CAUGHT.
After their first fright with regard to Miss Winthrop’s injuries
was over, the girls began to think of their own cause for alarm.
Fortunately for them, nothing was said by Mr. Worcester that night
about the authors of the mischief; and by degrees they regained their
self-possession.
But they well knew that their teacher’s silence would not last long,
and were not surprised when, the next day, after the school was called
together, Mr. Worcester made a speech, setting forth the enormity of
the offence, and at the close asked those who were concerned in it to
rise.
This Carrie could not do, for from terror she was absolutely incapable
of moving; and Florence would not, for she knew that her secret was
in her own keeping; and she felt pretty sure that, though she might be
suspected, it could not be proved that she was guilty.
Mr. Worcester was very angry. He threatened severe punishment against
the offenders, and declared that it was useless to hope to escape
detection.
Never were there two more wretched girls than the culprits. Florence
was thoroughly frightened for once, and neither she nor her accomplice
could think or talk of any thing else. Of course, Susan knew all about
it; for the basin which she had seen had given her a clew to the secret
of the room-mates, and, knowing this, they did not hesitate to talk of
the affair before her.
It was only the day after Mr. Worcester’s speech that Florence was
summoned to the study. Several girls who had been supposed to have some
reason for disliking Miss Forester had been previously sent for and
cross-examined,--so that Florence’s summons did not add much to her
alarm.
She was not detained long, but came back in quite good spirits, saying,
as she entered the room,--
“Carrie, Mr. Worcester will send for you in a minute. Go down and
declare that you know nothing about it. I’ve lied right straight along:
all you’ve got to do is to stick to it.”
“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” exclaimed the poor girl, wildly.
“Tell the truth, Carrie,” said Susan, firmly.
“Oh, Carrie, you wouldn’t do it!” exclaimed Florence, eagerly.
“It’s your only course,” persisted Susan, not heeding this remark. “It
is the very best thing you can do.”
“And what’s to become of me?” interrupted Florence. “A pretty position
I shall be in! Proved guilty, and a liar into the bargain! Carrie,
you couldn’t be so cruel! What would Mr. Worcester do to me? I should
be expelled at the very least. You won’t bring me out, just to save
yourself? You couldn’t be so mean, Carrie!”
“What shall I do?” was the poor girl’s only reply.
“Tell the truth,” persisted her cousin.
“But--Florence----”
“If she had not lied herself,” began Susan.
“But I have lied,” interrupted Florence. “It’s done and can’t be
helped. Carrie, you will not expose me! I hear some one coming for you
now. Promise me that you won’t tell.”
Caroline said not a word. She trembled from head to foot. There was a
rap at the door. She did not move. Florence looked at her an instant,
then sprang to her and shook her fiercely by the shoulder.
“Don’t tremble so, you little fool!” she said. “Your very looks will
betray you!”
By a strong effort Carrie controlled herself, and walked to the study.
When she returned, a half-hour later, Florence and Susan were still
in earnest conversation.
“What if you should be questioned, Susan?” asked Florence.
“I do not think it at all likely that I shall be.”
“But if you were?” persisted her questioner.
“I would not tell a lie.”
“What!” exclaimed her companion, “would you be so mean?”
“Nothing can be meaner than a lie,” returned Susan.
Carrie by the half-open door had overheard all this. She waited for no
more. Susan’s words, “Nothing can be meaner than a lie,” rung in her
ears, as she turned away sick at heart.
Of this contemptible meanness she had just been guilty. At that moment
she despised herself thoroughly. She could not endure to see any one.
She felt as if she could never look any one in the face again.
She stole away into her favourite spot in the garden, and, throwing
herself on the ground, she wept long and bitterly. She thought of her
mother’s warning and of her own boasted strength! How her mother would
feel if she knew of her child’s disgrace and sin! She shrunk from the
thought. She would rather die, almost, than to have her know of it; and
yet--God knew it all! Jesus, whom she had professed to love, saw all
her sin and knew how she had forgotten him,--how she had disgraced her
Christian character. What had her influence been?
She groaned aloud. She could not pray. She sprang from the ground, and
walked up and down the path, wringing her hands in anguish.
She heard footsteps approaching and some one calling her name. She did
not answer: she looked about for some place of escape, but there was
none; and in an instant Florence was by her side. Her arms were round
her neck and she was kissing her most passionately.
“Don’t feel so badly, my darling,” she said. “They will never find us
out in the world!”
Carrie said nothing: she leaned on her friend’s shoulder and cried
bitterly.
Florence caressed her again and again, and repeated her assurances of
their security from discovery. All this seemed to afford the weeping
girl no comfort.
“It isn’t that,” at last she whispered; “but--my lie!--and I a
professed Christian, too!”
She shuddered. “I despise myself,” she exclaimed; “and I know you must
despise me too.”
Florence only pressed her closer to her heart. “_I_ despise you?”
she cried,--“when it was all my fault, from beginning to end? Carrie,
never say such a thing again!”
Somewhat comforted by Florence’s tenderness, Carrie returned to the
house.
Susan looked at her coldly, sternly, almost contemptuously, as she
entered the room, but she made no remark; and after that one glance,
which spoke volumes and cut the poor delinquent to the very heart, she
went on with her studies.
No allusion to the difficulty Carrie had passed through was ever made
by Susan; but the cousins were now more estranged than ever. Caroline
felt that Susan despised her; and, though she felt also that she
deserved this, she yet resented it keenly.
For several days nothing had been said by their teacher about the late
incident, and the girls had settled down quite composedly, hoping that
it was never to be revived, when one morning, after prayers, in the
school-room, Mr. Worcester rose and informed the young ladies that he
had at last discovered the authors of the mean and contemptible trick
to which he had once before alluded. He had learned the whole story, he
continued,--from the theft of the basin down to the lies to hide their
guilt. He proceeded then, in no measured terms, to speak of the trick:
he held its authors up to contempt; and, after a half-hour’s scorching
rebuke and cutting sarcasm, he concluded by calling the girls by name
and bidding them come forward.
With flashing eyes and compressed lips, Florence, whom this speech had
only stung to fierce anger, walked haughtily forward; while Carrie,
pale and hardly able to walk, tottered to her place beside her. Every
eye in the school was upon the culprits.
Carrie reeled, and would have fallen if Florence had not supported her.
Mr. Worcester hardly noticed the girls’ emotion, as he addressed them
in a few bitter, sarcastic sentences and then pronounced the penalty.
They were to make an apology first to Miss Winthrop, next to Miss
Forester, in presence of the school, confessing also that they had
lied, and, moreover, were each to write home an account of the whole
affair to their parents.
When Carrie heard this, she was completely overcome and fell back in a
partial swoon.
In an instant all was confusion. Susan sprang to her cousin’s side;
but Florence pushed her violently away.
“You shall not touch her!” she said, between her teeth; and when at
last Carrie regained her consciousness, it was to Florence that she
turned, begging to be allowed to go to her own room.
“Is it all true?” she said, when she was left alone with her friend,
who had placed her, unaided, on the bed. “Oh, how dreadful it is! I
could bear it all, but---- Oh, my mother!”
She buried her face in the pillows, and her whole frame was convulsed
with emotion.
“This is all Susan’s doings. From saints like her, good Lord, deliver
me!” said Florence, bitterly. “I hate her! I hate her!” And she set her
teeth firmly, and clenched her hands, as she paced up and down the room
like some wild animal furious with rage.
The penalty which they had incurred was indeed a severe one. Nothing
could have been more humiliating than such an apology and confession as
they were to make before the whole school. Carrie was quite unnerved
by the prospect of it, and by the still greater punishment,--the
writing home to her mother.
Several days had passed, and the first part of their sentence had been
performed. Caroline (how she hardly knew) had repeated her confession;
but she was as yet utterly unable to write a word.
Meanwhile, Susan’s position was no enviable one. The tide of popular
feeling was altogether on the side of the culprits, whose penalty
was universally declared to be too severe; and, as Florence did not
hesitate to accuse Susan of having been the informant, repeating her
own declaration that if questioned she should not lie, it was the
conviction of most of the girls that she had been the traitor.
An informer is always despised at school; and poor Susan soon
experienced the whole force of this prejudice. No one accused her of
having told; but every one avoided her as if she were beneath contempt.
Carrie’s state of health (for she spent most of her time lying on the
bed, crying and sobbing) only added fuel to the fire of anger kindled
against Susan. Carrie made no charges against her cousin; but she
shrank from seeing her and would tremble like an aspen if she came into
the room. This, too, told against poor Susan.
At last she could bear it no longer. She went into the room where her
cousin was lying, surrounded by sympathizing friends.
Florence looked up and demanded what she wanted, in a tone that proved
she felt her to be an intruder.
Susan did not heed her, or the glances of contempt cast upon her. She
walked straight to the bed.
“Carrie,” said she, “do _you_ believe I told Mr. Worcester?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know!” replied the girl, trembling with
excitement. “Please go away. Don’t look at me so! I can’t bear it!” And
she turned away her head.
Susan said not a word. She turned and walked out of the room.
From that time she made no further attempt to free herself from
suspicion; and, though some of the girls were inclined at first to
believe that she was not guilty, Florence left nothing undone to prove
that she was the informant.
Circumstances, indeed, were against her. She had been seen in Mr.
Worcester’s study the day before the discovery was made known; and,
more than that, if she did not tell, _who_ could have done so? She
alone knew of it.
It seemed almost impossible for Carrie to write to her mother. From
time to time she deferred it, until at last her teacher set a certain
day on which he said it must be completed and given to him.
With a faint heart, on the appointed day Carrie took it to his study.
He read it: then, after a glance at the wretched girl before him, he
said, pointing to a box containing sealing-wax and tapers, “Give me
that stand.”
Carrie obeyed; but, instead of sealing the letter, Mr. Worcester held
it to the blaze until it was consumed.
“You have had a sufficiently severe lesson, I think,” he said; “and I
release you from further punishment.”
Carrie tried to thank him; but glad tears, which she could not
restrain, were her only reply.
Again she attempted to speak; but her voice was choked.
“How can I ever thank you enough?” at last she said.
“Be a penitent, obedient girl,” he said; and she left the room half
wild with delight.
Florence, too, had been released from her letter of confession, and
they could rejoice together.
Their lesson had been indeed sufficiently severe to cure even Florence
of all wish to disobey; and she devoted herself to her studies with
a zeal that astonished her instructors quite as much as it delighted
them.