CHAPTER I.

"BUT this is such a little matter, Lucy,—only a dollar!"

"Whether it is little or much does not signify, so long as I cannot afford it," was the reply, and the speaker laid down the pretty set of tablets she held in her hands, and turned to look at something else.

"I think you are very foolish," continued the first speaker. "They are the prettiest I ever saw, and very cheap. Janet Graves paid twice as much for hers, and they are no better. Come, Lucy, be advised, and take a set."

"If you have no money with you, it is of no consequence," observed the polite shopman; "you can easily hand it to me another time; and, as the young lady observed, these are really superior articles."

Lucy's determination, however, was not to be moved, and her companion turned from her, and addressed herself to another young lady, who was also examining the tablets.

"Well, Emily, have you found a set to suit you?"

"I like these very well," replied Emily, in rather an undecided tone; "but I have no money with me."

"That need make no difference," said the person in attendance; "I can add it to the bill."

Emily hesitated, looked again, and finally decided to take the tablets. The party of school girls then proceeded to a dry-goods store, where Lucy inquired for gloves, and her companions for embroideries and laces. A splendid stock of the latter was soon displayed before their admiring eyes, and the girls began to turn them over, with many exclamations at their beauty. Even Emily admitted that the prices were wonderfully low, though she made no attempt to purchase.

"Come," said Delia Mason, after she had selected and paid for some articles for herself, "now is the time to supply yourselves with collars. You will allow, Lucy, that these are really worth having."

"They are very pretty, if one wants them," replied Lucy, smiling, "but I do not stand in need of anything of the sort at present."

"Just like her!" said Delia half aloud, as Lucy walked to the other end of the shop. "I should not like to be as stingy as she is. She has plenty of money, too, for I saw her purse yesterday when she was buying some oranges in the hall, and she had quite a roll of bills. She never thought whether or not she could afford that."

"She gave them to little Kitty Mastick, I know," said Emily, looking round to see that Lucy was not within hearing. "Lucy is careful of her money it is true, but I don't think you do right to call her stingy. She is always ready to assist poor people, or do anything of that sort, and she subscribed more for the reading room than you did, Delia."

"Oh, yes, because she knows it pays," sneered Delia. "The teachers always think well of any one who subscribes to the reading room."

"Oh, come Delia, that is hardly fair. You know you said yourself; that Lucy was very good-natured when she took care of Clarissa Crosby all that time when she had the toothache. I am sure she is always ready to do a good turn for any one that wants it."

"I don't deny that Lucy is a very good girl," replied Delia, apparently rather ashamed of what she had said, "and, of course, she knows her own affairs best. But come, don't you mean to have some of these collars? I am sure you need them, for yours are as old-fashioned as the days before the flood."

Emily again pleaded her want of money, and was again over-ruled, and the collars were folded up, and the price added to her account. The purchase was a beautiful one, and the price was certain sufficiently reasonable, yet it was with an uneasy feeling that she pursued her walk homeward with Delia, Lucy having dropped a little behind, with one of the day scholars, who had joined them as they issued from the store.

"I wish I had not bought those things," said she at last. "My old collars would have answered well enough, and I have spent four dollars since I came out, for things, which after all were not necessary."

"You have not exactly spent it," observed Delia.

"I have run in debt though, and that is even worse," replied Emily. "Father is so very particular about that. I believe he thinks it is as bad as stealing. I must contrive some way to pay my bills before he finds them out; I should think they would not come to much altogether! Let me see." And she began a mental calculation, which, however, she soon abandoned, for Emily was not one to look a disagreeable truth in the face, so long as she could help it, and she could not help seeing that the amount was likely, after all, to be very considerable.

Emily Arlington was the daughter of a rich merchant in the city. Her mother died when she was only five years old, and she was committed to the charge of a maiden aunt, residing in a quiet country village,—a lady actuated by Christian motives and principles, and, therefore, disposed to do everything in her power for the spiritual and temporal welfare of her young charge.

Miss Arlington, however, was not altogether fitted by nature for the charge she had undertaken. Though remarkably sweet tempered, she was rather weak-spirited; her will was by no means a match for Miss Emily's, and she was somewhat embarrassed by the restrictions imposed upon her by her brother's somewhat peculiar ideas upon the subject of female education. One of his favorite notions was, that young children, and above all girls, should never be allowed to associate with young people of their own age. Accordingly, the little Emily was secluded like a cloistered nun, with no companions or playmates, but her doll, her aunt and the servants. Moreover, Mr. Arlington had a great horror of feminine independence, and this feeling was fully shared by his sister, who accustomed Emily never to think for herself, but to ask for direction in even the smallest matters, so that, until she was fifteen, she had never bought a pair of gloves, or chosen a plaything for herself.

At this age, her aunt died; and her father finding, not long after, that business matters imperatively required his presence in Europe, decided, after much doubt and hesitation, to send his daughter to school. Emily was accordingly placed in the establishment, and under the especial care of Mrs. Pomeroy, whose school had for a quarter of a century enjoyed the enviable reputation of turning out more finished young ladies, and first rate scholars, than any other boarding school in the country.

Mr. Arlington did not leave his daughter without much good advice, and many charges to behave herself properly. He placed in her hand a purse containing what he considered a suitable amount of pocket money, informed her that Mrs. Pomeroy would supply her with clothes and other necessaries, and took an affectionate leave, intending to set out on his journey immediately.

Emily had seen very little of her father, and that little had induced her to fear rather more than she loved him; so that she may be pardoned if she parted from him without any very strong emotion. It was with a singular mixture of feeling that she followed Mrs. Pomeroy to the dining hall, where all the members of the family, some fifty in number, were now assembled, waiting the appearance of their principal to begin the evening meal.

"A new scholar, young ladies," said Mrs. Pomeroy, as they entered, "Miss Emily Arlington, Miss Spencer; will you take Miss Arlington next you at the French table?"

Emily was at first bewildered by the number of strange faces, and could hardly collect her thoughts sufficiently to reply to the polite remarks of her neighbors, who chatted merrily among themselves, though in subdued tones, and in French, supplying a missing word now and then with its Latin or German substitute. By degrees, however, she recovered her self-possession, and began to take an interest in observing the peculiarities of the little world by which she was surrounded. The scrutiny led her upon the whole to form a favorable opinion of her future companions.

They were indeed a remarkably pretty and well-dressed set of girls, and the manners of most of them appeared agreeable and lady-like. A good many things struck her as peculiar; she wondered at the consumption of bread and butter, and bread and syrup, going on around her, and she could not help staring a little to see the young ladies who had finished their meals, produce their books or their work, while waiting for their companions.

Tea was followed by prayers in the large school-room, and Emily was much impressed by the beauty of the responsive service and the singing.

"After all," she said to herself, while preparing for bed, "I don't see why I cannot be very happy here."

Emily was so unaccustomed to the society of girls of her own age, that for some days she was nervous and embarrassed, and shrunk from their friendly advances from sheer awkwardness; but this feeling soon wore off, and before the end of a fortnight, she was on familiar terms with most of the young ladies in the hall where she lodged, and had formed something like an intimacy with two or three of them.

The first one with whom she became particularly acquainted was Lucy Spencer, a very quiet, unpretending girl, a year or two older than herself. She had been an inmate of the school for four years, and expected to remain for some time longer, and her steady good principles and perfect truthfulness made her as much a favorite with Mrs. Pomeroy and the teachers, as did her sweet temper and gentle cheerfulness with her companions. We do not pretend to say that Lucy was perfectly faultless—such girls being found only in old-fashioned story books,—but she was blessed with a naturally sunny and equable disposition, and this happy temperament was strengthened by truly Christian principles—principles which were brought to bear upon every action of her everyday life.

No one felt any hesitation, at asking a favor of Lucy, for if she felt herself obliged to refuse, it was done so gently and sweetly that it was impossible to be offended, while whatever was in her power was sure to be granted. Being in point of residence the oldest scholar in the school, it often fell to her lot to take a kind of oversight of the new pupils, and induct them into the way of the family, and thus it happened that for the first few days, Emily saw more of her than of any other girl in the house.

Mr. Arlington had made it a particular request that his daughter might have a room to herself, but this Mrs. Pomeroy had been unable to promise. Her house was full, there was but one empty room, and she was expecting another young lady very soon, so Mr. Arlington was fain to acquiesce. It was not, however, till Emily had sole possession of her room for three weeks, that her room-mate made her appearance in the person of Miss Delia Mason, who has already been introduced to our readers.

Delia was a very handsome girl, about Lucy Spencer's age, but from her style of dress and manners, appearing much older. She had lost her own mother at the age of ten years, and, in three years' time, her father was married again to a very amiable and lovely woman, who was desirous of doing everything in her power to render her husband and his daughters happy.

But Delia was one of those independent young ladies, whom it is by no means easy to render happy. She at once made up her mind her father had offered her a great insult and been guilty of the most flagrant injustice to her, in marrying again; and she had resolved from the first, not only that she would never be obedient to a step-mother, but that she would do all in her power to make a residence in the house disagreeable to the new comer.

Now the resolution to be disagreeable is one easily kept by persons of the most limited capacity, and Delia's capacity in this respect, especially, was by no means limited. That grand resource of ill-natured people—tears—was hers in no measured quantity, and for the first few days after her mother's arrival, she cried incessantly, refusing to appear at table, and acting to perfection the part of a heart-broken damsel, consoling herself meanwhile by stolen visits to cupboard and store room, and by private repast in her own apartment.

Growing weary of this vein after a while, she condescended to mingle with the rest of the family, but she still preserved a manner of the utmost coldness and disrespect to the new comer, never speaking to her if she could help it, and always addressing her as Mrs. Mason, instead of the natural and endearing title of mother, which had been easily adopted by her little sisters of four and five years old, who had at once been won by the gentle and attractive face of their new mama.

Delia had been accustomed to tyrannise over these little ones to her heart's content, treating them alternately as playthings and slaves. She was by no means pleased to see that her empire over them was likely to be entirely destroyed, and she set herself strenuously to work to defeat her step-mother's designs for their benefit. Was any indulgence forbidden them, Delia would contrive some way to give it them secretly or openly, defending herself when reproved by saying, "their mother always let them have it, and I don't see why it should be refused them by a stranger." If Mrs. Mason refused them, Delia invariably took their part, and incited them to impertinent replies and open rebellion, telling them that she was not their own mother, and they ought not to submit to be ordered about by a step-mother. Mr. Mason was away from home a great deal, and, as his wife never made a complaint, he was for some time quite unconscious of the discomfort caused her by Delia's misconduct, as well as of the injury she was doing to Rose and Celia.

It chanced after a time, however, that a slight accident confined him to the sofa for a fortnight, during which he had ample time to satisfy himself in regard to the state of things in the household.

After vainly endeavoring to convince Delia of the folly and impropriety of her conduct, and receiving no answer but tears and hysterics, he informed her at last that the comforts of the household should no longer be sacrificed to her caprices, and bade her prepare to go to a boarding school at the end of a week.

Though Delia liked nothing better, in her heart, she pretended to be greatly grieved by this sentence of banishment, as she chose to call it, and spent the intervening time in lamenting to one and another, of the circle of her mother's relatives, that she should be driven from her own father's house by the influence of a stranger, adding pathetically that her father had changed entirely toward her since he had married that artful woman. The relatives of a first wife are not apt to be too indulgent towards a second, and Delia's insinuations had their intended effect upon the minds of her aunts who were not, at best, remarkable for sense or discernment; so that she had the satisfaction of knowing, before she left, that she had added another drop to the cup of discomfort and vexation, she had prepared for a person whose whole course to her had been one of uniform kindness.

The school to which she was first sent was, unfortunately, not one in which she was likely to gain much improvement in those moral qualities wherein she was most deficient. The Classical Gymnasium, for such was its high-sounding title, was conducted upon what somebody calls the high-pressure system. With a great array of names of officers and professors, the whole care of watching over the conduct and manners of some seventy or eighty girls was left to two or three overworked and under-paid female teachers, of the sort to be obtained "cheap for cash," who were only too glad to gain a little rest for themselves, by conniving at many irregularities, to call them by no worse name, and by winking pretty hard, or shutting their eyes altogether, when the young ladies contrived to meet their friends and admirers in the Saturday afternoon shopping excursions, which formed almost their only authorized recreation.

It may be imagined that, in such an establishment, Delia was not likely greatly to improve. At the end of two years, her father became thoroughly dissatisfied, and certain correspondences of Miss Delia's coming to light, which revealed anything but a desirable set of acquaintances for a young lady, she was removed from the Classical Gymnasium, and placed in the institution of Mrs. Pomeroy, which, during the twenty-five years of its existence, had never aspired beyond the simple title of a Female Seminary, and where the old-fashioned branches of reading, writing and arithmetic still continued to be reckoned among the necessary studies.

The mental and moral atmosphere of Mrs. Pomeroy's house, was as different as possible from that of the Classical Gymnasium. No one was crowded with studies; plenty of time was allowed for recreation; the play-room being abundantly furnished with incentives to cheerful and active exercise, and the work of instruction was fairly shared among a large body of efficient and well paid teachers. There was no scrimping about the establishment. Healthy, though plain food, well-warmed rooms, and plenty of playtime, conduced to the health of the inmates, and Delia could not help drawing a very favorable contrast between the troop of alert, rosy, and wide-awake girls, who came pouring into the school-room at the hour of evening study, fresh from an hour of active and merry exercise, and the pale waxen-faced, languid looking young ladies, who assembled at the same hour in the Classical Gymnasium aforesaid, nervous and spiritless, and ready to cry at the least provocation, from sheer exhaustion.

Of course, Emily felt a good deal of curiosity about her new room-mate, and during the evening she took every opportunity of looking at her when she could do so unobserved. Delia was, as we have said, a handsome and graceful girl. Her dress, thanks to the care of her despised step-mother, was in good taste and in the latest fashion, and Emily felt rather painfully the contrast between them in this respect. Miss Arlington, her aunt, had latterly lived very much out of the world; she cared little for dress, and seldom noticed what other people wore, and consequently Emily's clothes, though good enough in quality, were two or three years behind the fashion. On the whole she was pretty well satisfied with the result of her scrutiny.

Delia on her part was no less anxious. She had her own plans and purposes to carry out. She knew that her success in some of these must depend not a little upon the character of her room-mate, and her attention was upon the alert to discover any little circumstance which might give her some insight in Emily's mind and habits.

She was not left long in the dark.

Emily had been religiously brought up, and she had been accustomed never to omit her prayers and Bible reading night and morning. The continuance of these most excellent habits had been easy enough, so long as she roomed alone, but now that she had a companion it was different. She was nervously afraid of being laughed at, and the mere suspicion that she had exposed herself to ridicule, was enough to make her miserable for a whole day. She had already made the discovery that Delia was inclined to be sarcastic, and she could not help doubting, as she caught several glimpses of her countenance during prayers, whether she had any special respect for the ordinances of religion.

The right way, of course, would have been for her to take a simple, straight-forward course, reading her Bible and saying her prayers just as usual, whereby not only would she have satisfied her own conscience, but she would also have gained the respect of her companion, for consistency is always respectable. She did no such thing, however. She could not make up her mind to face either the covert sneer or open ridicule of her room-mate, and almost for the first time in all her life, she went prayerless to bed. She tried, indeed, to snatch an opportunity of reading a few verses in her Bible when Delia was looking another way, but she shut the book hastily as she turned round, and restored it to its place, as though she had only taken it up by accident.

Delia noticed the action, and understood it perfectly.

"Pshaw!" said she to herself. "I shall have little trouble in managing her."

This might be said to be Emily's first false step in school, and she could not well have made a worse. Her situation was, at best, one of peculiar temptation and trials, coming as she did from such entire seclusion, into the midst of this busy and bustling little world, where all sorts of passions had their representatives, and thrown almost entirely upon her hitherto untried resources.

Her only safety would have been in the closest and most constant recourse to the Fountain of all strength and wisdom—strength and wisdom liberally imparted by Him who giveth and upbraideth not. From this Fountain of living waters, however, she had deliberately turned aside. She had broken her own staff, and thrown aside her only shield, and she had nothing left to protect her from the assaults of him who goeth about like a roaring lion.

In the course of a week, Emily was completely under the influence of her room-mate, with scarcely a pretense of having a mind of her own about anything. Nor was she the only one who felt the influence of the new comer. In a family of some forty girls, it may be conceived that not all were wise or well principled, and as birds of a feather proverbially flock together, Delia soon collected around her a circle of society nearly as much to her taste as that which she had left at the Classical Gymnasium. It was the height of her ambition to form a clique or party attached to her interest and governed by her influence, and in this she succeeded beyond her hopes.

These young ladies formed themselves into a secret society, as they were pleased to call it, and held their meetings with a great affectation of secrecy in each other's rooms. There the talk was mostly of beaux and dances, of successful evasions of rules, and the acquirement of forbidden indulgences, while teachers and masters, and even Mrs. Pomeroy herself, were the subject of unsparing ridicule. Emily could not help noticing, that though Delia rather encouraged this sort of talk in others, she seldom took an active part in it herself, and had once or twice put an end to it rather sharply, when it seemed to be going beyond the bounds of all propriety or decency. Indeed, she treated her constituents in all respects as subjects, and Emily often wondered at their bearing with it so patiently.

All this could hardly have escaped the vigilant eye and ear of Mrs. Pomeroy, had not her time been very much occupied by the illness of a favorite little scholar, an orphan and dependent, who, after a long time of delicate health, seemed now threatened with settled consumption.

If Kitty Mastick had never known a mother's care, she had never missed it, for Mrs. Pomeroy had been father and mother, teacher and friend to her, ever since she could remember. Her mother had been one of Mrs. Pomeroy's early pupils. She had married contrary to the wishes of her father, who had cast her off during his life, and finally died, refusing to the last to see his offending child, and positively forbidding her sister to see or hold any communication with her. Her husband was killed by an accident soon after, and the young widow was left without friends or refuge. Hearing of her desolate condition, Mrs. Pomeroy sent for her and offered her an asylum, which Mrs. Mastick thankfully accepted, hoping that she might after a while be able to be useful to her benefactress, in the capacity of a teacher of music. After the birth of little Kitty, she did indeed rally a little, but soon sunk, and died, leaving her daughter no inheritance except a remarkable talent for music, and great delicacy of constitution.

At the time our story commences, Kitty was twelve years old, but very small and slender for her age, and seemed likely soon to follow her mother to the grave. Mrs. Pomeroy, however, could not help hoping that by care and attention the predisposition to disease might be overcome, and she devoted to Kitty every moment of her spare time.

It is not to be supposed that the teachers were blind to the influence that Delia was exerting, but they saw no way of interfering with advantage, and could not help hoping that the evil would, in time, cure itself. Delia was a good scholar, she was remarkably neat and very systematic in her habits for a girl of her age, and took a certain pride in maintaining a good place in the school, so that she was in this respect rather an advantage to Emily than otherwise.

This increased Emily's dependence upon her, for she was unused to regular application, and having never been to school in her life, she found great difficulty in accommodating herself to the regular hours and exact punctuality of the establishment. This served to increase and maintain Delia's ascendancy over her. There was not, after all, however, so much difference between them as might have been imagined. Emily had religions feeling and habit, of both of which Delia was entirely destitute, but neither of them had any principle.