Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
FRONTISPIECE.
STRAIGHT FORWARD;
OR,
Walking in the Light.
A STORY FOR SCHOOL GIRLS OF ALL AGES.
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BY LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "THE SIGN OF THE CROSS,"
"TABBY'S TRAVELS," "KITTY MAYNARD," "READY WORK," ETC., ETC.
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BOSTON:
HENRY HOYT
No. 9 Cornhill.
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by
HENRY HOYT,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
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CONTENTS.
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STRAIGHT FORWARD.
[CHAPTER I.]
"BUT this is such a little matter, Lucy,—only a dollar!"
"Whether it is little or much does not signify, so long as I cannot afford it," was the reply, and the speaker laid down the pretty set of tablets she held in her hands, and turned to look at something else.
"I think you are very foolish," continued the first speaker. "They are the prettiest I ever saw, and very cheap. Janet Graves paid twice as much for hers, and they are no better. Come, Lucy, be advised, and take a set."
"If you have no money with you, it is of no consequence," observed the polite shopman; "you can easily hand it to me another time; and, as the young lady observed, these are really superior articles."
Lucy's determination, however, was not to be moved, and her companion turned from her, and addressed herself to another young lady, who was also examining the tablets.
"Well, Emily, have you found a set to suit you?"
"I like these very well," replied Emily, in rather an undecided tone; "but I have no money with me."
"That need make no difference," said the person in attendance; "I can add it to the bill."
Emily hesitated, looked again, and finally decided to take the tablets. The party of school girls then proceeded to a dry-goods store, where Lucy inquired for gloves, and her companions for embroideries and laces. A splendid stock of the latter was soon displayed before their admiring eyes, and the girls began to turn them over, with many exclamations at their beauty. Even Emily admitted that the prices were wonderfully low, though she made no attempt to purchase.
"Come," said Delia Mason, after she had selected and paid for some articles for herself, "now is the time to supply yourselves with collars. You will allow, Lucy, that these are really worth having."
"They are very pretty, if one wants them," replied Lucy, smiling, "but I do not stand in need of anything of the sort at present."
"Just like her!" said Delia half aloud, as Lucy walked to the other end of the shop. "I should not like to be as stingy as she is. She has plenty of money, too, for I saw her purse yesterday when she was buying some oranges in the hall, and she had quite a roll of bills. She never thought whether or not she could afford that."
"She gave them to little Kitty Mastick, I know," said Emily, looking round to see that Lucy was not within hearing. "Lucy is careful of her money it is true, but I don't think you do right to call her stingy. She is always ready to assist poor people, or do anything of that sort, and she subscribed more for the reading room than you did, Delia."
"Oh, yes, because she knows it pays," sneered Delia. "The teachers always think well of any one who subscribes to the reading room."
"Oh, come Delia, that is hardly fair. You know you said yourself; that Lucy was very good-natured when she took care of Clarissa Crosby all that time when she had the toothache. I am sure she is always ready to do a good turn for any one that wants it."
"I don't deny that Lucy is a very good girl," replied Delia, apparently rather ashamed of what she had said, "and, of course, she knows her own affairs best. But come, don't you mean to have some of these collars? I am sure you need them, for yours are as old-fashioned as the days before the flood."
Emily again pleaded her want of money, and was again over-ruled, and the collars were folded up, and the price added to her account. The purchase was a beautiful one, and the price was certain sufficiently reasonable, yet it was with an uneasy feeling that she pursued her walk homeward with Delia, Lucy having dropped a little behind, with one of the day scholars, who had joined them as they issued from the store.
"I wish I had not bought those things," said she at last. "My old collars would have answered well enough, and I have spent four dollars since I came out, for things, which after all were not necessary."
"You have not exactly spent it," observed Delia.
"I have run in debt though, and that is even worse," replied Emily. "Father is so very particular about that. I believe he thinks it is as bad as stealing. I must contrive some way to pay my bills before he finds them out; I should think they would not come to much altogether! Let me see." And she began a mental calculation, which, however, she soon abandoned, for Emily was not one to look a disagreeable truth in the face, so long as she could help it, and she could not help seeing that the amount was likely, after all, to be very considerable.
Emily Arlington was the daughter of a rich merchant in the city. Her mother died when she was only five years old, and she was committed to the charge of a maiden aunt, residing in a quiet country village,—a lady actuated by Christian motives and principles, and, therefore, disposed to do everything in her power for the spiritual and temporal welfare of her young charge.
Miss Arlington, however, was not altogether fitted by nature for the charge she had undertaken. Though remarkably sweet tempered, she was rather weak-spirited; her will was by no means a match for Miss Emily's, and she was somewhat embarrassed by the restrictions imposed upon her by her brother's somewhat peculiar ideas upon the subject of female education. One of his favorite notions was, that young children, and above all girls, should never be allowed to associate with young people of their own age. Accordingly, the little Emily was secluded like a cloistered nun, with no companions or playmates, but her doll, her aunt and the servants. Moreover, Mr. Arlington had a great horror of feminine independence, and this feeling was fully shared by his sister, who accustomed Emily never to think for herself, but to ask for direction in even the smallest matters, so that, until she was fifteen, she had never bought a pair of gloves, or chosen a plaything for herself.
At this age, her aunt died; and her father finding, not long after, that business matters imperatively required his presence in Europe, decided, after much doubt and hesitation, to send his daughter to school. Emily was accordingly placed in the establishment, and under the especial care of Mrs. Pomeroy, whose school had for a quarter of a century enjoyed the enviable reputation of turning out more finished young ladies, and first rate scholars, than any other boarding school in the country.
Mr. Arlington did not leave his daughter without much good advice, and many charges to behave herself properly. He placed in her hand a purse containing what he considered a suitable amount of pocket money, informed her that Mrs. Pomeroy would supply her with clothes and other necessaries, and took an affectionate leave, intending to set out on his journey immediately.
Emily had seen very little of her father, and that little had induced her to fear rather more than she loved him; so that she may be pardoned if she parted from him without any very strong emotion. It was with a singular mixture of feeling that she followed Mrs. Pomeroy to the dining hall, where all the members of the family, some fifty in number, were now assembled, waiting the appearance of their principal to begin the evening meal.
"A new scholar, young ladies," said Mrs. Pomeroy, as they entered, "Miss Emily Arlington, Miss Spencer; will you take Miss Arlington next you at the French table?"
Emily was at first bewildered by the number of strange faces, and could hardly collect her thoughts sufficiently to reply to the polite remarks of her neighbors, who chatted merrily among themselves, though in subdued tones, and in French, supplying a missing word now and then with its Latin or German substitute. By degrees, however, she recovered her self-possession, and began to take an interest in observing the peculiarities of the little world by which she was surrounded. The scrutiny led her upon the whole to form a favorable opinion of her future companions.
They were indeed a remarkably pretty and well-dressed set of girls, and the manners of most of them appeared agreeable and lady-like. A good many things struck her as peculiar; she wondered at the consumption of bread and butter, and bread and syrup, going on around her, and she could not help staring a little to see the young ladies who had finished their meals, produce their books or their work, while waiting for their companions.
Tea was followed by prayers in the large school-room, and Emily was much impressed by the beauty of the responsive service and the singing.
"After all," she said to herself, while preparing for bed, "I don't see why I cannot be very happy here."
Emily was so unaccustomed to the society of girls of her own age, that for some days she was nervous and embarrassed, and shrunk from their friendly advances from sheer awkwardness; but this feeling soon wore off, and before the end of a fortnight, she was on familiar terms with most of the young ladies in the hall where she lodged, and had formed something like an intimacy with two or three of them.
The first one with whom she became particularly acquainted was Lucy Spencer, a very quiet, unpretending girl, a year or two older than herself. She had been an inmate of the school for four years, and expected to remain for some time longer, and her steady good principles and perfect truthfulness made her as much a favorite with Mrs. Pomeroy and the teachers, as did her sweet temper and gentle cheerfulness with her companions. We do not pretend to say that Lucy was perfectly faultless—such girls being found only in old-fashioned story books,—but she was blessed with a naturally sunny and equable disposition, and this happy temperament was strengthened by truly Christian principles—principles which were brought to bear upon every action of her everyday life.
No one felt any hesitation, at asking a favor of Lucy, for if she felt herself obliged to refuse, it was done so gently and sweetly that it was impossible to be offended, while whatever was in her power was sure to be granted. Being in point of residence the oldest scholar in the school, it often fell to her lot to take a kind of oversight of the new pupils, and induct them into the way of the family, and thus it happened that for the first few days, Emily saw more of her than of any other girl in the house.
Mr. Arlington had made it a particular request that his daughter might have a room to herself, but this Mrs. Pomeroy had been unable to promise. Her house was full, there was but one empty room, and she was expecting another young lady very soon, so Mr. Arlington was fain to acquiesce. It was not, however, till Emily had sole possession of her room for three weeks, that her room-mate made her appearance in the person of Miss Delia Mason, who has already been introduced to our readers.
Delia was a very handsome girl, about Lucy Spencer's age, but from her style of dress and manners, appearing much older. She had lost her own mother at the age of ten years, and, in three years' time, her father was married again to a very amiable and lovely woman, who was desirous of doing everything in her power to render her husband and his daughters happy.
But Delia was one of those independent young ladies, whom it is by no means easy to render happy. She at once made up her mind her father had offered her a great insult and been guilty of the most flagrant injustice to her, in marrying again; and she had resolved from the first, not only that she would never be obedient to a step-mother, but that she would do all in her power to make a residence in the house disagreeable to the new comer.
Now the resolution to be disagreeable is one easily kept by persons of the most limited capacity, and Delia's capacity in this respect, especially, was by no means limited. That grand resource of ill-natured people—tears—was hers in no measured quantity, and for the first few days after her mother's arrival, she cried incessantly, refusing to appear at table, and acting to perfection the part of a heart-broken damsel, consoling herself meanwhile by stolen visits to cupboard and store room, and by private repast in her own apartment.
Growing weary of this vein after a while, she condescended to mingle with the rest of the family, but she still preserved a manner of the utmost coldness and disrespect to the new comer, never speaking to her if she could help it, and always addressing her as Mrs. Mason, instead of the natural and endearing title of mother, which had been easily adopted by her little sisters of four and five years old, who had at once been won by the gentle and attractive face of their new mama.
Delia had been accustomed to tyrannise over these little ones to her heart's content, treating them alternately as playthings and slaves. She was by no means pleased to see that her empire over them was likely to be entirely destroyed, and she set herself strenuously to work to defeat her step-mother's designs for their benefit. Was any indulgence forbidden them, Delia would contrive some way to give it them secretly or openly, defending herself when reproved by saying, "their mother always let them have it, and I don't see why it should be refused them by a stranger." If Mrs. Mason refused them, Delia invariably took their part, and incited them to impertinent replies and open rebellion, telling them that she was not their own mother, and they ought not to submit to be ordered about by a step-mother. Mr. Mason was away from home a great deal, and, as his wife never made a complaint, he was for some time quite unconscious of the discomfort caused her by Delia's misconduct, as well as of the injury she was doing to Rose and Celia.
It chanced after a time, however, that a slight accident confined him to the sofa for a fortnight, during which he had ample time to satisfy himself in regard to the state of things in the household.
After vainly endeavoring to convince Delia of the folly and impropriety of her conduct, and receiving no answer but tears and hysterics, he informed her at last that the comforts of the household should no longer be sacrificed to her caprices, and bade her prepare to go to a boarding school at the end of a week.
Though Delia liked nothing better, in her heart, she pretended to be greatly grieved by this sentence of banishment, as she chose to call it, and spent the intervening time in lamenting to one and another, of the circle of her mother's relatives, that she should be driven from her own father's house by the influence of a stranger, adding pathetically that her father had changed entirely toward her since he had married that artful woman. The relatives of a first wife are not apt to be too indulgent towards a second, and Delia's insinuations had their intended effect upon the minds of her aunts who were not, at best, remarkable for sense or discernment; so that she had the satisfaction of knowing, before she left, that she had added another drop to the cup of discomfort and vexation, she had prepared for a person whose whole course to her had been one of uniform kindness.
The school to which she was first sent was, unfortunately, not one in which she was likely to gain much improvement in those moral qualities wherein she was most deficient. The Classical Gymnasium, for such was its high-sounding title, was conducted upon what somebody calls the high-pressure system. With a great array of names of officers and professors, the whole care of watching over the conduct and manners of some seventy or eighty girls was left to two or three overworked and under-paid female teachers, of the sort to be obtained "cheap for cash," who were only too glad to gain a little rest for themselves, by conniving at many irregularities, to call them by no worse name, and by winking pretty hard, or shutting their eyes altogether, when the young ladies contrived to meet their friends and admirers in the Saturday afternoon shopping excursions, which formed almost their only authorized recreation.
It may be imagined that, in such an establishment, Delia was not likely greatly to improve. At the end of two years, her father became thoroughly dissatisfied, and certain correspondences of Miss Delia's coming to light, which revealed anything but a desirable set of acquaintances for a young lady, she was removed from the Classical Gymnasium, and placed in the institution of Mrs. Pomeroy, which, during the twenty-five years of its existence, had never aspired beyond the simple title of a Female Seminary, and where the old-fashioned branches of reading, writing and arithmetic still continued to be reckoned among the necessary studies.
The mental and moral atmosphere of Mrs. Pomeroy's house, was as different as possible from that of the Classical Gymnasium. No one was crowded with studies; plenty of time was allowed for recreation; the play-room being abundantly furnished with incentives to cheerful and active exercise, and the work of instruction was fairly shared among a large body of efficient and well paid teachers. There was no scrimping about the establishment. Healthy, though plain food, well-warmed rooms, and plenty of playtime, conduced to the health of the inmates, and Delia could not help drawing a very favorable contrast between the troop of alert, rosy, and wide-awake girls, who came pouring into the school-room at the hour of evening study, fresh from an hour of active and merry exercise, and the pale waxen-faced, languid looking young ladies, who assembled at the same hour in the Classical Gymnasium aforesaid, nervous and spiritless, and ready to cry at the least provocation, from sheer exhaustion.
Of course, Emily felt a good deal of curiosity about her new room-mate, and during the evening she took every opportunity of looking at her when she could do so unobserved. Delia was, as we have said, a handsome and graceful girl. Her dress, thanks to the care of her despised step-mother, was in good taste and in the latest fashion, and Emily felt rather painfully the contrast between them in this respect. Miss Arlington, her aunt, had latterly lived very much out of the world; she cared little for dress, and seldom noticed what other people wore, and consequently Emily's clothes, though good enough in quality, were two or three years behind the fashion. On the whole she was pretty well satisfied with the result of her scrutiny.
Delia on her part was no less anxious. She had her own plans and purposes to carry out. She knew that her success in some of these must depend not a little upon the character of her room-mate, and her attention was upon the alert to discover any little circumstance which might give her some insight in Emily's mind and habits.
She was not left long in the dark.
Emily had been religiously brought up, and she had been accustomed never to omit her prayers and Bible reading night and morning. The continuance of these most excellent habits had been easy enough, so long as she roomed alone, but now that she had a companion it was different. She was nervously afraid of being laughed at, and the mere suspicion that she had exposed herself to ridicule, was enough to make her miserable for a whole day. She had already made the discovery that Delia was inclined to be sarcastic, and she could not help doubting, as she caught several glimpses of her countenance during prayers, whether she had any special respect for the ordinances of religion.
The right way, of course, would have been for her to take a simple, straight-forward course, reading her Bible and saying her prayers just as usual, whereby not only would she have satisfied her own conscience, but she would also have gained the respect of her companion, for consistency is always respectable. She did no such thing, however. She could not make up her mind to face either the covert sneer or open ridicule of her room-mate, and almost for the first time in all her life, she went prayerless to bed. She tried, indeed, to snatch an opportunity of reading a few verses in her Bible when Delia was looking another way, but she shut the book hastily as she turned round, and restored it to its place, as though she had only taken it up by accident.
Delia noticed the action, and understood it perfectly.
"Pshaw!" said she to herself. "I shall have little trouble in managing her."
This might be said to be Emily's first false step in school, and she could not well have made a worse. Her situation was, at best, one of peculiar temptation and trials, coming as she did from such entire seclusion, into the midst of this busy and bustling little world, where all sorts of passions had their representatives, and thrown almost entirely upon her hitherto untried resources.
Her only safety would have been in the closest and most constant recourse to the Fountain of all strength and wisdom—strength and wisdom liberally imparted by Him who giveth and upbraideth not. From this Fountain of living waters, however, she had deliberately turned aside. She had broken her own staff, and thrown aside her only shield, and she had nothing left to protect her from the assaults of him who goeth about like a roaring lion.
In the course of a week, Emily was completely under the influence of her room-mate, with scarcely a pretense of having a mind of her own about anything. Nor was she the only one who felt the influence of the new comer. In a family of some forty girls, it may be conceived that not all were wise or well principled, and as birds of a feather proverbially flock together, Delia soon collected around her a circle of society nearly as much to her taste as that which she had left at the Classical Gymnasium. It was the height of her ambition to form a clique or party attached to her interest and governed by her influence, and in this she succeeded beyond her hopes.
These young ladies formed themselves into a secret society, as they were pleased to call it, and held their meetings with a great affectation of secrecy in each other's rooms. There the talk was mostly of beaux and dances, of successful evasions of rules, and the acquirement of forbidden indulgences, while teachers and masters, and even Mrs. Pomeroy herself, were the subject of unsparing ridicule. Emily could not help noticing, that though Delia rather encouraged this sort of talk in others, she seldom took an active part in it herself, and had once or twice put an end to it rather sharply, when it seemed to be going beyond the bounds of all propriety or decency. Indeed, she treated her constituents in all respects as subjects, and Emily often wondered at their bearing with it so patiently.
All this could hardly have escaped the vigilant eye and ear of Mrs. Pomeroy, had not her time been very much occupied by the illness of a favorite little scholar, an orphan and dependent, who, after a long time of delicate health, seemed now threatened with settled consumption.
If Kitty Mastick had never known a mother's care, she had never missed it, for Mrs. Pomeroy had been father and mother, teacher and friend to her, ever since she could remember. Her mother had been one of Mrs. Pomeroy's early pupils. She had married contrary to the wishes of her father, who had cast her off during his life, and finally died, refusing to the last to see his offending child, and positively forbidding her sister to see or hold any communication with her. Her husband was killed by an accident soon after, and the young widow was left without friends or refuge. Hearing of her desolate condition, Mrs. Pomeroy sent for her and offered her an asylum, which Mrs. Mastick thankfully accepted, hoping that she might after a while be able to be useful to her benefactress, in the capacity of a teacher of music. After the birth of little Kitty, she did indeed rally a little, but soon sunk, and died, leaving her daughter no inheritance except a remarkable talent for music, and great delicacy of constitution.
At the time our story commences, Kitty was twelve years old, but very small and slender for her age, and seemed likely soon to follow her mother to the grave. Mrs. Pomeroy, however, could not help hoping that by care and attention the predisposition to disease might be overcome, and she devoted to Kitty every moment of her spare time.
It is not to be supposed that the teachers were blind to the influence that Delia was exerting, but they saw no way of interfering with advantage, and could not help hoping that the evil would, in time, cure itself. Delia was a good scholar, she was remarkably neat and very systematic in her habits for a girl of her age, and took a certain pride in maintaining a good place in the school, so that she was in this respect rather an advantage to Emily than otherwise.
This increased Emily's dependence upon her, for she was unused to regular application, and having never been to school in her life, she found great difficulty in accommodating herself to the regular hours and exact punctuality of the establishment. This served to increase and maintain Delia's ascendancy over her. There was not, after all, however, so much difference between them as might have been imagined. Emily had religions feeling and habit, of both of which Delia was entirely destitute, but neither of them had any principle.
[CHAPTER II.]
AS we have before remarked, Emily had always been kept in a state of the most entire dependence, especially in money matters. She had hardly ever in her life known what it was to have fifty cents of her own, and it was not at all strange, that the four five dollar bills which her father had put into her hands at his departure, should appear an inexhaustible mine of wealth to her inexperienced eyes, or that this wealth should be spent very freely so long as it lasted.
The shops in M. were remarkably good for a place of the size, and the bookstores and confectioners' shops furnished irresistible temptations to Emily, who was equally fond of story books, and of bonbons, both of which she had been hitherto unable to procure, except by stealth, and in the most limited quantities.
Every one knows how soon a five dollar bill vanishes when it is once changed. Quarters seem to take to themselves wings, and dimes to vanish into thin air, and unless one is in the habit of keeping a cash account, it is very difficult to know what becomes of it all. So it was with Emily, especially after the advent of Miss Mason.
Delia was well supplied with money by her father, and her store was largely increased by her aunts, whose eyes were completely blinded to her true character by the prejudice they had conceived against her step-mother. She began her school career with some fifty dollars in her pocket, and a tolerable certainty that when that was gone, she should have little difficulty in obtaining more from the same source. She was therefore not apt to deny herself anything that she fancied, though it must be allowed that her purchases were usually made with considerable taste and judgment.
"Come, Emily, here is something that you want," she would often say, when they were out together. "This is just the thing for you."
And Emily, so long as the money lasted, was always ready to purchase. It was with great astonishment and dismay, that on taking out her purse one day to pay for something, she found that she had only a single dollar remaining. It was not more than half as much as she wanted, but the article was already cut off and put up. She thought she could not possibly refuse to take it, and thus was contracted her first debt,—the first link of a chain by which she was to be bound and led away, she knew not whither.
The first step being taken, the next was of course much easier; self-denial was a virtue she had never learned, and it was by no means easy to practice in the company of one who seemed to have no idea of it. She hardly ever went out without buying something, and thus at the time our story commences, she had run up two or three considerable bills.
Emily dropped her mental calculation of the amount of these bills, as she walked homeward, and tried to turn her thoughts to something else, but the uneasy feeling at her heart still remained, and she fully resolved that she would never buy another article till she could pay for it. But even if she had adhered to this resolution, it would not have discharged the debts already contracted, and as it happened, she was to be more than ever tempted by circumstances.
The school always broke up for the holidays three days before Christmas, and the day after its close, a grand Christmas tree was planted in the school-room, upon which were placed innumerable gifts, from teachers to scholars, from scholars to teachers, and from the girls to each other. This wonderful tree was lighted up in the evening, when the presents were distributed, and the boarders and day scholars were entertained by Mrs. Pomeroy.
Of course, all spare moments, and perhaps some that could not well be spared, were devoted by the girls to the preparation of their gifts. Great was the consumption of Chipland, Berlin and split zephyr, silver braid and embroidery silk, and all other working materials and numerous the enquiries for netting, knitting and crotchet needles, at old Mr. Barton's, who had kept a toy shop in M. from time immemorial, and who now filled his shelves with an immense variety of articles, useful, beautiful, and comical, each individual thing, according to his own account, being sold for just exactly what he gave for it.
Deeply did Emily regret the extravagance into which she had been betrayed, and which left her at this critical juncture, entirely without funds. Thanks to her aunt's training, she excelled in every species of work, both plain and ornamental, and she had made great calculations as to what she was going to do; but the best seamstress in the world cannot work without thread, nor the most expert knitter dispense with her wool and needles.
Emily saw no resource but to plunge deeper and deeper into debt, which she did with a recklessness which astonished herself, and induced Delia to give her a caution one day when she was more profuse than usual.
"You had better reckon up what you have bought already, Emily," said she, as her friend gave an order for a large quantity of Berlin wool. "Worsted amounts up faster than one thinks."
"I know it," said Emily, "but I must finish up what I have begun, and, as Almira says, I may as well die for a sheep as for a lamb."
"You are doing a great deal of work, Emily," remarked Mrs. Pomeroy to her the same evening, as she sat at work in the sitting room. "You seem to be especially fond of knitting."
"Yes, ma'am," said Emily. "It gets on so fast, and does not try my eyes in the evening like fine sewing. I think, too, it pays, when it is done, better than any other kind of work."
"As to that, I cannot say," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, smiling. "It is rather expensive, I think, though I must allow that yours is very beautiful. I should like to have you give Kitty some lessons, as it is work very well suited to her state of health."
"I like to do anything for Kitty," said Emily. "She is so good and patient, and it seems so hard for such a little thing to be shut up so, when all the rest are out at play. Do you think she will ever be quite well, Mrs. Pomeroy?"
"I cannot help hoping so," replied Mrs. Pomeroy. "She has improved very much of late, notwithstanding the unfavorable weather, and Dr. J. thinks that a very encouraging circumstance. Her patient and cheerful disposition is very much in her favor."
She returned to the book she was reading, but presently resumed the conversation by saying—"I hope, Emily, you pay for your materials as you buy them. You know I altogether disapprove of the young ladies making bills."
"Yes, ma'am," said Emily, hastily, glad that she was sitting so that Mrs. Pomeroy could not observe the blush which she felt mounting to her face. "I have indeed forbidden the merchants to trust them, without my own express permission," continued Mrs. Pomeroy, "so that they must look to the young ladies and their parents, and not to me for the payment of their accounts. It sometimes happens that a young lady's father gives her permission to purchase upon credit, and then I have nothing to say, but I dislike the plan, and was glad to find that your father agreed with me."
Emily could not command her voice to answer, and worked away in silence, while Mrs. Pomeroy continued. "There is another thing which I dislike very much, and which, though positively forbidden, I regret to say, I have never been able entirely to prevent. I allude to the girls borrowing money of each other. It leads to trouble and quarrels without end. If you are over tempted to do so, remember that I shall be most seriously displeased."
"I have never borrowed money since I have been here," said Emily, feeling that she must say something, and glad to be able to make the assertion with truth.
"I am glad to hear you say so," replied Mrs. Pomeroy. "I did not speak because I suspected you, but only that you might be warned. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."
"It is, indeed!" thought Emily. "Especially when the pound of cure is not to be had at any price. Oh, how I wish I had never made a debt. But there is no use in wishing, the only way is to discover some method of paying, though I am sure I don't know where to look for it. At any rate, I will find out this week how much I do owe, and perhaps something may occur to me. If I only had an aunt like Delia's to send me money."
At this moment, a sudden light flashed upon her mind. She had a cousin, a very rich man, and a bachelor, who had sometimes made her Christmas presents of money—why should she not write to him and ask for what she wanted.
Two or three difficulties stood in the way of this scheme. In the first place, all the letters were carried to Mrs. Pomeroy's room before they were posted, as she was in the habit of looking at all the directions, and if anything struck her as suspicious, she was sure to make inquiry about it. Emily had no regular correspondent except her father, and if Mrs. Pomeroy should ask her a question, what could she say?
She must contrive to get her letter posted privately; but this she thought she might accomplish by means of one of the day scholars, who sometimes did such errands for the boarders. But what was she to do when the answer came? Leaving this difficulty to be met by some bright thought, she wrote her letter that very night. At first she was at some loss on what pretext to ask for what she wanted, but after some consideration she wrote as follows:
DEAR COUSIN DAVID:
The girls are going to subscribe and buy a handsome Christmas present for Mrs. Pomeroy, and I want to give as much as the rest, but I have no money with me, and there is no time to write to my father. I might ask Mrs. Pomeroy, but she would be sure to ask me what it was for, and the girls do not want her to know anything about it. I should be very much obliged to you, if you would send me a little money before Christmas.
This letter was copied in her very best hand upon a sheet of note paper, and committing it to the care of Miss Stone, she waited anxiously for the result of her experiment. It was true that a two shilling subscription was actually on foot among the girls, to procure a present for Mrs. Pomeroy, but it was also true that she had already paid her share of the said subscription, with an odd quarter which had escaped being spent, by dropping into a drawer, and cunningly taken refuge in the tops of a pair of folded stockings. It would be two or three days before she received an answer, and meantime she would collect all her bills and ascertain the amount of her indebtedness, which she thought could not exceed ten dollars.
"Cousin David will be sure to send me as much as that," she thought, "and then, if any one catches me in such a scrape again, I am resolved, that come what may, I will never buy another thing without paying for it. I mean to turn over a new leaf next year, about all sorts of things. I wish I were like Lucy. She never gets into any trouble, and everything goes smoothly with her." Emily heaved a deep sigh, and then brightened up as she repeated, "I mean to turn over a new leaf next year."
"Miss Arlington is wanted in the library," said the monitress, putting her head in at the door.
Emily started. "Who wants me, Almira?" she asked, as a wild fancy that her father might have returned, came into her head and made her heart beat fast.
"Mrs. Pomeroy, of course," replied Almira, "and I advise you to make haste, for if you are in a scrape, you will not mend matters by keeping her waiting, I can tell you."
"I wonder if she can possibly have found out anything about those bills," thought Emily as she descended. "I almost wish she had, and then, at least, it would be off my mind. If I only dared tell her—but they say she is so strict about such things. But what is the use of borrowing trouble. It may, after all, only be something about my lessons."
Mrs. Pomeroy was sitting by her table with a letter in her hand, and Emily took courage on seeing her look just as usual.
"Here is a letter for you, Emily," said she, "I see it is a money letter, and I thought best to put it into your own hands. I believe, too, I must take the liberty of asking your correspondent's name?"
"It is from my cousin David, I daresay," said Emily, much relieved. "He often gives me money for my Christmas present. Yes, that is his hand," she added, as she looked at the superscription; "I should know it anywhere."
"Who is he?" asked Mrs. Pomeroy. "Is he a young gentleman?"
"Oh, no, ma'am," replied Emily, laughing. "He is older than my father. I have known him ever since I can remember."
"Very well," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "I dare say it is all right. Money is very acceptable at these times, and, by the by, my dear, I can let you have a little, if you wish it."
"How foolish I was not to ask her before," thought Emily, but she only said, "Thank you, Mrs. Pomeroy, I shall be very glad of some, because I have not quite finished my presents."
"I suppose three dollars will be enough," said Mrs. Pomeroy, taking out her purse. "Your father does not wish you to be extravagant, and you must remember that at such a time as this, you are always in danger of spending more than you intend."
Emily would gladly have asked for more if she had dared, but she always stood very much in awe of Mrs. Pomeroy, and the feelings were not lessened by the consciousness of concealing a secret from her; so she took the three dollars thankfully, and retired anxious to examine her cousin's letter. Greatly was she rejoiced to find that it contained a bright, new ten dollar bill; so delighted was she indeed, that she hardly paused to read the kind letter which accompanied the liberal gift.
"Thirteen dollars?" she said to herself. "I am sure that those bills cannot amount to more than that. Oh, how glad I shall be to get them off my mind."
That very afternoon she asked and received permission to go down town, proposing to get rid of her indebtedness at once. Her bill at the bookstore was only two dollars, and was easily disposed of; but that at the dry-goods store was nearly ten, and at Barton's, where she had purchased her working materials, and many other little matters, the bill amounted to about the same sum.
Emily could hardly believe her ears or eyes. She was sure there was some mistake, but the items were all regularly set down, and she could not help remembering them all. She felt sick at heart as she reflected that after all her pains, she had not half enough funds to meet them. She paid the first amount and received a receipt, but what to do with the other she could not tell. Mr. Barton looked rather grim, when she proposed to take it home and look it over, spoke of hard times and shortness of cash, and finally intimated that if it were not paid soon, he should be under the necessity of appealing to Mrs. Pomeroy.
Emily promised to attend to it immediately, and having succeeded in pacifying the old man, she put the bill in her pocket and walked toward home, with her heart heavy enough. She was not, after all, much better off than she had been in the morning. If Mrs. Pomeroy found out about this bill, she might about as well know of all the rest; and Emily was almost tempted to wish she had let matters take their course, and saved her cash for future exigencies.
She was walking slowly up the long gravel path which led to the side door, when her down-cast eyes fell upon a piece of paper lying at the foot of one of the trees. Almost mechanically she picked it up and looked at it. It was a ten dollar bill!
Emily's heart leaped for joy. Here was a windfall come to her in her utmost need, but the next moment her spirits fell again, as she reflected that the money was not hers, and that she ought to take immediate steps to find the rightful owner. Then came a thought—a wicked thought, which three months ago she would have rejected with horror,—she might say nothing about finding the bill, and appropriate it to the payment of the account which weighed her down like a nightmare.
Such was the temptation which had assailed her! She might have rejected it at once, and still have been without sin, for temptation is not sin. She might have yielded to her honest convictions, and taken measures to restore the money to its proper owner. But, alas she had learned to stifle the voice of conscience—she had ceased to pray for direction or strength—she had left off to watch and be sober, and now she was abandoned to her own miserable weakness and folly till she should drink of the cup which her own hands had prepared.
She turned and walked toward the gate again, as though she intended to retrace her steps, but the ringing of a bell warned her that she had already been out too long, and reluctantly she turned toward the house, putting the money in her pocket as she did so, with the half-formed resolution to institute an immediate inquiry respecting it. As she was putting away her bonnet and shawl, she put her hand in her pocket and pulled out Mr. Barton's bill.
"What is that?" asked Delia, who was writing at the table.
"It is that horrible bill of Mr. Barton's, Delia. Just see what an immense amount,—nine dollars and sixty cents. I believe he has overcharged me. I am sure I have never had all that worsted."
"Worsted mounts up very fast," observed Delia, looking over the bill, "and you have had a great deal lately. You know I told you, you were getting yourself into trouble. That shawl for Kitty took nearly a pound, and that is four dollars."
"What is the use of always saying, 'I told you so,'" interrupted Emily, fretfully.
"Here, then, is the morocco and velvet and the silver braid for two pairs of slippers, and the silk and card board for your handkerchief boxes, besides all the presents you bought," continued Delia, without heeding the interruption. "Yes, I should have expected it to be as much as that at least, for mine was seven, and I did not buy nearly as much as you."
"Have you paid yours?" asked Emily.
"Yes, indeed, two weeks ago. I could not let it go to Mrs. Pomeroy, for anything, she makes such a fuss about the girls' running in debt. She threatened to send Jenny Carpenter home for making a bill at the milliner's. Jenny wanted the woman to wait till she came back after holidays, but she said she had waited for several young ladies who never came back at all, and she meant to send it to Mrs. Pomeroy directly. Jenny did not believe she would dare do it, but she did, and Jenny was in trouble, I can tell you."
"I knew she was in disgrace that time that she did not come to the table," said Emily, "but I never heard exactly what the matter was. I don't know what would happen to me if she should send me home. To be sure I have a home to go to. But I should never dare to look my father in the face again."
"Is he so very particular?" asked Delia, who was folding her letter.
"Oh dear, yes; and so stern, if anything displeases him. Mrs. Pomeroy is nothing to him. The worst of it is, that only the other day Mrs. Pomeroy asked me in so many words whether I had made any bills, and almost without thinking, I told her no. Now if she gets hold of this one—"
"I would not be in your place for something," said Delia. "But hav'nt you money enough to pay it?"
"I have," replied Emily, looking steadfastly out of the window, "but—"
"But you want to spend it for something else, I suppose," said Delia, after waiting in vain for the conclusion of the sentence. "Now, Emily, if you will take my advice, you will pay this bill and have done with it, whether you ever have any money to spend again or not. Think how dreadful it would be to be sent home in disgrace, and have your name printed in the catalogue as expelled! Your father would never get over it."
"It would kill him, I do believe," said Emily, "and I am sure it would kill me. You are right, Delia. I must pay it at all risks."
"What risk would there be?" asked Delia, surprised. "I should think the risk was all the other way."
"I was thinking how I should get down there," answered Emily, seizing the first evasion that offered itself. "You see I have had permission to go out twice this week already, and I dare not ask again. She would not let me go, and she might suspect. I might send by Matilda Stone."
"I would not do that," said Delia, as Emily paused, apparently for a reply to her suggestion. "I made up my mind that I should not send by her again. I do not think she is honest."
"Oh, Delia!" exclaimed Emily, feeling the hot blood mantle in her cheeks.
"It is so," continued Delia. "I know she has several times charged me more than she has paid for things, because I have inquired the prices afterwards. Besides, she might threaten to tell, and that would give her a hold upon you which might be very inconvenient." She considered a little, and then said, "I think I see how we can manage it. You know we are to go to the dressmaker's before school, and Mrs. Pomeroy will have to give us permission for that, because Miss Sampson depends upon us. Then you know Barton's is only a few steps below, and we can easily run down there, and make it all straight. By the by, did you remember that little matter at the jeweler's—the beads and spangles, you know—"
"I never thought of them," replied Emily, clasping her hands with a feeling of desperation, at the idea of this new liability. "Oh, dear, what shall I do? Cannot you lend the money, Delia? I will pay you the very first minute I can."
"I suppose I might," said Delia, considering a little. "I would not do it for every one, because you know how strictly lending is forbidden, but rather than have you get into a scrape, I will run the risk for once."
"Oh, thank you, Delia," exclaimed Emily. "What a good girl you are."
"But if I do," continued Delia, "mind, I shall expect you to be equally ready to oblige me."
"Of course," replied Emily. "I shall pay you the very moment I get any money."
"I was not thinking about the money," Delia answered. "I might want you to do some thing else for me. If I run risks for you, you must be ready, if necessary, to run risks for me."
"I will do anything in the world for you, if you will only get me out of this scrape," said Emily.
Delia struck a light, for they had hitherto been talking in the dark, and took some money out of her desk. "How much do you need," she asked, as she counted it over.
"Three dollars," replied Emily. "It cannot possibly be more than that."
"Here are five," said Delia. "That will pay all your debts, and perhaps leave you something over. But remember what you have promised."
"Indeed I will, Delia. I never was so much obliged to any one in my life. Oh, how glad I shall be to get it all off my mind." Emily stopped suddenly.
What had become of her resolution to inquire for the owner of the money she had found. How could she appropriate it to her own use, without incurring the guilt of theft? Yet the bill must be paid at all hazards. The tea bell rung in the midst of her reflections, and she descended to the table looking so pale that two or three of the girls noticed it, and one of the teachers asked her if she were ill.
"My head aches, Miss Gilbert," Emily answered, with perfect truth, but she might have said that a heart-ache was worse to bear than a head-ache, and a pain in the conscience worst of all.
How she started when Mrs. Pomeroy tapped on the tea-urn with a spoon, which was her way of calling the attention of the young ladies, and how relieved she felt, when she heard that her remarks related only to a change in the breakfast hour.
But the dull, aching pain came back the next moment, with a still sharper pang accompanying it, as she remembered that by keeping the money so long, and saying nothing about it, she had already put a great difficulty in the way of returning it at all. What could she say if any one questioned her, and in what reasonable manner could she account for her delay? As she was passing out of the room after tea, Mrs. Pomeroy stopped her.
"Don't you feel well, my dear?" she asked. "You look very pale and tired. You can be excused from study this evening, if you wish it."
"I am tired," admitted Emily, hardly able to restrain her tears at the undeserved kindness, "but I don't care about being excused from study, thank you. It makes the evening seem so long."
"Just as you please, only don't make yourself sick," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "I shall be glad when this affair is over, for you are all wearying yourselves out with working for it. I have seen the knitting fever run pretty high before, but I do not think it has ever prevailed to quite such an alarming extent. Even Kitty has caught it, and I have every now and then to take her work away by main force to prevent her from tiring herself out altogether."
"How is Kitty, ma'am," asked Emily, more from the necessity of saying something, than because she felt any particular interest in the answer.
"She seems very much better," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, "and I cannot help being very much encouraged. She has been out of doors to-day, and I have promised that if she is no worse for it, she shall go down town to-morrow. One of her aunts has sent her some money, and she is enjoying very much the idea of purchasing her Christmas gifts herself. Well, good night, my dear, and remember to be careful of your health."
[CHAPTER III.]
IT was only by a strong effort that Emily was able, so far, to turn her thoughts from her pecuniary embarrassments, as to allude to her lessons for the evening, and it was not till Miss Gilbert, whose turn it was to preside in the school-room, had spoken to her once or twice, that she threw off her abstraction, sufficiently to hear and answer what was said to her. After they returned to their room, Delia rallied her a little upon her absence of mind.
"Any one would think you had all the cares of the nation upon your shoulders, Emily, instead of a little bill for worsted. People Will begin to suspect something presently, if you are not more careful. When Mrs. Pomeroy spoke to the girls at the table, you started as though you had been shot, and when she stopped you coming out of the room, you turned as pale as ashes. Why cannot you learn to put a good face upon matters."
"I never before had a secret to hide, Delia," said poor Emily, sighing heavily; "and I am sure I hope I shall never have another. Oh, I do think it is dreadful to live in such constant fear of being found out."
Delia looked rather annoyed. "When you have been at school as long as I have, you will not mind it," said she. "I think it rather good fun to have a secret, but, Emily, if you are so afraid of them, I do not see—"
"Do not see what?" added Emily, as Delia came to a full stop.
"I do not see how you are to help me as you promised," returned Delia. "I expected you would be so, or I should never have begun."
"Begun what?" asked Emily again. "You are so very mysterious, Delia, I don't know at all what to make of you. Ever since the day that we went down to Barton's after the braid, you have acted as if you had some wonderful secret upon your mind, which you were determined to keep all to yourself."
"And so I have," said Delia, "only I have no desire at all to keep it all to myself; but if you have such a great dread of knowing anything which you cannot talk about, I don't see but I must do so whether I wish it or not. I did not think you would fail me just when I needed you, especially after what you said this afternoon." And Delia seemed just ready to cry.
"But I have not failed you, Delia," said Emily, much disturbed at the implied accusation. "I am sure I never told anything that you asked me to keep, and it is my own secret that troubles me, not yours. That would be a very different matter. There is no one in the world that I would do more to oblige than yourself, for I am sure I don't know what would have become of me without you."
"Then you will promise solemnly not to betray me, if I let you into my secret," said Delia.
"Of course I will," returned Emily, confidently, but feeling nevertheless a little frightened. "I have promised already."
Delia paused and played with her chain, as though she did not exactly know where to begin. Emily was surprised at her embarrassment.
"Why, you are as bad as I am," she said, laughing, and really rejoiced at the prospect of hearing something which might divert her mind from her own troubles. "One would think you had a love affair upon your hands at the very least."
"I never said I had not," returned Delia abruptly. She paused a moment, and then went on, apparently recovering her confidence after the first step. "You were speaking of that day we went down to Barton's—do you remember the gentleman we met there?"
"The one with the black whiskers who spoke with such a French accent—yes, what of him?"
"He is come to teach French and Italian at the academy," pursued Delia, "and he hopes that Mrs. Pomeroy will employ him, as Mademoiselle is going away at holidays."
"Mademoiselle going away—how sorry I am!" exclaimed Emily.
"So am not I," said Delia; "nor will you be either, when you know all about it. Mr. Hugo used to teach at the Gymnasium and all the girls there worshipped him."
"And so you want him to come here," said Emily, as Delia stopped again. "But, Delia, I don't think I like reciting to a gentleman as well as to a lady."
"I thought you liked Mr. Fletcher?" said Delia.
"Yes, because he is so patient and makes one understand so well, but I am afraid of him, if I don't have my lesson. His eyes flash so, and his voice sounds so deep when he is displeased, it is quite awful. That is why the girls call him Jupiter Touans."
"Pshaw, Emily, cannot you be serious?" said Delia sharply. "I tell you I am in earnest. If Mr. Hugo can only come here in Mademoiselle's place, I shall be perfectly happy."
Emily stopped laughing, and looked grave enough. She did not yet see the whole of Delia's meaning, but a light began to dawn upon her understanding. "And so you want him to come here," she repeated; "did you like him so very much?"
"Like him!" said Delia—the tone was expressive. "He liked me at any rate. You know that beautiful bracelet I showed you?"
Emily nodded.
"He gave it to me. I never wear it at home for fear Mrs. Mason should notice it, and make inquiries about it, for as for my father, I might wear the Koh-i-Noor diamond in a ring, and he would never see it."
"But how could you accept such a present from a gentleman, Delia? Aunt always said it was very improper to put ourselves under such obligations," she stopped for Delia began to look vexed again.
"I wonder you did not think of that, when you wrote to ask your cousin for money," said she. "I should think that was about as bad as accepting a bracelet when it was offered."
It was now Emily's turn to color. "I think that was different," said she. "There was no harm in that."
"If there was no harm in it, why did you send it down by Miss Stone, instead of in the regular way?"
Emily had no answer ready, and Delia continued, "But there is no use in going on so. All I wanted to say was, that if you happen, during holidays, to hear anything said about Mr. Hugo, you must not let any one think that you have ever known anything about him before. He told me that Mr. Glover gave him a very high recommendation, and that he had little doubt of succeeding in engaging himself here."
"But if Mrs. Pomeroy knows that he came from L., and of course she must, she will be sure to ask me if I have heard you say anything about him," said Emily. "What then?"
"Then you can simply say that I thought him a very good teacher," replied Delia. "I can say that with a safe conscience, for he really does teach admirably, though he is sharp sometimes."
"But I don't understand it yet," said Emily. "Why are you so very anxious to have him here?"
"I am not going to tell you any more at present," said Delia, "you will see for yourself after a while. Only remember your promise."
Emily promised again, and the conversation was ended by the ringing of the night bell, after which all talking was forbidden. But she felt nervous and excited and could not sleep soundly. The wind, too, was awake, and moaned drearily round the corners of the building, rattling the doors and the windows as though trying to find some place to get in.
Their room looked out on a narrow street or alley, seldom used in winter, but Emily felt sure that she more than once heard some one walking under the window. She raised her head to listen. She certainly heard footsteps. They passed on, came back and paused, and then there was a low whistle.
"Delia! Delia!" she whispered. "Wake up and listen. What can that be?"
"I am awake," returned Delia, in the same low tone. "Don't make any noise, Emily, it is all right." She rose from her bed as a second whistle was heard and softly raised the window.
Emily uttered a terrified exclamation, for she was always a coward, and the present state of her mind did not tend to increase her courage.
"Hush, you little goose; you will raise the house!" said Delia in a low but energetic tone. "It is all right, I tell you."
She dropped out something white through the blind as she spoke, and lowered the sash again, but not before some one was heard stirring in the hall.
"There, you have roused Miss Thomas by your noise," said Delia. "Now to put a good face on the matter!"
Candle in hand, Miss Thomas entered as she spoke.
"What are you about, girls?" she said in her sharp way, and looking suspiciously round the room. "I heard some one open the window."
"I opened it, Miss Thomas," replied Delia, with perfect calmness, settling herself in bed once more. "The blinds rattled in the wind, and I got up to try and fix them. Then Emily waked, and seeing me standing there, she was frightened and made a noise."
The explanation seemed probable enough, and Miss Thomas was not inclined to keep up in the cold longer than was necessary. "The blinds are noisy," she remarked. "I wish they might be put in order a little. Good night, and don't let me hear any talking."
"Good night, Miss Thomas!" returned Delia, politely. "And a new pair of spectacles to you," she added, as the door was closed. "Did I not carry it off nicely, Emily?"
Emily made no reply. She did not, indeed, know what to say.
"What a verdant old soul she is, for all her suspicions!" continued Delia. "She is always smelling a rat, as the boys say, but she never can contrive to see one. She is more than half blind, if she would only confess it, but I suppose she would die before she would confess it."
"Oh, Delia, how could you do so? I am sure it is very wrong," exclaimed Emily, finding her voice at last. "What would your father say?"
"What does this mean?" asked Delia in surprise. "How long do you mean to have it last this time—till you want me to run away with you to-morrow, I suppose, to pay a debt which you had no business to make, and about which you have told two or three lies, already. Well, I must say, consistency is a jewel! Perhaps your next fit of it may lead you to betray me to Mrs. Pomeroy."
"For shame, Delia," said Emily, who was now crying bitterly, "you know I would not betray you for anything in the world."
"Well, I hope not, I am sure, but when you begin to talk in that way, I don't know what to make of you, nor what you will take it into your head to do next. But come, don't cry! There is no use in that, and you will only make yourself sick. Only have confidence in me, and I will bring everything out right for you and myself too."
Emily suffered herself to be persuaded, and tried to check her tears, but without success, for her spirits had been deeply burdened for several days, and this was the first time she had given way. She cried herself to sleep, and awoke unrefreshed, miserable with the consciousness of deception and disobedience.
The first thing she thought of was the walk to the dressmakers, and having obtained the desired permission, they set off directly after breakfast that they might have time for their stolen expedition, and still be back before school. As they closed the gate, they saw little Kitty Mastick wrapped in a large shawl and hood coming timidly down the steps.
Kitty Mastick.
"How very imprudent in Kitty to come out so early!" observed Delia. "I wonder if Mrs. Pomeroy knows it?"
"If it were any one else, I should think she had gone without permission," said Emily. "But, hurry Delia, we have no time to lose."
Their plan was perfectly successful. Miss Sampson kept them only a few minutes, and they almost ran down to the shops, happy at meeting no one by the way. Mr. Barton's face looked unpromising as they entered, but relaxed when Emily took out her purse.
"So you have come to pay the bill!" said he.
"Yes," replied Delia. "You need not have been so dreadful afraid of being cheated, Mr. Barton."
"Well, Miss Mason, when you have been in the fancy business as long as I have, you may learn to be suspicious too," returned Mr. Barton, making change with his usual deliberation. "You see it is an irregular thing for me to allow any of Mrs. Pomeroy's young ladies to make a bill at all, and more than once it has happened that a young lady has gone home for the holidays, promising to pay me when she came back, and that has been the last I have ever heard of it. However, all's well that ends well. There is your bill receipted, Miss, and what goods shall I show this morning?"
"Nothing!" replied Emily, who felt at this moment as though no shop would ever offer any temptations to her again. "Come, Delia, you know we have another errand."
"There is something wrong about that girl," said the shrewd old man, as he watched them out of the shop. "I wonder where she got the money to pay me, for I am sure she did not have it last night. However, that is no business of mine."
Her jeweler's bill turned out less than two dollars, which was considerably below what Emily had expected.
"How thankful I am to have them all off my hands," said she as they walked rapidly back to school, "I never felt so relieved in my life. If any one ever catches me in such a scrape again! There are the other three dollars, Delia, and I am much obliged to you. I shall never forget your kindness as long as I live."
"Keep it," said Delia, putting back the bill which Emily proffered. "You might want some money in holiday time very much, and I can wait for it as well as not! Indeed you had better keep it," she continued, as Emily still held the money in her hand. "You might not like to ask Mrs. Pomeroy for money so soon again. Your father will be sure to send you a supply one of these days, and then you can repay me. There is the first bell; we have saved our distance wisely. I think you must acknowledge Emily, that a friend in need is a friend indeed."
"Yes, that she is!" replied Emily with earnestness. "I would do anything in the world for you Delia!"
"We shall see," said Delia rather coldly, "You know I think much more of practice than of professions. Now don't go into a taking, but put away your things and get ready for school."
As they entered the school-room, they observed that both boarders and day scholars were gathered into groups, talking of something with a great appearance of interest.
"Only think, girls!" began Lucy Spencer, who seemed roused quite beyond her usually quiet manner—but the ringing of the bell on Mrs. Pomeroy's table put a stop to her intended disclosures, and they were obliged to take their seats.
When prayers were over, the girls were to disperse to their daily occupations as usual, when another touch of the bell warned all to resume their seats.
"I have an important matter to mention to you, young ladies," said the principal with more than usual gravity. "Kitty Mastick has lost a ten dollar bill. She very carelessly put it loosely into her pocket when she went out to exercise upon the long walk yesterday, and she supposes she must have dropped it there. What are you doing, Miss Arlington? I wish the attention of all the young ladies."
"I stooped to pick up my handkerchief, Mrs. Pomeroy," replied Emily with a burning blush, telling the first story that came into her mind.
Mrs. Pomeroy noticed the additional color, but supposing it to be caused by the suddenness of her question, she went on,—
"I am very much afraid she will never see it again, as the wind was so high last night, but I hope you will all keep watch, and if any one is so fortunate as to find it, she will bring it directly to me."
Mrs. Pomeroy then made some general remarks upon the evil effect of carelessness, and having dismissed the young ladies to their several employments, she returned to her own room to comfort Kitty, whom she considered to have been already sufficiently punished by the loss of her treasure.
"I should not mind it so much," said the poor little thing amid her sobs, "though I did want to give some presents this Christmas, if I had not been so naughty about it. You told me to put it away carefully, but I was in such a hurry to go out—"
A fresh burst of sobs brought on a terrible fit of coughing, which lasted so long that Mrs. Pomeroy became seriously alarmed and almost feared she would never breathe again. When at last the paroxysm had worn itself out, she was so much exhausted that the only thing to be done was to put her to bed, and keep her as quiet as possible. Such was the termination of the day to which Kitty had looked forward with so much pleasure only the night before.
But Kitty was a docile little creature, and had a wonderfully patient spirit, and before long, she was amusing herself placidly with a story book, and with her dear friends the old cat and her two kittens, which she was allowed as a special favor to have on the bed; while only an occasional quiver of the lip, and a sigh which seemed to come from the very depths of her heart, showed when the loss of her treasure returned to her mind.
Recess came at last to unloose the tongues in the school-room. Of course Kitty's misfortune was the subject of general conversation.
"Mrs. Pomeroy has often told Kitty that it would take some sharp lesson to cure her carelessness," remarked one of the girls; "and she has certainly got it now. I don't believe she will ever do such a thing again."
"I am afraid she will not live to do much more of any thing," said Lucy Spencer, sadly. "She looks so like my little sister that it seems sometimes as if it must be Anne herself. She had just such a cough for a year before she died, and her skin had that clear, waxy look that Kitty's has. I do not believe she will ever live to grow up."
"After all, perhaps it will be as well for her if she does not," remarked one of the elder scholars, a sad and depressed looking girl. "It is a miserable thing for a girl to be dependent upon strangers."
"Mrs. Pomeroy can hardly be called a stranger," replied Lucy. "She knew Mrs. Mastick long before Kitty was born, and besides Alice," she added with a little hesitation, "I do not think any girl need be dependent who has her health and a good education."
"I think you don't know much about it, Lucy," said Miss Parker. She seemed as if she were about to add more, but checked herself abruptly and walked to the other end of the room.
"I wonder why she is always so sad," said Lucy. "As to being dependent, I am sure with her splendid musical talent, she might support herself as she pleased."
"I suppose she thinks herself bound by the wishes of her friends," said Janet Graves, who knew Alice at home. "She was the daughter of a poor relation of Mrs. Williams, who adopted her when she was about ten years old, and agreed to give her the best possible education, upon condition that she should see her own mother only once a year. It seems rather singular that a mother should consent to part with her daughter upon such terms, but no doubt she put aside her own feelings under the idea that she was acting for the good of the child. From what I know of Mrs. Williams, however, I should imagine that Alice might be happier with almost any one else, and a great deal of that vulgar sort of pride which considers poverty a degradation. But for this sort of feeling on the part of Mrs. Williams, Alice would willingly support herself, but she feels herself to be under obligation to the person who has brought her up."
"Kitty will not suffer in that way, at all events," remarked Delia Mason. "I have no doubt Mrs. Pomeroy will be perfectly willing to allow her to work for a living, particularly if she works for her."
"For shame, Delia!" said Lucy, much more sharply than usual with her, "I am sure Mrs. Pomeroy does everything in the world for Kitty, as much as if she was her own daughter."
"Who said she didn't?" asked Delia, laughing. "Were not you saying just now, that it was a wonderful privilege to work for one's living?"
"I said I should prefer to be independent, if that is what you mean."
"Well, then, according to your view, would it not be the greatest kindness Mrs. Pomeroy could do, Kitty, to allow her to be independent as you call it. And would not Kitty herself, naturally prefer living with Mrs. Pomeroy to working for strangers?"
"I never know how to answer you, Delia," replied Lucy, "because I never know whether you are in jest or in earnest."
"It does not greatly matter in this case," returned Delia, carelessly. "However, I hope the poor little thing will find her money. So many people are constantly passing over that walk, that it is very curious it should not have been picked up."
She happened to look at Emily as she spoke, and all at once a light flashed upon her mind. She was very quick witted, and a dozen circumstances at once crowded to her mind, all pointing unmistakably to the same conclusion. Emily had found the money, and had spent it to pay her debts! She went on talking, however, in the same half careless tone.
"But then a stranger, or one of the servants, might have picked it up, in which case, of course, we should hear no more of it."
"I don't quite think it is right to say that, Delia," observed Emily, who had hitherto been very silent, but who now felt the necessity of urging herself to speak. "It is never right to suspect people without reason, and Mrs. Pomeroy thinks all the servants are honest."
"Mrs. Pomeroy always thinks all her own geese, swans," replied Delia. "I fancy servants are pretty much alike about such matters."
"In this case, the wind seems to be the suspected one," said one of the girls. "It blew hard enough last night to carry away a gold piece, let alone a bill."
"The wind did not begin to blow till about nine o'clock," replied Delia, "and the bill was dropped before four. However, that is nothing. It will all come to light, sooner or later."
"I am sorry for the thief, if any one has really stolen it," said Bella Faushane, who had just come in from assisting in the vain search for the missing money; "I should not like to be the one to rob an orphan child! I should never expect to prosper afterwards."
"Ill-gotten gain never prospers," said Lucy.
"Well, I often hear people say so, but I am not so sure about it," said Annette Flower, rather doubtfully. "There was Capt. Brown, of our place—he made a great fortune by all sorts of wickedness—people said he had even been a pirate. I don't know how that was, but there was no doubt at all that he was a very bad man, yet he seemed to be prosperous enough, and he died very rich. Such cases as that seem to contradict your idea, don't it?"
"Perhaps they might, if this life were all," replied Lucy, seriously, "I don't think we could decide the matter, unless we could look beyond the grave, and see how we prospered there."
"Of course," agreed Annette. "He had to leave all his wealth behind him, but so does every one else."
"And he might have carried away with him something which he would have been very glad to leave behind," continued Lucy.
"Yes, if he had to carry all his sins, his money would not do him much good," replied Annette, thoughtfully: "because I suppose, even if he had enjoyed life ever so much, it would seem as nothing to look back upon from the other world. And so it will be with the person who has got Kitty's money."
"Yes, unless he repents and makes restitution," said Lucy.
"We will not suppose that any one has taken it, until we know something about the matter," said Delia, seeing that Emily was in danger of losing her self-control, and anxious for several reasons to prevent any one from coming to the same conclusion as herself. "As Lucy says, it is not fair to suspect any one on such slight grounds, and a hundred things might have happened. You know Grip, Mr. Fletcher's little dog, always tears to pieces every bit of waste paper he finds. Kitty was playing with him at the time she lost it, and he might easily have picked it up and gnawed it all to bits, before any one saw what he was about."
"To be sure," said Bella, "I never thought of that."
"Nor I, till this moment," replied Delia, "though I have often given him bits of paper on purpose to see him play with them. But now, girls, instead of conjecturing any farther as to the money which seems to be hopelessly gone; suppose we set on foot a contribution to replace it. There are so many of us that we can easily make up that sum among ourselves without any one's feeling it, and it would do her so much good. Poor child, she does not have too many pleasures at the best."
"Oh, thank you, Delia, how good-natured of you to think of such a thing," said Lucy, already repenting of having done her companion injustice, even in her thoughts. "But do you think we can raise it? Ten dollars is a good deal of money."
"We can raise as much as we can, at any rate," replied Delia. "You see here are forty boarders, to say nothing of day scholars whom we might include or not as we pleased. If we each give a quarter, there are over ten dollars at once. If the day scholars come into it—"