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.