CHAPTER IX.

IT was some moments before Delia became composed enough to speak at all, so that Emily had time to imagine every conceivable misfortune, before she found out the real state of the case. At last Delia recovered herself by a strong effort.

"It is all useless, Emily. I can do nothing! I am entirely in his power, and must do just as he, says. Oh, why was I ever such a fool as to listen to him!"

"But how is it?" asked Emily. "I don't understand."

"You know I told you we had agreed to burn each other's letters."

Emily nodded.

"Do you believe he has kept all mine, every one of them and they are all signed with my name. He declares if I drop the correspondence now, he will publish them to all the world, and that, with other things I have done, would ruin me forever."

"I don't know what else you have done, except meeting him in the garden."

"That is enough, and more than enough for his purpose, even if it were all, but there is more than that. It is not the first time."

"The villain!" exclaimed Emily, indignantly. "He deserves to be hung!"

"You are too hard upon him, Emily. He would never have thought of it, if I had not encouraged him in the first place. He complains that I have trifled with him outrageously, which is true enough, and says I am bound to him in all honor."

"I should think there could be very little honor in such a case," said Emily, "especially as he broke his word in not destroying your letters."

"He says that he did not understand the agreement to destroy them, which may be true, and that he shall not make any use of them, unless I drive him to it. And you must remember that I have been quite as much to blame as he, and more so."

"And is there no way?" asked Emily.

"No way, but to let the matter run to its close. I have made my bed, and now I must lie upon it."

"But cannot something be done? Oh, Delia, let me tell Mrs. Pomeroy, or Mr. Fletcher! They are so kind. I am sure that you have no reason to fear them! Just think how good she was this morning!"

Delia shook her head. "You don't know. A frolic in the garden is a very different thing from such a matter as this. Besides it would lose Mr. Hugo his place, and I have no right to do that. No, Emily, you must not say one word. I wish with all my heart and soul that I had never drawn you into it. I might have been content with my own share of wickedness, without making you as bad as myself."

"You did not hurt me," said Emily. "I never had any principle. I can see it now. It was all feeling, and doing as other people did. But do let me do something for you, dear, I don't mind my own disgrace at all, if I can only help you."

"You are very kind, Emily, but it would be of no use. You would only hurt yourself, and not help me. Don't cry for me, darling, I am not worth it. Let us get ready for dinner. We have a good excuse for red eyes, that is one thing. But how pale you are. Don't you feel well?"

"No!" said Emily. "My head aches, and I have such pains in my limbs that I can hardly help screaming. I think I must have taken cold last night."

"I don't feel any the worse," said Delia, "but then I kept in motion, and you were sitting most of the time on that cold stone bench. How selfish I was! You ought to hate me, Emily, for I have done you nothing but harm ever since I knew you. I almost wish you did."

"I don't!" replied Emily. "I love you dearly, and as to going out, it was as much my fault as yours. I proposed it in the first place, when we were walking in the afternoon."

"It was all arranged long before that," said Delia, "and I should have gone at any rate. But come, there is the bell. Miss Thomas will be quite satisfied with our state of minds I think," she added, looking in the glass. "You know she always measures the girls penitence by the redness of their eyes and noses."

Emily could not laugh, as she usually did, at Delia's jests.

Delia noticed her gravity, and, said, "We may as well laugh as cry, you know, as long as we cannot help ourselves."

"I don't know that," replied Emily, "I know I don't feel very much like laughing. Oh, that pain again! It seems as though it would take my life away."

"Perhaps you will feel better after dinner." remarked Delia. "Do try to keep up, if you can. I believe I should go mad, if you should be taken seriously ill."

Emily did try, and managed to sit up till the middle of the afternoon, when she was overcome by pains and giddiness, and obliged to lie down. She made a heroic endeavor to rise when the tea bell rang, but the effort brought on such excruciating pain, that it was with much difficulty she repressed a scream.

Delia perceived that something serious was the matter, and that Emily ought to receive immediate attention. She called Mrs. Pomeroy, and Mrs. Pomeroy called the doctor, who pronounced that Miss Arlington was laboring under a severe attack of rheumatic fever.

"We must have her moved over to the sickroom before she grows so much worse as to make it impossible," said Mrs. Pomeroy to Delia, who stood by, looking the picture of misery, but perfectly silent unless spoken to. "Poor child, that moonlight walk has cost her dear."

"It has, indeed," replied Delia, bitterly, but she said no more.

The transit was not accomplished without extreme suffering upon Emily's part, and she shrieked more than once, notwithstanding her efforts at fortitude.

All that night, and for many succeeding nights and days, she suffered agonies almost beyond endurance. Her mind wandered at times, and then she talked incessantly of her home life, but curiously enough, she made no allusion to any thing which had happened at school. When her reason returned, and she found she had been wandering, she showed great anxiety and distress, and asked with much earnestness what she had talked about, but seemed relieved when she was assured that she had said nothing that any one could understand.

At last the fever was subdued, but it left her so weak that it seemed for many days as though her life hung upon a thread. Delia would gladly have devoted her whole time to nursing, but her presence seemed to excite Emily so much, that at last it was deemed best for her not to enter the room at all.

Delia wept bitterly when she heard of the prohibition, but she made no objection in words. Indeed, she did not seem to speak at all, if she could help it. All the girls noticed how sad and reserved she was, but her depression was naturally laid to the account of Emily's danger and suffering.

"How much feeling Delia shows," said Belle Faushane, one day, to Alice Parker. "I never before gave her credit for caring for any one but herself. It shows how wrong it is to judge any one so severely."

"Delia is very different from what she used to be," observed Alice. "I should not wonder if Emily's loss should be the means of her conversion."

"Her loss—what do you mean?" asked Belle, startled. "You don't think Emily is going to die?"

"I believe she will," said Alice. "I was in to see her a moment this afternoon, and I never saw any one look more like it. She is so weak that she cannot speak above a whisper, and I do not see that she gains at all."

"But the fever is subdued," argued Belle, "and that is the great thing. I heard Dr. J. tell Mrs. Pomeroy that he was very much encouraged about her."

"Doctors always say so," said Alice, "so that is nothing. For my part, if I were in her place, I would rather it should be so than not. I am sure there is very little in this world worth living for," she added, sighing as usual,—"nothing but sin and sorrow and all sorts of trials—there is nothing to tempt one to stay here longer than one can help."

"Well I don't know!" said Belle. "I think there is a good deal about it that is pleasant too—at least I should suppose there ought to be."

"Ought to be!" repeated Alice. "Why?"

"Who made the world?" asked Belle gravely.

"God made the world of course," was the reply, "nobody doubts that."

"And He orders all things in it, and arranges all its affairs and ours, according to the counsel of his wisdom and goodness—in other words by His Providence.—Does he?"

"Certainly," replied Alice. "What of it?"

"A good deal of it, I think," said Belle. "If God made the world and all things in it, he must have made it as He thought right, and I should think what was good enough for Him, ought to be good enough for you."

Alice looked a little startled by this view of the case. "But you cannot deny there are a great many trials in this life!"

"I don't wish to deny it," replied Belle. "God sends us trials and cares no doubt, but it is because they are needful for us, and we ought to take them in that way."

"It is easy for one to talk who has never suffered," said Alice. "You don't know any thing about trouble, Belle."

"That does not affect the argument," said Belle. "Either He sends us sorrow because it is good for us, or He does not. The Bible says that all things work together for good to them that love Him, and if that is true, and I suppose you won't dispute it, it appears to me that when God gives us a lesson, we ought to learn it cheerfully, even though it is a pretty hard one, and not fret over it, like Almira Crosby over a French verb."

"I don't mean to distrust God," said Alice, somewhat vexed, "and I don't think I do. I am sure if I am willing to entrust Him with my eternal salvation—"

"You ought to be willing to trust Him with your temporal prosperity," interrupted Belle, finishing the sentence for her. "I think so too; but it appears to me that in the view you take of life, you seem to say in effect, that you are willing to trust God to dispose of the concerns of eternity, but as for those of time, you would prefer to manage them yourself. But I don't think that is very consistent either, for if you don't like His arrangements here, it is very possible that you may not like them any better in Heaven; so that you have no better prospect than that of going on fretting to all eternity."

Alice seemed a good deal struck with this view of the case, but she said again: "You don't know how I am situated, Belle."

"I know that your situation is an uncomfortable and difficult one," replied Belle, "but then I know too that God placed you there, and I don't imagine that He would have done so, unless He had had some work in that particular place which you could do better than anyone else. I don't believe He makes any mistakes in His appointments."

"I am sure I never found out what it was," observed Alice rather peevishly.

"Perhaps you never tried," said Belle.

Alice looked rather hurt. "What should you say was my work," she asked.

"I should say part of it was to cultivate a cheerful temper, and try to make your religion attractive by that means," replied Belle. "What use is there in your talking to the girls about the power of religion to make them happy, when they see you crying half the time, and moping the other half? I think they may be excused for not believing it, when they have such an example before their eyes. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Alice, but I must say I think your continued low spirits are a reproach to the cause you advocate, as well as a great injury to yourself. I dare say Lucy would have said all this a great deal better than I have done, but it is true, and I think you will see it so if you give it a little consideration."

The days wore on, and Emily improved slowly, and grew able to be moved without pain, and then to sit up a little, and be amused with reading or conversation for a little while at a time. The girls were only too ready to give her their company, and Mrs. Pomeroy was obliged to make a law that no more than two should be admitted at once. Lucy and Belle were perhaps the most frequent visitors, next to Delia, who now spent some hours of every day with her.

Belle's prattle was always amusing, and she was the first person who succeeded in making Emily laugh. Lucy's sweet cheerfulness brought sunshine every where, so it is no wonder that she was a desirable visitor in the sick room. Delia's depression instead of lightening with the progress of her friend's recovery, seemed to grow deeper and deeper every day. She would read aloud to Emily for hours, but she seldom spoke unless she was directly addressed, and then she would converse only on the most indifferent topics. Yet her affection for Emily seemed undiminished, and she never parted from her without a kiss and embrace as passionate as though she never expected to see her again.

Mr. Fletcher had returned Mr. Hugo his book with an expression of disgust which seemed to surprise and rather amuse the learned Professor.

"What harm, mon ami? It is not perhaps exactly the book one would circulate among the young ladies, though I believe the sweet darlings are not all such innocent angels, either,—but it is a choice book for all that, and will not harm either you or me."

"I do not agree with you," answered Mr. Fletcher coldly. "Such moral pitch cannot be touched by any one without danger of defilement. I profess no immunity from such contagion."

"Eh bien! What signify these grand airs of virtue when we are by ourselves?" asked Mr. Hugo contemptuously. "Better to keep them for Madam's benefit."

Mr. Fletcher looked at the gentleman as though he were resisting a strong impulse to turn him out of the room, but he made no response. And Mr. Hugo, finding that he was not invited to sit down, departed, muttering between his teeth, something which did not sound like a compliment. Mr. Fletcher walked up and down his room for some time, apparently deep in thought, and then taking his hat and cane, and whistling to Grip, he went out, and took his way straight to the telegraph office, where he remained for a considerable time.

It was now the first week in April, and Emily was so far recovered as to be able to sit up part of the day, and had taken two or three little walks from the bed to her chair, and from her chair to the window, though she still could not step without assistance. Mrs. Pomeroy and the Doctor prophesied that she would be about again, before warm weather came on, and she herself began to be encouraged and hopeful, and to form plans about commencing her studies by little and little. She had been talking over all these matters with Delia one afternoon, or rather she had been talking and Delia listening, for she seemed to have given up conversation altogether herself.

"Mrs. Pomeroy says I may begin to read a little Latin with Mr. Fletcher to-morrow, and that you may come and read with me, instead of going into class. Won't it be nice to have him all to ourselves?"

"Very!" replied Delia compelling herself to attend, as Emily seemed to wait for an answer. "Mrs. Pomeroy is always kind. I only wish I had made her a better return for all her goodness."

"But I am sure you have been very good lately," said Emily. "Mrs. Pomeroy said herself that she had never seen any one improve more. She said she only wished she could see you in better spirits, and that she must talk with you, and find out what the matter was. Oh, Delia, if you would only tell her the whole story!"

"I do wish with all my heart I had done so at the time you were taken sick," said Delia. "I came very near it, and if there had been no one but myself to suffer, I believe I should have ventured it. But I thought he would lose his place and be left without resources. Let me give you one piece of advice, Emily, perhaps it is the last, I may over give you, and I should like to think I had done one good thing for you. When you see your duty, go straight-forward and do it, without stopping to calculate the consequences, and don't tell a lie, to save yourself from any danger or trouble. Straight-forward, is the only right way."

There was something in Delia's manner which startled Emily very much, and she was just about asking a question, when two or three of the girls came in with their hands full of early wild flowers, all eager to give Emily an account of the "splendid ramble" Mr. Fletcher had given them, and Delia slipped out without giving an opportunity for any more conversation. But the words and the tone in which they were uttered recurred to Emily's mind many times during the day.

She could not help feeling that matters were drawing towards some great catastrophe, and she resolved to make at least one more effort to induce Delia at least to try to escape from the toils in which she seemed to think herself so hopelessly involved.

Emily was now so much better that it was not thought necessary for any one to sleep in the room with her, and as she was rather nervous and easily disturbed, she preferred to be alone at night. This particular night she felt wakeful and thoughtful. The wind blew, and the rain dashed against the windows, bringing vividly back to her mind the night of the thunder storm—the last evening but one that she had been in the school-room. How long ago it seemed!

Since then she had been near to death's door, and God had mercifully spared her—spared her she hoped, to repentance and reformation. She had fully made up her mind, to make a full confession of her own fault, whatever might be the consequences, and she had only delayed, hoping to persuade Delia to join her. She felt more than ever the truth of the remark she had made to Delia, before her illness, namely, that she had never possessed any religious principles. Feelings she had had in abundance, but no settled rules of action.

She prayed earnestly for guidance—for forgiveness for the past and strength for the future—above all for poor Delia, whom she loved more tenderly than ever.

It was growing late, and the storm seemed subsiding, when she thought she heard some one moving about the house. She raised herself upon her elbow and listened. Some one was already walking very gently through the long hall. Probably Mrs. Pomeroy had come out to see that all the windows were closed before retiring herself. She sank down upon her pillow again, and prepared to compose herself to rest, when the door opened, and some one entered the room, closing it after her with great care, as though she feared to be overheard.

It was Delia! She was deadly pale, except a little spot of red in each cheek. She wore her travelling dress and bonnet and a thick veil, and carried a satchel on her arm. She came to the bed-side and kissed Emily, who was at first too much paralyzed with wonder and fear to speak. But as Delia turned to depart, she found words, and catching her dress to detain her, she gasped rather than spoke:

"What does this mean? Where are you going at this time of night, and in this storm?"

"I am going to my fate, whatever it is," replied Delia in a whisper which had more of despair in its tones than many a shrill scream of anguish. "I have risked a great deal to see you once more, but I felt that I must bid you good-bye. You may tell Mrs. Pomeroy every thing to-morrow. I have left a letter for her on my table, and something for you. God bless you, Emily, whatever becomes of me." She kissed Emily again, and would have gone, but Emily still held her.

"But what—what is it?"

"I am going to be married to Mr. Hugo. We shall leave here in the twelve o'clock train. I will write to you from the first stopping place."

She forcibly extricated her dress from Emily's grasp, and as the door closed behind her, Emily sank back insensible. How long she remained so she did not know, but she recovered her senses at last, and collecting her thoughts with a desperate effort, she turned up the gas, and looked at her watch. It wanted yet ten minutes to twelve, but she knew that the railroad time was faster than hers, and the train might be—probably was—already gone.

No matter! There was a chance, a bare chance it was true, but still a chance of saving her friend, and she must try it at all hazards. She must call Mrs. Pomeroy, and tell her the whole story. As she came to this resolution, she fancied she heard the whistle of the train, and without stopping to put on even her shoes, she ran through the halls and knocked at Mrs. Pomeroy's door.

Mrs. Pomeroy was up, and she opened the door at the first summons, greatly wondering who beside herself could be awake at this hour, for she generally out-watched every one in the house but Mr. Fletcher. Her astonishment was changed to terror, as she beheld Emily bare-footed and in her night-dress—as she said afterward, it was the nearest she had ever come to seeing a ghost.

"Good heavens, my child, what is the matter?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, Mrs. Pomeroy, save Delia!" was the burned reply. "Do not stop a moment, or it will be too late. Never mind me. Oh, do go!" she repeated in agony.

"But what is it, love? You must have been dreaming. Delia has been safe in bed these two hours."

"No, no!" replied Emily, exerting herself to speak intelligibly, as she saw that she was not understood. "She has gone away with Mr. Hugo. She came to bid me good-bye, and he was waiting for her outside. I heard him whistle. I know she did not want to go, but she was afraid of him. I will tell you all about it, but oh, do hurry! There may be time."

Mrs. Pomeroy could think faster than about any person in the world, and her calmness increased always in proportion to the emergency. "Delia must be saved, and if possible without exposure," that was her first idea. The next thought was for Emily. She took her up like an infant and laid her in her own bed, and having partially calmed her by a hasty assurance that all should be well, she descended to seek Mr. Fletcher, who was famous for keeping late hours, and whom she expected to find ready dressed. There was a light burning in his rooms, which opened upon the piazza, and Grip was lying upon the sofa, but Mr. Fletcher was not there, and his cap and cloak were no where to be seen. He had evidently gone out.

"Just like him!" said the good lady much disappointed and vexed. "A storm that would keep any other man within doors only seems to offer him an additional inducement to go out. What shall I do now?"

Even as she spoke however, she heard his step on the wet gravel and hastened to the door to meet him. But we must now follow our fugitives.

Delia sat alone in the large empty waiting room at the station, closely veiled, and shrinking from observation every time the only official person then about the establishment cast his eyes towards her. The misgivings had grown more and more intense ever since she left the house, and her feelings now amounted almost to agony, but she saw no escape, for even if she should insist upon returning to the house, she could not get in, as she had fastened behind her the door from which she had made her escape, nor was it very likely that Mr. Hugo would permit her to do so. He had treated her harshly more than once of late, and given way to such fits of rage, as made her tremble before him. She had not consented to the elopement without a severe struggle, and she would have given her right hand to be able to retreat, but it seemed now too late.

Mr. Hugo, who had been talking to the man in the ticket office now returned to her, looking anything but well pleased.

"The train is behind time, Delia," said he. "There has been an accident, and it will not be here for three or four hours—perhaps not till morning. Ah, ma chere, when we are once in France, I will show you very different arrangements from these. But we can never wait that length of time."

"Oh let us go back!" said Delia complainingly. "Let us give it up."

"It is rather too late for that, my timid beauty," returned her companion with a smile, which certainly did not add much to the attractiveness of his features. "Even if you care for nothing else, you must remember that I have risked much for your sake, and I am not likely to give up my prize now that have it fairly in my hands. No, we will not give it up, but we will procure a carriage, and go on to the next station, where we can wait in comparative safety. I go to seek one. Meantime you will remain here. I have told our friend in the office that you are a lady slightly insane, whom I am conveying to her friends, so he will have an eye to your safety."

He smiled again and departed, leaving Delia overwhelmed with terror and despair. She thought at first that she would run home at all hazards, but she saw the baggage master watching her, and she dared not attempt it. He believed her insane, and even if she told him her story, he would not believe her. She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears of agony, but at that moment, a strong hand was laid on her arm, and a familiar voice said, "Delia!"

She looked up in amazement. There stood Mr. Fletcher, wrapped in his long dark cloak, his black hair dripping with the rain, and his eyes like blazing fires!

"Delia," he repeated, "what are you doing here?"

Delia had once feared Mr. Fletcher more than any other living being, but now he seemed to her like an angel sent from Heaven to her rescue.

She threw herself at his feet, and exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Fletcher, save me, take me home!"

Mr. Fletcher raised her without a word, drew her shawl around her, and taking her arm within his, prepared to leave the room, when the baggage master interfered—"What's the case, Mr. Fletcher? Anything wrong? The French gentleman said the lady was crazy."

"The French gentleman is a scoundrel, and you may tell him I say so," was Mr. Fletcher's reply. "This lady is under my protection, and you know me."

"All right!" returned the baggage master, as if it were all in the ordinary course of business. "I am glad you came in, for I had begun to suspect something wrong. One of the seminary girls, I suppose," he continued to himself, as the pair left the room. "The rascal! I should like to give him a thrashing myself."

In about ten minutes, Mr. Hugo returned. His surprise and wrath at finding Delia gone, may be imagined.

[Illustration: "Oh! Mr. Fletcher, save me!"]

"Where is the lady, sir?" he asked in rather a threatening manner, approaching the baggage master, who was a herculean fellow, with a clear blue eye, and that peculiar coolness of manner which is rather apt to characterize railroad men. "What has become of the lady?"

"The crazy lady?" asked the other, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows, but without removing his hands from his pockets. "She might have stepped into the other room. You can see if you like."

Mr. Hugo opened the door, but no lady was there, and he returned more wrathful than ever.

"Where is the lady?" he reiterated, absolutely foaming with rage. "What have you done with her?"

"Mr.," said Mr. Brown, "I hav'nt done anything with her myself, but a gentleman of my acquaintance called and took her away. She seemed glad enough to go, poor thing. He said it was all right, and left a message to you."

"What message, you villain?" demanded the enraged Frenchman.

"He said you were a scoundrel," said Mr. Brown, adding an expletive which certainly Mr. Fletcher had never made use of, "and I am much of that opinion myself."

Mr. Hugo shook his fist in the man's face.

The baggage master took his hands out of his pockets, and in another moment, the professor found himself sprawling on his face in a mud puddle outside the station room door.

Meantime Mr. Fletcher pursued his way homeward, walking rapidly and almost carrying Delia, who could scarcely support herself, and stumbled continually. He did not speak, except to encourage her as she looked back evidently in deadly fear of being pursued. Her hands grew lighter, as the distance between them and the station increased, and when they reached the seminary gate she felt comparatively safe.

"We will go in at my door, and I will take you directly to Mrs. Pomeroy's room," said he as he helped her up the steps. "We must save you from any exposure if possible." He prepared to open the door as he spoke, but Mrs. Pomeroy saved him the trouble.

"I bring you a stray lamb!" was his greeting. "A repentant wanderer, I hope, since she has come back of her own accord. Let us thank God for all His mercies. A little moment longer and I should have been too late."