The Project Gutenberg eBook of Claribel
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Title: Claribel
or, Rest at last
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Release date: February 26, 2026 [eBook #78044]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1873
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARIBEL ***
Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: _Claribel.—Frontispiece._
"Did it want to improve its mind?" said a voice,
which Claribel recognized as Percy's.]
[The Round Spring Stories.]
CLARIBEL;
OR,
REST AT LAST.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS," "COMFORT ALLISON,"
"THE TATTLER," "NELLY; OR, THE BEST INHERITANCE," "TWIN ROSES,"
"ETHEL'S TRIAL," "THE FAIRCHILDS," "THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL EXHIBITION,"
"THE RED PLANT," "PERCY'S HOLIDAYS,"
"ON THE MOUNTAIN," "RHODA'S EDUCATION," ETC.
—————————
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
—————————
NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
————————————————— ————————————————
WESTCOTT & THOMSON HENRY B. ASHMEAD
Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada. Printer, Philada.
CONTENTS.
——————
CHAPTER I.
THE NEW SCHOLAR
CHAPTER II.
"BITTER HONEY FROM FAIR FLOWERS"
CHAPTER III.
BAB
CHAPTER IV.
OPENING THE DOORS
CHAPTER V.
FANNY
CHAPTER VI.
PRISCILLA
CHAPTER VII.
LITTLE MADGE
CHAPTER VIII.
YELLOW COVERS
CHAPTER IX.
EXPLANATIONS
CLARIBEL.
————————
CHAPTER I.
_THE NEW SCHOLAR._
"WE have got a new boarder, girls," said Emma Hausen, joining a group
of her companions, under a great tree on the lawn. "She has just come
up from the boat with Uncle Hausen. I believe he went to the Bridge to
meet her."
"What is she like?" asked Tilly Mansfield. "Does she look nice?"
"I didn't see her face—she had a thick crape veil over it; but she is
in deep mourning which looks quite new, and she is lame. She walks with
a crutch."
"Poor thing!" said Eva Church. "How old should thee think she was,
Emma?"
"How can I tell, child, when I didn't see her face at all? She is about
as tall as I am, but larger. She was very nicely dressed, and has two
large trunks; and, as I told you, she walks with a crutch. So there
'you have the sum of the facts which have come under my immediate
observation,' as Professor Ashhurst says."
"Poor thing!" said Percy Dunham.
"Why poor thing?" asked Tilly. "Do you know her, Percy?"
"No; I never saw or heard of her; but I know it cannot be very nice to
be lame, and Emma says she is dressed in new deep mourning; so she must
have lost some near friend—her mother, perhaps."
"Lame people are not always unhappy," remarked Tilly. "There is old
Uncle Jacob; he is lame, and poor too, and I don't believe any person
in Round Springs is happier than he is; and only just look at Bab!"
"I think Bab's tail rather preys on his mind, though, when he compares
it with Molly's," observed Percy, seriously.
"What nonsense you do talk about those cats!" said Rebecca Stiney, who
always took everything literally. "I should think you would be ashamed."
"What is there to be ashamed of?"
"Talking as if a cat could have a mind of his own."
"You just try to make Molly do something she doesn't like, and see
if she hasn't a mind of her own," said Percy. "But here comes Florry
Lester. Florry, have you seen the new girl?"
Flora nodded.
"What is she like?"
"Well, she is odd-looking, but I dare say she was tired out, poor
thing. She has been travelling all night, I heard Mr. Hausen say,
and it must have been hard, for she does not look as if she could be
strong. She is very lame, for one thing, and it is a curious kind of
lameness, which makes her rather awkward, and she is pale and dark, and
looks as if she might be cross."
"I dare say she is only tired," said Percy. "Once, in New York, I
went shopping all one horridly cold, wet morning with a cousin of
Aunt Ackerman's and Cousin Margaret. Now aunt's cousin was absurdly
particular and perfectly sure that everybody meant to cheat her, and I
thought we never should be done with running about from store to store;
and, after all, she went back and took the very first thing she looked
at.
"Well, we went into a store where there were beautiful mirrors set flat
in the walls. I saw, as I thought, a girl of my own age standing at the
end of the counter, and I said to myself, 'How cross that girl looks!'
"And when I looked again, I saw it was myself I was criticising. But I
did not feel cross at all, only tired with standing about so long. It
has always been a lesson to me, and when I see such a kind of face, I
always say to myself, 'I dare say she is tired or has the face-ache, or
perhaps she has on new shoes and they hurt her, as mine did that day, I
remember.'"
"Does any one know this poor girl's name?" asked Tilly.
"Yes; I heard Uncle Hausen tell Mrs. Richardson: it is Claribel
Woodworth."
"She ought to be nice with such a pretty name," said Tilly. "I do think
we are the greatest people for fine names in this school—Claribel,
and Blandina, and Eva, and Matilda, and Amabel: it sounds like an
old-fashioned novel."
"Don't forget my romantic name—Perseverance," said Percy, laughing. "I
think it ought to outweigh any number of Claribels and Amabels. Anyhow,
girls, we ought to take pains to make things pleasant for this new
scholar. If she is sick and lonely, she will have a hard time enough."
"That's so," said Fanny Morey, emphatically. "Most of you don't know
anything about that, because you have never been to any school but
this, which isn't one bit like a school. But I remember how I felt when
I was first turned loose in the primary department of Eaton College.
There were two hundred girls of all ages, all strange, and I, a poor
little mite of twelve, just as shy as a young fox, and knowing nothing
of school life, was left to make my own way among them. Oh how homesick
I was! I really used to think I should die. Then the lessons were so
hard, and there were so many of them, and the teachers never had time
to explain anything. If a girl was strong and bright, she got on well
enough, but if she were lazy, as a great many were, or dull and not
very strong, as I was, she might go to the wall. There was no help for
her."
"But didn't the girls help each other?" asked Percy. "Didn't the older
girls help the little ones? I am sure I don't know how I should have
got on here when I first came if Blandina hadn't taken me up."
"They never had any time, child; it was all they could do to learn
their own lessons. As I said, the lazy girls shirked and did nothing,
but I really did want to improve very much, for I knew it was hard for
father to keep me at school, any way, and I nearly killed myself the
first term. I used to be doing lessons all night when I was not being
buried alive, or chased by wild beasts, or something else as pleasant.
I don't believe I should have lived through the year if I had stayed
there."
"And how did you get away?" asked one of the girls.
"Oh, I went to spend my spring holidays with Doctor Gregory, my
mother's brother, in Yonkers, because, of course, I wouldn't go all the
way home to Texas for so short a time. Aunt Emily found out that I did
not sleep, and told my uncle; and when he heard all the story, he would
not let me go back, but wrote to father about me. I stayed with them
all summer, and didn't do anything much, only take some music-lessons
and lie on a sofa put out on the verandah or under a tree, for my back
was weak and ached all the time. Then in the fall, uncle sent me here,
and oh, wasn't I glad? I'll tell you what: you Hausen girls don't know
half your privileges. When I hear some of the grumblers, I say to
myself, 'I just wish you were at Eaton College a while.'"
"I'm sure I wish I was," said Rebecca, taking the remark to herself; "I
think there would be a great deal more chance for fun where there was
so many girls. Here one can't do a thing but everybody knows it."
"Yes, very nice fun, flirting out of the windows and running away down
town and getting into all sorts of scrapes."
"What kind of fun does thee want that thee don't care to have people
know about?" asked Eva. "For my part, I thought we had plenty of fun."
Rebecca looked rather abashed, and walked away without answering.
"Becky said rather more than she meant to that time," observed Fanny.
"I think she would like just that kind of a school. She does love to
make mysteries. I believe she would rather eat a brown cracker slyly
than a piece of plum-cake at the table."
"She ought to be more careful, or she will be in trouble," said Emma;
"Uncle Hausen does hate secrets and mysteries, and especially anything
like deceit. But, girls, what can we do for this new-comer to make it
pleasant for her when she comes down?"
"She won't be down this evening," answered Flora Lester. "I heard Mrs.
Richardson tell her that she had better put on her wrapper and rest,
and that she should have her supper up stairs, because she was so
tired."
"Then I'll tell you what we will do," said Tilly; "you know papa said I
might have all the fruit and flowers I wanted from our garden. I mean
to get some of those early pears, and two or three nice peaches, and a
bunch of grapes from the grape-house, if I can find James to unlock the
door. And I will get some pretty flowers, and Flora shall arrange them
all in a basket, because she has the best taste, and we will carry them
up to her before tea. Won't that be nice?"
"Splendid!" exclaimed Fanny. "And while you and Flora are getting the
garden things, Emma and I will go up among the rocks and gather some
ferns to line the baskets. Mrs. Richardson will give us leave, and we
shall have plenty of time."
CHAPTER II.
_"BITTER HONEY FROM FAIR FLOWERS."_
AND where, all the time, was the subject of their conversation, and of
all these kind and hospitable thoughts? Not resting, as she had been
advised, and as she needed to do, but sitting at the window of her own
room, peeping out through the blinds at the group of girls under the
tree, and straining her ears in vain to hear what they were saying.
"Of course they are talking about me," she said to herself; "that
black-haired girl was the one we met at the door, and that one in the
white apron stopped and spoke to Mr. Hausen just in time to hear my
name. I saw her turn up her nose at it, and well she might. 'Claribel'
for such a miserable-looking object as I am! Oh, it was cruel and
wicked to send me among such a set of strong, healthy girls all ready
to laugh at me, or to pity me, which is worse still. They might have
let me stay at home with Aunt Hepsey. Suppose I hadn't any advantages;
what do I want of them? What should I do with accomplishments? Music
and painting indeed! I wonder Mr. Steele didn't want me to learn
dancing as well," said Claribel, laughing bitterly. "Yes, there they
are," she added, glancing out of the window again. "There comes another
one to discuss the new-comer."
We who have heard the conversation under the great ash, and who have
seen more of Flora, know how mistaken were Claribel's ideas. But
Claribel's mind was one which could extract poison from the most
wholesome food. She had seemed to be marked for misfortune from her
birth. She was not, as a child, "quite like other children," people
said. Though not absolutely deformed, she had the look of being so. Her
shoulders were high and square, her head large and heavy, especially
over her eyes. A severe fall from the hands of a careless nurse, and
broken bones treated by an unskilful surgeon, had stiffened one knee
and turned her whole figure slightly awry, besides leaving a scar on
her forehead.
Then her mother died when Claribel was only six years old, and left her
to the care of an aunt, who thought Claribel's lameness and delicate
health a sufficient excuse for indulging her in everything she fancied
and never contradicting her in anything. But Aunt Hepsey had daughters
who were not always so indulgent to her nursling's whims, and who
sometimes revenged themselves for their mother's partiality, as they
considered it, by taunting Claribel with her personal and mental
defects. She was no favourite with the children of the little village
school or their teacher, who, already overworked and harassed, had
little patience with the peevish, perverse child.
Altogether, it was no wonder that Claribel's disposition should be
pretty well soured before she was twelve years old, and, as the Scotch
say, "thrawn" it certainly was. She loved Aunt Hepsey, though she did
not respect her. She hated her cousins and most of her schoolfellows.
Toward her father she felt very differently at different times. He had
always been indulgent to her in providing for her every luxury that
money would buy. And during the few days which he had ever spent with
her, he had petted and pitied her.
Sometimes Claribel thought she should be perfectly happy if she could
only live with her father, and took refuge from present discomforts in
picturing to herself the time when she should go to be his housekeeper
and see all the wonders of California. Then again, she felt that he
neglected her cruelly in leaving her to live with her aunt and cousins
in an obscure country village, and this feeling was deepened and made
permanent by a speech of her cousin Priscilla's in the course of one of
their numerous quarrels. Claribel had said something of the time when
she should go to live with her father, and Priscilla had answered her,
scornfully,—
"Oh yes! Very much you will go to live with your father! I guess when
you do, we shall all know it. Just as if everybody didn't know that
your father leaves you here with us because he is ashamed of your
crooked ankles, and your shoulders up to your ears, and your yellow
face, all eyes and mouth! And no wonder! I should think he would be.
You will, go and be a great lady in California about the time I am
queen of England, I expect."
"It is no such thing, Priscilla Westcott!" exclaimed Claribel,
passionately. "My father isn't ashamed of me."
"Oh no, of course not," answered Priscilla, with a mocking laugh. "Why
does he leave you here, then? Why doesn't he take you home with him, or
send you to school somewhere and give you an education? Only because
he is ashamed of you and thinks you are a disgrace to him. I know he
wishes you had never been born. I heard him say so myself."
This was a lie, but, like many lies, it was founded on fact. Mr.
Woodworth had once said to his sister that it might have been better
the poor little thing had never been born, she was so unfortunate.
Priscilla was one of those people who, when they are angry, say
whatever they think will hurt most, without caring or considering
whether it is true or false. She little knew the mischief she had done.
She had given her spite full swing, and having gratified it to the
utmost, was quite ready to be good-natured again and forget that she
had ever been otherwise.
But her words sunk deep into the heart of the unfortunate child, and
rankled there like poisoned arrows. When Claribel came to think them
over, a thousand circumstances seemed to confirm them. Yes, it was so.
Her last hope, her last refuge, was gone. Her father was ashamed of
her; he hated her, and wished she was dead. All her fancies about going
to live with him were mere delusions. She was doomed to spend her life
in this horrid place with people she hated, and who hated her, or only
cared for her—so the tempter whispered—for the sake of her father's
money. Well, she did not care. Everybody despised her, and she despised
everybody. Nobody cared for anything but self, and why should she?
There was only one medicine for a mind diseased like Claribel's, and
that was the religion of Christ. But no one proffered it to her. Aunt
Hepsey had once been a church-member when she lived at the East,
but she had married an irreligious man and moved West, and like too
many other people in the same circumstances, she seemed to leave her
religion behind her. Claribel's mother had taught her to say her
prayers and something of the first truths of religion, but Aunt Hepsey
had not continued the lessons.
True, the children went to Sunday-school, but their attendance was
irregular and their lessons learned or not, as the fancy took them.
Then Claribel took some offence and would not go any more, and her
aunt, as usual, let her have her own way. She had a Bible which had
been her mother's, and she kept it on her table, but she seldom looked
into it, and never thought of the possibility of its affording her any
comfort. She had never been taught to regard God as her Father; and
if she ever thought of him at all, it was with a kind of resentment
mingled with fear. Why had he made her so? Why had he taken away her
mother and given her a father who was ashamed of her? He could kill
her, she knew, and she did not care much for that, but then there
was something to come after death—Claribel remembered enough of her
mother's lessons to feel sure of that; and what would become of her
then? She believed that her mother was happy in heaven, but she felt,
poor child, that she was not fit for any such place, and she did not
think she ever would become so. All she could do was to get as much
comfort as she could out of this life, and very little it was. The rest
must take care of itself.
When Claribel was fourteen, her father died, leaving his only child
a large fortune and a guardian in an old college friend. Mr. Steele
was a lawyer, and not a man to do anything rashly or to undertake any
trust which he did not mean to fulfil to his utmost ability. He took
a fortnight from his business and spent it in Smithopolis, making
acquaintance with Claribel and observing her circumstances and the
influences which surrounded her, and then he made up his mind. He could
not leave her where she was, neither could he take her into his own
house, for his wife was an invalid and already overburdened with a
young family.
Mr. Hausen and Mr. Woodworth were old friends. Mr. Steele knew and
respected him, and his sister had been educated at the Hausen school.
And after some consideration and correspondence, it was decided that
Claribel should be sent to Round Springs to remain till her education
was considered finished.
Aunt Hepsey exclaimed against the cruelty of sending the poor thing
away among strangers—among a set of strong, healthy, romping girls who
would laugh at her, and of teachers who would kill her with lessons and
then scold her because she did not learn them. And she pitied Claribel
till Claribel, who had at first been pleased with the idea of a change,
learned to shrink with terror from the prospect before her, and to look
on her guardian as a tyrannical oppressor made after the pattern of the
wicked guardians in the cheap novels who send their wards to starvation
schools that they might be out of the way, and thus cheated them out of
their property.
Having these ideas put into her head did not tend to make Claribel
more amiable. And during the long journey, she proved so disagreeable
a travelling companion that Mr. Steele found his pity and forbearance
taxed to the uttermost, and was thankful to get her off his hands.
"I fear you will have a hard task with the poor thing," he had said to
Mr. Hausen. "If my wife had been well, I should have taken her home and
tried to civilize her a little. She does not seem capable of a thought
outside of herself."
Such was Claribel Woodworth, who now sat in her pleasant little room
at Hausen school looking out at her future schoolmates and drawing her
own conclusions about them, and feeling sure that they were criticising
her. Presently the group of girls under the ash tree broke up and
went their several ways, and then Claribel laid her head down on the
window-seat and cried bitterly and hopelessly.
"Oh, I wish I had never been born! I wish I had never been born!" she
said, passionately, over and over again. "Oh, it was wicked and cruel
to send me here. It was cruel to take my mother away from me. She would
have loved me, I know. It is all cruel and hard together. Oh, mother,
mother!" Claribel had dried her tears—she seldom cried—and sat looking
out with an expression of sullen and hopeless despondency, when there
came a tap at the door.
"Come in!" said she, sharply.
Then, as the tap was repeated, she went to the door and opened it.
There stood a group which would have pleased any eyes but hers. Emma
Hausen was holding a tray on which was neatly arranged a tempting
supper, and behind her were Percy and Tilly, the one carrying a
bouquet, the other a little basket of peaches, early pears, and
hothouse grapes.
"How do you do, Claribel Woodworth?" said Emma, whom the girls had
deputed to "do the honours," as they said. "This is Percy Dunham, and
this is Tilly Mansfield, and I am Emma Hausen, and we have come to
bring you your tea, and to see if we can do anything for you."
For a moment Claribel was pleased and touched. Then the old evil spirit
of suspicion and jealousy came back, and she answered, "I don't want
any tea or anything else, only to be let alone."
The girls looked at each other in amazement, not knowing what to make
of such an address.
Then Percy said gently, "Don't you think you had better have some tea?
I am afraid Mrs. Richardson won't like it if we carry the things down
again."
"Why didn't she send a servant with it, then?" asked Claribel. Then,
as Percy hesitated, "I suppose you wanted to stare at the wild animal.
Well, look at me then; what do you think of me?"
"I don't think you are very polite," said Emma Hausen.
"Hush, Emma," whispered Percy, who was always the peacemaker. "We
didn't come to stare at you at all, Claribel. When a new scholar comes,
Mrs. Richardson always sends some of the girls to take her to the table
or to carry her up something if she can't come down. You are about our
age, and we thought we would try to make it pleasant for you, that's
all."
"I don't want it made pleasant for me," returned Claribel; "I hate the
place and everybody in it."
"Oh, but that is because you are homesick," said Percy, soothingly.
"When I first came here, I felt just so—that is, I couldn't bear the
thoughts of it—and I was afraid of everything. But I like it now, and
so will you, I hope. We will set the things down and go away if you
like, but please don't think we came to stare at you, because we never
thought of such a thing; did we, girls?"
"Of course not," said Tilly, bluntly; "what is there to stare at?"
If Tilly had thought for a week, she could not have said anything more
to the purpose. Claribel began to feel a little, a very little, ashamed
of herself.
"Well, perhaps you didn't," said she, in a somewhat more gracious tone,
"but I am such an object I always think people want to look at me."
"I don't see that you are an object at all," said Tilly; "and if you
were, why should we stare at you? It isn't your fault that you are
lame, I suppose. If you are only good-natured and nice, nobody will
care whether you are lame or not."
"Oh yes, it is easy to say that. It is easy to be good-natured when
you are well and everything goes just to suit you; wait till your turn
comes. As for people liking me, I don't expect them to."
"It would be rather unreasonable if you did, I think," thought Emma
Hausen, but for a wonder she did not say so.
The girls arranged the table neatly, and then, bidding Claribel good
evening, went away.
When Claribel was left alone with the provisions the girls had brought,
she discovered that she was hungry, and made a hearty meal. She could
not help feeling a little vexed and ashamed at her conduct.
"I wish I hadn't spoken so," she said to herself; "but, after all, I
dare say it was true. They just wanted to show themselves off and to
make believe they were good, and they contrived to get the first look
at me, so as to tell the others."
"Well," said Emma Hausen, when the door was shut, "I don't think I
shall ever take much pains to be polite to her. Did you ever see
anything like her in all your life?"
"I don't envy Miss Reynolds and Mrs. Richardson," said Tilly. "Percy, I
do think you are just as sweet as an angel to answer her so, when she
was rude to you."
"I remembered how I felt when I first came here," answered Percy; "I
was as frightened as if I had been going into a cage of wild animals."
"You didn't behave like that," said Tilly; "you acted as if you were
scared half to death if any one spoke to you, but you were always
polite. I never saw such a specimen as this in all my days."
"Nor I, but I can't help feeling sorry for her," remarked Percy. "Just
think if any of us were like her! I dare say we should be as cross as
she is."
"I am sure dear Miss Baldwin never was so cross," said Emma, alluding
to a favourite teacher who had died a short time before. "Just think
how unfortunate she was! And nobody could ever be sweeter."
"Miss Baldwin never seemed to think about herself at all," observed
Percy; "she was always too busy caring for other people. But there come
the girls from boating, and there is the first tea-bell. Girls, don't
let us say anything about this poor Claribel to the others. Perhaps she
will feel differently tomorrow, and we won't give her a bad character
beforehand."
CHAPTER III.
_BAB._
THE next day being Saturday, there were no lessons to do, and Mrs.
Richardson advised Claribel to spend the morning in unpacking and
arranging her clothes.
"I shall not unpack my clothes," said Claribel, sullenly; "I am not
going to stay here."
"Oh yes," said Mrs. Richardson, soothingly, but apparently not in the
least alarmed; "this will be your home for the present. I hope you will
find it a pleasant one, but of course that must depend very much on
yourself. I shall expect you to put your clothes in order; or if you do
not feel able, I will send some one to do it for you. Dress yourself
neatly, and be ready for dinner at one. Saturday being a holiday, we
dine earlier than on other days."
Claribel was a little awed. She had never met any one exactly like Mrs.
Richardson. The principal was a small, delicate-looking lady, with fine
features and beautiful soft hair, which was quite gray, though she did
not look old. She spoke very gently and softly, but there was something
in her voice which commanded attention and obedience. Claribel felt
that, but she did not like to give up quite yet, so she answered
shortly again:
"I shall not go down to dinner. I don't want to be stared at by all the
girls as if I were a gorilla. If I have got to stay here, I will stay
in my own room, whether I have anything to eat or not."
"Listen to me, Claribel," said Mrs. Richardson, laying her hand with a
light but firm pressure on Claribel's arm; "you have come here to live
because it has been thought best by those who have the care of you,
and that you may acquire such an education as will make you a useful
and happy woman. If you are good and obedient, and take pains to make
yourself agreeable, you may be very happy here, as the other girls
are; if you are disobedient and sullen, you will make yourself and us
a great deal of trouble, and yet you will have to stay all the same.
There is no help for that. You need not be afraid that the girls will
stare at you or do anything else to annoy you. I don't wonder that you
feel sadly about leaving home and coming among strangers, but you will
soon feel at home here. Come, now, make up your mind to be pleasant and
good, and all will be well. Do you like to read?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Claribel, a little more graciously, for she was
won in spite of herself. "I like it very much, but we had hardly any
books at home. Priscilla used to buy all sorts of rubbishing novels
when she went to Lumber City, but I couldn't bear them."
"I am glad to hear you say so," remarked Mrs. Richardson; "we will see
if we can't find something you will like. We have a very fine library,
and the girls read as much as they please."
"Priscilla said you wouldn't have anything but great, heavy, stupid
books like Josephus and Rollin," said Claribel; "we had those books
at home, but they were in such large volumes and such fine print that
I couldn't read them. Once I found part of a beautiful story about a
knight and some ladies who were taken prisoner by robbers and carried
to a castle, and the castle was set on fire. Oh, it was lovely," said
Claribel, warming up—"not a bit like the rubbish Priscilla is always
reading; but I never could find any more of it."
Mrs. Richardson smiled: "I know the book you mean, and will find it for
you in the library; it will come in nicely, for your history class are
just at that point in their English history, and they have all been
reading this book. Do you think, my dear, that you can unpack your
clothes?"
"Oh yes, ma'am."
"Then I will leave you to yourself till dinner-time, and then send or
come for you. Good-bye for the present."
Mrs. Richardson kissed Claribel and departed, leaving her in a curious
state of mind. She felt herself entirely conquered, and yet she was not
sorry to be conquered. Claribel was not at all deficient in strength of
mind. She was capable of respect, and she felt that she had found some
one worthy to be respected. She was delighted at the prospect of having
plenty of books to read, and not displeased at the thought of acquiring
a good education.
"I wonder if I could take drawing and painting lessons?" she said to
herself. "I am sure I could learn to draw. I don't care so very much
about music,—only singing,—but I should like to be a great artist and
have my pictures admired all over the world. People would respect me
then. I don't think I should dislike living here so much, only for the
girls. I know they will laugh at me. But then, if I get on with my
studies—and I can, I know—I will make them think I am somebody."
I once heard it remarked of a very vain man that he dreamed in the
first person singular. Claribel certainly thought in the first person
singular. She had got into the "contracting chamber" of Mrs. Charles's
pretty allegory, and of course it contracted round her more and more.
She considered everything and saw everything only as it affected
herself. She was in prison—a very small, dark, and narrow prison,
indeed—and it remained to be seen whether she was ever to get out of it.
Claribel unpacked her clothes and other possessions, feeling a certain
pleasure in their freshness and prettiness, for Mr. Steel had thought
it best that she should have an entirely new outfit of everything. She
even felt a slight twinge of mortification as she took out her pretty
writing-desk and dressing-case, and wished she had been a little more
gracious to her guardian.
Mrs. Richardson herself came up for Claribel at dinner-time, and gave
her a seat next herself. Percy and Tilly sat near her and welcomed her
with smiles, for they were not disposed to bear any malice against the
poor lame, sickly stranger. After dinner, she went to the library, and
Miss Foster, the librarian, found her the volume she wanted.
"You can sit down and read here, or anywhere else you like," said Mrs.
Richardson, "only you must be sure not to leave your book out of place.
Carry it to your own room, and next Saturday bring it back here."
"But suppose I haven't finished it?" said Claribel.
"Oh, then you can take it again; but we wish to keep a register of all
the books, so as to learn where they are."
"Don't you want to come out on the upper verandah?" asked Percy, who
had also come for a book. "It is nice and shady, and there is such a
beautiful view."
Claribel consented, and got through the afternoon without giving or
taking any new offence.
"Isn't she queer?" said Percy to Flora after they had separated. "Do
you think you shall be friends with her?"
"I never saw anybody like her," answered Flora. "She doesn't seem to
think anybody but herself is of any consequence at all. Did you see how
she went and took Eva's seat the minute she left it? And though Eva
came back directly, Claribel never seemed to think of giving it up to
her. If I had been Eva, I would have asked for it."
"No, you wouldn't," said Percy; "you would have done just as Eva did.
But I suppose Claribel has been sick a good deal, and that does make
people selfish sometimes—not always, though. Mamma was sick a great
deal, and papa used to say she hadn't any self."
"Well, we won't judge in too much of a hurry," said Flora, sagely; "I
dare say she will improve. I heard Mr. Hausen say she had had very few
advantages."
For some days, matters went on with tolerable smoothness. Claribel
was examined as to her studies, and to her own surprise was put into
the same classes as Percy and Flora. This was rather a stretch on the
part of the authorities, and Miss Reynolds warned Claribel that she
would have to study hard to keep up. But Mr. Hausen thought it better
she should do so than that she should be mortified by being classed
with girls much younger than herself. Claribel would have resented the
consideration if she had known of it, but she never thought of such a
thing. She was allowed to begin drawing lessons directly, and showed a
talent which surprised and delighted Mrs. Claxton, the teacher.
"You will make an artist if you only have perseverance enough," said
she, "but you must make up your mind to work hard."
"I don't care how hard I work when the work is what I like," answered
Claribel.
"I dare say. That is the case with most people," said Mrs. Claxton,
smiling. "But if you mean to be an artist, you must learn to work hard
at what you don't like."
One pleasant morning, Claribel was sitting busily studying her history
lesson on the landing-place outside her room door. This same landing
was rather a special place of attraction for the younger girls. It was
broad and roomy. The stairs turned two different ways from it, and
there was a low, shady window with a broad seat which was just over the
outside door, which opened into the library. It chanced this morning
that the wind blew into Claribel's window; and remembering that the
one outside had a different exposure, she betook herself thither, and
sitting down on the window-seat just mentioned, began studying once
more. She was just trying to fix in her head the date of King John's
death, when she heard voices below.
"Was it a three-legged precious, then, and did it want to improve its
mind?" said a voice which Claribel recognized as Percy's.
"So it should, then, and I guess nobody will look down on it when it
knows all about Anglo-Saxon and things!" added Flora, in a voice of
exaggerated sympathy. "I guess Molly won't despise it any more, now
that it improves its mind, if it is a three-legged old dear."
"I think it is just a shame that Mr. Hausen don't get the poor thing a
cork leg," said Tilly's voice. "Let's subscribe our own money, girls,
and buy one."
"What's a cork leg when one's tenderest affections are wounded and
trampled on, and all that kind of thing?" said Percy. "Can cork legs
bring balm to a heart lacerated by a fuzzy-tailed tyrant?"
Now, there was one little word in this sentence which might have done
something toward explaining the mystery if Claribel had only attended
to it. But she did not. She jumped at once to the conclusion that the
girls meant her. When Mrs. Richardson came to her room to see why
she did not come to dinner, she found Claribel in a frenzy of rage,
sobbing, and actually screaming.
While her next-door neighbour, who had heard her cries, was trying to
quiet her, or at least to find out what was the matter.
"I can't make anything of it," said she, in answer to Mrs. Richardson's
question. "She won't do anything but scream and say she will go home."
Mrs. Richardson had no better success. And while she was trying to
get something out of Claribel beside inarticulate shrieks, Mr. Hausen
himself came up stairs, passing through the little crowd of girls which
the noise had assembled on the landing-place. His first move was to
send every one away but Mrs. Richardson and himself. His next was to
lock the door.
"Stop crying, Claribel!" were his first words. "Be still this instant!
Do you think we shall allow such a noise as that in the house? Be
silent!"
Never had Claribel been so addressed before. Aunt Hepsey had had a
great dread of these screaming fits, or "tantrums," as she called them,
and would give way in everything to avoid them. But it was clear that
Mr. Hausen was not the least frightened. On the contrary, after waiting
a moment, he renewed his command, with still more authority, not to
say sternness. Claribel was rather alarmed, and made such an effort to
quiet herself as she had never done before in all her life.
"Now, if you will try to speak reasonably, we will learn the cause
of all this disturbance," said Mr. Hausen, when she had in a measure
succeeded; "but speak quietly, and let us have no screaming."
Claribel told her story—that the girls had been insulting her and
making fun of her and calling her names under the window; that she
always knew they would, and that it was twice as mean to do it as they
had done as if they had spoken to her face.
"What girls, and how did they do it?" asked Mr. Hausen.
"It was Percy, and Tilly, and Flora, and Fanny Morey. I knew their
voices, and they meant I should."
"Impossible!" said Mrs. Richardson. "There are no better girls in the
school."
"Call them," said Mr. Hausen; "let us hear what they have to say."
The girls were called, and great was their astonishment at the
passionate accusation brought against them. Tilly bluntly denied it.
"I never thought of such a thing," said she; "Claribel must be crazy, I
think."
"What names did we call you, Claribel?" asked Percy.
"You—you said I was a three-legged precious," sobbed Claribel, "and you
said I ought to have a cork log, and that I was trying to improve my
mind, so that Molly Richardson shouldn't laugh at me."
The girls exchanged glances. Percy smiled, and the others laughed
outright.
"Oh, Mr. Hausen, it was Bab," exclaimed Tilly. "Miss Foster had down
that great book of English history prints and left it open on the desk,
and we found Bab sitting on the table before it looking just as wise as
if he were studying the pictures. Then somebody said he was trying to
improve his mind, so that Molly wouldn't despise him—you know she does
despise him—and that was all. We never thought of Claribel or knew she
was there. A likely story," added Tilly, rather indignantly, "that we
should make fun of any one for being lame."
Mr. Hausen smiled in his turn.
"I begin to see through the mystery," said he. "Tilly, you may go and
bring Bab here if you can find him."
All waited in silence, the other girls glancing at each other and
trying to suppress their smiles, and Claribel feeling an uncomfortable
misgiving that she had been making herself ridiculous.
Presently, Tilly came back, carrying in her arms a big white and
brindled cat, which she set down on the floor.
Bab had once been a handsome animal of his kind, and was still plump
and in good condition, but by some unlucky accident he had lost one
forepaw and a large part of his tail, so that he presented a very
comical figure. Bab seemed no way displeased at finding himself the
object of so much attention. He limped about from one to another,
purring loudly; and at last coming to Claribel, and seeming to think
her in need of special sympathy, he jumped into her lap, and rubbed his
big head against her chin with a kind of cooing noise.
"Well, I declare! What a compliment!" said Tilly. "I never saw him go
to a stranger before. I guess he knows that Claribel likes cats; don't
you, Claribel?"
Claribel murmured some inarticulate response as she bent her head down
and fondled the old cat. She saw through the whole mystery. Never in
all her life had she felt so ashamed of herself.
"You see how it was," said Percy; "we always talk to Bab as though he
had sense, though I do think he has 'less' sense than any cat I ever
saw."
"You always will say that, and I don't think it is fair," remarked
Fanny Morey; "anyhow, Claribel, we were talking to him, as Percy says,
and laughing at the notion of his reading to improve his mind. You
would have laughed too if you had seen him, he looked so wise. But it
was funny you should think we meant you."
"Well, never mind," said Mr. Hausen; "Claribel won't think so again, I
am sure. There! Run away, all of you; and if Miss Van Ness can go with
you, you may take out the small boat and see how you can handle her."
"Shall I leave Pussy?" asked Tilly.
"Yes, please," answered Claribel. And then, making a heroic effort, she
added, "I am sorry I was so silly and made such a fuss; I won't do it
again."
CHAPTER IV.
_OPENING THE DOORS._
CLARIBEL hoped that Mr. Hausen would go away and leave her, but after
the girls had gone, he returned, and sat down by her side.
"My poor little girl," said he as he took her hand in his, "why will
you make yourself so miserable, when everybody wishes to make you
happy? Why should you take such jealous fancies into your head, and
make yourself so wretched over them? Why should you think that people
want to insult you?"
"Because—because I am different from other people," answered Claribel.
"You know I am, Mr. Hausen. You know I am a frightful little scarecrow,
and never can be anything else."
"I know no such thing, Claribel. You are lame, to be sure, and
unfortunate in other respects, but, you have a very fine head and
beautiful eyes, and a face that might be very attractive if only—"
"Well, if only what?" asked Claribel, with animation.
"If only you would banish that ugly scowl and try to look good-natured
and kind."
"Oh yes, it is easy to say that," returned Claribel, bitterly. "It is
easy for people to look good-natured and kind when everything goes to
please them and everybody likes them. I would be good-natured and kind
myself, if I had a home and friends, and a fine figure like Tilly, or a
beautiful fair skin like Fanny. Nobody could help being cross who was
afflicted as I am, I know."
Mr. Hausen took from his pocket-book two card photographs, one of which
he handed to Claribel. It was only a head and face, or vignette, as it
is called.
"Oh how sweet, how lovely!" exclaimed Claribel. "I never saw a nicer
face."
"You don't think she looks cross and unamiable?"
"No, indeed! She looks like an angel. Ah, if I were only like that
lady!"
"Then you would be worse off in some respects than you are now, as you
will see by this other picture," said Mr. Hausen, handing Claribel the
other photograph.
It represented the same face, but on a body terribly deformed, and what
is called hump-backed. Claribel uttered an exclamation of surprise and
pity.
"Both of these pictures are portraits of the same person, as you see,"
said Mr. Hausen. "You perceive that she was more deformed than you
are. Perhaps you have heard some of the girls speak of Miss Baldwin,
a teacher who died here last term. You say she looks like an angel,
and she certainly was as nearly ripe for heaven as any person I ever
saw. Her father was supposed to be very wealthy. He gave his daughter
an expensive education and every possible advantage, for he was fond
and proud of her, unfortunate as she was. But he was a careless,
self-indulgent man, and given to speculation. He was supposed to be
rich, till one day he died very suddenly, and then it was discovered
that he had absolutely nothing—that he did not own so much as the house
he lived in; and poor Miss Baldwin, who had been brought up in every
luxury, found herself fatherless and penniless at the same time."
"Poor thing!" said Claribel, much interested. "What did she do?"
"She sold her jewels and other valuables, of which she had a great
many, and paid off the servants and such bills as were for necessaries,
and then she looked about for means of making herself useful and
independent at the same time. A friend recommended her to me as a
teacher. She came here and lived with us till she went to her home in
heaven, and I am sure that if ever the words, 'Well done, good and
faithful servant,' were spoken to any one, they were to her. Now, my
dear child, you have, I think, talents quite equal to Miss Baldwin's,
and your advantages are likely to be as good as hers. Why should not
you be as useful and as happy as she was?"
"I don't know," said Claribel, slowly; "I never thought I could be
anybody. I wouldn't so much mind if I could only learn, so as to do
something for myself and make myself famous."
"I don't quite like that way of putting it," said Mr. Hausen. "I would
rather hear you say, 'If I could do something for others and make
myself useful.'"
"But people liked Miss Baldwin," said Claribel, after a little
consideration, "and nobody likes me—nobody. The girls don't like me,
and even my own father was ashamed of me; Priscilla said so."
"Then Priscilla was very wrong. Your father was not ashamed of you; he
may have erred in judging what was best for you, but I will show you
some letters from him which will convince you that your welfare was
his one object in life. But, Claribel, let me ask you a question. Why
should you expect any one to like you? What have you ever done for any
one—for the girls here, for example—that should make them like you?"
Claribel looked as if struck with a new idea. "I never thought of
that," said she. "I never thought I could do anything."
"My dear, shall I tell you what I think is, and has been, your greatest
trouble in life—worse than your lameness, a great deal?"
"Yes, please."
"It is that you have grown up to think only of yourself. You have never
been taught to work or care for others; and instead of thinking what
you can do for those around you, you think all the time of what they
ought to do for you. You expect everybody to be kind to you, but you
are not kind to anybody. You would not fret so about your personal
appearance if it were not for that. If you would only interest yourself
for those around you, you would learn to like them, and you would not
be all the time worrying over fancied insults."
Claribel blushed and held down her head over the old cat, which was
still purring in her lap.
"Above all, my dear," said Mr. Hausen, gravely, "if you would only
think that you have a Father and a home in heaven,—a Father who loves
you and desires your happiness, who has given you friends, fortune, and
opportunities of mental and spiritual improvement,—a home where, if you
will, you may be as beautiful as any angel, and that for ever,—if you
will learn to live for that Father and that home, believe me, you will
find this world a very different place from what it seems now. I see
you have a very pretty Bible. Do you read it?"
"Not much," answered Claribel, frankly. "Sometimes I do, because it was
mother's, and she loved it."
"Claribel, will you promise me to do two things for the next term?"
"If I can," said Claribel.
"You can, easily. The first is, to read two chapters in the Gospels
every day, taking them in course. You may read as much more as you
like, but read at least two. The second is, that you will try not to
let pass a chance of helping somebody, no matter how small the chance
may be, if it be no more than picking up a book. Will you promise me
these two things, my child?"
"Yes, I will," said Claribel, after a little consideration. "I like
you, Mr. Hausen. I think you are a good man. But I thought you would
ask me to pray every day, and I didn't like to promise that, for fear I
shouldn't do it."
Mr. Hausen smiled. "I think that will come of itself presently," said
he. "Good-bye, my child; and may the Father of the fatherless bless and
lead you!"
Claribel thought more and to better purpose during the next two or
three days than she had done in all her life.
The girls all noticed how quiet she was and that she no longer seemed
to resent their little attentions and offers of assistance. And being
themselves a kindly, good-natured set, they forgot all her past
ungraciousness, and did their best to make her feel that they bore no
malice toward her.
One afternoon, when almost all the girls had gone out in the boats,
Claribel took her book and went down to a certain shady verandah, a
great resort of the girls on summer afternoons. She had taken the
"Tales of the Crusaders" from the library, and was quite absorbed in
the most interesting parts of "The Talisman," when Fanny Morey came out
with her work and seated herself at the other end of the broad steps.
The girls sat in silence for some minutes, and then Fanny uttered an
exclamation of surprise and regret:
"Oh dear! How sorry I am! Now, that is too bad!"
"What is the matter?" asked Claribel, looking up. "I thought you had
gone out boating with the others?"
"Well, I didn't," said Fanny. "I stayed at home on purpose to get on
with my work. I am making some little shirts to send home to mother's
new baby, and now I have made a mistake ever so far back, and I shall
have to pull it all out. Oh dear! What a shame!"
"What mistake have you made?"
"I have dropped two stitches and knit over them."
Claribel hesitated a minute; and then laying aside her book, she said,—
"Come here and let me see. Perhaps I can take them up for you, or take
back the stitches. Don't pull it out till I try."
"Oh, will you? How nice!" exclaimed Fanny. "But I am afraid you can't
do anything with it. Just see what a state it is in!"
"It does look rather badly," said Claribel, inspecting the work, and
rather repenting of her offer as she remembered that she had left Sir
Kenneth in the midst of the combat. "I will see what can be done.
But, Fanny, there is a great deal prettier way than this of knitting
shirts—with a scalloped border."
"Yes, I know; I saw some in a shop in Milby. But I don't know the
stitch, and I can't find any one to show me."
"I will show you," said Claribel. "I have made many of them. I will
tell you what I would do: I would pull all this out and begin again the
other way. I will show you the stitch and all about it."
"But then I shall lose so much time," said Fanny, dolefully.
Once more Claribel thought of Sir Kenneth, but only for a minute.
"I will tell you what I will do," said she: "I will pull it out and
begin it for you, and then knit it up to where it is now. I can do it
very soon, and then I can show you the stitch, and you can knit the
rest yourself."
"Oh, will you? How good you are! But you want to read?"
"Oh, never mind. The book will keep."
"I can read to you while you are at work," said Fanny, struck with a
bright thought; "or will that put you out?"
"Oh no, not after I have set the pattern. But perhaps you won't care
about this book?"
"Oh yes, I shall, if it has a story in it," said Fanny, possibly making
a little stretch, for the truth was that her reading heretofore had
been confined to the general run of little story-books which require
neither thought nor imagination, and any book which needed effort
of mind or any previous knowledge was like a lesson to her. But she
read well, and it was impossible not to catch a little of Claribel's
enthusiasm.
"Why, here are the girls coming home. It can't surely be half-past
five!" said Fanny, interrupting herself. "Oh, Claribel, what a great
piece you have done, and how pretty it is! But do you suppose I can do
it?"
"Of course you can. Why not? It is only to pay attention at first, till
you are used to the stitch."
"Paying attention is just what is the hardest thing for me to do," said
Fanny, frankly. "Miss Reynolds is always scolding about it. But I am
sure I will try, Claribel, if you are kind enough to show me."
That night, when Mrs. Richardson made her rounds, she found Claribel's
light burning, and Claribel herself reading in her Bible.
"Time for lights to be out, my dear," said she, kindly.
"Oh, Mrs. Richardson, can't I just finish this chapter about the
ruler's daughter?" asked Claribel. "It is not very long, and I want to
see what became of her."
Mrs. Richardson smiled: "Yes, dear, you may finish the chapter, and
then you must, go to bed directly."
Claribel finished the story, and then looked up with eyes swimming with
tears:
"Wasn't it lovely? And then to think of His remembering to tell them
to give her something to eat! I suppose he thought they would forget,
they were so glad and so surprised. But it seems such a little thing to
think of—for him."
"Nothing is little to him that concerns the welfare of his children,"
said Mrs. Richardson.
"Oh, Mrs. Richardson, do you think I could ever be like that? Do you
think if I should ask—"
Claribel did not finish the sentence, but looked eagerly into her
friend's face.
"I know, Claribel, that he has said, 'If ye shall ask any thing in my
name, I will do it,' and also, 'If we ask any thing according to his
will, he heareth us.'"
"But I can't be sure that I am asking according to his will, can I?"
asked Claribel, doubtfully. "I can't be quite sure what his will is."
"In this case, you can be quite sure, because it is his will that all
his children should be good and holy. So if you ask God to give you his
Holy Spirit, and to make you like him, you may be sure he will hear
you. Try him, my child, and see."
CHAPTER V.
_FANNY._
"ISN'T it funny that Fanny and Claribel should have struck up such
friendship?" said Percy to Flora one day. "Fanny is a good girl, but
then she is such a scatter-brained thing, and so lazy."
"She has worked a great deal harder lately," said Percy. "I think
Claribel is doing her good. How much better her compositions are!"
Percy looked a little grave. "Do you suppose, Flora," she asked, in a
low voice—"do you suppose Claribel helps her in her compositions?"
"I have thought of that," answered Flora, "but I don't know that I
think she does. You see, Claribel makes Fanny read and study, and of
course that would improve her writing. I don't think Claribel would do
anything wrong about it—anything sly or deceitful, I mean—like somebody
you know."
"I know," said Flora. "No, I don't believe she would, but she might not
think it was wrong to help Fanny a little, and I dare say she may give
her a hint now and then. But if Fanny has improved, what do you think
of Claribel?"
"I never saw such a change in anybody," answered Percy. "She does
not even look the same. It seems as if her face had altered entirely
since she came here. And how nicely she gets on with her drawing! Mrs.
Claxton says she has more talent than any one in the class."
"So she has; anybody can see that. Well, I am sure I never would have
thought I could like her so well that day we had the fuss about Bab; do
you remember? I don't believe she thinks nearly so much about her looks
as she used to."
The girls were right. Claribel had found an object in life outside
herself, and that object was Fanny Moray.
Fanny was a little Texan girl who, having run as wild as one of her
father's colts till she was thirteen, had then been sent North to
school to be made a young lady of. We have heard her own story of her
first experience of school life, from which she had been rescued by her
uncle. Fanny would have been perfectly happy at Round Springs, only for
the lessons. She was a pretty little creature, looking at least three
years younger than her real age, and was a favourite with both teachers
and playmates from her sunny, cheerful temper and her obliging ways,
despite her heedlessness and laziness. For she was both heedless and
lazy. She hated to study, she hated to mend her clothes and keep them
in order, she hated to sweep and dust her room, and it may be doubted
whether she would ever have done so of her own accord, so long as it
could be made habitable by any process of picking up and tucking away.
Now, Claribel was just the opposite of all this. If Aunt Hepsey had
taught her nothing else, she had at least made her neat and methodical.
She had a place for everything, and everything in its place. Her
clothes were always mended before they were put away, her books
arranged in the most convenient and elegant order, and all the little
knickknacks with which she had learned from the other girls to decorate
her room were as carefully dusted and cared for as if they had been
valued curiosities in a museum. It was the same with her lessons and
school exercises. Fond as she was both of reading and work, Claribel
never could enjoy either so long as a lesson remained unprepared or an
exercise unwritten, while Fanny only cared to enjoy the present, always
trusting that her lessons would get done "somehow."
"Fanny, have you done your French sentences?" Claribel would say.
"No, not yet," Fanny would answer; "there is time enough!"
"But French comes the very first thing, you know."
"Oh, well, I can learn it this evening."
"You have your arithmetic to do this evening, and your history analysis
to have by heart. Come, Fanny, do write your French now to please me."
And partly to please Claribel, and partly to get rid of the teasing,
Fanny would get out her books and write her exercises, or else she
would make some excuse for going down stairs; where she would waste
the hour in reading some little story which perhaps she had read a
dozen times before. Then Fanny would be in disgrace with the French
teacher,—a disgrace which Claribel felt, far more than she did.
Nevertheless, the girls did each other a great deal of good. The very
vexations which Fanny caused her were good for Claribel, because
they were vexations for another and took her attention from her own
troubles. While she was fretting over her friend's indifference and
carelessness of reproof, she forgot to look out for affronts and
slights to herself.
But Fanny's good qualities did Claribel more service than her bad ones.
Fanny was so good-natured, so self-sacrificing, so ready to put aside
her own convenience or pleasures for the sake of others, that Claribel
could not, for very shame, keep on expecting everybody to give way to
her as she had done. When Fanny stayed at home from a boat ride to
amuse one of the little girls who was sick, Claribel was ashamed to
select for herself and keep the very best seat,—a thing she would have
done as a matter of course when she first came to school; and so it was
in other things.
And on the other side, when Claribel was so prompt in learning her
lessons, and so careful in keeping her things in order, Fanny did not
like to annoy her friend by carelessness and disorder. So each improved
by association with the other.
One day when Claribel was alone in her room working very hard at her
French, Rebecca Stiney came in. Rebecca was no great favourite with her
schoolmates, though no one could exactly tell the reason, except that
she was always complaining and finding fault with the school. Claribel
looked up in some displeasure as Rebecca entered, for she had put up
her "engaged" card on the door, which should have secured her from any
intrusion.
"Isn't the card on the door?" said she. "I asked Fanny to put it up
when she went out."
"I didn't see any card on the door," said Rebecca. This was true. The
card had blown down from the door and lay on the floor beside it, but
with its face up, and Rebecca knew very well where it belonged. "Of
course I shouldn't have come in, if I had seen it. But, Claribel, I
want you to do me a favour if you will."
"I will, if I can," said Claribel, mindful of her promise to Mr.
Hausen. "What is it?"
Rebecca closed the door after her, and coming close to Claribel as
she sat at the table, said in a half whisper, "I want you to write my
composition for me."
"To write your composition for you!" Claribel paused, amazed at the
audacity of the proposition.
"Yes. It is only for once. I haven't had time to touch it yet, and
I want a good one, because we are to have company this week. Why,
Claribel, you needn't look so wonderfully innocent and astonished.
Everybody knows that, you help Fanny, and why shouldn't you help me?"
"Everybody knows that I help Fanny write her compositions!" repeated
Claribel. "What do you mean?"
"Well, Fanny herself says so, and all the girls believe it. And why
shouldn't you? Dear me! It is a very common thing, and nobody cares, so
long as it is not found out."
"Do you mean to tell me that Fanny says that I write her compositions
for her, and that the girls believe it?" asked Claribel.
"Well, perhaps she didn't exactly say so in so many words," replied
Rebecca, qualifying a little, "but she certainly did let it be
understood; and everybody thinks so, because Fanny's compositions are
so much better than they used to be. And I don't see why you shouldn't
help me as well as Fanny Morey. Come, do, Claribel, just this once.
There won't be any harm in it, and you can write so easily."
"If there is no harm in it, I suppose you would have no objection to
my asking Mrs. Richardson's permission," said Claribel. "If she is
willing, I will do it for you this afternoon."
"What nonsense!" said Rebecca, peevishly. "Of course I can't do that.
I never heard anything so absurd. Just as though one wanted to tell
everything that one does!"
"But, Rebecca, if I write your composition, and then you pretend it is
yours, that will be a lie, and you know what Mr. Hausen said yesterday
about liars. It is in the Bible, too, for Fanny and I found the text
last night."
Rebecca writhed uneasily in her chair:
"Oh, well, of course; a great many things are in the Bible that we
ought to mind more than we do. But then it, is only for once, and
I thought you would be obliging enough. Come, do, Claribel; I will
never tell. And I am sure it is in the Bible that we ought to help one
another. You and Percy and all the girls help little Maud, and why
shouldn't you do as much for me? And all the girls think you write
Fanny's compositions and exercises, and Fanny lets them think so; and
where is the harm? Come, do, Claribel, please."
Claribel paused, hardly knowing what to say or think for a moment.
Then, as she remembered Mr. Hausen's remarks the day before, she
answered, decidedly,—
"No, Rebecca, I can't. I am sure it wouldn't be right for me to write
you a composition and for you to hand it in as your own. It would be
lying. I'll give you a subject if you like, and that is all I can do."
"Oh, well, just as you please," said Rebecca, sulkily. "Only I don't
see why you can't do as much for me as for Fanny Morey. I don't make
fun of your crutch and your high shoulders, and call you old Dame
Crump."
"Neither does Fanny."
"Oh no, of course not. Did I say she did? I only said I didn't. Well,
good-bye; I am sure I am much obliged to you for your kindness."
Never since the scene about Bab had Claribel been nearer to a screaming
fit than she was at that moment. A lump rose in her throat, and it
seemed as if her heart swelled to bursting. Fanny would be up directly,
she knew, and she could not meet her. She snatched her hat; and rushing
down stairs and up the garden walk to a secluded spot among the trees,
she threw herself down on the ground and gave way to a tempest of
mingled grief and indignation:
"So this is what comes of trying to help other people—of putting aside
my own taste and my own convenience! This is what comes of trusting to
a friend! Fanny said that I wrote her composition for her, and made fun
of my crutch and my deformity. There is no use in trying to do anything
or be anybody. People are all unkind and selfish and treacherous alike,
and I dislike them all!"
But poor Claribel was not long left to her dangerous mood. A new spirit
was stirring in her, and presently began to make itself heard above the
storm. She had been studying the life of her Lord and praying to be
like him, and that prayer is one which never goes unanswered. Suppose
Fanny had laughed at and misrepresented her? Could she not forgive her
and go on helping her just the same? He had done so toward her. She had
treated him with neglect and ingratitude all her life. To what sin had
she ever been tempted that she had not committed? And yet he had never
forsaken her, never tired of doing her good, and he had led her into
this home where she had so many comforts and so much that was pleasant.
Claribel covered her face and hushed her sobs as like a great flood.
It rushed over her soul for the first time—the wonderful love of God
for her, for all mankind. The love of God was shed abroad in her heart
by his Spirit which he had given her, and all tumult and discord
was hushed in its presence. It was hardly any longer a question of
forgiving Fanny. She was ashamed to think of it, after all that had
been done for her.
As Claribel sat quietly looking out through the trees upon the lake,
she heard a step. And before she could rise, Fanny, with her face all
bathed in tears, came running up the path and threw herself down beside
her, hiding her head on her lap. She sobbed so violently that at first
she could not speak, but presently she found her voice, and exclaimed,—
"Oh, Claribel, you didn't say I was a mean, deceitful girl, and that
you never would help me any more as long as you lived, did you? You
never said you wrote all my compositions for me, and I never should
have any lessons only for you?"
"No, of course not," answered Claribel; "I never said such a word. Who
told you so?"
"Rebecca," sobbed Fanny; "she said—"
But Fanny could get no farther, and laid down her head in a fresh burst
of crying.
"There, there I don't cry so. You will make yourself sick," said
Claribel, forgetting her own distress in Fanny's. "Rebecca isn't worth
minding. She told me ever so many things about you, and I dare say they
are just as true as the other. She said you said I helped you with your
lessons and wrote all your compositions for you, and that you laughed
at my crutch and my high shoulders, and made fun of me every way, and I
was just silly enough to believe it."
"It was no such thing!" said Fanny, vehemently. "I did say you helped
me about my lessons, and so you have, because you always will make me
learn them and won't leave me any peace till I do. And I do think I
have written better since I have begun to read books with some sense in
them, and I never should, only to please you."
"I wonder whether the other girls think so?" said Claribel. "There go
Percy and Eva; I mean to ask them."
And Claribel called the two girls and told them the story.
The girls looked at each other.
"Well, Claribel, I shouldn't wonder if some of them did think so,
because Fanny has improved so much," said Eva. "But, dear me! Thee
needn't mind a bit if they do."
"But I do mind," said Claribel; "I mind very much. Mr. Hausen made me
promise to help everybody I could, and I am sure I like to do it, but
there is not much comfort in it if one is to be accused of such things."
"Oh, Claribel," said Percy, "you mustn't think that. Dear me! If you
are going to leave off helping people every time anybody accuses you of
doing wrong! You ought to hear how they talk about my aunt. She just
runs after poor people all day long. She fixed up a room in the widows'
home for old Mrs. Stokes, and fitted her all up with nice clothes, and
the old woman told everybody that my aunt spent all her money for her
ownself, and gave her nothing but old rags. And she hadn't a single
cent of her own, only five dollars that aunt laid out in a shawl which
the old woman wanted."
"And did your aunt do anything for her after that?"
"Oh yes; she said it was only Mrs. Stokes. And people are always saying
that the ladies who work for the asylums and for missionaries, and so
on, do it just to make a figure and have people talk about them. There
is no use in caring."
"Well, anyway, it was mean in Rebecca to tell such stories," said
Fanny. "See if I don't give her a piece of my mind the next time I see
her!"
"Now, Fanny, if thee will be advised, thee will keep thy mind to
thyself," said Eva. "It won't do any good. If thee says ever so much
to Rebecca, she won't care, and she will contrive to get out of it.
She will say that if Claribel didn't say so in words, she gave her that
impression."
"Yes, we all know about Becky's impressions," said Percy. "But it was
rather cool than otherwise to ask Claribel out and out to write her
composition for her."
"Well, anyhow, I think it is mean in the girls to suppose I would do
such a thing as to steal mine," said Fanny.
"So it is, and I don't wonder thee feels it; but I wouldn't let it
make me unhappy," said Eva. "Just keep on doing thy best, and it will
all come out right. And whatever thee does, Claribel, don't leave off
trying to help people. Thee knows," added Eva, in a low voice—"thee
knows who it was that went about doing good and healing all the sick
folks, though his own friends didn't believe on him and his countrymen
said he was helped by the prince of the devils."
"Yes, but we can't be like him," said Fanny.
"It is certainly our duty to try to be like him," answered Claribel.
CHAPTER VI.
_PRISCILLA._
EVA was right about Rebecca. When Fanny attacked her on the subject,
which she did in presence of several of the girls, Rebecca drew back
and qualified, and didn't "exactly mean to say that Fanny really said
so in so many words, but she certainly got the idea from what she said;
and then, when Claribel first came, Fanny certainly had said that
Claribel walked with a crutch and had high shoulders."
"And what if I did?" demanded Fanny. "I wasn't making fun of them. The
girls asked me how Claribel looked, and I told them, and that was all."
"Becky's stories are like the prince's mantle in the fairy tale," said
Tilly. "She gets a little bit of foundation, and then she stretches it
and stretches it till it is as large as a bedquilt. Never mind, Fanny;
what is the use of caring?"
But Fanny did care, and in one way the caring did her a great deal of
good. She was bent upon showing that her compositions and exercises
were her own, and she worked harder than ever before in her life, and
read such an amount of sensible books that it was quite alarming.
One day Mr. Hausen found her and Claribel engaged with a volume of
Hallam's "Middle Ages."
"Do you like that book?" he asked.
Fanny looked rather dolefully at Claribel, as if to ask her to reply.
"Well, it is a very big book," said Claribel, "and it isn't so
interesting as some, but Doctor Burton said the other day that Hallam
was one of the best historical authors; and then it tells about the
Crusades."
"And there are some nice stories in it," added Fanny. "I like that
about Charlemagne and his learning to write when he was old."
"Don't you think it is a good book for us?" asked Claribel. "Don't you
think we ought to finish it?"
"Finish it, by all means, if you can, but don't feel obliged to do
so," answered Mr. Hausen. "Hallam is a large undertaking for two such
chickens as you and Fanny."
"It is all Claribel's doing," said Fanny. "She is so very sensible, and
I want to be like her, and Miss Reynolds says I never shall be, so long
as I don't read anything except little story-books. And besides," added
Fanny, "one of the girls said we never should finish it if we began,
and so we are bound to go through with it."
"I am afraid your motives are rather mixed, Fanny," said Mr. Hausen,
laughing. "But never mind. Go on with Hallam, by all means; and if
you finish it, you will certainly show that you have the power of
perseverance."
Contrary to Mr. Hausen's expectations, the girls did finish Hallam,
though I cannot say that the learned author left any very strong
impression on their minds, beyond a general feeling that the Middle
Ages were not nice times and they were glad they did not live in them.
At this time, Claribel and Fanny roomed together; and though
Fanny thought Claribel needlessly particular when she objected to
accumulations of shoes and stockings under the bed, and insisted that
the study-table was not the place for the brushes and combs, and though
Claribel sometimes laughed and sometimes scolded a little, yet the two
friends got on together very comfortably and harmoniously.
One day Claribel received a letter from home at which she uttered an
exclamation of dismay.
"What is the matter?" asked Fanny, looking up from her own budget of
news. "Anything wrong?"
"Well, no—at least I ought not to think so. I suppose I am a sinner not
to be glad, but I can't be, the least in the world."
"Can't be glad of what?"
"That my cousin Priscilla is coming here to school."
"Don't you like her?"
Claribel hesitated a moment before replying to Fanny's question:
"Well, no, to tell you the truth, I don't. We were brought up together
till I came here, but we never agreed very well—in fact, we used to
quarrel every day. I dare say it was as much my fault as hers, though I
do think it wasn't, any more."
"And I suppose you will room together, and I shall have to turn out,"
said Fanny.
"No, indeed, not if I can help it," answered Claribel, with energy. "I
would rather have you, a thousand times. Oh dear! I do hope I sha'n't
have to room with Priscilla."
"Well, we won't borrow trouble," said Fanny; "I dare say Mrs.
Richardson will give her your old room just at first. They almost
always do put the new scholars in there, you know."
It turned out that Fanny was right. There had been some consultation
between Mrs. Richardson and Mrs. Herman, the housekeeper, about what
arrangement was to be made. Mrs. Herman supposed the cousins would
naturally like to be together.
"It is a pity to alter the present arrangement, too," she added. "Fanny
is getting a great deal of good out of it."
"I think we won't make any change—at least for the present," said Mrs.
Richardson. "As you say, Fanny is gaining a great deal, and I think
she does quite as much for her room-mate, though in another way. The
new-comer can just as well have the little room and live alone till we
can observe her a little."
Claribel went down to the boat to meet her cousin, and welcomed her
with all due cordiality. She had schooled herself to do so, and really
succeeded in being glad to see Priscilla. But Priscilla felt and
saw that there was a change in Claribel, and decided at once in her
own mind that Claribel was proud and felt above her, and that she,
Priscilla Westcott, was not going to be put down or patronized, either,
if she wasn't an heiress. She had not been in the house ten minutes
before she succeeded in showing Claribel that she had brought some of
the old home atmosphere with her.
"What a miserable little stuck-up room!" she observed as Claribel
introduced her to "21," which she and Fanny had taken great pains to
make pleasant and attractive looking. "And what a little narrow bed! I
thought you said the rooms were so wonderfully nice?"
"Well, I think they are nice, though they are plain, of course,"
said Claribel, feeling annoyed, but determined not to show it. "The
bed is wide enough for one, I am sure, and here is a nice bureau and
writing-table, you see, and a large closet. I thought this was a dear
little room when I had it."
"Where do you room now?" asked Priscilla.
"Over there where you see that window open and the cat sitting in it,"
answered Claribel, pointing to her own window, where Bab was dozing
in the sun, for he had always remained constant to his allegiance to
Claribel. "Fanny and I wanted to live together, so Mrs. Richardson gave
us that room, though new-comers are usually put in this one. There is
another inside of it where little Madge sleeps, now that Miss Emerson
is away. Generally, we have it for a closet."
"And how do you get on in school?" asked Priscilla, presently. "I
suppose the rules are very strict?"
"Oh no; there are not many rules. We can't go out in the street without
asking, and we have to go to bed and get up at just such times, and to
observe the hour of silence, and keep our clothes mended and our rooms
nice. Those are all the rules I can think of—only, of course, we have
to learn our lessons and do as we are told."
"And do the girls dress much? I have got ten new dresses," said
Priscilla, in a tone of exultation. "I told ma she must let me have
everything new, for I wasn't going to be looked down on or despised by
anybody."
"You needn't have minded about that," said Claribel. "The girls dress
very plainly, and so do the teachers."
"Well, I sha'n't; I have got my new things, and I am going to wear
them. They were all made at Miss Smith's, and I picked out the patterns
in the fashion-book myself."
And Priscilla dived into her trunk and produced one suit after another,
all in the extreme of fashion, as fashion was understood in Smithopolis.
"But haven't you any school-dress?" asked Claribel, rather alarmed.
"You won't wear these dresses in school, will you?"
"Of course I shall. Why not?"
Claribel thought Priscilla would probably find out the why not for
herself in a little while, and she changed the conversation by
inquiring after one and another of her old acquaintances. Priscilla
answered carelessly enough, and again recurred to her dresses, showing
them off and expatiating on their elegance and their cost.
"And what do you study?" she asked, presently.
"History and higher arithmetic and French, besides my drawing."
"I am going to take all the extras," said Priscilla—"music and drawing
and French and German, and everything. Mother said I ought to learn
arithmetic and grammar, but I guess I didn't come to boarding-school
all the way out here to study common school-books."
"But you can't, Priscilla," said Claribel. "Nobody is allowed to have
more than three studies besides music or drawing. And you will have to
study grammar, because all the classes do, except the senior. If you
have music and drawing, you can only have two studies besides."
"I guess I can have what I am able to pay for," said Priscilla;
"besides, I don't mean to take drawing, but oil-painting. I want some
pictures to take home with me."
"But how can you paint without knowing how to draw?" asked Claribel,
bewildered.
"Just as every one else does. Sarah Annie Willcox painted some splendid
pictures at Galesville seminary, and she never touched a pencil nor
paint, till she went there."
[Illustration: _Claribel._ "Well, I never saw such a mean school as
this is," said Priscilla, throwing herself on the bed.]
Claribel concluded that she might as well change the subject:
"Don't you mean to change your dress and brush your hair before tea? I
should think you would want to after coming so far."
"Oh, I only came from The Bridge to-day. However, I suppose I might as
well. What are you going to wear?"
"Just what I have on, only I must go and get an apron. I will call for
you when tea is ready." And Claribel went away, feeling uncomfortable
and vexed, though she hardly knew why, and leaving Priscilla more than
ever convinced that Claribel looked down upon her.
The girls stared and glanced at each other when Priscilla made her
appearance at the tea-table in a furiously gay plaid, flounced and
stuck out and tucked up in every direction, with a gold bracelet on
each wrist and a gold chain round her neck.
Claribel felt uncomfortable and a little ashamed, but she courageously
made the best of the matter, thinking that Priscilla would soon learn
better.
"Well, I never saw such a mean school as this is," said Priscilla one
day after she had been at the school for about a week, and throwing
herself down on Claribel's bed. "If I had known it was such a pokey
kind of place, I am sure I never would have come."
"What's the matter?" asked Fanny Morey. "Please, Priscilla, don't lie
on the bed. It is against rules unless we are sick."
"Who cares?" said Priscilla. "There is nobody here to tell of me."
"I care," said Fanny, decidedly and somewhat angrily. "I don't choose
to break rules, whether I am found out or not. Besides, you had no
business to come in when the card is on the door. I am busy, and I
don't want to be hindered."
"Where's Claribel?"
"Down in the library looking out something in the encyclopædia."
"I suppose you and she are great friends?"
"Yes, we are," answered Fanny, in a tone, which said plainly enough,
"Is that any business of yours?"
"Well, you needn't bite my head off," said Priscilla. "I am sure I am
glad if the poor thing has found anybody to like her. Claribel and I
never could get on together. I suppose I might have given up to her,
and let her patronize me and order me about, just as you do, but it
isn't any use to do that for people, if they are ever so rich. But I
am glad you don't mind, because it is hard for her not to have any
friends."
"Claribel has plenty of friends," said Fanny, flushing a little. "All
the girls like her, and she doesn't order me about or patronize me. I
don't see why you should say so."
At that moment, Claribel entered.
"I can't find anything about it, Fanny," said she; "we shall have to
ask Mr. Hausen. Excuse me, Priscilla, but it is a rule that nobody must
go into a room with a card on the door. You will get us and yourself
into a scrape. Besides, Fanny has her exercises to do."
Priscilla smiled and glanced significantly at Fanny.
"I don't want to seem uncivil, but really you must go, Priscilla,"
added Claribel, seeing that her cousin did not stir. "If Miss Van Ness
should come and find you—"
"Oh, come, now, don't put yourself into a rage, Claribel," said
Priscilla, rising. "I am sure I have done no great harm by just coming
into your room for a little while, so don't scold; please don't get up
a great fuss, now."
"I wish—" Claribel began, and then she bit her lip and was silent.
Priscilla cast another significant glance at Fanny—a piece of vulgarity
and bad manners to which she was much addicted—and then withdrew.
In the course of a week, Priscilla had succeeded in making Claribel
thoroughly uncomfortable. She excelled in saying little provoking
things which could not be noticed, and in making insinuations. She
affected great fear of Claribel's temper, and made a parade of giving
up to her in any little dispute they might happen to have, especially
if any of the teachers were present. She made a great mystery of
advising the girls, especially Fanny, never to contradict her. She
never missed an opportunity of speaking slightingly of the things
she knew Claribel most valued; and whenever Claribel showed any
signs of irritation or annoyance, she would put on a significant and
contemptuous smile.
But nothing that Priscilla said or did annoyed Claribel so much as the
influence she succeeded in gaining over Fanny. The little Texan girl
had been Claribel's first intimate friend, and she loved her with an
intensity of which careless Fanny had very little notion. It was a real
calamity to Claribel when Fanny failed in a lesson or got into disgrace
for disorder or forgetfulness, and it was one of her chief objects in
life to avoid such misfortunes by spurring Fanny, both by precept and
example, to the accomplishment of her school duties. She had so far
succeeded that Fanny herself began to be sensitive on the subject, and
to find pleasure in preparing her lessons and writing her compositions.
She began to care for more sensible and substantial reading than
trifling little stories, and to take a real interest in hunting out
information concerning the subject of her lessons.
But shortly after Priscilla's appearance, all this was changed. Fanny's
lessons began to be carelessly learned, or not learned at all. She
was missing whole hours from the room which the two girls occupied
in common, and her excuse always was that she had been studying with
Priscilla: though the fruits of her study certainly did not appear in
her lessons.
One day after Fanny had made several shocking mistakes in her history
recitation, and had been deficient in her French, Claribel took her to
task:
"You had, plenty of time to study, and you said you had learned it in
Priscilla's room."
"I did," said Fanny.
"I think you had better learn it in your own room next time, then,"
pursued Claribel. "Please do take more pains, Fanny. I can't bear to
have you miss so."
"I don't see why you need care," said Fanny, rather sulkily; "nobody
blames you for it. You are not responsible for my lessons, are you?"
"If you don't see, I don't know how I can tell you," said Claribel.
"Wouldn't you feel badly if I were to miss and get scolded as Mrs.
Reynolds scolded you this morning?"
"Oh, come, Claribel, don't make such a serious matter of it," said
Fanny. "I will learn my lessons to-day, so you needn't be distressed on
my account. I do believe you are jealous of Priscilla."
Now, Claribel knew that she was jealous of Priscilla so far as Fanny
was concerned, but that did not make the accusation any easier to bear.
She retorted sharply, and the scene ended in a downright quarrel. Fanny
rushed away, declaring that she was not Claribel's slave and wouldn't
be tyrannized over by her, if she was rich and a favourite with the
teachers.
Claribel remained behind, very much hurt and very angry, and as usual
in such cases the old temptations came back upon her: "What was the
use of trying to do anything for anybody? What was the use of caring
anything for anybody or expecting anybody to care for her? She had
spoken altogether out of regard to Fanny, and now Fanny declared that
she only wanted to tyrannize. It was very hard to bear!"
But by degrees, as she grew calmer, she began to feel more reasonably
and kindly. Perhaps she had been domineering. Anyhow, she had spoken
unkindly to Fanny; and even if Fanny had been the most to blame, it
was her duty to beg pardon and try to make up friends. Acting on this
conviction, she washed away as well as she could the traces of her
tears, and went out to seek Fanny, whom she found, as she expected, in
Priscilla's room.
"Please to come out here a minute, Fanny," said she. "I want to speak
to you."
"Why can't you just as well speak here?" said Priscilla. "If it is any
such tremendous mystery, I will go away."
"It is no great mystery that I know of," said Claribel, trying to
preserve her calmness—"only, Fanny, I am sorry I was so cross; and if I
hurt your feelings, I beg your pardon."
Before Fanny could answer, Priscilla took the reply on herself:
"Oh, come, now, Claribel, don't make a scene and a fuss! When Fanny has
seen as much of you as I have, she won't mind about your cross fits.
What is the use of your putting on such a tragedy air, as if it was
anything uncommon? We all know what you are, and it is a pity if we
can't make allowances. If only you wouldn't set up for a saint!"
"Fanny, do please come here," said Claribel, imploringly, and trying
hard to keep down the choking in her throat. "Priscilla, I wish you
wouldn't interfere."
"Who is interfering?" said Priscilla. "I suppose I can speak in my own
room."
"Won't you come, Fanny?"
But Fanny would not come, and Claribel retreated to her own room,
feeling very miserable indeed. The girls did not meet again till
bedtime, for Fanny kept close to Priscilla and out of Claribel's way.
She did not come in till it was nearly time to put out the lights.
"You are late," said Claribel, looking up from her Bible and trying to
speak just as usual. "We shall not have time for much reading, I am
afraid."
"I have been reading with Priscilla," answered Fanny, and then there
was a silence.
"Fanny dear, we don't want to go to bed quarrelling," said Claribel,
imploringly.
"I don't want to quarrel, I am sure," said Fanny, "but I don't like
to be ordered about and scolded because I happen to miss; and I don't
think I am accountable to you."
"I didn't mean to scold you, I am sure," Claribel began.
But Fanny interrupted her:
"Oh, you don't mean! What difference does it make? It is all done,
anyway, and what is the use of making such a fuss? There, now! Don't go
and cry!"
Claribel did not cry. She was learning to restrain herself in that as
in other respects.
But as she knelt down to say her prayers, she thought she had never
been more unhappy in her life.
A quarrel with Priscilla was nothing strange. She had known very well
that her cousin's coming would not add to her comfort, but she had
never thought that Priscilla would turn Fanny against her. It was very,
very hard! How could she help being angry? How could she say the Lord's
Prayer while she was so? And then it occurred to her that the One who
had dictated the prayer could give her that grace which should make her
fit to say it.
Fanny had been asleep some time before Claribel lay down, but she waked
up and said, sleepily,—
"What is the matter? Are you sick?"
"No," answered Claribel, kissing her. "There is nothing the matter,
dear. There go to sleep. I am sorry I wakened you."
CHAPTER VII.
_LITTLE MADGE._
CLARIBEL waked next morning with that vague sense of something
disagreeable which we have all felt under similar circumstances. It was
Sunday, and everything was quiet about the house. There was no hurry
about rising, and Claribel lay thinking over the events of the day
before. It was plain to her that nothing would be gained by saying any
more about the matter, and she resolved never to allude to it again;
that she would be very careful not to interfere with Fanny, but would
try every means to win her back again.
Her feelings in the matter were not selfish. She felt that she could
have borne the estrangement if only Priscilla were a fit friend for
Fanny: but Claribel did not think this was the case. She knew that
Priscilla was careless and deceitful; and—this troubled her more than
anything—she knew that Priscilla was in the habit of reading very
undesirable books—such books as were never allowed at Hausen school.
She had reason to fear that Fanny had already been introduced to some
of these books, and had spent in reading them the time that should
have been bestowed on her lessons. But what could she do about it?
There was little use in talking to Fanny, and less in saying anything
to Priscilla. She could not tell her trouble to Mr. Hausen or Mrs.
Richardson, because that would bring Fanny into disgrace. No: she must
bear it all alone.
And then the question occurred to Claribel's mind, Why must she bear
her trouble alone? Had not Mr. Hausen told them that there was one
Friend always ready to hear and help? What was that text about being
careful for nothing which one of the teachers had repeated the Sunday
before?
Claribel slipped out of bed without waking Fanny; and taking her Bible
to the window, by the help of her "New Testament Index," * she found
the text she wanted in the last chapter of Philippians:
"Be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication
with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the
peace of God which passeth all understanding shall keep your hearts and
minds through Christ Jesus."
* An Alphabetical Index to the New Testament, American Sunday-School
Union.
Claribel knew that being careful in this instance meant being anxious
and troubled. She was anxious and troubled. Then she remembered another
text:
"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Let not your heart
be troubled, neither let it be afraid."
And still another:
"Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee."
What could she do better than to cast her burden on him—her anxiety
for Fanny, as well as her own temper and wounded pride and resentment
toward Priscilla? She would try it, at any rate.
Fanny was still asleep when Claribel rose from her knees. The bell
would ring in a minute, and it was time they were all up. Claribel
dressed herself, and then went into the small room where little Madge
had slept during the absence of Miss Emerson, the teacher who had the
special care of her. Miss Reynolds had usually come in to dress the
child, but Miss Reynolds had not been well the day before, and it
occurred to Claribel that she might as well save her the trouble.
Madge was very well contented with the change of dressing-maids, and
made no objection when Claribel proposed to begin teaching her her
Scripture lesson.
Madge was a quaint, thoughtful little girl of five years old. Her
mother was a permanent invalid, and she had been sent to school more
to give her a safe home and get her out of the way than with any
expectation of her learning a great deal. She was the special charge of
Miss Emerson, one of the younger teachers, but Miss Emerson had been
called home by the illness of her mother, and it was doubtful whether
she would be able to return. A question had consequently arisen as
to what would be done with Madge, and she had been put to sleep in
the little room for a night or two till it should be decided. Madge
was fully alive to the dignity of having a room of her own, and felt
herself quite able to take care of it.
"There, now! You can say your verses nicely," said Claribel when the
lesson was finished. "Take care you don't forget them."
"And may I take the clothes off the bed and put the room in order?"
asked Madge.
Claribel, pleased with her enterprise, assented, and Madge was in the
midst of the operation when Miss Reynolds opened the door.
"Up and dressed already?" said she.
"Claribel dressed me," said Madge, "and she has taught me my lessons
besides."
"I was up and dressed, and I thought I might as well dress Madge," said
Claribel, in rather a tone of apology, for it occurred to her that Miss
Reynolds might think her interfering. "I knew you were not well."
"I am sure you are very kind, and I am much obliged to you," said poor
Miss Reynolds, putting her hand to her head; "and now, Claribel, as
they say one good turn deserves another, if you will sit in my place
and attend to the child at breakfast, I will lie down again, for my
head aches very badly."
"And may I go to church with Claribel?" asked Madge.
"Yes, if Mrs. Richardson is willing and you will be good. Now, remember
you are Claribel's little girl and must mind her."
It had not occurred to Claribel till she sat down to the table that in
taking Miss Reynolds's place she had accepted the responsibility, not
only of Madge, but also of helping the girls around her to beefsteak
and potatoes.
It was too late to draw back now, however, and she made out to acquit
herself of the task without splashing the gravy or dropping any of the
plates. Fanny was late, and excused herself by saying that Claribel had
not called her.
"You should not depend on Claribel to call you," said Mrs. Richardson.
"I did call you, Fanny, before I went to dress Madge, but perhaps you
did not hear me," said Claribel after breakfast.
"You might just as well have stayed to help me as be taking care of
Madge," said Fanny. "But 'new brooms sweep clean' with you."
Three or four days passed, and still matters were not right between
Claribel and Fanny. Fanny still spent most of her time in Priscilla's
room, and carried her books thither to learn her lessons. She missed
every day; and her exercises were so carelessly written that one day
Mademoiselle declared she would not accept them at all. Then Fanny
cried and said she couldn't help it,—that Claribel had quarrelled with
her and wouldn't help her any more, and she couldn't do them alone, and
she hadn't the right dictionary, and Claribel was always using hers;
and how could she do her exercises unless she had books?
"I suspect, Miss Fanny, that you have too many books, and those
not of the right sort," said Mademoiselle. "If you will let novels
and story-books alone, I fancy you will not suffer for lack of a
dictionary."
Fanny coloured scarlet and darted an angry glance at Claribel, as if
she suspected her of telling. Claribel felt sure that her own ideas on
the subject were correct, but she said nothing. She thought Fanny must
take her own way.
Miss Reynolds continued very unwell, and Claribel kept on with the care
of little Madge, dressing her in the morning and putting her to bed at
night, and seeing that she was ready for school. It was, of course,
something of a task and confinement, for Madge must be in bed at eight
o'clock, and Claribel was obliged to rise half an hour earlier than
usual to find time for her own dressing and prayers in the morning.
"I don't exactly see what we are to do with the child," said Mrs.
Richardson one day. "Miss Reynolds—whom we miss so much in many ways—is
too unwell to take any more care on herself, and Miss Emerson is not
coming back this year."
"Madge needs a good deal of care, too, she is such a delicate child,"
said Mrs. Herman. "I should very much dislike to send her home, both
because there is nobody to care for her properly and because she is
such a trouble to her mother. You cannot guess, by seeing her here,
what a torment she is at home."
"Why not let her keep on as she is?" asked Mrs. Herman. "Claribel is
very kind to her."
"She is indeed, but I feel as if it were too much to ask. Claribel is
not strong; and though, as you say, she is kind to the child, she might
not like to be confined all the time."
Claribel overheard this conversation as she was studying in the
library, and it set her seriously to thinking. She had wanted some work
to do—something by which she might show her gratitude to her heavenly
Father, who had done so much for her. She had been thinking of asking
leave to take a little class in Sunday-school, but now the work seemed
offered ready to her hand. She could do no more for Fanny except to
pray for her, for Fanny seemed to resent any offer of help about her
lessons as an interference.
"And I must be doing for somebody," said Claribel to herself. "Unless I
do, I shall be getting to thinking about myself just the same as ever.
It will be a bother a great many times, but so is anything worth doing.
Madge is fond of me, and minds me pretty well; and as to the trouble, I
am sure I am better able to take it than poor Miss Reynolds. But then
there is Fanny. Perhaps she won't like to have Madge in our room all
the time. I must ask her."
"I don't care. Yes, if you like," was Fanny's answer when Claribel
consulted her. "It is annoying not to have that room to use for a
closet; but as long as she is to be there, I suppose you might as well
take the care of her as to have Miss Reynolds poking in all the time."
"Claribel has always got to have somebody to patronize," was
Priscilla's comment when it was generally known that Claribel had taken
charge of the little girl. "I suppose she thinks Madge will be more
manageable than Fanny."
"Does thee always do things from such mean motives thyself, Priscilla?"
asked Eva Church.
"I don't know what you mean, Eva. I don't think I am meaner than other
people."
"It is only fair to suppose that thee judges others by thyself,"
answered Eva.
"I didn't say there was anything mean about it," said Priscilla, as
the other girls laughed; "I only said she liked somebody to patronize,
and so she does. I have known Claribel all her life, and I think I can
judge her better than you can. However, I don't want to say anything
about her."
"Then don't," said Tilly Mansfield. "Nobody wants you should."
"It will be a great care for Claribel, but I think she likes that kind
of care," remarked Percy.
"That is just what I say—she likes it," persisted Priscilla; "and I
don't see any such great amount of self-sacrifice or saintship in doing
what one likes. Oh yes; I know you all think I am a heathen and all
that. I don't set up for a saint, but I mean to be all that I pretend
to be, at any rate. I am sure I don't want to run dawn Claribel, poor
girl! And I don't see why I should be accused of it. She is my own
cousin, and I want her to do as well as she can."
"Nobody has accused you of it," said Tilly, "but you know very well
that you never can hear Claribel praised without insinuating something
against her. You always contrive to tell of something she has done at
home, or to make out that she has some bad motive."
"Oh, very well; you will find out for yourselves by and by, or I am
mistaken."
"I can't bear that girl!" broke out Tilly when Priscilla had gone. "I
think she is just as disagreeable as she can be."
"Tilly!" said Eva.
"Well, I do. And I think she is just spoiling Fanny Morey. She isn't
like the same girl she was a month ago."
"She does not do Fanny any good, that is certain," remarked Percy.
"She and Fanny and Rebecca are always getting away by themselves and
whispering in corners and locking themselves into their rooms, and
Fanny hardly ever has a decent lesson now-a-days. You will see she will
be put back at the end of the term as sure as fate."
"I know she will be in a worse scrape than that if she doesn't mind,"
said Tilly.
"What makes thee think so?" asked Eva.
"She and Rebecca have run away and gone down town two or three times,"
said Tilly. "Mrs. Griggs saw them down at Sawyer's buying candy and
novels. What do you think Mrs. Richardson would say if she knew that?"
"At Sawyer's!" repeated Percy. "Oh, Tilly, I can't believe it. You know
what Mr. Hausen said."
"I couldn't believe it when Mrs. Griggs told me," said Tilly, "but she
described the girls exactly—Fanny's long light hair and black eyes, and
Priscilla's plaid dress and hair put up over a cushion. And besides
that, Mrs. Griggs watched them, and she saw them go round the back way
and through our orchard, and get over the fence. They had two or three
parcels of books—pamphlets, you know—and a great bag of candy."
"I almost wish Mrs. Griggs would tell Uncle Hausen," said Emma. "Not,
of course, that I want the girls to get into trouble, but I think
he ought to know. Just think what people will say in the village,
and what a thing for the girls themselves! I heard Dr. Benedict and
my grandfather talking about Sawyer's place, and they said it was a
disgrace to the village and ought to be broken up. I am sure it must be
all Priscilla's doing. Fanny never would have thought of such a thing."
"Fanny might not, but I am not so sure of Rebecca," said Eva. "Rebecca
likes mysteries. But I am very sorry about it."
"Well, we can't do anything," said Percy. "Anyhow, I am glad Claribel
has got Madge to comfort her. She is a cunning, queer little thing, and
I dare say they will get on nicely together."
It seemed that Percy's prophecy was likely to be realized. Claribel
found Madge tolerably docile, and Madge found Claribel very patient and
indulgent, though sufficiently firm in requiring obedience. Madge had
suffered from pain in the head early in her little life, and it was not
considered expedient to burden her with lessons. Perhaps for this very
reason she was anxious to learn to read and write, and Mrs. Richardson
finally told her that if Claribel liked to teach her, she might have a
reading lesson of ten minutes, twice every day.
"Do you really suppose she can learn—that is learn so as to
remember—anything from reading as long as that—only ten minutes at a
time?" asked Claribel.
"I think she will," answered Mrs. Richardson; "I think you will find
her making very respectable progress, but then you must be thorough and
insist on her working while she does work. If the experiment does not
answer, you can give it up, you know."
The experiment was tried and found to answer very well. Claribel showed
a remarkable "aptness to teach," and Madge was equally ready to learn.
At the end of a month, the little girl could read in words of three
or four letters. She was devoted to her lessons, and inconsolable if
anything happened to interrupt them.
"If you are not good, I can't hear your lessons," was Claribel's
severest threat. And she rarely had to put it into execution.
One day, however, it happened that Madge was decidedly naughty. She had
got up in a bad humour, and everything went wrong. She cried at being
dressed, behaved badly at the table, and ended by taking Claribel's
gold pen and scribbling all over her exercise-book. She would not say
she was sorry, and was so perverse about it that at last Claribel said:
"Very well, I see I shall not have any little scholar to-day."
Madge turned her head and said she did not care; but at lesson time,
she came with her book, as usual.
"No," said Claribel; "I am very sorry: but you know I told you I should
not hear your lesson because you were so naughty. I must keep my word.
If you are good now, I will hear you this afternoon."
Madge went away very downcast, but presently came back triumphant.
"You needn't hear my lesson, if you don't want to, old Mother Bunch,"
said she, pertly. "Priscilla has heard it, and she says she will hear
me whenever I like."
Claribel was very angry and very much perplexed. Here was a new
instance of Priscilla's interference, and what was she to do about it?
It was clearly impossible for her to manage Madge unless she could have
the child to herself. She considered the matter a little, and then went
to Priscilla's room. There was no card on the door, and she knocked
once and again. There was no answer, but a sort of scuffling within,
and presently Priscilla opened the door. Fanny and Rebecca were sitting
in the room, each with a lesson-book before her, and Priscilla's desk
stood open, with her exercise-book upon it.
"Priscilla," Claribel began, "I want to speak to you about Madge. I
wish you would not interfere between her and me."
"What have I done?" asked Priscilla. "I only heard her her lesson."
"That is just the thing," said Claribel. "I told her I should not hear
her because she was naughty, and presently she comes and tells me that
you have heard her her lesson and will hear it again. I would rather
you did not have anything to do with them, if you please."
"Oh, Claribel, how you do make mountains out of molehills! Madge asked
me to hear her her lesson, and I did, and then she asked me to hear it
again, and I said I would if I were not busy. Where was the harm in
that?"
"The harm was that I did not hear her her lesson because she was
naughty," said Claribel; "you must see yourself, Priscilla—"
"Well, there I don't say any more," interrupted Priscilla, affecting
a soothing tone, as she saw Mrs. Richardson approaching. "I am sure I
didn't mean any harm; only when I found Madge crying and feeling so
unhappy, I did what I could to comfort her. I am sure I did not mean to
hurt your feelings, Claribel. Please don't be angry, and don't punish
Madge, for it was all my doing."
"Punish Madge!" said Mrs. Richardson. "Who is talking about punishing
Madge?"
"Oh, it wasn't anything," said Priscilla; "only I found Madge crying
because Claribel punished her, and I tried to comfort her, and Claribel
thinks I am very much to blame."
"What was the story, Claribel?" asked Mrs. Richardson, turning to her.
Now, six months before Claribel would have flown into a rage, poured
out a furious vindication of herself, and ended by a screaming fit, and
this was what Priscilla calculated upon when she drew on her cousin the
notice of Mrs. Richardson.
But she reckoned without her host. Claribel waited an instant to
collect her ideas, and then said, composedly,—
"Madge was very naughty all the morning. She would not be dressed, and
she ran out in the hot sun; so I told her I should not hear her her
spelling-lesson. Then she went away, and presently came back, telling
me that Priscilla had heard her lesson and had promised to hear it
again, so she did not care for me. Then I came and asked Priscilla not
to interfere with Madge, because I didn't see how I was to do anything
with her if she did. That was all."
"You were quite right," said Mrs. Richardson; "neither Priscilla nor
any one else must interfere with Madge's lessons."
"I am sure I did not mean any harm," said Priscilla.
"I don't say you did," replied Mrs. Richardson, with a keen glance at
Priscilla. "I don't pretend to decide whether you meant to annoy and
embarrass Claribel or only to help Madge; but whatever might be your
motive, don't let the thing happen again. Fanny and Rebecca, why are
you here instead of in your own rooms?"
Fanny murmured something about studying the lesson with Priscilla.
"I think you had better study in your own place, and see whether your
lessons will not prosper better than they have done lately," said Mrs.
Richardson. "Priscilla's room is none too large for herself. Go to your
own rooms: and, Claribel, send Madge to me."
The two girls obeyed with anything but a good grace, and Fanny would
hardly speak to Claribel all the morning. But for once her lessons were
well learned and perfectly recited.
"There is something going very much amiss with those girls," said Miss
Foster to Mrs. Richardson as they were talking over school matters.
"Fanny is going down hill very decidedly. She never cares to take a
book from the library now, and she seems to have no interest whatever
in her lessons. She used to do remarkably well in Bible class, but now
she never has her lessons properly prepared. The very expression of her
face is altered."
"I am quite certain that something is wrong, and I am pretty sure that
I know what that something is," said Mrs. Richardson; "but I am waiting
to get the clue into my hands, and I think I shall. But if Fanny has
changed in one way, Claribel has altered in another."
"Yes, indeed; I never saw such an improvement in so short a time. She
is really growing pretty, and her recitations, especially her Bible
lessons, are quite remarkable. And how kind she is to Madge!"
CHAPTER VIII.
_YELLOW COVERS._
MADGE spent the rest of the day in Mrs. Richardson's room, and came
back very penitent and humble. When Claribel put her to bed, Madge
seemed very full of thought, and at last she said, throwing her arms
around her friend's neck and hugging her,—
"Claribel, you will love me if I am naughty sometimes, won't you?"
"Yes," said Claribel, returning the kiss; "but, Madge, you make me very
unhappy when you are naughty, just because I do love you. Besides, if
you are not good and don't take pains to improve, Mrs. Richardson will
perhaps think it is all my fault, and then she won't let you stay with
me."
"I don't believe she will," said Madge; "she will know that it is my
very own naughtiness. But I will try to be good, and I will never call
you 'Mother Bunch' again if Priscilla tells me to ever so many times."
"I don't think I would, because it isn't like a Christian to call
names," said Claribel; "and you know, Madge, I cannot help my looks."
"I don't want you to help them," said Madge; "I like you just as you
are."
She was silent a few minutes, and Claribel thought she was asleep, and
was going to leave her, when Madge put out her hand to detain her.
"Please don't go away," said she; "I am afraid."
"Oh no," said Claribel; "what are you afraid of?"
"I am afraid because I have been naughty, and because—Claribel, if
Priscilla told me not to tell, ought I to tell?"
Claribel hesitated:
"Did you promise not to tell, Madge?"
"No, I didn't promise exactly: but—Claribel, why do Priscilla and Fanny
read books and hide them away when anybody comes?"
"They read books to learn lessons and to amuse themselves, I suppose,"
said Claribel. "Everybody gets books out of the library, you know."
"These are not library books," said Madge. "They are thin books with
yellow and brown covers, and pictures in them, and Priscilla puts them
under the bed when anybody comes. She said some of them were yours."
"You must be mistaken, dear," said Claribel; "I haven't any such books.
There! Lie down and go to sleep."
"I can't," said Madge; "I don't feel well. I wish Fanny would sleep in
my bed and let me sleep with you."
"I will ask her," said Claribel; "but, Madge, what is the matter, that
you don't feel well? Have you been eating anything?"
"Only a lemon and some chocolate-drops that Priscilla gave me," said
Madge, unwillingly.
"Oh, Madge, that was naughty, when you know such things always make you
sick," said Claribel. "But never mind now; I will put you in my bed,
and perhaps you will go to sleep."
But sleep there was none for either Madge or Claribel that night. The
poor child was taken very ill about midnight, and continued so for
three or four days. She was quite sure she was going to die.
"I shouldn't so much mind dying," sobbed Madge—"I always did want to
know how the people get out of their graves and go to heaven: but I
have been so naughty, I am afraid the angels won't come after me."
There really seemed some danger that Madge would die. But after a few
days she grew better, and was able to sit up and amuse herself with her
dolls and animals.
Claribel had been unwearied in her attendance upon the child, who would
hardly take either food or medicine from anybody else. Fanny, meantime,
slept in the little room, which had a door opening out into the hall.
Fanny had been more like her old self since Madge's illness than for a
long time before. She learned her lessons in her own room, and was very
attentive in waiting upon and amusing Madge and relieving Claribel.
Claribel was delighted with the change, and began to hope that the
old times were coming back again: but she was disappointed. Once more
Fanny began to slip away to Priscilla's room at every opportunity. Her
lessons were again neglected, and to Claribel's gentle remonstrances,
she answered with either sullen silence or with floods of tears;
declaring on one occasion that she was the wickedest and most miserable
girl in the world, and she wished she was dead.
"But, Fanny dear, if you know you are wicked, why don't you try to be
good?" Claribel ventured to ask.
"Because I can't," said Fanny, passionately; "I have tried, and it
isn't one bit of use."
"Perhaps you didn't try in the right way."
Fanny knew this very well. She had not tried in the right way and with
her whole heart. She knew what she ought to do, but she could not make
up her mind to it, and so she went on stealing a guilty pleasure,
ashamed and miserable and in constant fear of detection.
It was the custom of the school for all the boarders to assemble in
one of the large rooms from eight to nine o'clock in the evening,
and occupy themselves with some kind of needlework, while one of the
teachers read aloud some interesting and amusing book. "Reading-hour"
was one of the pleasantest parts of the day at Round Springs.
One evening, as they were gathered together, listening with great
interest to a new book of travels, Mrs. Richardson entered the room
followed by Mr. Hausen.
"You may suspend the reading a little while, Miss Foster," said Mr.
Hausen.
The girls looked at each other, wondering what was coming. "I have
found this book lying out under the tree in the grove," said he,
holding up a thick, yellow-covered paper book with some tremendous
pictures on the cover. "John Warner, the gardener, tells me that he saw
one of the young ladies reading it in that place, but he does not know
who it was. The book is one unfit to be touched, much less read, by any
young lady, but it may have fallen into somebody's hands by accident,
or have been left where it was found by one of the servants. I hope, if
any of you have had it, you will tell the truth about it."
There was a dead silence, but Claribel felt her cheeks burn. She had
seen the book before, but not lately.
"Remember that suspicion must rest upon everybody unless we can get at
the truth," said Mr. Hausen.
"The book is my cousin Claribel's," said Priscilla.
Every one looked at Claribel, who sat still and looked at the floor.
"What do you say, Claribel?" asked Mr. "Is this book yours?"
"I believe it is, Mr. Hausen," said Claribel. "I had such a book once.
I bought it on the cars one day last spring before I came here, but I
never read more than a few pages of it. Then I threw it away in the
garret at my aunt's, and I have never seen it since. I don't know how
it should have come here."
"You are sure you did not bring it with you?"
"Quite sure; I never saw it again after I put it away in the garret. I
thought it was not a good book, and very silly, besides."
"Do you know anything about it, Priscilla?" asked Mr. Hausen, turning
to her.
"I know it is Claribel's book, and that it has been in her room since
I came here," answered Priscilla, coolly; "Fanny has seen it there as
well as myself. I am sorry to say so, and I wish I had held my peace;
but as long as Claribel seems to want to throw the blame on me, I must
tell the truth."
"What do you say, Fanny? Have you seen this book in Claribel's hands?"
"No, sir, not in her hands," answered Fanny, with some difficulty.
"But you saw it in her room?"
"Yes, sir;" and Fanny began to cry so that nothing more could be got
out of her.
"I shall suspend my judgment on this matter for the present," said Mr.
Hausen; "there is evidently an untruth somewhere. But remember this,
all of you, that the truth is likely to come out some time or other."
Mr. Hausen then made some remarks on the evils of bad books, and
dismissed the girls, requesting Claribel to remain behind for a while.
Of course the subject was talked over in all its bearings. Almost all
the girls took sides with Claribel.
"But Claribel does go away in the grove to read almost every day," said
one.
"What of that?" demanded Tilly. "It doesn't follow that she reads
bad books, does it? I think I have heard of people who went away by
themselves for other purposes. I no more believe that Claribel read
that book than that I did."
"Who do you think did read it, then?" asked Rebecca. "If you say it
wasn't Claribel, you accuse somebody else. Who do you think it was?"
"Who do I think it was?" repeated Tilly, turning upon her. "Well, if
you want to know, I think it may have been a girl who gets over the
back fence and runs away down to Sawyer's to buy candy and papers, if
you know any such person."
"What do you mean, Tilly?" asked one of the girls.
"Never mind," said Tilly; "I know what I mean, and so does somebody
else, perhaps. That book may have been Claribel's, as she says, but she
never brought it here."
"Then if you think she didn't, I suppose you think I did?" said
Priscilla. "What do you think of Fanny's seeing it in her room?"
"I think Fanny knows more than she chooses to tell," answered Tilly.
"Well, I don't see why you should all take Claribel's part," said
Priscilla. "Of course I am glad you do, because she is my cousin; only
that you can't excuse her without accusing me. If she did not bring it
here, who did?"
"Perhaps it is not hers, after all," suggested Percy. "Of course there
would be a great many of the same kind."
"Yes, but it is hers, because her name is written in it in two or three
places," said Rebecca.
"How does thee know that?" asked Eva Church, who had not spoken before.
"Because I saw it."
"I don't very well understand how thee could see it when the book never
left Robert Hausen's hands all the time he was talking," said Eva. "I
think that is rather curious, Rebecca."
"Think what you like," interposed Priscilla. "Come, Rebecca, don't let
us stand here in the cold all night. It is all nonsense, anyway, making
such a fuss about a trumpery novel. What business is it of his what we
read, so long as we learn our lessons? I am sure I never would have
come here if I had known what sort of place it was."
"And I am sure I wish you never had," was Tilly's parting salute.
Claribel came to her room rather later, looking very unhappy indeed.
She knew that she had told the truth, but appearances were against her,
and she felt that she was distrusted. But she would not have minded so
much, she thought, if only Fanny had not turned against her and told
lies about her. Fanny said she had seen the book in Claribel's room,
which Claribel was sure had never been there. Oh, it was very, very
hard! How could she bear it? And again came the old thought, "They
would never treat me so if I were like other people. It is just because
I am a poor lame hunchback that every one is against me."
She took her Bible and tried to read, but could not fix her attention
on the words. She knew that it was late, and that her light ought to
be out, so she extinguished it and knelt down in the dark to say her
prayers. It was very hard, and at first she could say no more than—
"Oh, help me! Make me good! Show me what to do!"
But she grew calmer, and by degrees a sense of peace and comfort stole
into her heart, and she became sensible that she was not left to bear
her trouble alone. Many precious promises, the full value of which the
dark hour of affliction only can disclose, came back to her mind, and
she felt, as many another burdened soul has done, the force of those
wonderful words,—
"As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you."
Claribel was young, and her religious life was young also; but it
was a real life, and she had this great advantage, that she was no
halfhearted Christian. She was not trying to serve God as little and
herself as much as she dared, but her eye was single and her heart
united, and thus she had confidence toward God.
She lay down at last, but she could not sleep. She had lately been
troubled with palpitation of the heart and a little difficulty of
breathing, and it seemed to her, as she turned restlessly from side to
side, as if she had a trip-hammer beating in her breast. She sat up in
bed and piled the pillows behind her, and at last fell into a troubled
slumber, from which she awoke with a sense of suffocation. The room
seemed very close, and she got up, and putting on her flannel wrapper
and a shawl, she softly opened the window.
As she did so, she saw that a bright light shone out of Fanny's window,
which was next hers, for Fanny still slept in the little room. Her
first thought was that Fanny must be ill when she heard a sound of
something knocked down and a shrill scream from Fanny. She sprang to
the door, and was met by Fanny with her night-dress all on fire, just
bursting into a blaze.
In an instant, Claribel snatched up the blazing cotton, and gathering
it in her hands and crushing it between her knees she succeeded in
putting it out.
Fanny's screams had alarmed the house, but by the time Mrs. Richardson,
who slept nearest, had reached the scene of action, the danger from
fire was over.
Fanny, who had escaped with only a slight scorching, was crying
bitterly, and Claribel lay back in her chair gasping for breath and
with her hands terribly burned. She was quite unable to speak, and it
was some time before Fanny was able to give any explanation.
"I suppose Claribel was sick and Fanny overset the light in getting up
to do something for her," said Priscilla, who had come to her cousin's
room, casting at the same time a meaning glance at Fanny.
"It wasn't, either, any such thing," sobbed Fanny, finding her voice
at last. "And I have been as wicked as I could be since you took me
from Claribel: and I am not going to tell any more lies for anybody; so
there, Priscilla Westcott!"
"How was it, then?" asked Mrs. Richardson.
"I was reading in bed," said Fanny, "and I heard Claribel get up, and
thought she would catch me, and I went to put the candle out and tipped
it over. And I should have been burned to death only for Claribel, and
she saved my life after I had told such a wicked story about her."
And again Fanny began to cry. "I said I saw that book in her room, and
I did, because I had it in there reading it when she was away, and I
have run away and done everything that was bad: but oh, Claribel, you
will forgive me, won't you?"
"I am sure I do," answered Claribel, faintly.
Mrs. Richardson was very quick-sighted. In the midst of all her anxiety
for Claribel, she had seen the look which Priscilla had bestowed on
Fanny and her glance of rage when Fanny had insisted upon telling
her own story. And she drew her conclusions and took her measures
accordingly.
"We will hear the whole story in the morning," said she. "Go to bed
now, Fanny, and don't cry any more. Priscilla, you will go directly to
my room and go to bed there."
"Why can't I go to my own room?" asked Priscilla.
"Because I prefer you should go to mine," answered Mrs. Richardson,
quietly.
"I suppose I can get my things to put on in the morning?" said
Priscilla.
"No; Miss Foster will bring you everything you need. Miss Foster, you
will please lock up Priscilla's room and keep the key."
"I don't know what I have done to be treated in this way," said
Priscilla, turning pale.
"I don't say that you have done anything," answered Mrs. Richardson;
"surely it is no great hardship to sleep in one room instead of another
for one night. My room is fully as comfortable as your own."
There was no help for it, and Priscilla was obliged to submit.
Claribel's hands were by this time wrapped in clean soft cotton
wadding, and some quieting medicine administered. Miss Foster took
Madge to her own bed, and the house was once more quiet.
CHAPTER IX.
_EXPLANATIONS._
THE next morning several people were absent from breakfast, among them
Priscilla and Fanny. Fanny had already made a clean breast of it.
"I never thought of any such thing, till one day when I was in
Priscilla's room, she asked me if I didn't want something nice to read,
and she lent me a novel she had. I knew that it wasn't a good book, but
it was interesting, and I read it and several others. I used to go to
Priscilla's room to study my lessons, and read almost all the time. And
since I have slept in the little room, I have read in bed at night.
"Then we got engaged with a story in a paper, and Priscilla said we
might get the rest of the numbers if there was a news-shop here. We
asked at Robison's, and he said he didn't keep that kind of papers.
And then Priscilla said she had seen another news-shop down near the
landing; and I said Mr. Hausen said we must never go to Sawyer's for
anything, because it wasn't a respectable place. And Priscilla said
she didn't care—she guessed it wouldn't hurt her. So we went down and
bought ever so many papers of different kinds, and a great parcel of
candy and lemons and things. Then we were afraid to come home the front
way, and we went round through Mr. Mansfield's orchard."
"Have you been to Sawyer's more than once?" asked Mrs. Richardson.
"Yes, ma'am; two or three times."
"And where are the papers and books you had?"
"Some are in Priscilla's room and some in mine; some in that little
garret place at the end of our hall, in an old basket."
"Did Claribel have anything to do with all this reading and buying of
papers?" asked Mr. Hausen.
"No, sir; indeed she didn't," said Fanny, eagerly. "She never knew
anything about it. I don't believe Claribel would tell a lie for
anything, though I do think she is cross sometimes," added Fanny.
"But, Fanny, how could you go on so?" asked Mr. Hausen gravely. "You
knew all this was wrong as well then as you do now. You knew that you
were doing what was injuring yourself and others, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then why did you keep on with it so long?"
"I don't know," answered Fanny, hanging her head. "I thought I would
leave it off ever so many times, and then Priscilla laughed at me and
said it was all nonsense, and there was always a bit of a story that
I wanted to finish. That was what I lighted my candle for last night.
I thought I would just finish one story I was reading in a paper, and
then I would give them all back to Priscilla again."
"Ah, my child, that is the rock which has wrecked many a sinner," said
Mr. Hausen. "The dram drinker thinks he will leave off drinking after
he has taken one more glass; the gambler only waits till the luck shall
turn, so that he can win one more game. Such conduct shows that you are
not honest with yourself. If you really desired to forsake your sin,
you would not want to sin once more."
"And then Priscilla laughed at me and said I might as well go on now I
had begun. But I don't mean to lay all the blame on her, either, though
I must say I shouldn't have begun if it hadn't been for her. But I
never will read a bad book again—no, not if I was to be shipwrecked in
the middle of the great desert of Sahara," added Fanny, vehemently.
"You would find that rather difficult to accomplish," said Mr. Hausen.
"But, Fanny, what am I to do with you? Nobody can watch you all the
time, and how can I take the responsibility of a girl whom, I cannot
trust?"
"Oh, Mr. Hausen, please don't send me home," pleaded Fanny. "Indeed, I
will never do so again. I know how naughty I have been, but please do
try me a little longer."
"Very well; I will try you a little longer," said Mr. Hausen, after
some consideration; "but you must remember that you are on probation.
You must not ask to go outside the grounds again this term unless one
of the teachers or one of the senior-girls can go with you; you must
not read a single story-book of any kind without first asking Mrs.
Richardson, and you must study all your lessons either in your own room
or the school-room. Remember, these are the conditions. If I find you
disobeying me in one single point, I shall send you home directly."
Priscilla began by denying the whole thing; but when Mr. Hausen
produced the books and papers which had been found in her room, she
changed her tone.
"She didn't know whose business it was what books she read. She came
to school to learn her lessons, and she had learned them. Nobody could
deny that."
"Nobody wishes to deny it, Priscilla; but how has it been about Fanny's
lessons?"
"I am not responsible for Fanny's lessons," answered Priscilla. "She
is a little dunce, anyhow, but I don't see what great harm I have done
her."
"Indeed! I do not agree with you. And what do you say to the harm done
your cousin?"
"I am sorry about Claribel," said Priscilla, with some feeling. "The
poor thing had enough to bear before. I thought when I first came here
that she was setting up to be good and that she felt above me because
she was rich, and I meant to tease her by getting Fanny away, but I am
sorry it has turned out so badly: and I have told her so."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Hausen. "Priscilla, how did you
acquire a taste for such reading?"
"Oh, I don't know. We don't have many books, anyway, and one must read
something."
"But you have had plenty of better books to read since you have been
here."
"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't care one pin for the books the
girls read here," answered Priscilla; "they seem to me so stupid. I
wouldn't give a pin for a story in which somebody isn't killed."
"I dare say not. One of the bad effects of such reading is that it
unfits the mind for any innocent or rational amusement. A man who
accustoms himself to brandy cares nothing for anything less exciting.
But that is not the worst. Every time you read a bad book, you stain
your soul with a mark which cannot be rubbed out. By dwelling on wicked
actions and bad characters you become like them. Even though you may
repent and by God's grace be forgiven, you will find the images in
which you used to delight coming back to haunt and distract you, and
if you do not repent, you make yourself utterly unfit for goodness or
usefulness here and for happiness hereafter."
Priscilla seemed a good deal moved.
"I never thought so very much about it," said she. "Mother never
seemed to care what I read. She never looks at a book herself.
Claribel wouldn't read them, but I thought it was only a piece of her
contrariness."
"Don't you see that what I say is true, Priscilla? You say yourself
that you don't care for a book unless somebody is killed. By and by you
will need even stronger seasoning than murder, and what are you going
to do then? My child, what am I to do with you?"
"I suppose you will have to send me home," answered Priscilla.
"Do you wish to be sent home in disgrace, Priscilla?"
"No, I don't," answered Priscilla. "Mother will feel dreadfully,
because I was sent home that way once before. But, of course, I can't
expect you to keep me."
"Suppose I should let you stay to the end of the term, would you give
me your word to try and do better? Would you give me your word to tell
the truth, obey the rules of the school, and give up this abominable
reading?"
"Why, would you let me stay if I did?" asked Priscilla, in astonishment.
"Yes, I would try you; but you must expect to be more watched and
restrained than the other girls. We can't put the guilty and the
innocent on the same level, you know."
"I am sure you are very good," said Priscilla, with some emotion.
"My child, I have no other wish than your own good, but you know that I
must consider the welfare of the other girls; I cannot risk poisoning
a dozen to save one. You have done us a great injury. Nobody has ever
disgraced the school as you have. You have been seen again and again at
that vile place where you have bought your papers, and of course those
who have seen you, know what was your errand there. You have injured
Fanny. You have injured Claribel—perhaps endangered her life, for such
a shock is a grave matter to anybody as weak as she is. Nevertheless,
I am willing to forgive you and to give you a chance to retrieve your
character."
"You are very good," said Priscilla again, in a broken voice. "I did
not think anybody could be so—"
"Ah, Priscilla, there is One far better to you than I am," said Mr.
Hausen—"One against whom you have been sinning and rebelling all your
life, who is yet ready to forgive and receive you the moment you turn
to him. I can forgive you, but only he can wash away your sin and
sanctify your heart. I can help you by outward aids and restrictions,
but he can change your whole nature, so that you will hate the things
you now love and love the things you do not now care for. Why can you
not turn to him in the hour of youth, in this time of trouble?"
"I don't know anything about that," said Priscilla. "It never seems to
me as if there were anything real about religion any more than about
anything else one reads of, but I suppose there must be."
"Ask Claribel what she thinks about that matter," said Mr. Hausen.
"Well, I will say for Claribel that something has changed her," said
Priscilla. "I never saw such an alteration in anybody. I would give a
good deal if she were well once more."
"Well, Priscilla, I hope that some day these things may seem as real to
you as they do to me. But now how are we to settle this matter?"
"Mr. Hausen," said Priscilla, "if you will let me stay, I will try to
do the best I can. I can't promise to be good, but I will promise to
try, and I will do everything you tell me. I did think I would face it
out and pretend I did not care; but I do care. I am very sorry."
"I am glad to hear you say so," answered Mr. Hausen. "I shall lay you
under the same restrictions as Fanny, and I want you to promise me one
thing more—namely, that you will read two chapters in the New Testament
every day while you stay here."
"Well, I will agree to that," said Priscilla, "though I tell you
honestly, Mr. Hausen, I don't care as much as I should for the Bible."
"No, I suppose not; but I mean that you should learn to care. My mother
knew a lady who was converted from a very gay and worldly life, and
became one of the most consistent and useful Christian women that ever
lived. She told my mother that when she first began to read the Bible
she cared nothing about it—she could not become interested in it—and
she made a resolution that she would read no other book till she had
learned to love the Bible best of all."
"And did she?" asked Priscilla, much interested. "Did she keep her
resolution, I mean?"
"Yes. Though she was a highly cultivated woman, and fond of reading,
she did not for a whole year touch any other book than the Bible. After
that, she allowed herself to read other books, but she always loved the
Bible best. I don't ask you to read no other book, but I do ask you
to pledge yourself to read at least two chapters in the New Testament
every day."
"Well, I will," said Priscilla. "Where shall I begin?"
"Begin at the beginning, and read straight on; you cannot have a better
plan than that. Try to feel what you read, and ask God to give you
grace to understand it. But you must remember, Priscilla, that you are
on probation. You will be closely watched, and the first disobedience
or deception sends you home."
"All right," said Priscilla; "that is only fair. Mr. Hausen, I do thank
you for letting me stay, if only on mother's account. I have been, and
am, a bad girl, but I do love my mother. I will do all that you tell
me."
Priscilla shut herself up in her own room and remained there till near
dinner-time. Then she went to Rebecca's room and knocked.
"Come in," said Rebecca, opening the door and then shutting it
directly. "I thought you were never coming. I went to your room as soon
as I saw you come out of the study, but you were locked in. Why didn't
you open the door?"
"I was busy," answered Priscilla.
"Well, and how did you get off?" asked Rebecca. "Isn't it fun that
nobody suspects me, or has said a word to me?"
"You had better not be too sure that nobody suspects you," said
Priscilla.
"Well, anyhow, nobody has accused me. What did Mr. Hausen say to you?"
"Never mind," said Priscilla, shortly. "Rebecca, I want all those books
and papers directly."
"Oh, why?" asked Rebecca. "I have not half finished them, and I am sure
they are as safe here as they can be anywhere."
"Never mind; I want them, every one."
With considerable reluctance and grumbling, Rebecca produced the pile
of pamphlets and papers.
Priscilla looked them over.
"They are not all here," said she. "Where are the rest? I want every
one of them."
"I think you might leave me one," said Rebecca, producing a thick
yellow book and giving it to Priscilla. "You can't want to read all
these at once."
"I don't want to read any of them, as it happens."
"What are you going to do with them?" asked Rebecca.
"I am going to give them to Mr. Hausen," said Priscilla, doing the
books up in a bundle and tying them together in a very decided fashion.
"Priscilla! You won't do that!"
"You will see that I will."
"Oh, I suppose you mean to set up for good, like Claribel," said
Rebecca, sneeringly. "It is rather late in the day for that. Suppose I
set up for good too, and tell Mr. Hausen all about our going down to
Sawyer's, and so on?"
"You won't tell him any news if you do," answered Priscilla, coolly.
"Fanny has told him already, and so have I. You needn't look so scared;
I didn't say anything about you, and sha'n't. As for Claribel, you had
better not say anything to me against her, if you know what is good for
yourself."
"Well, I never thought you would be scared and give in so easy as
that," said Rebecca. "For my part, I shall keep my own counsel."
"You are welcome to keep it, for all me," said Priscilla. "I don't
think I have done you any great harm; that is one comfort."
"But what is the use of giving these books to Mr. Hausen?" asked
Rebecca, loath to give up the stolen waters which her unhealthy taste
had found so sweet. "If you don't want them yourself, you might let me
have them. Mr. Hausen don't know anything about them; and if he finds
them, I won't tell him they are yours. But he won't find them. I have
got a capital hiding-place, and we can have some fun with them by and
by, when this has blown over a little. Come, what is the use of making
such a great pretence of goodness all at once?"
"I suppose you can't possibly understand that I am in earnest," said
Priscilla. "Perhaps it isn't so very strange, either. But it is true,
for all that. I am in earnest, and I mean Mr. Hausen shall see that I
am. You will never see these things again as long as you live, Rebecca.
You may make up your mind as to that."
So saying, Priscilla picked up her bundle of books and departed. She
carried them straight to Mr. Hausen, telling him that they were some
which Fanny did not know about, but she said nothing of Rebecca.
Claribel was very sick. Her hands were badly burned, and the shock and
alarm had brought on one of her fits of palpitation and difficulty of
breathing. The girls were not allowed to see her, but Priscilla waylaid
the doctor on the stairs and begged to know what he thought of her
cousin.
"My dear, your cousin is very sick," said Dr. Benedict, kindly and
seriously. "There is no telling how the attack may terminate. She may
get better again; and she may pass away very suddenly."
Priscilla turned very pale, but she showed no other sign of agitation.
"Dr. Benedict," said she, "would you ask them to let me sit up with
her? Indeed I can do it. I have watched with sick people a great many
times. I am sure I can help take care of her, and I think Claribel
would like it."
The doctor looked keenly at her.
"Yes, you shall," said he. "I don't think it will hurt either of you."
Priscilla shared Mrs. Herman's watch that night, and showed herself
such an excellent nurse that she was allowed to take her full share of
the care demanded by the invalid, though Mr. Hanson insisted that her
lessons should be discontinued.
"You need not mind letting them go," said he. "You are learning quite
as much in another way."
Claribel continued very ill for many days, but she grew better at last,
and was able to take some rest.
"You will soon be well now," Priscilla remarked one day when her cousin
was sitting up by the window, for the doctor had recommended the fresh
air.
"Yes, I shall soon be well," answered Claribel, with a little sigh.
"Don't you want to get well?" asked Priscilla, struck by something in
Claribel's tone and manner.
Claribel hesitated.
"I am willing to get well," said she.
"Can't you get any farther than that?" asked Priscilla.
"To tell you the truth, Priscilla, I am afraid I can't. You know what
Dr. Benedict says about my hands?"
"No. What does he say? I thought they were almost well. Do they hurt
you so much?"
"They don't pain me very much now," said Claribel, "but Dr. Benedict
says I shall never have any use of them again. That isn't a very
pleasant prospect, especially to anybody as lame as I am."
"Perhaps he doesn't know," said Priscilla.
"I believe he does. The surgeon that Mr. Steele brought from the city
says the same thing."
"Claribel," said Priscilla, in a low voice, "don't you hate me?"
"No," answered Claribel, smiling. "I don't hate anybody, and I am sure
I should be very ungrateful to hate you, who have been so good to me
and waited on me since I was sick."
"You used to say you hated me when you lived at home, and I am sure you
have more reason now."
"I was a very ill-tempered girl when I lived at home," said Claribel.
"And besides, Priscilla, if you don't mind my saying so, I think I had
more reason then. You did not mean I should burn my hands or be sick,
but you did use to mean to torment me then. There is a fine sentence
for you. And you did hurt me cruelly too, especially when you said my
father did not love me and was ashamed of me. I did not get over it for
a long time—not till Mr. Hausen showed me some letters father wrote to
him and to Mr. Steele about me."
"I only said it to be hateful," said Priscilla; "I knew it wasn't so.
But, after all, Claribel, I was the means of your being burned. It
never would have happened if I had not put Fanny up to reading those
horrible papers. Somehow, I don't think Fanny minds it as much as I do."
"Fanny is very light-hearted," said Claribel, with a little sigh.
"Things don't stick to her as they do to you and me, and I am glad they
don't. But she feels badly enough, I am sure, and I don't believe she
will ever do such a thing again, or you either."
"I would give my own right hand to make yours well again," said
Priscilla. "How long have you feared you could never use them?"
"Ever since Mr. Steele was here; I made the doctor tell me what he
thought about them. I was determined to know the worst."
"A whole week, and you have been so cheerful all the time!" said
Priscilla. "Claribel, how can you?"
"I don't know—I have had help; and besides," said Claribel, with a
radiant smile, "I don't think they will trouble me long. I am better,
but I am not well, and I heard the doctor say that another attack would
carry me off."
"And you are glad, are you, really?" asked Priscilla, wonderingly.
"Yes, I am; I have so little to live for. I did want to do a great many
things for people, but I suppose somebody else can do them just as
well. Please don't cry, Priscilla, if you can help it. You will make me
cry too, and that sets my heart to beating so I can't talk, and I have
ever so many things I want to say."
"I won't," said Priscilla, with a strong effort sending back her tears
and composing herself. "But won't it hurt you to talk?"
"Oh no; I asked the doctor, and he said I might. Priscilla, I am too
young to make a will. I asked Mr. Steele, and he said so, but he said I
could do some things now. So I wrote on a paper what I wanted to give
to one and another—at least, I told him, and he wrote it down. And one
thing I want to tell you, because it depends on you. I asked him if
you and your mother were willing to keep you here at school till you
finished the course; that will be about six years."
"Oh, Claribel, I can't," said Priscilla, in a smothered voice. "How can
I let you do that for me after all—"
"I shall not be any poorer," said Claribel, smiling, "and I am sure you
will consent when you know I wish it. And oh, Priscilla, if you would
do something else! Ever since I began to think about such things—about
doing for others instead of myself—I have thought how much I should
like to be a missionary. But I knew it was out of the question, of
course, and I always meant to educate and fit out somebody to go in my
place—a substitute, you know, as people used to say in war-time. Oh,
Priscilla, if you would only be my substitute! I know you don't care
much for religion now—"
"Yes, I do," said Priscilla; "I can't help it when I see how it has
changed you, and since I have read so much in the Bible. Claribel, I
will do what you wish. I will be your substitute. I promise you that
if mother is willing, I will fit myself for a missionary and go in
your place; and if I cannot do that, I will be a missionary at home. I
suppose I am about the last person anybody would think of for such a
place as that. I wonder what Mr. Hausen would say?"
"He would say you are the very one," said Claribel. "He told me that
you had the making of an energetic Christian woman in you if you would
only take the right turn."
"Claribel," said Priscilla, "I don't know, but I believe—I feel—as if I
had taken the turn this very hour. But of one thing you may be sure: I
shall keep my promise to you if it be possible."
"There is just one thing more," said Claribel, after she and Priscilla
had kissed each other—"yes, two things." She calmed herself by a strong
effort. "If you will be a friend to Fanny, and try to keep her steady,
and away from—you know who."
"I will do my best," said Priscilla; "I owe her as much as that. But
honestly, Claribel, I don't think there is very much in Fanny."
Claribel sighed:
"Well, perhaps not so very much. But she was the first friend I made,
and she did me a great deal of good. I think she may turn out a good,
useful woman if she can stay here, especially if the other goes away."
"You might just as well say 'Rebecca,'" said Priscilla; "we both mean
her. I think, Claribel, there was a black sheep in this flock before I
ever came into it."
"And so do I. I know how I felt when she came and asked me to write her
composition for her."
"Rebecca thinks nobody finds her out or knows about her, but I think
she is mistaken," observed Priscilla. "But what is the other thing you
want me to do?"
"I want you to take my place with Madge. Poor little thing! She will be
very forlorn when I am gone, and she is a dear, good child. I am sure
Mrs. Richardson will consent."
"I will ask her," said Priscilla. "But, Claribel, don't you want me to
do something for you?"
"No, I don't think so, any more than you are doing constantly."
"I never saw any one so changed as you are about that," said Priscilla.
"You used to think about yourself all the time, and that nobody could
do enough for you."
"It was Mr. Hausen who showed me the way out of that prison," said
Claribel. "He made me promise to try never to miss a chance of helping
anybody. I remember the very first time I ever did it, too: I put away
the 'Tales of the Crusaders' to help Fanny about her shirts. Have you
read that book? It is in the library, and I am sure you would like it."
Priscilla smiled:
"To tell you the truth, Claribel, I can't trust myself to read any
story-book just now. I am like a reformed drunkard who does not dare to
drink even a glass of sweet cider. I hope I shall have more sense some
day, but till I do, I think total abstinence is my best way. But I will
read to you if you like."
"Oh no; I don't care about it. But don't you want to learn your Bible
lesson? Get the book, and we will study it together."
Claribel lingered for two or three months, sometimes worse and
sometimes better: even able to leave her room and come down to the
library or school-room. Priscilla devoted herself to her cousin, even
refusing to go home for the holidays lest Claribel should miss her.
Claribel enjoyed her Christmas, and helped fit up the tree prepared for
the girls who did not go home. She was very bright and animated all the
evening, and did not seem very tired when she went to bed. But when
Priscilla went to wake her in the morning, she was no longer there.
Only the poor house which had so long held Claribel lay quietly resting
as if in sleep, for a greater than an angel had been there in the night
and opened the doors, and Claribel was indeed out of prison.
Rebecca did not come back after holidays. To some of the girls who saw
her afterward, she said the school was so disagreeable that she did not
wish to go back; and she wanted to make her father send her to a large
school where she could have some fun. But "deception is the essence of
lying;" and they were not deceived, for all knew that she could not
have returned if she had desired it.
Priscilla's mother is dead, and her sister is married. She herself is
now one of the oldest, as she is one of the best, girls in the school.
She has steadily pursued her great object—that of fitting herself for
a missionary by the acquisition of every sort of useful knowledge—and
in another year will probably take her place among those who are
witnessing for the light amid the darkness of heathenism.
THE END.
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