Miss Ashton's New Pupil — 16 - Chapters XXXI and XXXII

MARION'S LETTER FROM HOME.

Soon after the first of January, Marion received the following letter from her mother:-- "We have all been made so happy to-day, my dear child, by a letter from Miss Ashton.

She writes us how well you have been doing, and how much attached to you she has become.

All this we expected as a matter of course, but what delights and satisfies us most, is what she says of your religious influence in the school.

We knew we were sending you into an untried life, that would be full of anxieties and temptations.

With all the confidence we felt in you, we should hardly, no matter how great the literary advantages offered, have liked to put you where the character of your surroundings would have been less helpful; and to know that you, in your turn, are proving helpful to others, is indeed a great gratification.

God bless, strengthen, and keep you, my darling, through this new year, is your loving mother's prayer.

"It almost seems to me that we miss you more and more as time goes.

Phil counts the weeks now until you come home, and I found the little ones busy doing a long sum on their slates, which, when they brought to me to see if it was right, I saw was to ascertain first, how many days before you came, and then, how many hours.

Bennie told me that to-morrow they were to calculate the minutes, and then the seconds.

I suppose they have, for I see them studying the clock very often, particularly the minute hand.

"So you see how we miss and long for you at home.

"Your father is busier than ever.

He is truly a workman of whom his Master need not to be ashamed.

He keeps well and happy.

Deacon Simonds came in last night to ask him to have some extra meetings, as the Methodists were going to have an evangelist here, and might draw away people from his church; but your father said in his gentle way, 'The parish was not too large as yet for him to do all the work required, and if any of his people could be benefited by the evangelist, and should wish to unite with that church, he should wish them Godspeed.'

Then the deacon said something about the difficulty of raising the salary, which I minded more than your father.

What a good, trusting man he is!

Mrs. Hoppen ran in this noon with a large tin pan full of delicious doughnuts she had fried for us, and Hetty Sprague put two pumpkin-pies into my pantry window.

Not a day passes but we are cared for in some way.

I laugh, for it looks as if they thought now you are gone there was no one left to prepare goodies for the home.

Tim Knowles dumped a load of coal into our cellar when your father was away, then came to the kitchen door and said,-- "'Mis' Parke, you tell the parson if he'll keep up the fire of religion in the church, I'll keep it up in his study stove, and it sha'n't cost him a copper cent.

We all d'ought to have ways of sarving the Lord, and this 'ere is mine.'

Then he hurried away, without giving me a chance to even say 'Thank you.'

"Sometimes it seems to me as if our whole parish felt as if you belonged to them, and they had sent you away to school, and were to pay your expenses, they are so wonderfully kind and thoughtful of us.

Your sabbath-school class sent you their New Year's gift yesterday; I know you will value it.

Old Aunt Cutts is knitting you a pair of blue stockings; the dear old lady is taking so much comfort out of the work, that she has made them large enough for you to put both of your little feet into one;

and Kate Sanders brought me her white feather to ask me if, now you had to dress stylish, I didn't think you could make use of it.

I thanked her, and told her that you were wearing a hat so small I was sure the feather was too large for it.

I think it was quite a relief to her, for that soiled and bedraggled feather is to her still, 'the apple of her eye.'

"So, my dear parish child, you have a great burden of responsibility to carry; but your mother knows how easily and how honorably it will be borne."

Marion read this letter with a variety of feelings.

It had never been the home way to make her religious character a separate and distinct thing.

It dominated the whole home-life.

Do right, _do right_!

She had almost never been told, do not do wrong, but always do right, and this meant simply and only, be a Christian.

It was such a noble way to step upward from the beginning; not easy, oh, no, far from that, so often doing wrong in spite of precept and example, so often hesitating, until the delay weakened the power of doing right; yet so often, with hope and prayer to aid her, planting her foot firmly on the upper rung, singing as she went.

Since she had been in school her life had been so changed, such different temptations to do wrong, such different helps to do right, that she had thought little of her influence upon her companions.

The letter of her mother was almost a shock, as, for the first time, it brought up to her what she felt had been her neglect.

All these months here, and what had she ever done or said that would tell for Jesus?

Three room-mates; had she ever tried, from the first of her coming among them, to help them into a Christian life?

To be sure they had their set times for private devotions, time required by the rules, when every pupil was expected to read her Bible, if nothing more.

That they had all done, and Dorothy had "entered into her closet, and shut her door."

There could be no doubt that she had prayed to her Father which is in secret, and her Father which seeth in secret had rewarded her openly; for, often, when she came back among them, her face had been so full of sweet peacefulness.

"Dorothy's influence has been the one for good, not mine," Marion thought, with that true humility which is a Christian grace.

As for Gladys, why she was Gladys, and there was no one like her.

So generous and noble, so true and faithful; I must learn of her surely, not she of me; but Susan!

It must be confessed, that in the busy days Marion had almost forgotten Susan's dishonesty.

She did not like her, often she found it hard to be even patient, much less kind, to her, and Susan was sometimes very trying.

She could, and did, say many unkind words, "spites me," Marion said to herself; but generally bore the ill-humor pityingly, feeling sorry for a girl who could do as Susan had done.

The fact was, that while Marion did not have Susan's guilt often in her mind, Susan never forgot it when she saw Marion.

_Never_ may be too strong a word to use; but Susan was constantly uneasy in Marion's company, often positively unhappy, wishing over and over again she had never heard of "Storied West Rock," especially never, never been tempted to steal that story, and palm it off for her own.

Not a day of her life but she expected to be found out, to be disgraced before the school, perhaps to be expelled.

Poor Susan!

she is reaping now the result of her selfish lifetime ambition to be among the noted ones, to be thought of first, and treated like a heroine!

Ambition is a very laudable thing; we should all try to do our best, but never should it lead us into doing selfish, mean, dishonorable things; then it becomes a sin and not a virtue.

It was the weakness, nay, something worse, in Susan's character, as we all know, always leading her into trouble, because it was so wholly selfish.

If Marion could have reasoned all this out as we can, she would have had fewer compunctions of conscience as she sat holding her mother's letter in her hand, thinking over its contents.

It was some time before she could fully enjoy all the items of family news it contained.

Then they drew her pleasantly back to the dear home, the small parish, and the life-long friends she had left there.

Gladys had been watching her as she read the letter, amused and interested by the different phases of feeling her face showed; when she saw her fold it up, she asked,-- "What's happened, Marion?

You've looked as if you had been at a funeral, and then at a wedding, while you were reading it."

"I have--almost," and Marion could laugh now.

"Let me read you the last part of it; it is so like home."

Then Marion read them about the children's sum, and the parishioners' kindness; and Gladys, as she listened, planned how she could help Marion without her ever suspecting from whence the help came, and Dorothy thought what a different home it must be from that she had left at Rock Cove.

Marion, instead of studying her next lesson, as it was obviously her duty to do, sat with her book open before her, wondering how she could immediately enter upon a course of conduct that would give her a more enlarged and prominent religious influence.

Never once suspecting that this was a way the tempter was taking to lead her from the true self-abnegation which is so vital to a growing Christian character.

Single-eyed to God's glory!

Miss Ashton in the recitation looked at her inquiringly several times.

What could have happened, she wondered, to make Marion blunder so?

She was generally prompt, and, considering how much she had to do to keep up with her class, correct; but to-day she seemed distraught, as if her mind were anywhere but upon her recitation.

She stopped her after the lesson was finished, and asked her if she were sick; but Marion was well, nor was she, in her preoccupation, aware that Miss Ashton was not pleased.

She answered her carelessly, which increased the teacher's uneasiness, and made her ask a little sharply, "What is it, Marion?

You did badly in your recitation to-day."

"Ma'am!"

said Marion, looking at her in surprise.

"I said you made a bad recitation," repeated Miss Ashton.

"What has happened?"

Then the color grew deeper and deeper in Marion's face.

"My letter from my mother," she said, "O Miss Ashton, I am so sorry!"

"Sorry for what?

Is any one sick?"

"No, Miss Ashton; but--but--there was so much to think of in it.

I am so sorry I did badly."

Now Miss Ashton smiled.

"If that is all," she said, "I will try to forgive you.

Can't you tell me something about your home letter?

I

like to hear of them."

Then Marion poured out her whole heart, thanking her kind teacher simply and winningly for her own kind letter to the Western home, but giving no hint of the seed of evil the letter may have sown.

CHAPTER XXXII. PENITENT.

Marion's first plan in order to extend her religious influence was to get up a small prayer-meeting in her room.

To be sure, the room was shared by three others, and she had never quite gotten over the uncomfortable feeling that she was an intruder, particularly as Susan so often showed hostility to her; but a prayer-meeting surely was a thing no right-minded girl ought to object to.

Of Dorothy's approval she had no doubt.

Gladys, if she did not wish to stay, would go away without the least hesitation.

Susan!

What Susan would do, who could tell?

Knowing the need she had of a vital change in character, in order to be a Christian, Marion made no attempt to conceal from herself that her conversion alone was an object worth earnest and constant prayer; really the reward for the conquering of any diffidence she might have to overcome in instituting the meeting.

It was not an hour after she had decided upon the twelve girls she would invite, before the tempter had her in his power again.

She was planning the order of exercises for the meeting, which was as it should be; but it was not as right that she was leaping forward in her thoughts to the criticisms which the girls would make upon the part she should take, the hope that they would admire her fluency and spirituality, and say to her when they were leaving the room,-- "O Marion!

how much good you have done us!

We shall be grateful to you as long as we live."

If any one had told her that here, by this same desire for self-aggrandizement, or, to call it by its more common name of popularity, Susan had fallen, she would have been astonished indeed.

Prayer-meetings were by no means uncommon in this academy; but they were under the care of a teacher, and it was not long before the necessity of asking leave for the one in her room occurred to Marion;

but here was a difficulty!

Would not Miss Ashton ask her questions about this, which she would find difficult to answer; such as, "What made her propose it?

What did she expect to accomplish?"

If she did ask these, what could she say?

There followed another day of poor recitations, and Marion, for almost the first time since she joined the school, was undeniably cross.

By night she was sitting on the penitential stool, ashamed, tired, and full of wonder as to what had happened to her.

As is not unusual in such cases, she was inclined to blame every one but herself.

Miss Palmer had lost her patience with her because she hesitated over a difficult place in her mathematical lesson, and had snapped her up before the class; Anna Dawson had laughed at her blunder, and the whole class had most unkindly smiled.

Dorothy had put her arm around her and asked her if she was sick, when she knew there was nothing the matter with her.

Even Gladys had stopped scratching with her slate-pencil, looking at her in a way that said as plainly as words could, "What a nervous thing you are, not to bear the scratching of a pencil without wincing;" and as for Susan, tormenting as she had been on other days, she had been angelic in comparison with this.

After all, she had too much good common-sense and true religious feeling to sit upon her stool long without beneficial results.

It was nearly time for the lights to be put out before she began to see the first thing to be done was the right one; that is always sure.

Do the duty nearest to you, then those more distant fall readily into line and are easily met.

This was, to see Miss Ashton, no matter how awkward it would be to tell her that the thought of the prayer-meeting was first put into her head by Miss Ashton's letter home; that before, her religious influence had not been a thing of which she had for a moment thought, but that now she wished to make it tell.

"I'll go at once," she said to herself.

"I won't give it up because I'm a coward.

I shall not sleep a wink unless it's settled.

Life is short; death may come at any unexpected moment.

I should not like to have my Judge ask why I had not done my duty, when, perchance, I, even I, might have been a poor, weak instrument, but still an instrument, in saving a soul."

In this spirit Marion went to Miss Ashton's room, quite forgetting the lateness of the hour, and knocked timidly at the door.

Miss Ashton, wearied by her day's anxieties, did not approve of these late calls, and only answered them for fear of sickness, so it was some time before she said, "Come in."

She was not surprised to see Marion, for Miss Palmer had already reported her failure in the mathematical class; but she said kindly, "What is wrong now, Marion?

Have you had another letter from home?"

"No, Miss Ashton; it is--it was--I mean, I wanted to ask you if you had any objection to my having a prayer-meeting in my room?"

"A prayer-meeting in your room?"

repeated Miss Ashton.

"Why do you ask it?"

This was the question Marion had expected; but now, with Miss Ashton looking straight in her eyes, she hesitated to answer it.

"I thought--I hoped," she blundered at last, "that I might do more good,--might, perhaps, save Susan."

"I see," and Miss Ashton looked very grave now.

"Your mother has told you what I wrote her of your religious influence here, and you wish to increase it; but why Susan particularly?"

Now Marion found herself unexpectedly in deep waters.

If she attempted to answer this question, what disclosures she would have to make!

A

tell-tale!

A mischief-maker!

A character of all others she despised, and so did, she well knew, the whole school.

She hung her head, the color coming into her face, and the tears into her eyes.

"There is something wrong here," Miss Ashton thought, but she only said,-- "I know Dorothy is a good girl; I am very fond of Gladys; but why do you select Susan as the one in the whole school to be prayed for, or with?"

If an equivocation had been natural or easy to Marion, she might have been ready with several now, which perhaps would have satisfied Miss Ashton; but she was a straightforward, honest girl, who never in her whole life had been placed before where she hesitated what to answer;

if she had been a culprit to-night, she would hardly have looked more utterly discomfited than standing there trying to look Miss Ashton in the face.

"You do not choose to answer me," Miss Ashton said after waiting a moment.

"Very well, then, we will go back to the prayer-meetings; I think it would be unwise for you to attempt any such thing.

You might at first find a few girls who would be willing to come, but they would soon tire of it, and you would find yourself alone, unless Dorothy's kind heart made her willing to remain.

Let me tell you, my dear Marion, the best, in fact the only way for a pupil to exert a strong and lasting religious influence is by living a consistent Christian life.

What you _are_ always tells, never what you may appear.

If you are truly desirous to exert this influence, you will let your companions see it in your daily walk and conversation.

All the prayer-meetings you could have would be useless, if you yourself failed in a Christian grace.

"To be kind, loving, gentle, true, faithful in all your duties, great and small, that is what your parents and I hope for in you.

I had almost said, and I am sure you will not misunderstand me, I would rather have the influence of good recitations, strict observance of rules, lady-like behavior in all places and at all times, than a prayer-meeting in your room every night in the week.

Now it is late;

go back, and if you do not wish to tell me what is wrong with Susan, I must be all the more observant of her myself.

Good-night."

Marion said "Good-night" faintly; certainly this was a very different reception from what she had expected.

"She wants me to be perfect," she said to herself fretfully, "and she knows that I never can be;

then Susan!

What have I done?

Oh, dear!

dear!

I wish I had never thought about a prayer-meeting."

So far she had only dimly seen where her motives had been wrong, but she felt their check.

Fräulein Sausmann met her on her way to her room.

"Why, Marione!"

she said, drawing her little self erect, and trying to look very dignified, "I am astonish!

I am regret!

You am very onright.

You am to be gone to Fräulein Ashton next day and say you regret; I determine on it!

Marione, you stand-under?"

"I have just come from Miss Ashton," said Marion gravely.

"You has just come!

Very bad.

You _schlecht Fräulein_!

What you for done?"

"Nothing, Fräulein.

At least," correcting herself as she remembered Susan, "I hope nothing _schlecht_."

"You do not say right, Marione; I shame you German speak so _schlecht_."

Then the Fräulein laughed merrily, and standing on the tips of her little toes she kissed Marion on both cheeks.

The kisses went right to Marion's heart, cheered and comforted her so her face had a less troubled look as she entered her room.

Susan was sitting at the table studying, and the searching glance she gave her made the color rush into Marion's face.

"She's gone and told of me, the ugly, mean, old thing," thought Susan.

"I knew she would sooner or later.

Now I'm in for it!"

In vain she tried to fasten her attention on her book again.

Over and over the consequences of the disclosure she went with beating heart.

"Oh, if I had never, never, never done it!"

she said to herself in the helpless, hopeless way that attends a wrong action.

The short-lived celebrity the story had given her had all died away, nothing remained but this dreadful regret, and fear of what was to come.

When she saw Marion go into her bedroom, she had almost a mind to follow her and confess the truth.

Then she thought Marion knew it already, had perhaps told Miss Ashton, and a better thing to do would be to go to Miss Ashton and make the confession; to go at once, this very night, before she had a chance to tell the whole school: perhaps if she did, Miss Ashton would be merciful, would scold and forgive her.

She looked at the clock; if she made haste there would be five minutes before they must put their lights out!

Once done, what a relief it would be!

She darted from the room, not daring to trust a moment's delay; but when she reached the corridor the lights were already turned out.

All would soon be darkness, and then none were allowed to leave their rooms.

But Susan was desperate now; she knew her way down the long flights of stairs so well that she had no fear: her only thought was to reach Miss Ashton, to confess, to know her punishment, if punishment there were to be.

She flitted softly, like a ghost, through the long corridors, down the long stairs; but when she came to Miss Ashton's door her gas was turned out, and that meant she would not open her door again that night.