Carrie.—“I can’t endure that Clara Forest. She puts on such airs of dignity and general superiority. Why, here she comes! I hope she didn’t hear me.”
Clara approached, reading aloud, but in a low monotone, from a little book. She did not notice the trio until close upon them. They greeted her kindly; and Carrie, who a moment before could not “endure” her, was specially sweet in her manner. But we should not be too severe upon Carrie’s hypocrisy. Most of us have been guilty of the same inconsistency in one or another form. These were all nice girls, aye, and bright girls too, naturally, despite their opinions upon algebra and geometry. When we consider the paucity of conditions for high culture that young women may command, we should wonder, not that they are so frivolous, but that they so often rise above the petty ambitions of fashionable life.
Clara passed on, after a few pleasant words, and sat down in a quiet nook to finish her book. It was the Jaques of George Sand; and as she read on she was deeply moved by the masterly rendering of the hopeless passion of the hero, and especially by his heroic sacrifice to his wife. Being thoroughly absorbed by her reflections and emotions, she did not hear the light step of Miss Marston, her favorite teacher, who came and sat down beside her.
“My dear, what have you been reading?” she asked. Clara handed her the book frankly, knowing well it would not be approved, for George Sand was one of the tabooed authors in Stonybrook.
“I am grieved to find you reading such books, Miss Forest,” said the teacher, looking very gravely at the pupil. Miss Marston’s home was in a town near Oakdale, and she had known Dr. Forest by reputation quite well. She knew of his omnivorous literary tastes, and was wondering if his daughter had not possibly inherited them.
Clara answered, looking straight in Miss Marston’s clear brown eyes, “I am sorry you are grieved—very sorry; but I cannot see why such a book as this should be classed with those unfit to be read.” And she blushed deeply, as girls will from a thousand different emotions.
“See how you blush while you say it,” said Miss Marston, in a tone of real severity.
“I blush at everything,” replied Clara, angry at the weakness; “but I would not say what I do not think—most certainly I would not to you.”
“Where did you obtain this book?”
“One of the students lent it to me.”