STARTLED as she was by the unexpected effects of her words, Delia did
not lose her presence of mind. She gently turned the key in the door,
and then applying herself to a judicious use of such restoratives as
were within reach, she had soon the satisfaction of seeing Emily open
her eyes. She seemed bewildered at first, and asked what was the matter.
"You fainted," replied Delia, quietly, continuing to bathe her head.
"Do you feel better?"
Emily looked at her for a moment, and then as the tide of recollection
rushed back upon her mind, she turned away her head, and burst into a
passion of tears and hysterical sobs.
"Listen to me Emily," said Delia firmly, but not unkindly, and taking
Emily's hand in hers. "This will never do. You must command yourself
and be quiet, or I shall have to send for Mrs. Pomeroy, and then an
exposure will be inevitable. For your own sake, make an effort and
compose yourself."
"I wish she did know all about it," said Emily, as soon as she could
speak, "and then it would be over."
"I think you are mistaken there," replied Delia. "You do not know
as much of schools as I do. Are you quite prepared to take the
consequences?"
"What consequences?"
"In the first, place, expulsion from the school. Mrs. Pomeroy, as you
well know, values the reputation of her school above every thing else
in the world. Do you think she would keep a girl in the house who had
deliberately robbed an orphan child, and that child Kitty Mastick, whom
she loves as the apple of her eye? It is true she might send you away
privately, but that would make little difference. The whole affair
would soon become known, and your reputation would be ruined forever.
Then where would you go? You have no home. Your father—"
Emily groaned, but Delia pitilessly pursued her course—
"Your father, as you always say, detests nothing so much as dishonesty
in money matters, and from what you have told me of him, I imagine
that he would visit such a sin more severely upon the head of his own
daughter, than upon that of a stranger. If you were terrified at the
very idea of his knowing that you had made a little bill at a store,
with what sort of feeling will you tell him that you have stolen money
enough to send you to the Penitentiary?"
"I wish I were dead—I do wish I were dead," said Emily despairingly.
"That is quite useless; and if all Mr. Fletcher says is true, you would
not improve your condition much by dying. No, Emily, the case is simply
this. You must listen to reason and be guided by me, and I promise
you that I will be your friend; but then you must be willing to do
something for me in return. I can save you from expulsion and disgrace,
and I will do so, but it must be on my own terms."
"And how do I know that you will not bring me to disgrace instead of
saving me from it?" demanded Emily.
"Simply because I have not yet done so," replied Delia. "Though I have
known your secret from the beginning, I have never before hinted my
knowledge even to you, nor should I have done so now, if you had not
forced it upon me."
"But to have disgrace always hanging over my head—always to be under—"
Emily shuddered without finishing the sentence. "No, Delia, I cannot
bear it. I must confess and have it over at once; I will go to Mrs.
Pomeroy this minute."
She tried to rise from the bed as she spoke, but her head was still
giddy—the room seemed to turn dark, and she nearly fell. Delia caught
her, replaced her on the bed without speaking, and then turning the key
in the lock, she opened the door as if to go out.
"Where are you going?" asked Emily, fearing she knew not what.
"I am going to ask Mrs. Pomeroy to give me another room-mate," said
Delia decidedly. "If she asks me the reason, of course I shall have to
tell her the whole story."
"You forget that I have also a story to tell!"
"And who will believe you? You have no proof. No one has seen the
letter but yourself, and it is not now in existence; while I have my
corrected exercise to show, and all the girls will bear witness to my
conduct in class. You have told Mrs. Pomeroy more than one lie already,
and she will think you have manufactured this story, simply out of
revenge. I repeat again, you have not one particle of proof for your
story, while I have plenty for mine."
Emily had nothing to say. She saw how completely she had ensnared
herself, and that Delia had her altogether in her power.
"At the same time," continued Delia, her tone relenting a little, "I
have not the least desire to make an ungenerous use of my knowledge.
I do not want to injure you, and I think I have proved it by not
betraying you at the time of the inquiry. I repeat, if you will be
guided entirely by me, I will save you from disgrace and ruin, and
all things shall go well. You have no occasion to trouble yourself as
to how my affairs are likely to turn out. I am perfectly well able
to manage them myself. Take your choice! Promise to be guided by me,
and to help me when I wish it, or prepare yourself for expulsion from
school, perhaps for being discarded by your father, for the ruin of
your reputation, and of all your prospects in life. It is now half past
eleven. I give you till twelve o'clock to make up your mind."
"You are so hard upon me, Delia!" pleaded poor Emily.
"I have no desire to be so," returned Delia, in a softened tone. "I
want to serve you if I can. How many girls in this school would have
done for you what I have done? Do you think Lucy Spencer or Belle
Faushane would have gone on treating you just the same as before, if
they had known what I know? Would they have lent you money without the
least chance of being repaid, or risked disgrace for themselves to keep
it from you? I don't say these things by way of upbraiding you, Emily;
you know very well that is not my way. I only wish to set before you
the reasons you have for confiding in me. But I will say no more. I
leave you to make your own decision."
Delia took up her book, and seating here by the window was soon
apparently absorbed in study.
The tumult in Emily's mind maybe better imagined than described. At
one moment she thought she would confess, at all hazards. Then came
the thought of all the train of consequences which Delia had set
before her. Mrs. Pomeroy's anger—the stern wrath of her father, of
whose uncompromising temper she had already had some experience, and
who would feel himself involved in her disgrace—the contempt of her
schoolmates, with whom she had always been a favorite, and the loss
of the good opinion of Mr. Fletcher—all these lay in her way. What a
despicable hypocrite they would think her, especially after her late
religious professions!
How Almira Crosby, and Sue Dayton, and all that set of girls would
triumph, not only over her, but over Lucy and Belle, and all the
religious girls in the school. There would be some reason in what they
were always saying—that after all, people were no better for being so
pious. The cause of true religion in the school would receive a wound,
through her fault, from which it might be years in recovering. Would
it not be better, if only upon that account, to conceal the matter,
even though such a concealment involved the necessity of a certain
complicity in Delia's designs, which, after all, might never come to
any thing?
Delia was not the only one in the school who did such things. There was
Jane Emmons—she corresponded all last term with a young gentleman she
had never seen, sending her letters in those of his sister, and all
the girls knew she did, but nothing came of it, and Almira Crosby had
almost always some love affair in hand. Delia was shrewd enough, and
would keep herself from disgrace, and suppose she did marry Mr. Hugo,
what harm would there be in that? A great many people married teachers.
Mrs. Pomeroy's own niece had done so, and every one thought it a fine
thing for her. Besides, Delia was so determined, that she would have
her own way at any rate, so that by interfering she probably would
succeed in ruining herself, without saving her friends.
And then came the bitter reflection that she had indeed no proof of her
assertions, while Delia had plenty of them. Who would believe a thief
and a convicted liar?
Then, after all, something might turn up. Delia or Mr. Hugo might go
away, or she might leave school herself—her father might send her some
money, or perhaps—she shuddered at the idea that she could find relief
in such a supposition—perhaps he might never return. Was it not better
to run the chances of concealment, rather than those of exposure?
Was it not better, at least, to wait? At any rate, she did not see
that she could do any thing else at present, but accede to Delia's
proposition, and by and by she might take advantage of some favorable
time and set the matter right, so far as it was now possible to do so.
By confessing at present, she could do nothing but harm to herself, to
Delia, and the cause of religion. She should leave school some time,
and then she could write to Mrs. Pomeroy, tell the whole story, and
enclose the money. At present she could only keep silence.
The twelve o'clock bell rang as she came to this conclusion, and Delia
closed her book and turned round.
"Well, Emily!"
"I don't see what I can do, except to follow your advice," said Emily.
"I have no choice. But oh, Delia, don't ask me to do any thing else
that is wrong! I have sins enough upon my conscience already."
"I have not asked you to do any thing, except to keep silence,"
returned Delia. "All the rest I can manage myself. You are not obliged
to know any more than I choose to tell you, and if I want you to give
me any active help, I will be sure to contrive matters so that no harm
shall happen to you."
"That is true," said Emily, catching eagerly at the first part of the
reply, and hardly heeding the concluding sentence. "It is only keeping
silence, after all, and Mrs. Pomeroy herself says, she never wants us
to tell of each other. I promise you, Delia."
"That is acting like my own sensible Emily," said Delia, kissing her.
"I was sure you would come to the right view of the case at last, and I
promise you in return, that I will never betray your secret so long as
you are faithful to me. Not only that, but I will take care that other
people do not suspect you. You must be aware that there are many prying
eyes about this house, besides Mrs. Pomeroy's. Almira Crosby and her
set would be perfectly delighted to find out one of the 'pious girls,'
as they call them, in such a scrape."
"I thought of that," said Emily, in a low tone.
"I don't pretend to be influenced by such considerations, myself,"
continued Delia, "though I think it very bad taste to talk upon those
subjects as Almira does—but if I were—however, that is not what I
was going to say. You know how prying Almira is. She was never quite
satisfied about that money, and she is always hinting that she will
find out about it some day. But I know how to manage her ladyship, and
I think I can insure you from any mischief from that quarter. I know
too many of her secrets for her to be very willing to offend me."
"How much better off people are, who have no secrets at all," sighed
Emily. "I don't suppose either Lucy or Belle ever had a concealment in
their lives—"
"There are about half a dozen girls in this school whom we can
thoroughly respect!" said Delia, with considerable feeling. "There is
Lucy to begin with, and there is Janet Graves, though the girls do call
her the Queen of Sheba, and Belle, though she is not always careful
enough of what she says, and poor dear Annette, and three or four
others, who have a right to call themselves Christians. I should not
mind exchanging places with any of them. As for the rest—I did not mean
to hurt your feelings," she added, seeing the tears in Emily's eyes,
"but you must be aware that it is not possible for me to consider you
very consistent."
Emily sighed. "I cannot blame you, Delia. I don't think I shall ever
make any more pretensions in that way. Oh, how I wish I had never come
to school."
"It seems to me that your religious principles could not be worth much,
if they only kept you out of trouble just so long as you could not get
into it," replied Delia. "But never mind that now. The dinner bell will
ring in a few minutes, and you will not have more than time to get
ready. Try to sit up, and I will brush your hair for you."
"I don't believe I can possibly go down to dinner," said Emily. "Every
thing turns dark to me the moment I rise up. I shall faint at table, if
I try."
"I don't believe you can, indeed," said Delia, watching her friend's
changing color. "Lie down again, and I will make your excuses, and
get Mrs. Pomeroy to send you something. You had better lie still till
tea-time, and if Mrs. Pomeroy comes to see you, take care you don't
betray yourself. I shall tell her that you stood too long at the
blackboard, and fainted away in consequence. Mr. Hugo does keep the
girls up there an unconscionable time. I shall speak to him about it."
Delia was as good as her word. Her excuse was accepted, and she
obtained permission to carry up Emily's dinner herself. Mrs. Pomeroy
soon followed to ascertain Emily's condition, satisfied herself that
the attack was not a dangerous one, and would be best treated by
allowing the patient to lie still, excused her from duty, and sent her
an entertaining book to read; rather to the disgust of Miss Thomas,
who was accustomed to look upon all illness among the girls as only a
pretext to escape from school duties, and who thought that Emily might
as well have amused herself with her algebra and slate.
By tea-time, Emily was so far recovered as to be able to go down, but
all the girls noticed her paleness and want of appetite. Delia had told
all inquirers that Emily had fainted in consequence of standing too
long at the blackboard, and they were all very ready to believe it—the
blackboard exercise being a very unpopular innovation introduced by Mr.
Hugo.
Almira connected Emily's illness with the affair of the exercise, and
decided that there must be something in it after all, but on hinting
her suspicions to Delia, she received from that young lady such an
answer as convinced her that she had much better hold her peace.
All things now went on in their accustomed train for some time. Delia
handed in her exercise every day, and received a paper in return, but
Emily neither knew nor sought to know whether the correspondence was
continued. Mr. Hugo won golden opinions from all sorts of people about
the house, unless it might be from Mr. Fletcher, who never expressed
any opinion whatever. The girls liked him because he gave moderate
lessons, and explained them clearly—and Mrs. Pomeroy was pleased with
his manners, and thought his appearance creditable to the school. Emily
regarded him with mingled disgust and terror, but she kept out of his
way, and never spoke to him if she could help it.
The end of February was marked with extraordinary mild weather for the
season. The brook in the garden babbled as freely as in summer, there
was no ice on the lake, and warm clothing was really burdensome. If it
had only been as pleasant under foot as over head, the weather would
have been delightful; even as it was, many long walks were enjoyed in
spite of the mud, and woeful were the complaints of the laundress at
the number of white skirts and stockings that the young ladies put
in the wash. The only really dry promenades in the neighborhood were
the long paved walks in the garden, which being swept every day, were
always clean and pleasant, and consequently very popular.
"How I should like to come down here by moonlight, sometime," said
Emily, one afternoon, when nearly the whole school were amusing
themselves on these walks.
"You had better let Miss Thomas hear you say 'moonlight,'" said Belle
Faushane, laughing. "She would think you were all ready to make a
runaway match to-morrow, and she would watch you as a cat watches a
mouse."
"It would not be very difficult to escape from her if she did,"
observed Emily. "She is so near-sighted that she cannot distinguish
countenances six yards off. I would wear spectacles, if I was in her
place."
"It would be much better," said Lucy, "but she is so absurdly sensitive
on the subject, that there is no use in talking to her about it. The
only time I ever got into disgrace with her, was by asking her very
innocently, why she did not wear glasses. She did not get over it for a
week, and I got more marks during that week than I ever had before or
since. But she is a good soul, in spite of her crotchets."
"So she is," said Janet. "It is a pity she should think so much of her
personal appearance, for it really injures her influence in the school.
I should think any woman could be above thinking all the time, whether
she was looking as pretty as she possibly could. It seems so degrading."
"There spoke the Queen of Sheba!" said Emily laughing.
Janet laughed, too. She had borne the nickname too long to be sensitive
about it, and she had long ago learned the great secret that the best
way of disarming ridicule is to laugh one's self. She could well afford
to be laughed at a little, as notwithstanding her dignified carriage
and grand airs, as the girls called them, her obliging disposition
made her a general favorite in the school, and all the little girls
especially, all but worshipped her. She accepted the sobriquet of Queen
of Sheba with a perfectly good grace, and answering to it as readily as
to her own name, and she had borne it so long that even Mrs. Pomeroy
ceased to look grave when she heard it.
"I really should like to come down here by moonlight," said Emily to
Delia, after the other girls had left them. "The moon will be almost
full to-night, and it will be as bright as day."
"I am coming out," said Delia quietly, "and as I want you to come with
me, your desire will be gratified."
"You don't really mean it," said Emily, surprised. "How in the world
will you manage to get permission!"
"I shall take it," replied Delia.
"But how will you get out?"
"Easily enough. We will go to bed as usual, but without entirely
undressing, and wait till every thing is quiet. Then we will put on
our frocks and cloaks, and taking the water pitcher, we will go down
quietly and slip out of the garden door. Miss Thomas is officer, and
she sleeps as sound as a log, and besides, if she does catch a glimpse
of us, she is so near-sighted she will never know who it is."
"But suppose she comes down and catches us?"
"Then we will say we went out for some water, which is no very heinous
crime. Some of the girls do so every little while, and even they are
caught, there is very little said about it."
Emily could not help feeling some misgiving, but she had been so
passive in Delia's hands, that she hardly thought of dissenting from
any plan that the other proposed. Then, too, she really enjoyed the
idea of a ramble in the garden by moonlight, and as she said, "There
was no more harm in walking by moonlight than by daylight," forgetting
that the harm lay not in the nature of the act itself, but in the
disobedience it involved.
But as the Scotch poet remarks in the oft quoted lines—
"The best laid schemes of mice and men
Gang aft agley."
About sunset, the sky became overcast, and a heavy winding wind coming
up from the southwest, drove before it such a tremendous shower of
rain, that Emily decided at once that the expedition must be given up.
Delia was not quite so ready to be convinced. She looked dismayed when
the first burst of rain rattled against the window, but prophesied that
it would not last long, and that the sky would be as bright as ever in
half an hour. But the clouds thickened more and more—the wind came in
heavier and heavier gusts, and shook the building sensibly. Presently
one of the large school-room windows was driven in with a tremendous
crash, the glass flying half across the room, and at the same time, a
bright flash was followed by a terrific peal of thunder which shook the
building like an earthquake.
A scene of confusion ensued, such as that school-room had seldom seen.
A chorus of shrieks rose up from the terrified girls, who all thought
the building had been struck by lightning. Even Miss Gilbert uttered a
terrified exclamation. Alice Parker fainted away, and Almira Cosby went
into hysterics, while even the most energetic and sensible of the girls
were paralyzed for the moment.
Good Mr. Holz, who had come into the school-room for a missing book,
rushed to the window and put his head out with a vague idea of doing
something, when the wind catching his wig, it was carried up into the
air, and borne away to parts unknown. Having offered this propitiatory
sacrifice to the powers of the elements, Mr. Holz returned to his
place, meekly conscious of the comical appearance of his bald head,
as contrasted with his heavy moustache and whiskers, and seemed to be
pondering as to what he should do next.
Another loud peal of thunder augmented the alarm of the girls, and at
the same moment, a gust of wind extinguished the remaining light, all
but a solitary gas jet over the desk, which happened to be covered by a
shade. A new burst of shrieks was heard above the roar of the elements,
and the confusion was at its height, when a man's voice made itself
heard, calm and clear amid all the tumult—
"What is the meaning of all this noise? Let me have silence instantly!"
The noise was hushed on the instant, and all eyes were now turned to
the desk, where stood Mr. Fletcher. His cloak was dripping with wet,
as though he had just come in, but he stood composedly at his post,
looking with flashing eyes, upon the disorderly assembly.
"Silence!" he commanded again, as a hysterical sob made itself heard.
"Almira Crosby, sit up and be quiet."
Almira's sobs ceased. Much as she feared the storm, she feared Mr.
Fletcher more.
"It is impossible for you to stay here," he continued in a quiet way,
as though in the exercise of his ordinary school duties. "The window
cannot be repaired immediately, and the room is quite cold. You will
therefore go quietly to the dining room, and take your seats there with
as little confusion as possible. Miss Graves, Miss Spencer, Miss Mason,
you seem to have your wits about you: please take charge of the little
girls; Miss Faushane and Annette will attend to Miss Parker; Miss
Gilbert will you have the kindness to go before and see that the lamps
are lighted."
The confusion was quelled at once. Every one felt relieved at leaving
the exposed school-room, while the coolness and promptitude displayed
by Mr. Fletcher calmed the fears of the most timid. Lucy, Janet, and
Delia, each took one or two of the little ones by the hand; Miss Parker
roused herself by a brave effort, and all were soon quietly seated
in the dining room, which was sheltered from the wind, and where the
closed blinds kept out the glare of the lightning.
Mr. Fletcher was too wise to expect impossibilities. He had seen upon
his first entrance into the school-room, that authority was absolutely
needful, and he had used it accordingly. But he also saw that the
girls' minds were in no condition for study, and he did not require
it of them, while at the same time, he endeavored to divert them
from their fears. He spoke of a thunder storm in winter as a thing
unusual, indeed, but by no means unprecedented, and described two or
three remarkable instances which he had witnessed in different parts
of the globe. Then, in answer to some questions, he diverged to other
incidents and scenes of his extensive travels, describing scenery and
manners with that vividness which belonged to him, and which kept every
one's attention entranced as long as he chose to speak.
After a time, seeing that the painful excitement had passed away,
he returned again to the events of the evening. He uttered a mild
reproof for the alarm, and the lack of presence of mind which had been
manifested by the girls in general, "with some honorable exceptions,"
and recalled to their thoughts the fact that wind and storm fulfil the
word of the Almighty, who is also the All-wise and the All-merciful,
and to whom the night is as clear as the day. Even the giddiest of the
girls felt ashamed of her terror as she listened.
And they were few who did not join heart and soul in the prayer which
followed these remarks.
By bed-time, the minds of all were tranquilized and prepared for
repose. The storm, too, had passed over, and the moon was shining as
brightly as ever.
"You will hardly think of taking a walk to-night," said Emily to Delia,
as they were undressing. Since the day of their memorable explanation,
she had given up even the semblance of prayer, feeling it to be, as
indeed it was, only a mockery of the Almighty.
"No, indeed," replied Delia, "nothing would tempt me to go."
"Mr. Fletcher complimented you on having your wits about you," pursued
Emily, "but I think you were as much frightened as any of us. I saw you
turn pale at every clap of thunder, and even when all the rest of us
were attending to Mr. Fletcher's stories, you seemed to be listening to
the wind."
"I was very much frightened," replied Delia, "but you know it is not my
way to make a fuss about things. Do you know, Emily, I could not help
feeling as though it were a warning?"
"I had the same feeling," replied Emily.
"A thunder storm is not like any other danger," pursued Delia,
thoughtfully. "One is so perfectly helpless. In sickness, or an
accident, or even in case of fire, there is always something that one
can do, but in a storm there is nothing for it but to sit still and
await one's doom. I suppose really religious people feel differently,
though Alice Parker was as much alarmed as any one. She was the only
person that fainted."
"You know her health is very delicate," said Emily, apologetically.
"But about the storm—I felt just as you did—that it was a warning. Oh,
Delia, let us take it so. Let us leave off doing wrong, and try to do
as we ought. I am sure we shall both be happier in the end. Just think,
if we had been killed, where should we be now?"
Emily hid her face, and wept bitterly, and even Delia seemed affected,
and said seriously that she would think of it. She evidently desired to
avoid further conversation upon the subject, and Emily could not force
it upon her.
"To-morrow!" said Delia to herself, as so many have said before her.
To-morrow came, and found her seriousness vanished. She made light
of her alarm of the night before, and when Emily adverted to their
conversation, she turned it off with a jest and an allusion to the
past, which silenced Emily completely.
"A thunder storm is not enough to convert me, Emily. It will require an
earthquake, at the very least, and then you will see that I shall stay
converted. My religion will not be of the intermittent kind."
Of course the storm and its result were the subjects of conversation
for the day, and many were the jokes uttered at the expense of the
hysterical young ladies, and of poor Mr. Holz, whose wig had been
discovered by Cornelius Agrippa, lying on the ground in the farthest
part of the garden, and brought to his master by that sagacious
quadruped, who was clearly under the impression that he had discovered
a rare specimen of the animal kingdom.
"You may laugh, if you please," said Belle, who always took the part of
the meek little music master. "Mr. Holz at least tried to do something.
He did not think only of himself, as most of the rest of us did. Wasn't
Mr. Fletcher grand, though? I wonder what it is about him, that always
governs every body on the instant. Even Almira acknowledged the force
of his genius last night. Which did you fear most, Almira, the thunder
or the Professor?"
"Well, I am afraid of him," said Almira, sulkily, "and I cannot bear
him. For my part, I think it was very hard-hearted in him to show so
little regard to our feelings. He told me to be quick, as though I had
been a dog."
"You should have minded the first time," said Belle. "Besides, you know
that you made more than half of it. It was not more than five minutes
after we got into the dining room, before I saw you eating the cake you
stole from the tea-table."
"Perhaps it was the consciousness of the theft that shamed her,"
remarked some one in the group. "But Alice fainted away, and Mr.
Fletcher did not scold her at all."
"Thunder always makes me faint," said Alice. "It is not because I am
afraid, either, for I should like to watch the storm coming up, if it
did not make me sick. I suppose it must be something in the air. I
had been feeling very unwell for some time before the window blew in,
but I thought I would brave it out. You know I never could make the
experiment with the electrical machines, because they made my head ache
so."
"Yes, and if it had been any one but you, Mr. Fletcher would say it was
affectation," returned Almira.
"Oh, Almira!" said Lucy. "I think there are a good many girls in this
school whose word Mr. Fletcher would take in such a case."
"Well, I was frightened for one, I confess," said Annette, "though I
tried hard not to show it on account of the children, for I remembered
how I was first taught to be afraid of thunder."
"How?" asked some one.
"By seeing other people afraid. I had never thought of such a thing
till I was almost five years old, but I used to stand at the window and
watch the flashes. About that time a lady came to our house, who was
afraid of all sorts of things, especially of thunder. It was not long
before a storm came up, and she flew round the house, shutting all the
windows and doors—"
"A very unphilosophical thing to do," interrupted Janet, "as any one
may see who takes the trouble to think about it."
"Well, at any rate she did it, and then she got into the middle of
a feather bed, and there she sat and covered her eyes and cried. Of
course I thought something dreadful was going to happen, and I cried
and screamed because she did. That was the first time I thought of
being afraid of thunder, and it was a long, long time before I got over
it."
"What cured you at last?" asked Emily, who had come out of her room
just in time to hear Annette's story.
"Why, I was sitting up with my little sister one night. She had had
a dreadful time of the ear-ache, and had not slept any for several
nights, nor mother either, and finally I persuaded her to go to bed and
leave Josy with me. I sang to her, and told her stories, and after a
while she got asleep in my lap. About eleven o'clock a terrible thunder
storm came up—oh, a great deal worse than that last night. I had left
the blinds open and the curtains up to please Josy, because she liked
to look out and see the moonlight, and of course, as she was asleep in
my arms, I could not get up to shut them."
"Couldn't you put her down?" asked Almira.
"Not without waking her, and I wouldn't have done that for the world.
She did not seem to mind the thunder at all, though it was the loudest
I ever heard. So I began to repeat all the Psalms and Bible verses I
could remember, and then all the hymns, and I managed to sit still all
through the storm, though it was pretty hard work, especially as the
lightning struck a tree in the meadow close by our house."
"How could you do it?" asked Almira.
"Why I had to!" said Annette. "Because I did not want to wake mother or
Josy. Mother never knew a word about it till morning."
"Well," said Almira, "all I have to say is, I should like to see myself
sitting with the blinds open all through a thunder storm, for fear of
waking one of our young ones. I guess it will be after this when I do."
"I guess it will!" said Belle. "And did that cure you, Manny?"
"Pretty much," replied Annette. "I never seemed to care much for
thunder after that. I always say to myself, if I could keep from making
a fuss once, I can again; and besides," she added, blushing, as she
always did when she spoke on religious subjects,—"you know Somebody can
take care of us as well in a thunder storm as any other time."
"True!" said Belle. "And it certainly shows a want of faith in Him to
be so much alarmed." She looked at Emily as she spoke, but Emily did
not answer, and the bell now summoned them to the French class.
The Professor was undeniably cross this morning. The lessons had been
somewhat interrupted by the events of the evening before, and were
not as well prepared as usual, but Mr. Hugo seemed to think the storm
offered no excuse, and was particularly severe upon those who could
be induced to break their engagement by a paltry disturbance of the
elements. Fears like those, he said, were unworthy of rational beings,
and none but fools would indulge them, either in themselves or others.
The young ladies might be glad that they had not him to deal with.
"I am!" whispered Janet to her neighbor. "I perfectly agree with him
there."
"What insolence is that Miss Graves?" thundered the Professor. "Repeat
your remark!"
"My remark was that I agreed with you," returned the Queen of Sheba
with spirit—"if you consider that impertinent. Permit me to add, that I
never am guilty of insolence myself, nor do I suffer it from others."
Two or three of the girls looked terribly frightened, but Mr. Hugo only
bowed grimly, and said as the subject of the storm seemed exhausted,
they would now proceed with the lesson.
"What ailed Mr. Hugo?" asked Emily of Delia, after they had returned to
their room. "He was perfectly savage, and I for one was glad that Janet
answered him as she did. I must say I think his insinuations about Mr.
Fletcher were very improper."
"It was uncalled for certainly," said Delia. "No one can deny that Mr.
Fletcher behaved very well. But every one is out of humor sometimes,
and I dare say he had had something to vex him before he came, We must
have our walk to-night, Emily."
Emily was now very unwilling to consent to the scheme, and reminded
Delia of what she had said the night before, but Delia only laughed and
said it was certainly very foolish, as Mr. Hugo said, to be frightened
from one's purpose by a mere disturbance of the elements. It was not
however without a great deal of persuasion, and even an insinuated
threat, that Emily consented, with many misgivings, to accompany Delia
on her stolen expedition.