NEMESIS.
Until this year this academy had had a salutatory and a valedictory in
the same way they did at Atherton Academy, given for the best
scholarship as it was there; but as this was considered a finishing
school, differing therefore from the boys' school, which was only
preparatory for other and higher education, it had been decided to
change the graduating exercises to the four best essays, read by their
writers, an address by some distinguished orator, music, and the
giving of diplomas.
All the graduating class were expected to write an essay, the Faculty
to judge of their merits, and to choose from among them four of the
best.
Not only the interest of the class, but of the whole school, was
intense on the writing of these essays. The literary merit of the
teaching was to be shown by them; and as no graduating class ever
comes to its commencement without pride in, and love for its _alma
mater_, so it seemed as if the future reputation of the academy must
depend upon the way this class acquitted itself.
If it had been a boys' school, bets would have run high on the
supposed best writers; here there was nothing of the kind, only those
who had done well whenever compositions had been read to the school
were chosen as girls of especial interest, watched, _feted_, praised,
encouraged, in short, prematurely made heroines of.
Among the most conspicuous was Susan Downer. Though so little had been
said of late of her success in writing "Storied West Rock," it was now
recalled; and, as the weeks flew by before commencement, she was
daily, sometimes it seemed to her hourly, reminded of it, and
importuned to be sure and do as well now.
Poor Susan! She knew how really unable she would be to do anything
that would compare with it. Over and over again she made the attempt;
but as writing was not one of her natural gifts, and as now, whenever
she tried even to choose a subject, the theft came up before her, and
she went through the whole, from the first temptation to the last
crowned success, she could think of nothing else but the inevitable
punishment that somewhere and at some time was waiting for her.
There was but one hope she thought left for her, to see her brother
Jerry, and tease him into giving her one of his essays, that she might
use it as it was if possible, if not, with alterations that would make
it suit the occasion. She would tell him that she only wanted to read
it and get some hints from it, and once in her possession, she could
do as she pleased.
When she received his note refusing her invitation to come to the
academy, her disappointment and her helplessness may be readily
imagined, for she had allowed herself to depend upon him.
To write to him for an essay she knew would be useless; he would only
laugh, and say,--
"Nonsense! what does Sue want one for?" but if he were with her, he
was so kind and good-natured, he would do almost anything she asked.
But one thing now remained. Miss Randall, their teacher in rhetoric,
who had the charge of the essays, gave subjects to those who wished
them; she could apply to her, and perhaps find in the library
something to help her.
Miss Randall gave her, remembering her former success, and hoping she
would do even better now, an historical subject, "The Signal of Paul
Revere."
"There have not been more than a hundred poems written on the same
subject," she said in a little talk she had with Susan; "but if you
can write poetry, and succeed, all the better for Montrose Academy. We
will send it to the newspaper, and it may be the beginning of making
your name famous."
What a temptation to a girl like Susan!
If--only IF she could find one of those hundred or more poems, find
perhaps the whole of them, and make rhymes (easy work that), and be
"famous," what a glorious thing it would be!
Here was, alas, no repentance, or even fears of doing wrong. It almost
seemed as if the new temptation had obliterated memory of the old
theft, and she was about to enter upon what she had always longed for,
a career of fame.
She began to haunt the library, particularly the shelves of American
poetry; but there was nothing to be found that had special reference
to Paul Revere, not one of "the hundred and more pieces."
In this way she wasted a great deal of precious time, until,
disappointed and discouraged, she was about asking for another
subject, when she came upon a volume of collections of poetry written
on the late war, and a sudden thought that this might be made to
answer the same purpose unfortunately struck her. She had read this
kind of poetry but little; but had enough literary taste to make her
choose one of the very best, consequently most popular and well known,
for her model. "Model," she said to herself when, delighted, she found
how easily she could use it with alterations.
No miser was ever made more happy by a bag of gold than she by this
discovery. "Famous! famous! An honor to Montrose Academy!"
In the end, when her poem was ready for Miss Randall's examination,
she read it aloud to her room-mates, and their astonishment and
delight over her success they were too generous to withhold.
Dorothy had worked very hard on her essay. It was carefully and well
done; but Gladys's, short, brilliant, straight to the point, without
pause or repetition, was an effort of which an older, more accustomed
writer need not have been ashamed.
But neither of these, they decided, could hold any comparison with
Susan's. It was Marion who, though she did not recognize the poem,
could not forget "Storied West Rock," that listened with a troubled
face, and only added a few faint words to those of the others'
praise.
"She is an ugly, jealous old thing!" Susan made herself think, as she
watched her narrowly; but then would come the thought, "I wonder if
she suspects me?" remembering the story, and a cloud fell instantly
over the bright sky of her hopes. But she was not to escape so easily;
when she carried her poem to Miss Randall, she only glanced at the
heading and down over the neatly written page, without reading a line,
then said, "Come to me to-morrow afternoon at three, and we will read
and correct it together. I hope you have made a success of it."
Susan almost counted the hours until three came; then, proud and
happy, she presented herself at Miss Randall's door.
The teacher had the poem on a table before her, and by its side a
book, the covers of which Susan recognized at once as being the volume
from which she had stolen the poem.
"Sit down, Susan," said Miss Randall gravely.
Then without another word she began to read first a line of Susan's
poem, then one from the poem in the book, pausing over the changed
words, to substitute the one for the other.
In truth, the changes were very few, how few Susan had not realized
until they were thus set before her.
"This is hardly what might be called a parody," Miss Randall said as
she ended, looking gravely into Susan's face. "I suppose you had no
idea of passing it off as your own work?"
How inevitably one wrong act leads to another! There is an old saying
that "one lie takes a hundred to cover it," and it is true.
Susan had confidently expected this to pass for her own; but now,
without a moment's hesitation, looking Miss Randall fully in the face,
with a pleasant smile she said,--
"Oh, no, Miss Randall! I knew you would recognize it; you are too good
a teacher of literature not to suppose you would be familiar with such
a fine poem as that. I thought if I made a successful parody, it would
be better than any poor thing I could write myself."
Miss Randall was for a moment staggered. Was the girl telling her the
truth, or was it only a readily gotten-up excuse? She waited a moment
before she answered, then she said coldly,--
"This will not pass at all. I am sorry you have wasted so much time
upon it; you will begin at once upon your essay, and, for fear you
will be tempted to use some thoughts not your own, I will change the
subject. You will write an essay on 'Truth.' Good-afternoon."
"Miss Ashton!" said Miss Randall, presenting herself, a few moments
after Susan's departure, in the principal's room. "I am afraid Susan
Downer never wrote that excellent story, 'Storied West Rock.' I always
have wondered over it, for it was far superior to anything else she
has done since she has been in school, and now, I am sure, though she
denies it in a very plausible way, that she has copied a poem, with
only a few immaterial changes to make it fit her subject, intending to
palm it off for her own."
Miss Ashton did not answer at once; she was busy thinking. With the
other teachers, her surprise had been great at the ability Susan had
shown in the story; and now, instantly, she connected this report of
Miss Randall's with Marion's embarrassed mention of Susan's name, and
her own intention to discover what was wrong. Perhaps Susan had stolen
it, and Marion had become acquainted with the theft. It was not
impossible, at any rate she must inquire into it, so she said to Miss
Randall.
A day or two was allowed to pass before any further notice was taken
of it, then Miss Ashton had decided to spare Marion, and call Susan
directly to her. Susan had word sent to her that she was wanted in the
principal's room, and obeyed the summons with a heavy heart.
"Susan!" said Miss Ashton, "I am willing to believe that you copied
your poem with the innocent intention of passing it off as a parody,
and that you really did not know it could not be accepted, but there
is one other thing that troubles me. Some time ago you wrote an
excellent story called 'Storied West Rock;' was that yours, or another
parody?"
[Illustration: Susan dropped her head upon her chest, the color surging
into her face, and the tears dropping from her eyes; but she did not
speak a word.--Page 343. _Miss Ashton's New Pupil._]
Susan! Susan! Tell the truth now; tell it at once, simply, honestly.
Do not conceal even how you have suffered from it, not even how unkind
and cross you have been to Marion. Own it all at once, quickly,
without giving the tempter even a chance to tempt you! Don't you know,
don't you see, how much your future depends upon it?
Susan dropped her head upon her chest, the color surging into her
face, and the tears dropping from her eyes; but she did not speak a
word.
In the silence of the room you could have heard a pin drop.
Miss Ashton was answered. When she spoke there was tenderness and deep
feeling in her voice.
"Will you tell me the truth, Susan?" she said. But Susan did not
answer; she only burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing, and after
waiting a few moments in vain for it to subside, Miss Ashton added,
"You had better go to your room now. I hope you will come soon to me,
and tell me the whole truth."
Susan rose slowly, lifting her swollen and discolored face up to Miss
Ashton with an entreating look the kind principal found it hard to
resist; but she did. She held the door open for Susan to pass out, and
watched her go down the corridor with a troubled heart.