"Certainly; and I am going immediately to the school. You will not be admitted into the admirable school in Germany without a testimonial from your present teacher; and I am going to Miss Sherrard in order to secure one. It will, of course be merely a matter of form my asking for it, for your conduct has always been admirable—admirable in the extreme. Miss Sherrard has written to me about you from time to time, and always spoke of you with affection and admiration. She said your abilities were good; your moral character without a flaw. I will just step across to the school now, Elma; and, if you like, you can accompany me."
Elma hesitated. She did not yet know what had taken place; but when she had last seen Kitty there was a flash in her eyes the reverse of assuring. She could only hope against hope that nothing had yet taken place; that Kitty had still kept her miserable secret. If Miss Sherrard knew nothing she would of course give her an excellent character; and she herself would leave Middleton School that afternoon and forever. Then indeed she might snap her fingers at Kitty and her distress. She would be saved just at the very moment when she thought her ruin most imminent.
CHAPTER XXII
STUNNED AND COLD.
"Come, Elma, what are you looking so thoughtful about?" asked Mrs.
Steward in an impatient voice.
"Nothing, Aunt Charlotte," replied Elma, rising to her feet. "I am ready to go," she added. She sighed as she spoke.
"You must give up that unpleasant habit, my dear child. Nothing irritates me more than hearing people sigh. It always seems as if they were discontented and ungrateful to Providence. Now, what have you, for instance, to sigh about? A singularly fortunate girl, a girl who possesses an aunt who is willing to take a mother's duties upon her shoulders. If it were that wretched, vulgar Carrie now, or even my poor sister herself; but you, Elma, don't let me think that you are ungrateful to me or I wash my hands of you on the spot."
"Oh, I am nothing of the kind indeed, Aunt Charlotte," replied Elma. "I always have felt that you—you were more than good to me."
"Well, my dear that's as it should be. I honor your feelings. I often say to myself and to your uncle-in-law—remember he is not your real uncle, Elma, but your uncle-in-law, my dear husband, the rector of St. Bartholomew's—'John,' I say, 'if Elma doesn't show gratitude for all I am doing for her I shall once and for all give up the human race. I shall never again expect right feeling from any one." But of course you are grateful, Elma; you will be the comfort of my old age. You will be as my own child to me. I—I sometimes think, my dear, that when your education is finished and you are turned into a refined, highly-cultivated, highly-trained woman, I will keep you with me. You shall be my companion, my housekeeper, the one who is to read aloud to me, to sit with me in the long evenings when my sight begins to fail. My eyes do ache at times, my dear, I have thought of all that. You will be my adopted child; not that I can leave you anything in my will, but I would provide a home for you while I am left in this tabernacle of the flesh. What do you say, Elma, eh?"
"It is too soon to say anything at present," answered Elma, to whom this prospect was the reverse of charming. To live as her aunt's unsalaried companion could not be attractive to her; but she wisely concluded that sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, and she had yet to be educated and brought to that calm of spirit and strain of intellect which would satisfy Aunt Charlotte.