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."