EVERYBODY knows that holidays at schools are not usually very
interesting or lively affairs. Mrs. Pomeroy had always been accustomed
to do a good deal to make them pass pleasantly to those who stayed, and
when some dozen girls remained together, they often found the time fly
quite quickly enough.
It happened this year that nearly all the girls went home, and Emily
was left with no companions but Alice Parker and Janet Graves, who
had already graduated, and was staying at the seminary another year,
in order to perfect herself in music and painting. Passionately fond
of both pursuits, and rejoicing in the fact of having the best light
in the painting room, and the best piano in the house all to herself,
Janet kept herself busy from morning till night, and Emily scarcely
saw her except at meals. And Alice was at no time a very enlivening
companion.
Thus Emily was thrown very much upon her own resources. She had no
lessons, except that she read a little with Mr. Fletcher. She had
plenty of books to be sure, but she could not read all the time; she
hated the very idea of fancy work, and plain sewing did not furnish
sufficient employment for her thoughts to keep them from dwelling upon
all sorts of disagreeable things. Indeed, she was in a manner obliged
to think, whether she would or no.
None of the teachers remained at the seminary except Mr. Fletcher, who
never went away, except to take a long journey on foot or on horseback,
during the summer vacation. Mr. Fletcher had been with Mrs. Pomeroy a
great many years, and had taught mathematics to a dozen generations
of girls, yet he never seemed to grow any older, nor could any one
remember that he had ever looked younger. He was small and slight of
stature, with very black hair and whiskers, with eyes which were grey
when he was quiet, black when he was excited, and the color of burning
coals when he was angry, an event which did not occur very often, for
he was unusually even-tempered. His manners were remarkably kind and
gentle, and his voice, though deep, was the softest in the world.
Yet no one in the establishment, not even Mrs. Pomeroy herself, was
regarded with so much respect, and even awe. Though he often jested
with the girls and was particularly fond of playing with children,
there was that about him which effectually repressed anything like
taking a liberty. Bold indeed was the rebel who dared confront him, and
the boldest never tried the experiment a second time.
Mr. Fletcher taught the Bible classes, which all the boarders were
obliged to join, so that the whole family of girls came more or less
under his influence. He was eminently calculated for the post of
religious instructor to the young, not only because his own piety was
so deep and fervent, but also because he never employed a false or
weak argument to support a just cause—an example which all religious
teachers of the young would do well to follow. His knowledge,
especially of the manners and customs of Biblical nations, was
something wonderful. He had himself travelled in Palestine, in Egypt,
and in Assyria, and it was a common remark, that in narrating events
and transactions recorded in Sacred History, he spoke almost as if he
himself had been an eye witness of the scenes he described, so vivid
were the pictures he presented to the minds of his auditors.
Emily had entered one of Mr. Fletcher's classes immediately on her
arrival in the school, and for a time had shown much interest in her
lessons, taking great pains in preparing them, and often going to Mr.
Fletcher during the week for the answer to a difficult question. As
we have before remarked, she had been carefully brought up in this
respect, and her religious feelings, if not her principles, were very
strong, so that she found great pleasure in listening to Mr. Fletcher's
earnest and practical lessons; and he had begun to think her one of his
most hopeful scholars, when Delia Mason arrived.
It was not long before the influence Delia gained over her room-mate
showed itself very perceptibly. She ceased to ask instructions out of
the class, lost her interest in her lessons, and contented herself with
spending only as much time upon them as would save her from downright
disgrace in the class. Mr. Fletcher was not slow in perceiving the
change, or in attributing it to the right cause. He soon saw through
Delia, and made up his mind as to her true character, but he was
habitually reserved and cautious in his speech, and never expressed an
opinion of a scholar, unless he was particularly requested to do so by
Mrs. Pomeroy herself. So he said nothing, but contented himself with
watching the course of events, hoping that a time might come when he
should be able to interfere to advantage.
On the Sunday afternoon after Christmas, Emily was in the sitting room,
rather listlessly turning over the book she had taken from the library.
Mrs. Pomeroy was with Kitty, who, though better, was not yet able to
leave her room. Alice Parker had gone to bed with a head-ache, and
Janet, wrapped in furs, was walking up and down the long path in the
garden, enjoying the fine mild air and the lovely prospect, sometimes
reading in the Bible she carried, sometimes looking above and around
her.
The house was so still that the ticking of the old clock in the hall
below was distinctly heard. Even the animals seemed to feel the
quiet influence of the hour, and Grip, Mr. Fletcher's dog,—short for
Cornelius Agrippa,—and Posey, Mrs. Pomeroy's cat, intermitted their
usual feud, and lay quietly sleeping together on one side of the grate,
while Grip's master occupied the other, seated in a luxurious chair,
and apparently absorbed in the contents of a great old-fashioned volume
with brass clasps and corners, which, from its size and venerable
appearance, might have passed for a book of magic, if such things were
supposed to exist now-a-days.
Emily turned over her book and tried to read, and then looked out of
the window at Janet studying her Bible, and wondered how she could be
interested in a book that she must know by heart, and a prospect that
she had seen almost every day for two years. Then she thought of Delia,
and wondered whether she were enjoying her holidays, and how she got on
with her step-mother; and then she remembered her dead aunt, and the
thought came into her mind how she was passing these same holidays.
Last Christmas she had been in her own house, dispensing quiet
hospitalities to her neighbors, especially the poorer ones among them,
happy herself in her silent and subdued way, and making all happy
about her, with every prospect of a long continuance in the same
sphere. Now she was in heaven—Emily could not doubt that, remembering
Mrs. Arlington's consistent Christian life and humble trust in her
Redeemer—enjoying the society of angels and of friends gone before, and
rejoicing in the visible presence of her God and Saviour.
The time had been when Emily would have delighted in following out the
train of thought, or rather of reverie, and in picturing to herself
the condition of the blessed in that glorious invisible world. Now she
turned hastily from these ideas, perhaps because they suggested too
vividly to her mind the contrast between her own spiritual condition
a year ago, and the state in which she now found herself. With a deep
sigh she turned again to her book, and as she did so, she became aware
that Mr. Fletcher was observing her.
[Illustration: Emily turned over her book.]
"You do not seem very much interested in your book," he remarked
kindly. "Perhaps you would like to return it, and try something else."
"I don't care about it," she replied, pettishly enough. "The Sunday
books are all stupid alike, I think. Perhaps the limit is in me,"
she added, rather frightened after she had spoken, as she remembered
hearing that Mr. Fletcher had selected most of the books himself.
"Possibly," returned Mr. Fletcher, a little drily.
"Perhaps if I could read your book, I might be interested in that,"
continued Emily. "You seem to find it so very entertaining."
"You can look at it if you please," said Mr. Fletcher, spreading it on
the table, which it pretty nearly covered. "Can you read black letter?"
"A little," replied Emily.
He turned to the curiously illuminated title page, with its quaint
illuminated border of angels, and palm trees, and Scripture characters,
all very much mixed up with each other, and Emily saw with surprise
that the book was neither more nor less than a Bible!
"What a curious Bible," said she. "It must be very old."
"It is one of the oldest specimens of the printed English Scriptures,"
replied Mr. Fletcher, pointing to the date, which showed that the
volume was printed in the reign of King Edward the Sixth. "I suppose
this may have been a church Bible, in the days when the parish was
obliged to have a copy of the sacred Scriptures chained to the church
desk, to be read to the people at proper times. We can imagine the
bluff country gentleman, and the gentle dames, with their maids and
children, and a few of the common people, gathered round to hear the
reading of the Holy Word, of which most of them had hitherto known
only by report, and by the brief snatches read in the church service.
Perhaps some of the martyrs who suffered for the truth in the next
unhappy reign, may have gathered strength and patience from these very
pages."
"How interesting it must have been to them," said Emily, roused from
her listlessness, and turning over the pages with a feeling almost of
reverence for a book which had outlived so many changes. "It seems
strange to think of thus hearing, for the first time, of Joseph and his
brothers, and Moses in the ark of bulrushes, and all those stories that
one has known ever since one can remember."
"And the baby in the manger at Bethlehem, and the appearance of the
angels to the shepherd, and all the wonderful history," continued
Mr. Fletcher. "Some unhappy sinner straying in, and shrinking into a
corner away from the noble and virtuous dames who sat near the chancel,
may have first wept and then repented at hearing of her who anointed
Jesus's feet, and wiped them with the hairs of her head, and those very
ladies may have felt more inclined to stretch out a helping hand to
their erring fellow creature, as they listened to his declaration. 'Her
sins, which are many, are forgiven for she loved much.'
"Or some old father and mother, whose gallant and goodly son, who
should have been the stay of their declining years, had gone down in
the Mary Rose, King Henry's great ship which was sunk at Plymouth
with hundreds of sailors and gentlemen of England's best blood on
board,—such a father and mother may have listened with tears which were
not wholly sorrowful to that story of the grave at Bethany which was a
cave, and of which Jesus said, 'Take ye away the stone.'"
"It must seem strange to read the Bible for the first time," said
Emily, after a pause. She stopped again, and added rather timidly, "I
don't see how it is Mr. Fletcher, that you who are such a scholar, and
have studied so much, can take such pleasure in reading the Bible. I
should think you must have learned it all by heart long ago."
"I suppose, Emily," said Mr. Fletcher, "that the very wisest man
living could not read the Bible in the right spirit, without learning
something from its pages. The most accomplished scholar I ever met,—a
man who knew more languages than I can tell you, and who had read
more deeply in the great book of nature than falls to the lot of most
men—was never weary of studying the Holy Scriptures. It is a mine which
can never be exhausted—a spring which will never run dry."
Emily sighed. "I used to like to read it when I lived at home," said
she, "but it is different here."
"Why," asked her companion.
"I don't know exactly. I suppose it is because I have so much to do,
and my head is so taken up with other studies."
"But for the first three or four weeks of school, you seemed very much
interested in your Bible lessons," remarked Mr. Fletcher. "I think you
found much more difficulty then than now in keeping up with your other
classes; yet you always found time to study your Bible lesson during
the week, and you often came to me with questions which I was very
happy to answer. What is it that makes the difference?"
Emily was silent. She did not know exactly what to say.
"Is it not that you have allowed your head to be taken up with other
things than your lessons—things which burden your conscience more than
your mind?" continued Mr. Fletcher gravely but kindly. "Is it not that
you have left off some things without which no reading of God's word is
of much avail? I think when you first came here, you would hardly have
been willing to spend the time of morning prayer in reading a story
book, even if you had been quite certain of not being found out."
Emily's eye fell, and her color rose under the penetrating look which
was fixed upon her. She well knew to what he alluded, and that it was
not the only time she had sinned in the same way.
"I do not wish to press into your confidence, my child," continued
Mr. Fletcher kindly, "but I feel a deep interest in you, as in all my
scholars, and I very much fear that you are not walking in the way of
wisdom which is the path of peace. Tell me, are you as happy now, as
when you were more attentive to your religious duties?"
"I am not as happy as I was before I came to school," said Emily with
bitterness, "and I wish with all my heart, that I had never been sent
here."
"Yet you liked it very much at first!"
"I did not know much about it," returned Emily. "It was all new; and
beside, things were different them."
"I admit that," said Mr. Fletcher. "There was a very different spirit
in the school at that time from the one that prevails now. A little
leaven leaveneth the whole lump."
He seemed speaking more to himself than to her, and she dared not ask
him what he meant.
"But however that may be," he continued, "it makes no difference to
you. If you are living in habitual neglect of your religious duties—God
not being in all your thoughts—you cannot be good or happy any
where—no, not if you were in heaven itself, and the sooner you return
to the right path, the better it will be to you, and the more easily
you will find it. Be warned in time, my child! You may wander so far
from that plain and narrow way, as never to find it again."
"Oh, if I dared tell him every thing!" thought Emily.
She looked up as this thought crossed her mind, and saw the Professor's
dark eyes fastened upon her, as though he would read her very soul. She
waited almost in terror for his next word, but he only repeated,—
"Be warned in time!" and returned to his reading.
If he had any idea of the true state of the case, he had evidently no
idea of forcing her to the confession which she was almost ready to
make of her own accord. Happy had it been for her if she had done so!
But as she was deliberating, came Shame, and cowardly Fear, picturing
to her mind the disgrace, the loss of her high position in school, the
displeasure of her father and Mrs. Pomeroy's anger. She listened to the
tempter, and locked her guilty secret in her heart again.
After a little silence she said—
"If I wanted to be like what I was before, I should not know how."
"Return to God and He will return to you," said Mr. Fletcher, briefly.
"That is just the very point," said Emily, impatiently. "I don't know
how to go to work to return."
"The only way of going to God is in prayer," said Mr. Fletcher. "You
know that as well as I do. If you have left off prayer, you must begin
it again, and if you are indulging in sin, you must forsake it."
"I never feel like praying now," said Emily. "It was different when I
was at home. Everything was so quiet and peaceful there."
"Pray whether you feel like it or not," was the answer. "Your feelings
are not of so very much consequence. Act rightly, and you will soon
feel rightly. The best, and indeed the only way to bring one's mind and
heart to a proper state, is to perform one's known duty."
This was new and not very acceptable doctrine to Emily, who had, been
taught by her aunt's precepts, and perhaps a little by her example, to
attach altogether too much importance to states of feeling and mental
impressions. She would gladly have gone on talking about herself for an
hour longer, but Mr. Fletcher gave her no encouragement to do so. He
had returned to his book, and when Emily complained that her prayers
now never seemed to have any wings, he only answered rather sternly,
"If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."
Janet came in at this moment with her hands full of bright-colored
rose berries and cedar leaves, which she had arranged into a bouquet
for Kitty, and Emily slipped out and escaped to her own room. Her
conscience troubled her more than ever, and again and again she wished
she had had the courage to open her mind to Mr. Fletcher, whom she
could not help suspecting of knowing already more of her affairs than
he chose to tell. "If I had not been so foolish at first," she said
to herself, "if I had kept on reading my Bible and praying, as I knew
I ought to do, I should never have been drawn into the matter, and I
don't believe but that Delia would have had more real regard for me. I
believe she loves me well enough now, and she was certainly very kind
in helping me about those bills; but I don't think she respects me as
she does Lucy and Janet, or even Annette. I heard her say once, 'You
all laugh at Annette, and yet she has more sense about some things than
any of you. You will never see her laughed into doing anything wrong.'
"Those miserable bills! They were the beginning of all the trouble—no,
the first trouble was in being afraid to say my prayers, for fear Delia
would laugh at me. And now, here is this affair of hers with Mr. Hugo,
and no one knows how it will end, and I dare not say a word for fear of
her telling Mrs. Pomeroy of me. I am thankful for one thing—that she
does not know anything about the money I found; if she did, I should be
her slave in good earnest. But, oh dear, if I only knew what to do!"
Emily burst into tears and cried a long time. That night she read her
Bible carefully, and tried to pray; but as she said, her prayers had
no wings, and left her feeling more wretched and heavy laden than
before, while the sentence with which Mr. Fletcher had concluded their
conversation seemed to ring in her ears, and to be repeated again and
again, "If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."
She knew the right way. She knew that she should find neither rest nor
peace till she had confessed her sin, not only to God, but also to
the fellow creature she had wronged, and made all the reparation in
her power. But whenever she thought of this, the vivid image of the
dreaded consequences of her faults rose up before her, and she dared
not proceed.
Still she persevered in her devotions, though she found little or no
benefit from them, unless might be the constantly increasing conviction
that she could never be happy with such a load of concealed guilt upon
her conscience.
It happened, that a day or two after the conversation we have recorded,
she was invited by one of the day scholars to spend some time with
her. Mrs. Pomeroy saw no objection to her accepting the invitation,
and Emily was only too happy to snatch at anything which promised her
some little diversion. Abby Carson was a lively, merry girl, of about
her own age, and she expected a good deal of pleasure from her society.
The day passed very pleasantly in various employments and diversions;
but when the hours began to draw toward bed-time, a struggle arose in
Emily's heart. She knew that she was to sleep with Abby—should she put
her resolution to the test by kneeling down and saying her prayers,
or should she act as she had done before in Delia's case? She knew
what she ought to do well enough, but what she should do was another
question.
Abby's frankness, however, removed her difficulties. She was delaying
and fidgeting about undressing, when her companion said—
"If you want to read and say your prayers, Emily, don't let me hinder
you. There is a Bible on the table."
"Thank you," said Emily, relieved, and blushing for herself. "Here I
will do just as if I were in my own room."
She sat down and found her place as she spoke, and, at Abby's
request, read her chapter aloud. She could not help feeling a little
self-righteous, as she observed that Abby lay down without even the
semblance of a prayer. "After all," she thought, "I am not the worst
person in the world."
"Don't you say your prayers, Abby?" she asked, after they were both in
bed and the light was put out.
"Not very often," replied Abby. "I used to say them when I slept in the
nursery, but since I have had a room to myself, I have got out of the
habit of it; and besides, to tell you the truth, I do so many wrong
things, every day, I am ashamed to say them."
"That is not the way to be any better," said Emily. "It is only adding
sin to sin."
"I know it, and I wish with all my heart that I were a Christian, but I
am not, and there is the end of it. I mean to be different some day."
"Some day may never come," said Emily.
"Well, I know that too. I think about these things, Emily, though I am
so wild and careless sometimes. But I am going to turn over a new leaf
after holidays, and you will see how much better I shall be. There will
be some comfort in saying my prayers, when I am not in a scrape every
day of my life."
"Mr. Fletcher would say that was like curing one's self and then
sending for the doctor," observed Emily. "How do you expect to get
strength to do so much better if you do not pray for it?"
"I don't know!" said Abby, sighing. "I only know that I hav'nt got it
now. But, Emily, I should not think that your ways and Delia's would
suit very well. She seems to be anything but a religious character."
"Delia is not so much worse than any body else," said Emily. "I know
she is not what she ought to be about such things, but she has a great
deal of sense and feeling, and I cannot help thinking that she will
come round after a while. One thing is, that her step-mother professes
to be very pious, and Delia dislikes her so much, that I think it sets
her against the whole subject."
"I wonder at that, too," said Abby. "Mother has known Mrs. Mason from
a child, and she thinks all the world of her. I was telling her one
day, what Delia said about her step-mother, and she said if Delia had
any trouble, it must be all her own fault, for there was never a better
temper, or better principles than hers."
"Delia thinks it is all artfulness and hypocrisy in her," observed
Emily, "but I don't believe any one else would have suited her any
better. She was angry at having a step-mother at all, just as I should
be. I believe I should hate the best woman that ever lived, if she was
my father's second wife."
"Then I think you would do very wrong," said Abby with spirit; "I don't
believe any girl ever loved her mother better than I did mine, and she
had only been dead a year and a half, when my father married again. But
as soon as I heard of it, I made up my mind to make the very best of
her, however she might turn out, and to do every thing in my power to
make her comfortable in the house. So the day she was coming, I put her
room in the neatest order I could, and arranged flowers in the vases,
although I could not help crying every now and then, when I thought
how my dear mother had used these very things. It did seem hard thus
to have a stranger come into her place so soon, but as I said, I had
determined to make the very best of it, and the minute she came into
the house, though it seemed as though I should choke, I went and kissed
her, and called her mother."
"What did she say?" asked Emily, much interested.
"She did not say much, only kissed me and called me her dear child, but
I heard her tell father afterwards that she felt as though a thousand
pounds was lifted off her mind when I called her mother. So, you see, I
had my reward that time. If one has a difficult thing before one, it is
so much easier to do it the very minute one has a chance, than it is if
one puts it off, and then while you are delaying very likely something
happens which makes it almost impossible for you to do it at all."
Emily thought of the money, and gave an unqualified assent. "But how
have you got on since?" she asked.
"Oh, nicely!" replied Abby. "She takes such good care of the children,
and makes father so happy, that I could not help liking her, though we
do not agree about some things exactly. But then I know, of course,
it is my place to give way, and as it takes two to make a dispute, we
never have any. She is really very kind to me, too, so that it is no
great matter if she is a little fussy sometimes. But if I had begun by
quarreling, or even by crying and fretting, I dare say I should have
ended by disliking her as much as Delia does Mrs. Mason."
"You don't do Delia justice, Abby. It is harder for her than it would
be for many people, she has such strong feelings."
"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Abby, not very elegantly. "What is the use of
strong feelings, or deep feelings, if they don't make people act
rightly? If feeling was all, I could be as good a Christian as any
body, but it is when it comes to action that I find the trouble. I am
no believer in that sort of Christianity. However, as far as Delia is
concerned, I don't mean to judge her. She may be quite different from
what I have thought her—indeed, I think she must be, or you and she
would not agree so well."
Emily sighed and blushed, as she remembered how little opportunity she
had given Delia of commenting upon her religion, either in principle
or in practice. She was somewhat uplifted in her own esteem, however,
by what had passed that evening, forgetting how near she had come to
yielding, and that she had been saved from it more by Abby's frankness
than by any courage of her own; and she resolved that on the very first
evening of Delia's return, she would show her that she did not fear her
ridicule, when the cause of religion was concerned.
She spent several days very pleasantly at Mrs. Carson's, becoming
more and more attached to Abby, as she saw how much she did to render
home happy. With a great many excellent and lovable qualities, and a
sincere desire to do her duty, Mrs. Carson was, as Abby said, a little
fussy, and she sometimes interfered unnecessarily in Abby's plans and
projects, in a way which would have been very vexatious to most girls
of her age, but Abby took every thing pleasantly, contriving to avoid
collisions, and giving up when it was irresistible with a perfect good
grace.
"She is better than I am," thought Emily upon one of these occasions,
"though she does not make any pretensions to piety, but I am resolved
that I will turn over a new leaf. Delia shall see that I am determined
to do right in the future, whatever I may have done in the past. I have
been very wicked, I know, but I hope I have repented, and, as to making
restitution, that is just impossible, and no one is called upon to do
what is impossible."
So did Emily reason, and so did she resolve. What her reasonings and
resolutions amounted to, we shall perhaps see in future.