FRIENDSHIP.
THE acquaintance between Cecilia and Emily ripened every hour. Not a
day passed which did not bring the former to the large mansion on the
hill, and scarcely an evening when she did not by argument or entreaty,
persuade the latter to accompany her to the residence of her friend
Judge Wilson.
"You are spoiling me," remonstrated Emily, when on one occasion,
the old gentleman, his wife and son met her at the door, with the
cordiality of long tried friends.
Mrs. Wilson, and even the Judge claimed the privilege of his gray
hairs, to kiss her glowing cheeks, while they all thanked Cecilia again
and again, for bringing her to their home.
"You will spoil me with such kind attention," repeated Emily, every
feature glowing with appreciation of their cordiality.
"I'll risk it, child," said the Judge, patting the well-shaped hand he
had taken in his own.
"But when Cecilia goes, I shall miss you all so much."
"Miss us, shall you, hey? Well, what is to hinder your coming to cheer
the old people, when the young birds have flown?"
"May I? I shall be so glad. But I mustn't forget a message from papa
and mamma. Of course I have written all about you, and how kind you
have been to their little girl: and they want me to thank you. Papa
reminds me that it is one more token of my heavenly Father's love and
watchful care that Christian friends have been raised up for me, a
child away from parental restraint."
"Aye! aye! dear," patting her hand again. "We're too apt to forget our
Father's hand in all our mercies. When you write again, you may tell
your parents that it is exactly such a message as I would expect from
them."
"Why, do you know papa?"
"Yes, Emily, I know him well—through his daughter. Every time I have
seen you, I have recognized his opinion, his religion, his tastes,
carefully impressed on his child."
Tears gushed to Emily's eyes. "Oh, sir, can you say so? I'm very happy.
Nothing you could have said would have made me so thankful: and I know
papa and mamma will be pleased that I have in any way honored them."
"You may add to your letter," said Mrs. Wilson, "that as they have
daughters and we have none, we should regard the gift of the eldest, as
an act of Christian charity on their part."
"Thank you!" repeated the ardent girl, pressing another kiss on the
old lady's lips. "I wish my parents knew you. They would express their
gratitude, so much better than I can."
"I can give a guess that you had a happy home."
"Never were children blessed with more loving, judicious parents. I
have always considered my father's good name better than great riches
to his children."
"Yes, old Solomon was right there. A fair, unsullied name is a rich
inheritance for any children."
"It is an inheritance George is blessed with," playfully remarked
Cecilia.
"Don't be personal," remarked the Judge, patting her cheek; at the same
time, he looked very much gratified.
At ten o'clock, a servant from the school came to attend Miss Washburn
home, and she bade her friends good-night, with a feeling that she had
never enjoyed a pleasanter or a more profitable evening.
An hour later, Cecilia still sat in the moonlight, gazing on the quiet
scene spread out before her, but upon which her thoughts had not for a
moment been fixed. At last, she started to her feet, lit the gas as she
said half aloud, "I'll do it, and I'll do it to-night."
Pausing only to fasten into the window the wire net, to prevent the
musquitoes from entering to the bright flame, she drew a portfolio from
her trunk, and still standing by her bureau, dashed off the following
lines:—
"DEAR FRED:
"I wonder whether you are thinking of me. Don't be vain, old fellow,
when I tell you that for the last hour I have been thinking of you. I
have only time before midnight, to tell you the ultimatum to which I
have arrived. I claim your promise to come for me. Our friends have
succeeded in making my visit in U—, one of the pleasantest I have ever
known. Come in season to make a stay of a fortnight, and go with me
to some of the places in the vicinity, rendered sacred by historic
associations.
"Love and adieu,
"CECILIA."
"How do you manage, Emily, to accomplish so much in the course of a
day?" said the same young lady, presenting herself the next morning a
few minutes before school hours.
The music teacher laughed as she skilfully wound the abundant coil
around her shapely head. They were standing in front of the mirror in
her chamber, and by way of reply, she pointed to the figure five on her
watch.
"What do you mean, Emily?"
"I have been up since that hour, have practised forty-five minutes,
heard one class recite, a splendid recitation, too, and given two dull
pupils their music lessons."
"Recite in what? I didn't know that you had any department except
music."
Emily blushed slightly, as she always did when speaking of herself.
"Since my friend, Miss Sampson went away to be married, I have taught
her classes in German and French."
Cecilia held up her hands. "You're a wonder of wonders. Here you are
working all day long, and yet in the evening, you're as fresh as though
you had just risen from bed."
"I am the oldest daughter," laughed Emily, "and in a clergyman's
family, there is always enough work, domestic and parish, to keep one
very busy. But you give me more credit than I deserve. I had heard
Ella's classes on a few occasions when she was away, and when she
announced to Mr. Duxbury her approaching marriage, he asked me whether
I would like to take her place and salary in addition to my own. He
said his niece, who had been my pupil for a year, could relieve me by
teaching the beginners in music, and that as he should save the board
of one teacher, he could well afford to pay his niece a small salary.
Isn't he generous?"
"Well!"
"It was merely an experiment at first, but now that I am getting
accustomed to it, I like it vastly. My father's method of teaching us
at home, made the acquisition of languages more like play than work."
"And how many languages do you boast among your accomplishments, you
wonderful genius?"
"I don't boast of any, my dear, but I do boast of my punctuality,
which is a cardinal virtue, in my opinion, though a painful one in
this instance, as in three minutes it deprives me of your delightful
society."
In answer to this, Cecilia removed her hat and mantilla, laying them
with her parasol on the bed. Seeing Emily's glance of surprise, she
said in French, "I am going to spend the day here and go into your
classes."
In the same language, Emily answered quickly, "I'm afraid it will be
dull for you. To me it will be only pleasure. Come, the bell is ringing
for the opening exercises. I'm glad you love sacred music. My class of
girls do themselves credit by their singing."
Conducting Miss Lawrence to a seat near the desk, Emily joined a group
of girls standing about the piano, and hastily selecting the beautiful
chant, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," commenced a soft
accompaniment on the instrument.
Often as she had heard it, the words and tones thrilled the visitor to
the soul. Emily's voice, clear as a bell, rose full and sweet above the
others, her enunciation being so distinct, that every word could be
plainly heard, her pupils joining with her in such perfect time, the
whole sentiment expressed with such a true appreciation of the sacred
theme, that Cecilia seemed lifted above herself.
This was followed by a short service from the prayer book, simply a
psalm and the collects for the day, with an extempore prayer from Mr.
Duxbury at the close.
Mrs. Duxbury perceived that their visitor was much impressed with their
simple service, and when they were separating into different rooms,
spoke to her of it.
"I can't tell you how delighted I am," murmured Cecelia, her eyes dewy
with tears. "I feel that I should be better with such helps at the
beginning of the day. Mrs. Duxbury, I envy your scholars."
Emily stood waiting to speak to her. "Will you go with Mr. Duxbury for
an hour or two?" she said. "I have music scholars who I fear would be
embarrassed by your presence."
"Class in Intellectual Philosophy," said the Principal from the desk.
The visitor was shown to a seat, and was so much interested in the
manner of teaching, and the quick intelligent answers of the pupils,
that she was surprised when at the end of the hour, another class was
called.
At eleven, the bell rang for recess, which was spent by the friends in
walking up and down the shady avenue.
"You ought to be very happy, Emily," began Cecilia, in a serious tone.
"I am truly so. I have yet to learn what sorrow is. The only trial I
have ever known, real trial I mean, was when papa lost his voice. You
must know my parents, Cecilia. I owe them so much."
"I am prepared to love, as well as I now respect them. You are unlike
any girl of my acquaintance," and she lovingly pressed her arm within
hers.
"If I have any good traits, Cecilia, such as your partiality invests
me with, I owe it all to the care which my dear papa and mamma took of
me, in common with my sisters and little brother. I should have been a
wild, headstrong girl, if papa had not checked me. Mamma's example too,
was worth everything."
"Excuse me, Emily, for entering on a theme, which as many of our
flatterers suppose, is the invariable subject of young ladies'
conversation: but were you ever in love?"
"Never!" was the rather indignant exclamation, as the young girl
recalled the overtures of Barnes Bailey.
"I see you have some unpleasant associations with the subject, and by
that I infer—" continued Cecilia, laughing.
"I confess," said Emily, blushing furiously as she interrupted her,
"that the subject has once been presented for my consideration. But
I,—oh, there's the bell?"
[Illustration]