MR. AND MRS. MASON arrived next morning, and had rather a lengthened
conversation with Mrs. Pomeroy, before they were admitted to see Delia,
who continued very unwell, and seemed threatened with serious illness.
Poor Delia meantime was trembling with conflicting emotions, among
which shame, perhaps, predominated. She had, as Mrs. Pomeroy requested,
read through all the returned letters, from beginning to end. The task
was a hard one, but it did her good. Now that her eyes were opened to
the man's real character, she wondered what it could have been about
him that fascinated her.
"But I never really did care for him," she said to Emily. "My vanity
was flattered by his attentions, and I thought there was something very
interesting in having a secret correspondence. There were plenty of
such things going on at the Gymnasium, and some of the teachers knew
it well enough, too. I have seen Miss Jenkins look the other way, very
hard indeed, when she knew, as well as they did, that the girls were
doing things that were forbidden. But the poor thing was so overworked,
and the girls plagued her so, that it was no wonder if she was glad
to buy a little peace at any price. How long they stay down stairs! I
do wish they would come up, and yet I dread to see them, especially
mother. I have acted so shamefully towards her."
"Don't excite yourself," said Emily, seeing that Delia was growing
feverish again. "If your mother is as good as every one says, I am sure
you have no cause to fear her. Oh, dear me! I only wish I had a mother
to turn to."
The door opened as she spoke, and Mrs. Pomeroy entered, followed by
Mr. and Mrs. Mason. Mr. Mason had been very angry at hearing of his
daughter's misconduct, and had fully determined to treat her with great
sternness, a resolution from which Mrs. Pomeroy had attempted in vain
to dissuade him. As they were going up stairs, however, Mrs. Mason
dropped behind and whispered to her.
"You need have no fear of Mr. Mason's using any undue severity. You
will see how it will be!"
Delia was still confined to her bed, but she raised herself, as they
entered, and looked eagerly towards them. She had grown very thin and
pale of late, and her black eyes looked unnaturally large and bright.
She did not speak at first. Mr. Mason made an effort to deliver his
intended reproof.
"Delia!" he began, with an extra amount of sternness in his voice, as
he felt his courage giving way at the sight of his daughter. "I am very
much shocked—I could never have believed that a daughter of mine—bless
me, how thin she is—why she looks like a ghost. There, there, don't
cry, poor dear, and we won't say any more about it, just now. It is all
over, and you have only to get well, and try to do better in future."
Mrs. Mason glanced at Mrs. Pomeroy, as she stooped to kiss Delia, while
Mr. Mason walked away to the window, to blow his nose and wipe his
spectacles.
"Oh, mother!" were Delia's first words. "If I had only been guided by
you, I should never have been where I am."
"Try not to agitate yourself, my love," was Mrs. Mason's quiet reply.
"We can talk of that another time. You must keep yourself quiet as
possible now, in order not to increase your fever. Mrs. Pomeroy has
told us the whole story, and we are ready to forgive every thing.
Nobody else knows any thing of the matter, and you have nothing more to
fear from your persecutor."
"I don't want you to judge him too hardly, mother," said Delia. How
naturally the word mother now came to her lips, and how she wondered
that she should ever have found it so hard to speak. "I do not think
Mr. Hugo was nearly so much to blame as myself. He would never have
thought of such a thing, if I had behaved properly."
"I dare say not," said Mrs. Mason. "In ninety-nine such cases out of a
hundred, the fault rests more with the woman than the man. If a girl
respects herself, other people will respect her."
"I think it will be hard for me to respect myself, after this," said
Delia, sighing. "I am sure I cannot expect others to respect me. It
does not seem as though I could ever look any one in the face again."
"That very humility must be your safeguard, my child. But Delia, there
is One against whom you have offended far more than against any earthly
friend. Have you asked forgiveness of Him?"
"Yes, mother," replied Delia, in a low voice, "but it is very hard for
me to think that He will forgive me. I don't feel so."
"You have a surer witness than any mere feeling, my dear."
Delia looked at her, inquiringly.
"You have the promises of God, expressed in Holy Scripture, that no
repentant sinner who comes seeking forgiveness through the intercession
and merits of our Saviour, will be cast out. Feeling is a very
uncertain thing, at the best; and often leads us astray, but not so
the promises of God. There is no variableness nor shadow of turning in
them."
"That is something like what Emily says," observed Delia. "She was very
religious when she first came to school, but she says now that it was
all feeling, and that she had no more principle than I had."
"Probably that is true," said Mrs. Mason. "They are often mistaken, the
one for the other."
"Then you think, mother," said Delia, after a little pause—"that I
ought to believe that God has forgiven me? I should be only too glad to
think so, but it seems almost presumptuous."
"Do you think, Delia, that you have truly repented of your past sins?"
"Yes, mother, I think so."
"You have asked the forgiveness of your Father in Heaven, through the
merits and intercession of our Lord Jesus Christ?"
"Yes, mother, over and over again."
"And what about the future. Do you wish, or intend that it shall be
like the past?"
"Oh no, indeed!" replied Delia, shuddering. "I do hope to live a
Christian life after this. But I don't know—I have no faith in myself."
"Nor is it necessary or desirable that you should have faith in
yourself. Faith in God is much better. But since you are truly
repentant, and have sought God's forgiveness in the way of His own
appointment, is it not rather more presumptuous to indulge a doubt of
receiving it, than it is to believe in his plainly expressed promises?"
"Perhaps so!" replied Delia, sighing, as if with a feeling of relief.
"I had never looked at it in that way. I am sure I shall be only too
glad to believe it."
"We will not say much now," said Mrs. Mason, observing that Delia
seemed very tired. "You are evidently over excited, and need rest and
quiet. We will talk over these matters another time."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Mason. "Talk it over with your mother. She
understands such things. She has taught me a great deal that I never
knew before. But I want to see you well, now. Poor dear, how much you
must have suffered. I only hope you have had enough of secrets to last
you all the rest of your life. They are wretched things. Why, dear me,
it makes me miserable to have any thing on my mind that I can't talk
about."
Delia could not help smiling.
"There, that's right. Now you look natural again. But as I was saying,
I don't think you will ever want any more secrets."
"No, indeed!" said Delia, heartily. "I don't think I shall as long as I
live."
Great was the wonderment of the school when the true story of Mr.
Hugo's departure came out, and great also the triumphing of Almira,
who declared that she knew there was something queer about him, and
appealed to the girls to know if she had not always said so. She
had kept herself pretty quiet after the loss of her hair, and the
consequent exposure, but the "delight" of finding herself in the right,
as she expressed it, quite overcame her previous mortification, and she
was loud in her exaltation, ending by saying—
"And more than that, I know that Emily Arlington and Delia Mason had
something to do with the business, or why does Delia stay in Mrs.
Pomeroy's room and see no one, and why were her father and mother
sent for in such a wonderful hurry? As to her being sick, that is all
humbug. I don't believe she is any more sick than I am. Mrs. Pomeroy
means to keep the thing quiet, that is all."
"Did you learn all that the night you lost your hair?" asked some one.
"You just be quiet, Sue Dayton. I am not the only person in this house
that has ever listened at a door. But any how, I know just as well as I
know any thing—"
"That is not so strong an assertion as you might use, Almira,"
interrupted Belle; "since there are some things that you don't know
very well."
"Just as well as I know any thing," continued Almira, disregarding the
interruption—"that Em. Arlington and Delia Mason were mixed up in that
affair of Mr. Hugo's."
"Let me advise you, as a friend, not to repeat that assertion, Almira,"
said Janet Graves, seriously. "Mrs. Pomeroy would be very angry to hear
you connect the name of any of her young ladies with Mr. Hugo's, and
you do not stand so well with her now, that you can afford to lose any
favor. It would only take a very few more mis-steps on your part, to
ensure your dismission from school."
"I should like to know how you come to know so much about it," said
Almira. "You are not a teacher, and I don't believe Mrs. Pomeroy tells
you every thing."
"It is true, I am not a teacher," replied Janet, "but since Miss
Bronson has been sick, I have helped Miss Gilbert to make up her books,
and I know the standing of every scholar in school. Your marks are not
what I should like to have mine, and though I am not at liberty to say
any more, I certainly advise you to take care how you make them any
worse. Even you would not like to be sent home in disgrace."
"Dear me, no!" said Almira, in alarm. "I should never dare to show my
face there, if I was expelled. But are they so very bad, Janet? I did
not think they would be."
"I don't know how you can think so, when hardly a week passes that
your name is not at the very bottom of the bill, both for lessons and
deportment. You have only been in the perfect list once this term."
"But just tell me how many marks I have, Janet, or let me guess—Is it
fifty?"
"Did I not tell you that I was bound in honor not to say any more?"
said the Queen of Sheba, much disgusted. "If you had any sense of
propriety, you would never ask me another question, after that."
"Dear me! What is the use of being so grand?" asked Almira. "Of course,
I should not tell Miss Gilbert, and what harm would it do, so long as
she did not know it?"
Her majesty deigned no reply, but walked away, leaving Almira to her
reflections, if she could be supposed to have any.
"After all," said Lucy, when Janet related this conversation to her
afterward. "Perhaps we are all too hard upon poor Almira. She has had
no home advantages. Her mother is just as great a gossip as herself,
and I dare say, Almira has heard all the affairs of the neighborhood,
public and private, beside a good many that never existed at all,
talked over in her presence over since she can remember. I don't
believe Mrs. Crosby ever read through a book of any sort in her life. I
could not help laughing the last time I was at home, to hear her tell
mother, with such an appearance of self-satisfaction, that she had no
time for reading or study—she had to attend to her domestic concerns,
which she considered as woman's proper sphere."
"But one would think Almira might have improved," said Janet. "Mrs.
Pomeroy has taken so much pains with her, that it seems as if she might
have formed a different sort of character."
"Her character was pretty much formed before Mrs. Pomeroy had any thing
to do with her, I imagine," replied Lucy. "Remember that she was almost
sixteen when she came here. I do hope, however, that she will not be
sent home, for neither her father nor mother would have any forbearance
with her, under such circumstances."
"It was for that very reason that I gave her a hint," said Janet. "I
know how angry it would make Mrs. Pomeroy to hear that any such talk
was going on in the school. But it is nonsense to say that Delia is not
sick. I saw her for a moment this morning, and really don't think I
should have known her."
Delia did, indeed, continue very unwell. Mrs. Pomeroy had hoped that
her illness would have passed away with the excitement which caused it,
but such was not the case, and as the days went on, it became evident
that her health had received a serious shock. It was at last decided
that she would be more likely to recover in the quietness of home, and
under the care of her mother, to whom she now clung almost as much as
she had hitherto disliked her; and as soon as she was able to travel,
she was removed.
Even Miss Thomas was moved, when she saw Delia for the first and last
time, and she bade her an affectionate farewell. None of the girls,
except Emily and Janet, saw her at all, as she was still very weak, and
unable to bear the least excitement, but she exerted herself to look
out of the carriage and wave her handkerchief, as she passed the gate,
where most of her companions were assembled to see the last of her.
"Oh, how happy I might have been here," she sighed, as she sank back
again, "but it was all my own fault."
"Let us hope that you have many happy days still in store," said Mrs.
Mason. "Your lesson, though a hard one, will be worth all it has cost
you, if it has led you to the foot of that Cross wherein alone is
safety and salvation."
Emily had not forgotten her resolution, and as soon as Delia was gone,
she sat down resolutely to write to her father. It was a hard task,
and was not accomplished without many tears, but she knew what was her
duty, and she resolved to perform it faithfully. She concealed nothing,
but related the whole story of her faults, from the very beginning,
without attempting the least excuse or palliation of her conduct. She
concluded, by humbly asking permission to remain at the school till
her father's return, that she might have an opportunity of redeeming
her character, and regaining the confidence of Mrs. Pomeroy, of whose
kindness she could hardly say enough. This letter was submitted to Mrs.
Pomeroy, who approved it, and added one of her own, which, however, she
did not show to Emily.
When Mr. Arlington received these two letters, his first impulse was to
remove Emily from the school at once, and keep her in future entirely
under his own eye. But he was not a hasty man, and though his temper
was naturally severe, he was lacking neither in a sense of justice,
nor in a due regard for his daughter. He could not help observing that
Emily's letter showed every sign of true contrition, without the least
attempt at self-justification, and he was particularly pleased with the
sensible and straight-forward tone of Mrs. Pomeroy's note.
Mrs. Pomeroy had written that she should not make any attempt to excuse
Emily, further than to remind him that she was still very young, and
that the perfect retirement in which she had lived previously to
entering school, had, perhaps, not altogether fitted her for resisting
temptation. There could be no doubt of the sincerity of her repentance,
as her letter, written entirely of her own free will, and by her own
suggestions, abundantly showed. She had no desire to lose Emily from
the school, but stood ready to dispose of her as her father should
appoint.
Mr. Arlington reflected that it would be exceedingly inconvenient for
him to return home, or to have Emily come out to him, and that she
would be more likely to get into fresh trouble among strangers, than
with Mrs. Pomeroy, who was well acquainted with her faults, and for her
own sake, would watch her carefully hereafter. Finally, he decided to
let her remain where she was, at least for another year, and wrote to
Mrs. Pomeroy to that effect, at the same time enclosing money to pay
all her indebtedness. His letter to Emily was extremely kind—more so
than she had anticipated, or indeed than he had at first intended, but
as he went on writing, his heart melted toward the motherless child, so
far separated from him, and though he did not conceal his displeasure
at her faults, he assured her of his entire forgiveness and continued
affection, and his desire to act solely for her good, concluding with a
fervent blessing upon his only and darling child.
Emily watched and waited for this letter till her heart was sick with
fear and hope deferred, but when it came, she hardly dared to open it
till Mrs. Pomeroy assured her that it contained no ill news. Many were
the tears of joy and sorrow which she shed over its pages, and most
fervent were her prayers that she might have grace given her from on
high to enable her to show herself worthy of so much affection. It
gave her a different feeling toward her father, from any she had ever
entertained before, and she thought she should never again fear to open
her heart to him. In fact, from this time might be dated the beginning
of a thoroughly good understanding between Mr. Arlington and his
daughter which was never again interrupted.
Mrs. Pomeroy paid Kitty the ten dollars which she was at first very
unwilling to receive, but she consented to do so upon Mrs. Pomeroy's
representing to her that she would thereby relieve Emily from a painful
sense of obligation. She had been greatly shocked on being informed of
the transaction, but her anger was quite swallowed up in her sympathy
for Emily's distress. Again and again she kissed her and assured
her that it was no matter—that she had done quite as well without
it, and that she was even glad she had lost it, as that it gave her
an opportunity of seeing how much the girls loved her. Nor did any
allusion to the matter ever pass her lips. Her health was improving
greatly, and Mrs. Pomeroy began again to hope with trembling that she
might be spared to grow up a comfort to her own declining years.
Mr. Arlington had requested Mrs. Pomeroy to give Emily a certain weekly
allowance, such as she should deem suitable, and Mrs. Pomeroy did so,
but Emily seemed all at once to have grown very economical. She never
asked permission to go out shopping, the candy woman's attractions were
passed by unheeded, and even resisted the temptation of purchasing
some beautiful verbenas to plant in her garden. Mrs. Pomeroy noticed
this economy, but made no remark upon it, nor was she much surprised,
when after the lapse of some time, Emily brought her ten dollars; the
whole sum of her allowance, requesting her to expend it in some way for
Kitty's benefit.
But though not surprised, she was much pleased. She thought it a sign
of no small firmness and principle in Emily thus to have denied herself
almost every pleasure, in order to restore from what was strictly her
own, that which she had stolen. Nor did she refuse the money, though
she declined to appropriate it to Kitty. There was a charitable fund
which had existed in the school, almost since its commencement to which
most of the girls were subscribers, and the proceeds of which were
appropriated to clothing poor children for Sunday Schools. Mrs. Pomeroy
proposed to Emily that this ten dollars, the fruit of her self-denial,
should be quietly placed in this fund, and Emily joyfully consented,
feeling her heart very much relieved.
Little now remains to be added to our story.
Delia remained very unwell, and greatly depressed in spirits for a
considerable time, but the quiet of home, and the kind attentions of
her friends at last had their effect, and she gradually recovered her
health. Emily spent the summer vacation with her, and they returned
to school together. Delia was not a person to do anything by halves.
She had once said that it would take an earthquake to convert her,
but that then she should stay converted. It was even so. She had
had the earthquake, and the rest of the prediction seemed likely to
be fulfilled. Her reformation was complete and lasting, and during
the last year of her stay at school, she was as noticeable for her
consistent Christian character, as she had formerly been the reverse.
Her presence was of great service to Emily, who was not possessed of
her friend's force of character, and might perhaps have been led again
into temptation, without the help of Delia's counsel and example.
They finished their school course with credit to themselves and their
instructress, and are now both useful and respected women.
We are sorry not to be able to say as much for Miss Crosby. She
returned home at the end of the year, not one particle wiser than she
had been at its beginning, having expended more time and ingenuity in
getting rid of lessons than would have been requisite to learn them
twice over. But she was very pretty and graceful, and was soon married
to a gentleman, who believed such lovely simplicity would be easily
guided, and thought it would be a delightful task to form the mind of
such an artless young creature. It is possible that he may have found
out by this time that the artless young creature has not only a mind,
but a will of her own already formed. Such at least is the idea current
among his friends, who do not appear to consider him an object of envy.
Alice Parker was considerably impressed by her conversation with Belle
Faushane at the time of Emily's sickness, and began to consider whether
she had not been in some degree to blame in making the very worst
of her lot instead of the best. As she was not deficient either in
strength of mind, or religious principle, she was induced to make an
effort at greater cheerfulness, and had really improved considerably,
when she received intelligence which seemed likely to throw her back
again. Mrs. Williams was attacked with paralysis, and her presence was
required at home immediately. Mrs. Williams partially recovered, but
remained quite feeble and helpless, and as she was unwilling to have
her adopted daughter away from her side, Alice's school career came to
a sudden termination. The effect of the change upon her character, was
reported by Belle Faushane after her return to school in the fall.
"Oh, and by the way, I went to see Alice."
"How does she get on?" asked Delia. "I suppose she must be more dismal
than ever, now that she has to live at home all the time."
"On the contrary, she has brightened up amazingly. I never saw any one
so changed. She did not sigh once while I was there, and she laughed
quite merrily two or three times. Poor Mrs. Williams suffers a great
deal and is quite childish, and Alice has to contrive all sorts of ways
to amuse her. She has prevailed upon her to have Mrs. Parker there to
keep house for them, which of course makes it much pleasanter, but
after all, I believe the change is more in Alice herself."
"I always thought Alice might be happier at home if she managed
differently," observed Lucy. "But she always had such a way of acting
as though she was terribly abused by some one, that it was not
calculated to conciliate a woman like Mrs. Williams, especially when
she felt at the same time that she really was doing a great deal for
Alice."
"I think Alice feels that herself," said Belle. "She said to me, 'You
told me once that the reason I did not find my work was, because I did
not look for it, and I believe you were right. I have found it now, and
it seems likely to be lasting, but I am far from quarrelling with it,
for it has made me happier than ever I was before.'"
Belle herself has found her work. She has married a clergyman and is
the very head and front of all the charitable, literary and other
undertakings in a large city parish, where she is much liked and
admired, though it must be confessed that she sometimes terrifies
and now and then extinguishes, certain fine young gentlemen of the
weaker sort, causing them to seek revenge in remarking upon safe
opportunities, that Mrs. Garland would be quite a fine woman if she was
not so sarcastic.
She is quite worshipped by all the poor people, children and servants
in the parish, including her own, and she and her husband think each
other the most wonderful people in the world. She is an admirable
housekeeper too, which rather surprised Miss Thomas, who lately spent a
Christmas vacation with her.
Miss Thomas confessed to Mrs. Pomeroy on her return that she had never
seen a household better managed, but added—"As much pains as I took
with her, it would be strange if she did not turn out something, but
there are none of the girls of the present day, who compare with that
set. They are all slatterns and idlers from beginning to end."
From which remark it may be inferred that Miss Thomas is not much
altered by the lapse of time.
Mr. Hugo's place was supplied by an amiable and accomplished French
lady, under whose instructions Annette made such progress that she
actually received the second French prize. It is unnecessary to say
that her amiable disposition and strength of principle made her a happy
and useful woman.
Lucy became a teacher in the seminary after the death of her mother,
and had the pleasure of seeing her two little sisters educated under
the fostering care of Mrs. Pomeroy, who still continues her honorable
and useful career, cheered by the love and care of Kitty Mastick, and
of Agnes Brown, the baggage master's daughter, who has been with her
ever since the memorable night when her father knocked down the gallant
Mr. Hugo.
Mr. Fletcher lives honored and venerated by all who know him. He is
still addicted to going out in the stormiest weather and making long
botanical excursions on foot. Mrs. Pomeroy has never found out how he
came to be in the station room just in time to meet Delia.
Cornelius Agrippa lived to a very great age, and died much lamented.
His remains repose in the garden under a picturesque monument, erected
by the contributions of the young ladies. His master was much afflicted
at his loss, but was partially consoled by an opportune present of four
horned frogs, which were carefully brought all the way from one of the
southwestern military posts by a favorite pupil who had been home to
spend the summer. These charming creatures were alive and thriving at
the last accounts.
I cannot close this little volume better than by commending to one and
all of my young readers, the motto adopted by Emily Arlington for her
graduating composition—
"WALK IN THE LIGHT, AS CHILDREN OF THE LIGHT. HE THAT WALKETH IN
DARKNESS KNOWETH NOT WHITHER HE GOETH."