The tumult in Emily's mind maybe better imagined than described. At one moment she thought she would confess, at all hazards. Then came the thought of all the train of consequences which Delia had set before her. Mrs. Pomeroy's anger—the stern wrath of her father, of whose uncompromising temper she had already had some experience, and who would feel himself involved in her disgrace—the contempt of her schoolmates, with whom she had always been a favorite, and the loss of the good opinion of Mr. Fletcher—all these lay in her way. What a despicable hypocrite they would think her, especially after her late religious professions!
How Almira Crosby, and Sue Dayton, and all that set of girls would triumph, not only over her, but over Lucy and Belle, and all the religious girls in the school. There would be some reason in what they were always saying—that after all, people were no better for being so pious. The cause of true religion in the school would receive a wound, through her fault, from which it might be years in recovering. Would it not be better, if only upon that account, to conceal the matter, even though such a concealment involved the necessity of a certain complicity in Delia's designs, which, after all, might never come to any thing?
Delia was not the only one in the school who did such things. There was Jane Emmons—she corresponded all last term with a young gentleman she had never seen, sending her letters in those of his sister, and all the girls knew she did, but nothing came of it, and Almira Crosby had almost always some love affair in hand. Delia was shrewd enough, and would keep herself from disgrace, and suppose she did marry Mr. Hugo, what harm would there be in that? A great many people married teachers. Mrs. Pomeroy's own niece had done so, and every one thought it a fine thing for her. Besides, Delia was so determined, that she would have her own way at any rate, so that by interfering she probably would succeed in ruining herself, without saving her friends.
And then came the bitter reflection that she had indeed no proof of her assertions, while Delia had plenty of them. Who would believe a thief and a convicted liar?
Then, after all, something might turn up. Delia or Mr. Hugo might go away, or she might leave school herself—her father might send her some money, or perhaps—she shuddered at the idea that she could find relief in such a supposition—perhaps he might never return. Was it not better to run the chances of concealment, rather than those of exposure?
Was it not better, at least, to wait? At any rate, she did not see that she could do any thing else at present, but accede to Delia's proposition, and by and by she might take advantage of some favorable time and set the matter right, so far as it was now possible to do so. By confessing at present, she could do nothing but harm to herself, to Delia, and the cause of religion. She should leave school some time, and then she could write to Mrs. Pomeroy, tell the whole story, and enclose the money. At present she could only keep silence.
The twelve o'clock bell rang as she came to this conclusion, and Delia closed her book and turned round.
"Well, Emily!"
"I don't see what I can do, except to follow your advice," said Emily. "I have no choice. But oh, Delia, don't ask me to do any thing else that is wrong! I have sins enough upon my conscience already."
"I have not asked you to do any thing, except to keep silence," returned Delia. "All the rest I can manage myself. You are not obliged to know any more than I choose to tell you, and if I want you to give me any active help, I will be sure to contrive matters so that no harm shall happen to you."