet, "as any one may see who takes the trouble to think about it."
"Well, at any rate she did it, and then she got into the middle of a feather bed, and there she sat and covered her eyes and cried. Of course I thought something dreadful was going to happen, and I cried and screamed because she did. That was the first time I thought of being afraid of thunder, and it was a long, long time before I got over it."
"What cured you at last?" asked Emily, who had come out of her room just in time to hear Annette's story.
"Why, I was sitting up with my little sister one night. She had had a dreadful time of the ear-ache, and had not slept any for several nights, nor mother either, and finally I persuaded her to go to bed and leave Josy with me. I sang to her, and told her stories, and after a while she got asleep in my lap. About eleven o'clock a terrible thunder storm came up—oh, a great deal worse than that last night. I had left the blinds open and the curtains up to please Josy, because she liked to look out and see the moonlight, and of course, as she was asleep in my arms, I could not get up to shut them."
"Couldn't you put her down?" asked Almira.
"Not without waking her, and I wouldn't have done that for the world. She did not seem to mind the thunder at all, though it was the loudest I ever heard. So I began to repeat all the Psalms and Bible verses I could remember, and then all the hymns, and I managed to sit still all through the storm, though it was pretty hard work, especially as the lightning struck a tree in the meadow close by our house."
"How could you do it?" asked Almira.
"Why I had to!" said Annette. "Because I did not want to wake mother or Josy. Mother never knew a word about it till morning."
"Well," said Almira, "all I have to say is, I should like to see myself sitting with the blinds open all through a thunder storm, for fear of waking one of our young ones. I guess it will be after this when I do."
"I guess it will!" said Belle. "And did that cure you, Manny?"
"Pretty much," replied Annette. "I never seemed to care much for thunder after that. I always say to myself, if I could keep from making a fuss once, I can again; and besides," she added, blushing, as she always did when she spoke on religious subjects,—"you know Somebody can take care of us as well in a thunder storm as any other time."
"True!" said Belle. "And it certainly shows a want of faith in Him to be so much alarmed." She looked at Emily as she spoke, but Emily did not answer, and the bell now summoned them to the French class.
The Professor was undeniably cross this morning. The lessons had been somewhat interrupted by the events of the evening before, and were not as well prepared as usual, but Mr. Hugo seemed to think the storm offered no excuse, and was particularly severe upon those who could be induced to break their engagement by a paltry disturbance of the elements. Fears like those, he said, were unworthy of rational beings, and none but fools would indulge them, either in themselves or others. The young ladies might be glad that they had not him to deal with.
"I am!" whispered Janet to her neighbor. "I perfectly agree with him there."
"What insolence is that Miss Graves?" thundered the Professor. "Repeat your remark!"
"My remark was that I agreed with you," returned the Queen of Sheba with spirit—"if you consider that impertinent. Permit me to add, that I never am guilty of insolence myself, nor do I suffer it from others."
Two or three of the girls looked terribly frightened, but Mr. Hugo only bowed grimly, and said as the subject of the storm seemed exhausted, they would now proceed with the lesson.
"What ailed Mr. Hugo?" asked Emily of Delia, after they had returned to their room. "He was perfectly savage, and I for one was glad that Janet answered him as she did. I must say I think his insinuations about Mr. Fletcher were very improper."
"It was uncalled for certainly," said Delia. "No one can deny that Mr. Fletcher behaved very well. But every one is out of humor sometimes, and I dare say he had had something to vex him before he came, We must have our walk to-night, Emily."
Emily was now very unwilling to consent to the scheme, and reminded Delia of what she had said the night before, but Delia only laughed and said it was certainly very foolish, as Mr. Hugo said, to be frightened from one's purpose by a mere disturbance of the elements. It was not however without a great deal of persuasion, and even an insinuated threat, that Emily consented, with many misgivings, to accompany Delia on her stolen expedition.
ABOUT half past eleven o'clock, when all was quiet in the house, Delia and Emily slipped on their frocks and cloaks, and taking a pitcher, to serve as an excuse if they happened to be caught, they stole quietly down stairs, and out at the school-room door into the garden. The moon was full, and shone with extraordinary brilliancy.
Not a sound was to be heard except the babble of the brook, and the distant barking of a dog; not a mouse seemed to stir in all the long range of buildings belonging to the Seminary, yet Emily felt strangely timid, as setting her pitcher on the well, she walked with Delia down one of the long alleys. She could not help peeping uneasily into every shadowy nook by the side of the path. The evergreen shrubs took strange and suspicious shapes; there were unaccountable rustlings in the hedges, and their footsteps echoed so strangely upon the flags that she could not help glancing behind her more than once, under the impression that they were followed by something.
Delia did not seem inclined for conversation, so that Emily had full leisure to work herself up to the highest state of excitement, and she nearly screamed aloud when the tall cloaked figure of a man rose abruptly from behind the group of arbor vitæ bushes, which shaded a rustic garden seat near the end of the long alley.
Delia grasped her arm hard.
"Hush, you little fool! Don't you see that it is Mr. Hugo?"
"Apparently Miss Emily is timid," remarked Mr. Hugo, seeming by no means pleased at seeing her. "I think, Delia, you would have been much wiser to have left her behind. She has clearly no taste for adventure."
"I did not wish to come without a companion," replied Delia. "Emily is in my confidence, and I have no reason to distrust her."
Mr. Hugo did not seem quite satisfied, and murmured something which was lost in his overhanging moustache. He then gave his arm to Delia, and they walked away together, leaving Emily struck dumb with consternation and shame.
To what a transaction had she made herself a party? It was clearly no accidental meeting. Delia had contrived the whole affair before hand, and it was doubtless her failure to meet her engagement of the evening before, which had put Mr. Hugo so out of temper in the morning. If she had guessed at the object of this stolen expedition, she thought she would have refused, at all hazards, to have any participation in the matter. And yet, what good would that have done? Delia would have come alone, which would have been much worse, and she might have precipitated her own disgrace.
She looked anxiously after the promenaders, and felt much relieved to see that they had reached the limit of the walk and turned back, for at first she had been in dread of an actual elopement.
She walked up and down uneasily for a while, and then sat down on the garden seat—that very seat where she had once been accustomed to come on Sunday afternoons to read her Bible, and tried to enjoy the prospect. There was the village spread out before her, with its peaceful homes sleeping in the moonlight, its graceful spires and towers pointing the way to heaven—nearer lay the still more peaceful city of the dead, the grave-stones and monuments glistening in the moonlight, and, conspicuous among them the tall white marble pillar, surmounted by a cross, which marked that portion of the ground appropriated to the Seminary. Far away stretched the lake, blue and beautiful, closed in by high hills, which might almost be called mountains.
But "all these things pleased not her eye," for it is only to the pure heart and tranquil spirit that great nature unveils her fair and awful beauty, and neither of these were Emily's. The wonderful creation might as well have been a blank for all her enjoyment of its glories, and the holy quiet of the hour brought her no peace, for there is no peace, saith God, to the wicked.
For a long, long hour, she sat in the arbor, or walked backward and forward upon the stones, shivering with the cold, terrified at every rustle of the branches, and wondering when the conference would be finished. At last, to her great delight, the pair separated. Mr. Hugo departed, and was heard softly to close the garden gate, and Delia returned to her companion, with something in her hand, which she slipped hastily into her pocket.
"You poor child!" said she, kissing Emily. "What a stupid time you have had here by yourself. It was too bad to serve you so, but I did not see how to help it, for come I must, and I dared not come alone."
"If I had had any idea of your object," Emily began, but Delia interrupted her—
"Do you mean to say that you really had no idea? Did you think I was going to take all that trouble only for the sake of a walk? Oh, Emily, what a little goose you are!"
"But how dare you do such a thing? If Mrs. Pomeroy should find you out—"
"Nothing venture, nothing have," said Delia. "Besides, I don't mean that she shall find me out. I wish I were as sure of another person as I am of her."
"Who do you mean?"
"Mr. Fletcher! I do fear that man in spite of myself. He never turns his eyes upon me, but I feel as though he could read me through and through. I wish he were a thousand miles off. Mr. Hugo fears him as much as I do, and hates him, too; I believe he would kill him, if he dared."
"Oh, Delia,—kill Mr. Fletcher!" exclaimed Emily, in horror.
"My dear child, you need not take every word one says so absolutely literally. I do not suppose he would kill him outright, but he wishes him out of his way. But come, we must hurry in, and remember if we meet any one, we have only been out for some water."
They filled their pitcher accordingly, and returned by the same way they had come out, but on opening the garden door they were confronted by Miss Thomas, in her wrapper and with a lamp in her hand. Her hair was decidedly disordered, and the want of her front teeth, which she had forgotten in her hurry to make sure of the culprits, did not add to the dignity of her appearance.
"So, Miss Mason!" was her salutation. "I have caught you at last, have I!"
"So it seems, Miss Thomas," was the cool reply. "But are you not afraid of taking cold with no shoes or stockings, on these cold floors?"
"Umph!" returned Miss Thomas, rather taken aback by the calmness of the culprit, whom she had supposed would be too much abashed to utter a word. "I should like to know what has taken you out at this time of night?"
"I went to get some water," replied Delia, holding up her pitcher! "It is against rules I know, but the salt beef made me so thirsty that—"
"That you had to walk up and down the garden for an hour with a gentlemen," interrupted Miss Thomas. "Go to your room, both of you, and don't leave it till you have permission. I shall tell Mrs. Pomeroy all about it, and see what she says to such goings on."
"I propose to tell her the story myself, Miss Thomas," said Delia, with a dignity which might have become the Queen of Sheba herself. "If I have committed a fault, I have no intention of concealing it. Meantime, let me advise you not to make slanderous assertions, which you have no means of sustaining, lest you get into trouble yourself."
"Go to your room without another word," said the angry teacher. "We shall see whether I can sustain my accusation or not!"
Delia made no answer, except to shut the door in her face, when she attempted to enter the room, for the purpose of continuing her lecture. Emily had not spoken one word. She was no adept at making excuses, and she perceived that Delia was perfectly competent to sustain the warfare with Miss Thomas, but her heart sank as she thought of being summoned to Mrs. Pomeroy's presence on the morrow.
"Oh, Delia, what shall we do now?" were her first words, after the door had closed upon Miss Thomas and her exhortations. "I don't see but we are ruined outright."
"We are in a scrape, certainly," replied Delia, beginning to undress. "But I have been as badly off before, and I think I see my way out."
"That is more than I do," said Emily. "What can we possibly say to Mrs. Pomeroy? Who would have thought Miss Thomas could see so far?"
"She did not see, she only guessed," returned Delia. "I saw how she winced when I told her she had no proof. Every one in the house knows that she is as near-sighted as a bat, besides being old. I shall tell Mrs. Pomeroy frankly, that after filling our pitcher, we were tempted by the beauty of the night to take a walk in the garden, and stayed longer than we intended. Then we shall get a lecture, and a long piece of French or Latin to learn by heart, and perhaps be forbidden to go out two or three weeks, and that will be the end of the matter. Miss Thomas is not such a favorite with Mrs. Pomeroy that she will be a very partial judge where she is concerned. Oh no, it is not nearly as bad as you think.
"Dear me, if you knew some of the things the girls used to do at the Gymnasium—this is not a circumstance. The rules there were ten times more strict than they are here, and I am sure there was forty times as much mischief going on. The girls were forbidden even to raise their eyes when they passed a man in the street, and they were not allowed to walk in front of the house at all. It was perfectly ridiculous, and did no good either. But come, dear, go to sleep, and leave the whole to me. I promise you it shall all go right, yet."
Delia's confidence restored some degree of courage to Emily, though she could not keep her heart from sinking, as she thought of meeting Mrs. Pomeroy's eye in the morning. Of that other Eye, from which no secrets are hid, she had almost ceased to think. She had silenced the voice of conscience so long and so determinedly, that the inward monitor now seldom made itself heard, though there was all the time a dull, heavy pain pressing on her heart, and paralyzing her energies. She turned and tossed, and finally fell into an unquiet slumber, which seemed to have lasted only a few minutes, when the rising bell rung, and reminded her of all that was before her.
As the girls were forbidden to leave their rooms, they did not go down to breakfast. No sooner were prayers over, than the monitress appeared with the much dreaded summons to attend Mrs. Pomeroy in the library.
Why is it, that the study or the library must always be the place of fear in every boarding school? So it almost invariably is, and so it was at Mrs. Pomeroy's, and few were they who entered its precincts on any special summons without a shudder. The lady principal now sat enthroned in awful state upon her velvet covered chair, dignified as usual, but evidently somewhat ruffled. Near her sat Miss Thomas, her cheeks flushed, and her little black eyes sparkling, clearly not in a very sweet humor.
"Good morning, young ladies," said Mrs. Pomeroy, with dignity. "Be pleased to sit down."
The girls curtseyed, and obeyed in silence, and she proceeded. "I am sorry to say, I am informed by Miss Thomas of great misconduct upon your part. I am told that you, or one of you, was walking in the garden at a late hour last night, and in very improper company." She paused a moment, and then went on. "It would be much better for you to confess your fault at once, than to make any attempt to conceal it."
"I have no desire for concealment, Mrs. Pomeroy," answered Delia, respectfully, "nor has Emily. That we did very wrong, I acknowledge, and I am ready to tell you the whole story, as I should have done to Miss Thomas last night, but she did not seem disposed to listen."
"How dare you—" began Miss Thomas, but Mrs. Pomeroy waived her hand.
"Allow me, Miss Thomas—Proceed, Delia. I presume you speak for your companion, as well as for yourself."
"I do," said Delia. "Emily and I both ate a good deal of dried beef for tea, which made us very thirsty. We had no water in the room except the cistern water, which, you know, is not quite fit to drink at present."
"It is true!" assented Mrs. Pomeroy. "The cisterns are to be cleaned to-day, but go on, my dear."
"My dear," was always a sign of approaching fine weather with Mrs. Pomeroy.
Miss Thomas moved uneasily in her chair, and Delia went on modestly, but steadily.
"I proposed to Emily, that rather than suffer from thirst all night, we should go down and get some water. We should have asked permission, but it was late, and Miss Thomas was asleep, and knowing how much she has lately suffered from toothache, we were unwilling to disturb her. So we put on our clothes and went down as quietly as we could, and when we got out, the night was so fine that we were tempted to take a ramble in the garden. We got talking down by the arbor, and stayed out longer than we intended. It was very wrong, and we are ready to apologize, and submit to the penalty. I am sure, Emily, I may speak for you as well as myself."
Emily, who had hidden her face in her handkerchief; murmured assent.
"But Miss Thomas declares, that standing at her bed-room window, she saw you walking up and down the garden with a gentleman," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "How was that?"
"Courage!" thought Delia. "If she came no nearer than the bed-room window, we are safe and she has cornered herself." Such was her thought, but she answered as modestly as before—
"If I might be permitted to ask Miss Thomas a few questions, without being considered disrespectful—"
"Certainly," said Mrs. Pomeroy, as she paused for a reply. "It is but just that you should have every opportunity of defending yourself."
"Will Miss Thomas please to tell me how many people she saw walking in the garden, from her bed-room window?"
"I saw two people," said Miss Thomas.
"That is to say, myself or Emily, and a gentleman in a cloak."
"Of course!" returned the teacher, evidently much irritated by Delia's questions, and her studiedly respectful manner. "A gentleman in a long cloak. Have you done?"
"Not quite," replied Delia, in the same even tone. "Will you have the goodness, Miss Thomas, to read, from where you are sitting the third row of figures upon that blackboard?" Pointing to one which had been used in a recitation, and left with the figures upon it.
"Nonsense!" said Miss Thomas, coloring deeply, and looking just ready to explode with anger. "I shall do no such thing."
Delia looked at Mrs. Pomeroy, and was delighted to see the first dawn of a smile on her countenance. She began to see what Delia was aiming at, and could not help being amused at her ingenuity.
"Read the figures, if you please, Miss Thomas," said she mildly. "What possible objection can you have to doing so? They are very plainly written."
"I can't see them," said Miss Thomas, bursting out at last. "I cannot tell one line from another, at this distance, and you know I can't."
"I have but little more to say," continued Delia, without manifesting any triumph at the success of her experiment. "Miss Thomas says that she only two people walking in the garden, and we have both confessed to being there. She cannot see to read a line of large white figures on a black ground at the distance of four yards, so it is no great wonder that she should mistake poor Emily, in her long black cloak and fur cap, for a gentleman, especially as she seemed to have made up her mind that there must be a beau in the case, any how. I do not mean to say any thing disrespectful, but I must say I think she should furnish herself with more substantial proofs, before bringing such accusations against young ladies of good character. I do not think either my father, or Emily's, would be at all pleased to think that we had been subjected to such suspicions."
Delia spoke with a propriety and dignity which might have prepossessed the sternest judge in her favor, and the apparently free confession of her real fault, had great weight with Mrs. Pomeroy, who valued frankness above all things. Miss Thomas' defective vision was well known to every one, notwithstanding the absurd pains she took to conceal it. She was, moreover, extremely suspicious in her temperament, and apt to draw conclusions from what she imagined, than from what she really saw; and consequently her word had less weight with Mrs. Pomeroy than that of any other teacher in the school. This being the case, Mrs. Pomeroy was quite willing to give the girls the benefit of the doubt which evidently existed, and consider the whole matter as nothing more than a girlish frolic. So she gave them due praise for their openness, and a kind admonition to do better in future, appointed them an act of Athalie to learn by heart, (she always gave punishment lessons out of Athalie), and dismissed them to their duties. Emily was crying too much to speak, but Delia said, and this time with real feeling:
"You are very kind, Mrs. Pomeroy. I shall try to act in such a manner, in future, that you shall never regret your goodness to me to-day. Miss Thomas, I am sorry that I spoke disrespectfully to you last evening, and I beg your pardon."
Miss Thomas received this apology with a kind of snort, making no other reply, but the moment the door closed behind the girls, she opened her fire upon Mrs. Pomeroy.
"So this is the reward I get for my faithfulness in your behalf, ma'am—losing my rest, and endangering my health, to be browbeaten and put down in your very presence, ma'am, by those who can pull the wool over your eyes by a few fine speeches. But this is the last time I shall expose myself in your service—" She paused for lack of breath.
"You are exposing yourself now, without doing any one service, least of all, yourself," answered Mrs. Pomeroy, calmly. "I appreciate your good qualities, Miss Thomas, and desire to bear with your infirmities—"
"Infirmities! ma'am—infirmities. I should beg respectfully to know what they are? I know I am a sinful mortal, of course, like every one else, but I should like to know what fault you, or any one else, have to find with me?"
"But I must beg to remind you, that I am always accustomed to be mistress in my own house," pursued Mrs. Pomeroy, with a slight smile. "As to your implied threat of leaving, you are at liberty to fulfil it at any day or hour you choose, though I should advise you to think well, before taking such a step, where you are likely to meet with another engagement. The clock is striking ten, and my history class will be in directly. I advise you to go to your room, and endeavor to compose yourself before returning to the school-room!"
Miss Thomas obeyed, determined at first to seek another home, without delay, but before dinner, cool reflection came, and convinced her that she had better be quiet. Not one person in twenty, she well knew, would have as much patience with her as her present principal, to whom she was at heart deeply attached, and, as Mrs. Pomeroy had hinted, another engagement would probably not be attainable at that time of the year. So she swallowed her resentment, apologized for her violence, and fell again into her usual train of school duties.
"Well," said Emily, after they had reached their room, "we really have got off a good deal better than I expected. I never believed that even you could have managed matters so cleverly, though, after all, that French lesson is no joke. It will take all our play time for ever so long."
"I think you might be thankful that there was nothing worse," said Delia. "Mrs. Pomeroy was so kind, and so ready to believe me, that it made me feel more ashamed than ever I did before in my life, to think she should trust me, when I was deceiving her so. When a person is always watching and spying, and seems to take pleasure in finding one out in mischief, as Miss Thomas does, I don't at all mind setting my wits against her, but I must say, I could not help feeling very mean and contemptible, in my own mind, to think of the confidence I was betraying."
"What can you think of Mr. Hugo then?" Emily ventured to ask. "I am sure he is betraying Mrs. Pomeroy's confidence in the very worst way possible."
"I know it," said Delia in a low voice, and after a little silence, she continued: "I thought of that very thing this morning, and what surety have I that he will not serve me in the same way?"
"Oh, Delia, if you would only think so," exclaimed Emily overjoyed. "If you would only give him up! Then the whole thing would be past and gone, and we should be so happy."
"You might be happy, but I never could," returned Delia, shaking her head. "There is the trouble of playing with edge tools! I cared for nothing but the fun at first, but it is very different now." She walked to the window as she spoke, and stood a few minutes looking out. "But I might refuse to have any more secret meetings or correspondence with him," said she presently returning. "I shall leave school pretty soon, and then there will be nothing to prevent the affair going on openly. I have property of my own, left me by my mother, and there will be nothing to prevent his marrying, if we are so disposed."
"I don't believe you would be," said Emily. "You would feel differently by that time."
"Possibly!" returned Delia. She mused for some time, and then said suddenly, "That is what I will do, Emily. I am resolved. I must see him once more to tell him of my determination, and after that I will have nothing more to do with the matter for the present. He will be very angry, I know, and I cannot blame him, but I cannot help it."
"Then you ought to give him back his presents and his letters," said Emily, anxious to bring the whole affair to a conclusion at once.
"Of course!" said Delia. "And so I will. We agreed to burn each other's letters, and so they are disposed of, but I will return the ring and bracelet, and the book he gave me last night."
She rose as she spoke, and took down the dress she had worn the evening before, but on putting her hand into the pocket, it was empty. The book was gone!
"What is the matter?" asked Emily surprised and terrified at Delia's sudden change of countenance. "What has happened?"
"I have lost that book," said Delia, sitting down in the chair that Emily hastily placed for her. "I must have dropped it, instead of putting it into my pocket. If it is found, I am ruined."
"What was the book?" asked Emily. "Was your name in it?"
"I don't even know the title of it," replied Delia, "nor whether my name was in it or not. He gave it to me and told me to read it. How careless I was! What shall I do?"
"I don't see that you can do any thing just now," said Emily after some consideration. "If you dropped it on the walk, or in the arbor, it must have been found long before this time. If your name is not in it, you are not obliged to know any thing about it, since you can say with truth that you never read even the title."
"Upon my word, Emily, for a young lady who was afraid to tell even a white lie a few months ago, that is a pretty fine calculation. I should say you had made pretty good progress in your education."
"If I have, you are the very last person to reproach me with it," said Emily, with bitterness. "I am your pupil, and you have spared no pains to teach me, either by precept or example."
"We will neither of us reproach the other, Emily. If I have harmed you, you have done as much for me. I believe Lucy Spencer and Mr. Fletcher would have converted me before this time, if your example had not always been before my eyes, to show me how much religious professions are worth. But as I said, reproaches are useless. I have now only to await my fate with as much philosophy as I can."
"Don't give up in despair," said Emily. "I will go out and look as soon as the French class is dismissed, and it is possible after all that I may find it. You need not go."
"Thank you, but there would be more risk than good in doing so. Most likely some one has found it before this time, and the very fact of your being seen searching for any thing will excite suspicion."
"But I really did lose something yesterday, Delia—a lead pencil with an ivory head. If any one asks me a question, I can say I am looking for that."
"Just as you please," was the reply, "but don't accuse me of asking you to tell lies for me. I don't mean to be ungracious, dear, but I am so tired and sick of the whole concern. I shall manage to see Mr. Hugo when class is out, and do you wait for me up here. Heigho! I wish it was over. I know he will be so angry."
As soon as class was over, Delia approached Mr. Hugo with a paper, and requested him to look over and correct a French letter, which she had been writing to a former schoolmate. He took the hint at once, dismissed the other young ladies, and Emily went up to her room to dispose of her books.
She could not help hoping that the worst of her troubles was over. Delia was evidently heartily sick of the part she had been playing and seriously desirous of throwing it up. The loss of the book was unfortunate, but after all her name might not be in it, and then no one need know to whom it had belonged. She put on her bonnet and went down to the garden, which she found quite deserted, for the morning was raw and cold. She was walking slowly along, looking carefully on each side the path, when she almost ran against some one, and looking up, she beheld Mr. Fletcher. She would rather have seen almost any one else.
"What are you searching for, Emily?" said he, rather sternly.
"For my pencil, sir," replied Emily, quietly, for she had, as Delia remarked, made great progress in the art of lying. "I think I dropped it here, yesterday, when I was walking and here it is, sure enough," she added, stooping down and picking it up. "It lies between the stones as nicely as if it had been put there for safe keeping."
She turned to go into the house, but Mr. Fletcher detained her.
"Do you know any thing about this book?" he asked, holding up a small volume elegantly gilded and ornamented, which he took from his pocket.
"No sir, I never saw it before," replied Emily. So far as words went, she spoke truth, for she had never seen the book at all. "What is it?"
"It is a book I should be very sorry to see in the hands of any young lady in this school," replied Mr. Fletcher, holding out the volume as if it had been a cock-roach, or something worse. "It is a French novel, of the very worst class. I cannot conceive who should have brought such a thing here."
"Is there no name in it?" asked Emily, trembling at her own boldness in putting the question.
"None whatever, but quite a tender inscription, as though it had been presented to some one. Grip found it under one of the currant bushes, and brought it to me in his mouth. I only hope it won't poison him."
"Mr. Hugo often walks in the garden, between the classes," Emily ventured to suggest. "Perhaps it belongs to him!"
"Perhaps so!" said Mr. Fletcher, putting the offending volume in his pocket again. "If so, I must give him a hint not to sow such poisonous weeds in our grounds."
He detained her a moment with some remarks as to the propriety of carefulness in reading, and then went into the house, followed by Cornelius Agrippa, who certainly showed no signs of being poisoned.
With a light heart, Emily returned to her room, where she found Delia standing by the window, apparently absorbed looking out.
"Good news, Delia!" she exclaimed, joyfully. "The book is found, but no harm is done. Grip discovered it, and carried it to his master, but there is no name in it, and Mr. Fletcher has not the least suspicion, except that he thinks it may belong to Mr. Hugo. So don't let us trouble ourselves any more about that."
Delia turned round, as Emily spoke. She was ashy pale, and seemed unable to speak, though she tried, but as Emily went up to her in alarm, she put her arm round her neck, and laying her head on her shoulder, burst into a passionate fit of weeping. It was the first time Emily had ever seen her shed a tear.
IT was some moments before Delia became composed enough to speak at all, so that Emily had time to imagine every conceivable misfortune, before she found out the real state of the case. At last Delia recovered herself by a strong effort.
"It is all useless, Emily. I can do nothing! I am entirely in his power, and must do just as he, says. Oh, why was I ever such a fool as to listen to him!"
"But how is it?" asked Emily. "I don't understand."
"You know I told you we had agreed to burn each other's letters."
Emily nodded.
"Do you believe he has kept all mine, every one of them and they are all signed with my name. He declares if I drop the correspondence now, he will publish them to all the world, and that, with other things I have done, would ruin me forever."
"I don't know what else you have done, except meeting him in the garden."
"That is enough, and more than enough for his purpose, even if it were all, but there is more than that. It is not the first time."
"The villain!" exclaimed Emily, indignantly. "He deserves to be hung!"
"You are too hard upon him, Emily. He would never have thought of it, if I had not encouraged him in the first place. He complains that I have trifled with him outrageously, which is true enough, and says I am bound to him in all honor."
"I should think there could be very little honor in such a case," said Emily, "especially as he broke his word in not destroying your letters."
"He says that he did not understand the agreement to destroy them, which may be true, and that he shall not make any use of them, unless I drive him to it. And you must remember that I have been quite as much to blame as he, and more so."
"And is there no way?" asked Emily.
"No way, but to let the matter run to its close. I have made my bed, and now I must lie upon it."
"But cannot something be done? Oh, Delia, let me tell Mrs. Pomeroy, or Mr. Fletcher! They are so kind. I am sure that you have no reason to fear them! Just think how good she was this morning!"
Delia shook her head. "You don't know. A frolic in the garden is a very different thing from such a matter as this. Besides it would lose Mr. Hugo his place, and I have no right to do that. No, Emily, you must not say one word. I wish with all my heart and soul that I had never drawn you into it. I might have been content with my own share of wickedness, without making you as bad as myself."
"You did not hurt me," said Emily. "I never had any principle. I can see it now. It was all feeling, and doing as other people did. But do let me do something for you, dear, I don't mind my own disgrace at all, if I can only help you."
"You are very kind, Emily, but it would be of no use. You would only hurt yourself, and not help me. Don't cry for me, darling, I am not worth it. Let us get ready for dinner. We have a good excuse for red eyes, that is one thing. But how pale you are. Don't you feel well?"
"No!" said Emily. "My head aches, and I have such pains in my limbs that I can hardly help screaming. I think I must have taken cold last night."
"I don't feel any the worse," said Delia, "but then I kept in motion, and you were sitting most of the time on that cold stone bench. How selfish I was! You ought to hate me, Emily, for I have done you nothing but harm ever since I knew you. I almost wish you did."
"I don't!" replied Emily. "I love you dearly, and as to going out, it was as much my fault as yours. I proposed it in the first place, when we were walking in the afternoon."
"It was all arranged long before that," said Delia, "and I should have gone at any rate. But come, there is the bell. Miss Thomas will be quite satisfied with our state of minds I think," she added, looking in the glass. "You know she always measures the girls penitence by the redness of their eyes and noses."
Emily could not laugh, as she usually did, at Delia's jests.
Delia noticed her gravity, and, said, "We may as well laugh as cry, you know, as long as we cannot help ourselves."
"I don't know that," replied Emily, "I know I don't feel very much like laughing. Oh, that pain again! It seems as though it would take my life away."
"Perhaps you will feel better after dinner." remarked Delia. "Do try to keep up, if you can. I believe I should go mad, if you should be taken seriously ill."
Emily did try, and managed to sit up till the middle of the afternoon, when she was overcome by pains and giddiness, and obliged to lie down. She made a heroic endeavor to rise when the tea bell rang, but the effort brought on such excruciating pain, that it was with much difficulty she repressed a scream.
Delia perceived that something serious was the matter, and that Emily ought to receive immediate attention. She called Mrs. Pomeroy, and Mrs. Pomeroy called the doctor, who pronounced that Miss Arlington was laboring under a severe attack of rheumatic fever.
"We must have her moved over to the sickroom before she grows so much worse as to make it impossible," said Mrs. Pomeroy to Delia, who stood by, looking the picture of misery, but perfectly silent unless spoken to. "Poor child, that moonlight walk has cost her dear."
"It has, indeed," replied Delia, bitterly, but she said no more.
The transit was not accomplished without extreme suffering upon Emily's part, and she shrieked more than once, notwithstanding her efforts at fortitude.
All that night, and for many succeeding nights and days, she suffered agonies almost beyond endurance. Her mind wandered at times, and then she talked incessantly of her home life, but curiously enough, she made no allusion to any thing which had happened at school. When her reason returned, and she found she had been wandering, she showed great anxiety and distress, and asked with much earnestness what she had talked about, but seemed relieved when she was assured that she had said nothing that any one could understand.
At last the fever was subdued, but it left her so weak that it seemed for many days as though her life hung upon a thread. Delia would gladly have devoted her whole time to nursing, but her presence seemed to excite Emily so much, that at last it was deemed best for her not to enter the room at all.
Delia wept bitterly when she heard of the prohibition, but she made no objection in words. Indeed, she did not seem to speak at all, if she could help it. All the girls noticed how sad and reserved she was, but her depression was naturally laid to the account of Emily's danger and suffering.
"How much feeling Delia shows," said Belle Faushane, one day, to Alice Parker. "I never before gave her credit for caring for any one but herself. It shows how wrong it is to judge any one so severely."
"Delia is very different from what she used to be," observed Alice. "I should not wonder if Emily's loss should be the means of her conversion."
"Her loss—what do you mean?" asked Belle, startled. "You don't think Emily is going to die?"
"I believe she will," said Alice. "I was in to see her a moment this afternoon, and I never saw any one look more like it. She is so weak that she cannot speak above a whisper, and I do not see that she gains at all."
"But the fever is subdued," argued Belle, "and that is the great thing. I heard Dr. J. tell Mrs. Pomeroy that he was very much encouraged about her."
"Doctors always say so," said Alice, "so that is nothing. For my part, if I were in her place, I would rather it should be so than not. I am sure there is very little in this world worth living for," she added, sighing as usual,—"nothing but sin and sorrow and all sorts of trials—there is nothing to tempt one to stay here longer than one can help."
"Well I don't know!" said Belle. "I think there is a good deal about it that is pleasant too—at least I should suppose there ought to be."
"Ought to be!" repeated Alice. "Why?"
"Who made the world?" asked Belle gravely.
"God made the world of course," was the reply, "nobody doubts that."
"And He orders all things in it, and arranges all its affairs and ours, according to the counsel of his wisdom and goodness—in other words by His Providence.—Does he?"
"Certainly," replied Alice. "What of it?"
"A good deal of it, I think," said Belle. "If God made the world and all things in it, he must have made it as He thought right, and I should think what was good enough for Him, ought to be good enough for you."
Alice looked a little startled by this view of the case. "But you cannot deny there are a great many trials in this life!"
"I don't wish to deny it," replied Belle. "God sends us trials and cares no doubt, but it is because they are needful for us, and we ought to take them in that way."
"It is easy for one to talk who has never suffered," said Alice. "You don't know any thing about trouble, Belle."
"That does not affect the argument," said Belle. "Either He sends us sorrow because it is good for us, or He does not. The Bible says that all things work together for good to them that love Him, and if that is true, and I suppose you won't dispute it, it appears to me that when God gives us a lesson, we ought to learn it cheerfully, even though it is a pretty hard one, and not fret over it, like Almira Crosby over a French verb."
"I don't mean to distrust God," said Alice, somewhat vexed, "and I don't think I do. I am sure if I am willing to entrust Him with my eternal salvation—"
"You ought to be willing to trust Him with your temporal prosperity," interrupted Belle, finishing the sentence for her. "I think so too; but it appears to me that in the view you take of life, you seem to say in effect, that you are willing to trust God to dispose of the concerns of eternity, but as for those of time, you would prefer to manage them yourself. But I don't think that is very consistent either, for if you don't like His arrangements here, it is very possible that you may not like them any better in Heaven; so that you have no better prospect than that of going on fretting to all eternity."
Alice seemed a good deal struck with this view of the case, but she said again: "You don't know how I am situated, Belle."
"I know that your situation is an uncomfortable and difficult one," replied Belle, "but then I know too that God placed you there, and I don't imagine that He would have done so, unless He had had some work in that particular place which you could do better than anyone else. I don't believe He makes any mistakes in His appointments."
"I am sure I never found out what it was," observed Alice rather peevishly.
"Perhaps you never tried," said Belle.
Alice looked rather hurt. "What should you say was my work," she asked.
"I should say part of it was to cultivate a cheerful temper, and try to make your religion attractive by that means," replied Belle. "What use is there in your talking to the girls about the power of religion to make them happy, when they see you crying half the time, and moping the other half? I think they may be excused for not believing it, when they have such an example before their eyes. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Alice, but I must say I think your continued low spirits are a reproach to the cause you advocate, as well as a great injury to yourself. I dare say Lucy would have said all this a great deal better than I have done, but it is true, and I think you will see it so if you give it a little consideration."
The days wore on, and Emily improved slowly, and grew able to be moved without pain, and then to sit up a little, and be amused with reading or conversation for a little while at a time. The girls were only too ready to give her their company, and Mrs. Pomeroy was obliged to make a law that no more than two should be admitted at once. Lucy and Belle were perhaps the most frequent visitors, next to Delia, who now spent some hours of every day with her.
Belle's prattle was always amusing, and she was the first person who succeeded in making Emily laugh. Lucy's sweet cheerfulness brought sunshine every where, so it is no wonder that she was a desirable visitor in the sick room. Delia's depression instead of lightening with the progress of her friend's recovery, seemed to grow deeper and deeper every day. She would read aloud to Emily for hours, but she seldom spoke unless she was directly addressed, and then she would converse only on the most indifferent topics. Yet her affection for Emily seemed undiminished, and she never parted from her without a kiss and embrace as passionate as though she never expected to see her again.
Mr. Fletcher had returned Mr. Hugo his book with an expression of disgust which seemed to surprise and rather amuse the learned Professor.
"What harm, mon ami? It is not perhaps exactly the book one would circulate among the young ladies, though I believe the sweet darlings are not all such innocent angels, either,—but it is a choice book for all that, and will not harm either you or me."
"I do not agree with you," answered Mr. Fletcher coldly. "Such moral pitch cannot be touched by any one without danger of defilement. I profess no immunity from such contagion."
"Eh bien! What signify these grand airs of virtue when we are by ourselves?" asked Mr. Hugo contemptuously. "Better to keep them for Madam's benefit."
Mr. Fletcher looked at the gentleman as though he were resisting a strong impulse to turn him out of the room, but he made no response. And Mr. Hugo, finding that he was not invited to sit down, departed, muttering between his teeth, something which did not sound like a compliment. Mr. Fletcher walked up and down his room for some time, apparently deep in thought, and then taking his hat and cane, and whistling to Grip, he went out, and took his way straight to the telegraph office, where he remained for a considerable time.
It was now the first week in April, and Emily was so far recovered as to be able to sit up part of the day, and had taken two or three little walks from the bed to her chair, and from her chair to the window, though she still could not step without assistance. Mrs. Pomeroy and the Doctor prophesied that she would be about again, before warm weather came on, and she herself began to be encouraged and hopeful, and to form plans about commencing her studies by little and little. She had been talking over all these matters with Delia one afternoon, or rather she had been talking and Delia listening, for she seemed to have given up conversation altogether herself.
"Mrs. Pomeroy says I may begin to read a little Latin with Mr. Fletcher to-morrow, and that you may come and read with me, instead of going into class. Won't it be nice to have him all to ourselves?"
"Very!" replied Delia compelling herself to attend, as Emily seemed to wait for an answer. "Mrs. Pomeroy is always kind. I only wish I had made her a better return for all her goodness."
"But I am sure you have been very good lately," said Emily. "Mrs. Pomeroy said herself that she had never seen any one improve more. She said she only wished she could see you in better spirits, and that she must talk with you, and find out what the matter was. Oh, Delia, if you would only tell her the whole story!"
"I do wish with all my heart I had done so at the time you were taken sick," said Delia. "I came very near it, and if there had been no one but myself to suffer, I believe I should have ventured it. But I thought he would lose his place and be left without resources. Let me give you one piece of advice, Emily, perhaps it is the last, I may over give you, and I should like to think I had done one good thing for you. When you see your duty, go straight-forward and do it, without stopping to calculate the consequences, and don't tell a lie, to save yourself from any danger or trouble. Straight-forward, is the only right way."
There was something in Delia's manner which startled Emily very much, and she was just about asking a question, when two or three of the girls came in with their hands full of early wild flowers, all eager to give Emily an account of the "splendid ramble" Mr. Fletcher had given them, and Delia slipped out without giving an opportunity for any more conversation. But the words and the tone in which they were uttered recurred to Emily's mind many times during the day.
She could not help feeling that matters were drawing towards some great catastrophe, and she resolved to make at least one more effort to induce Delia at least to try to escape from the toils in which she seemed to think herself so hopelessly involved.
Emily was now so much better that it was not thought necessary for any one to sleep in the room with her, and as she was rather nervous and easily disturbed, she preferred to be alone at night. This particular night she felt wakeful and thoughtful. The wind blew, and the rain dashed against the windows, bringing vividly back to her mind the night of the thunder storm—the last evening but one that she had been in the school-room. How long ago it seemed!
Since then she had been near to death's door, and God had mercifully spared her—spared her she hoped, to repentance and reformation. She had fully made up her mind, to make a full confession of her own fault, whatever might be the consequences, and she had only delayed, hoping to persuade Delia to join her. She felt more than ever the truth of the remark she had made to Delia, before her illness, namely, that she had never possessed any religious principles. Feelings she had had in abundance, but no settled rules of action.
She prayed earnestly for guidance—for forgiveness for the past and strength for the future—above all for poor Delia, whom she loved more tenderly than ever.
It was growing late, and the storm seemed subsiding, when she thought she heard some one moving about the house. She raised herself upon her elbow and listened. Some one was already walking very gently through the long hall. Probably Mrs. Pomeroy had come out to see that all the windows were closed before retiring herself. She sank down upon her pillow again, and prepared to compose herself to rest, when the door opened, and some one entered the room, closing it after her with great care, as though she feared to be overheard.
It was Delia! She was deadly pale, except a little spot of red in each cheek. She wore her travelling dress and bonnet and a thick veil, and carried a satchel on her arm. She came to the bed-side and kissed Emily, who was at first too much paralyzed with wonder and fear to speak. But as Delia turned to depart, she found words, and catching her dress to detain her, she gasped rather than spoke:
"What does this mean? Where are you going at this time of night, and in this storm?"
"I am going to my fate, whatever it is," replied Delia in a whisper which had more of despair in its tones than many a shrill scream of anguish. "I have risked a great deal to see you once more, but I felt that I must bid you good-bye. You may tell Mrs. Pomeroy every thing to-morrow. I have left a letter for her on my table, and something for you. God bless you, Emily, whatever becomes of me." She kissed Emily again, and would have gone, but Emily still held her.
"But what—what is it?"
"I am going to be married to Mr. Hugo. We shall leave here in the twelve o'clock train. I will write to you from the first stopping place."
She forcibly extricated her dress from Emily's grasp, and as the door closed behind her, Emily sank back insensible. How long she remained so she did not know, but she recovered her senses at last, and collecting her thoughts with a desperate effort, she turned up the gas, and looked at her watch. It wanted yet ten minutes to twelve, but she knew that the railroad time was faster than hers, and the train might be—probably was—already gone.
No matter! There was a chance, a bare chance it was true, but still a chance of saving her friend, and she must try it at all hazards. She must call Mrs. Pomeroy, and tell her the whole story. As she came to this resolution, she fancied she heard the whistle of the train, and without stopping to put on even her shoes, she ran through the halls and knocked at Mrs. Pomeroy's door.
Mrs. Pomeroy was up, and she opened the door at the first summons, greatly wondering who beside herself could be awake at this hour, for she generally out-watched every one in the house but Mr. Fletcher. Her astonishment was changed to terror, as she beheld Emily bare-footed and in her night-dress—as she said afterward, it was the nearest she had ever come to seeing a ghost.
"Good heavens, my child, what is the matter?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, Mrs. Pomeroy, save Delia!" was the burned reply. "Do not stop a moment, or it will be too late. Never mind me. Oh, do go!" she repeated in agony.
"But what is it, love? You must have been dreaming. Delia has been safe in bed these two hours."
"No, no!" replied Emily, exerting herself to speak intelligibly, as she saw that she was not understood. "She has gone away with Mr. Hugo. She came to bid me good-bye, and he was waiting for her outside. I heard him whistle. I know she did not want to go, but she was afraid of him. I will tell you all about it, but oh, do hurry! There may be time."
Mrs. Pomeroy could think faster than about any person in the world, and her calmness increased always in proportion to the emergency. "Delia must be saved, and if possible without exposure," that was her first idea. The next thought was for Emily. She took her up like an infant and laid her in her own bed, and having partially calmed her by a hasty assurance that all should be well, she descended to seek Mr. Fletcher, who was famous for keeping late hours, and whom she expected to find ready dressed. There was a light burning in his rooms, which opened upon the piazza, and Grip was lying upon the sofa, but Mr. Fletcher was not there, and his cap and cloak were no where to be seen. He had evidently gone out.
"Just like him!" said the good lady much disappointed and vexed. "A storm that would keep any other man within doors only seems to offer him an additional inducement to go out. What shall I do now?"
Even as she spoke however, she heard his step on the wet gravel and hastened to the door to meet him. But we must now follow our fugitives.
Delia sat alone in the large empty waiting room at the station, closely veiled, and shrinking from observation every time the only official person then about the establishment cast his eyes towards her. The misgivings had grown more and more intense ever since she left the house, and her feelings now amounted almost to agony, but she saw no escape, for even if she should insist upon returning to the house, she could not get in, as she had fastened behind her the door from which she had made her escape, nor was it very likely that Mr. Hugo would permit her to do so. He had treated her harshly more than once of late, and given way to such fits of rage, as made her tremble before him. She had not consented to the elopement without a severe struggle, and she would have given her right hand to be able to retreat, but it seemed now too late.
Mr. Hugo, who had been talking to the man in the ticket office now returned to her, looking anything but well pleased.
"The train is behind time, Delia," said he. "There has been an accident, and it will not be here for three or four hours—perhaps not till morning. Ah, ma chere, when we are once in France, I will show you very different arrangements from these. But we can never wait that length of time."
"Oh let us go back!" said Delia complainingly. "Let us give it up."