Chapter Eleven.
What Was Found In The School-Desk.
The next morning, when the whole school were assembled, and all the classes were getting ready for the real work of the day, Miss Good, the English teacher, stepped to the head of the room, and, holding a neatly bound volume of “Jane Eyre” in her hand, begged to know to whom it belonged. There was a hush of astonishment when she held up the little book, for all the girls knew well that this special volume was not allowed for school literature.
“The house maid who dusts the school-room found this book on the floor,” continued the teacher. “It lay beside a desk near the top of the room. I see the name has been torn out, so I cannot tell who is the owner. I must request her, however, to step forward and take possession of her property. If there is the slightest attempt at concealment, the whole matter will be laid before Mrs Willis at noon to-day.”
When Miss Good had finished her little speech, she held up the book in its green binding and looked down the room.
Hester did not know why her heart beat—no one glanced at her, no one regarded her; all eyes were fixed on Miss Good, who stood with a severe, unsmiling, but expectant face.
“Come, young ladies,” she said, “the owner has surely no difficulty in recognising her own property. I give you exactly thirty seconds more; then, if no one claims the book, I place the affair in Mrs Willis’s hands.”
Just then there was a stir among the girls in the head class. A tall girl in dove-coloured cashmere, with a smooth head of golden hair, and a fair face which was a good deal flushed at this moment, stepped to the front, and said in a clear and perfectly modulated voice—
“I had no idea of concealing the fact that ‘Jane Eyre’ belongs to me. I was only puzzled for a moment to know how it got on the floor. I placed it carefully in my desk last night. I think this circumstance ought to be inquired into.”
“Oh! oh!” came from several suppressed voices here and there through the room; “whoever would have supposed that Dora Russell would be obliged to humble herself in this way?”
“Attention, young ladies!” said Miss Good; “no talking, if you please. Do I understand, Miss Russell, that ‘Jane Eyre’ is yours?”
“Yes, Miss Good.”
“Why did you keep it in your desk—were you reading it during preparation?”
“On, yes, certainly.”
“You are, of course, aware that you were breaking two very stringent rules of the school. In the first place, no story-books are allowed to be concealed in a school-desk, or to be read during preparation. In the second place, this special book is not allowed to be read at any time in Lavender House. You know these rules, Miss Russell?”
“Yes, Miss Good.”
“I must retain the book—you can return now to your place in class.”
Miss Russell bowed sedately, and with an apparently unmoved face, except for the slightly deepened glow on her smooth cheek, resumed her interrupted work.
Lessons went off as usual, but during recreation the mystery of the discovered book was largely discussed by the girls. As is the custom of school-girls, they took violent sides in the matter—some rejoicing in Dora’s downfall, some pitying her intensely. Hester was, of course, one of Miss Russell’s champions, and she looked at her with tender sympathy when she came with her haughty and graceful manner into the school-room, and her little heart beat with a vague hope that Dora might turn to her for sympathy.
Dora, however, did nothing of the kind. She refused to discuss the affair with her companions, and none of them quite knew what Mrs Willis said to her, or what special punishment was inflicted on the proud girl. Several of her school-fellows expected that Dora’s drawing-room would be taken away from her, but she still retained it; and after a few days the affair of the book was almost forgotten.
There was, however, an uncomfortable and an uneasy spirit abroad in the school. Susan Drummond, who was certainly one of the most uninteresting girls in Lavender House, was often seen walking with and talking to Miss Forest. Sometimes Annie shook her pretty head over Susan’s remarks; sometimes she listened to her; sometimes she laughed and spoke eagerly for a moment or two, and appeared to acquiesce in suggestions which her companion urged.
Annie had always been the soul of disorder—of wild pranks, of naughty and disobedient deeds—but, hitherto, in all her wildness she had never intentionally hurt any one but herself. Hers was a giddy and thoughtless, but by no means a bitter tongue—she thought well of all her school-fellows—and on occasions she could be self-sacrificing and good-natured to a remarkable extent. The girls of the head class took very little notice of Annie, but her other school-companions, as a rule, succumbed to her sunny, bright, and witty ways. She offended them a hundred times a day, and a hundred times a day was forgiven. Hester was the first girl in the third-class who had ever persistently disliked Annie and Annie, after making one or two overtures of friendship, began to return Miss Thornton’s aversion; but she had never cordially hated her until the day they met in Cecil Temple’s drawing-room and Hester had wounded Annie in her tenderest part by doubting her affection for Mrs Willis.
Since that day there was a change very noticeable in Annie Forest—she was not so gay as formerly, but she was a great deal more mischievous—she was not nearly so daring, but she was capable now of little actions slight in themselves, which yet were calculated to cause mischief and real unhappiness. Her sudden friendship with Susan Drummond did her no good, and she persistently avoided all intercourse with Cecil Temple, who hitherto had influenced her in the right direction.
The incident of the green book had passed with no apparent result of grave importance, but the spirit of mischief which had caused this book to be found was by no means asleep in the school. Pranks were played in a most mysterious fashion with the girls’ properties.
Hester herself was the very next victim. She too was a neat and orderly child—she was clever and thoroughly enjoyed her school work. She was annoyed, therefore, and dreadfully puzzled, by discovering one morning that her neat French exercise-book was disgracefully blotted, and one page torn across. She was severely reprimanded by Mdlle. Perier for such gross untidiness and carelessness, and when she assured the governess that she knew nothing whatever of the circumstance, that she was never guilty of blots, and had left the book in perfect order the night before, the French lady only shrugged her shoulders, made an expressive gesture with her eyebrows, and plainly showed Hester that she thought the less she said on that subject the better.
Hester was required to write out her exercise again, and she fancied she saw a triumphant look in Annie Forest’s eyes as she left the school-room, where poor Hester was obliged to remain to undergo her unmerited punishment.
“Cecil,” called Hester, in a passionate and eager voice, as Miss Temple was passing her place.
Cecil paused for a moment.
“What is it, Hetty?—oh, I am so sorry you must stay in this lovely bright day.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” said Hester; “I never blotted this exercise-book; I never tore this page. It is most unjust not to believe my word; it is most unjust to punish me for what I have not done.”
Miss Temple’s face looked puzzled and sad.
“I must not stay to talk to you now, Hester,” she whispered; “I am breaking the rules. You can come to my drawing-room by-and-by, and we will discuss this matter.”
But Hester and Cecil, talk as they would, could find no solution to the mystery. Cecil absolutely refused to believe that Annie Forest had anything to do with the matter.
“No,” she said, “such deceit is not in Annie’s nature. I would do anything to help you, Hester; but I can’t, and I won’t, believe that Annie tried deliberately to do you any harm.”
“I am quite certain she did,” retorted Hester, “and from this moment I refuse to speak to her until she confesses what she has done and apologises to me. Indeed, I have a great mind to go and tell everything to Mrs Willis.”
“Oh, I would not do that,” said Cecil; “none of your school-fellows would forgive you if you charged such a favourite as Annie with a crime which you cannot in the least prove against her. You must be patient, Hester, and if you are, I will take your part, and try to get at the bottom of the mystery.”
Cecil, however, failed to do so. Annie laughed when the affair was discussed in her presence, but her clear eyes looked as innocent as the day, and nothing would induce Cecil to doubt Miss Forest’s honour.
The mischievous sprite, however, who was sowing such seeds of unhappiness in the hitherto peaceful school was not satisfied with two deeds of daring; for a week afterwards Cecil Temple found a book of Mrs Browning’s, out of which she was learning a piece for recitation, with its cover half torn off, and, still worse, a caricature of Mrs Willis sketched with some cleverness and a great deal of malice on the title-page. On the very same morning, Dora Russell, on opening her desk, was seen to throw up her hands with a gesture of dismay. The neat composition she had finished the night before was not to be seen in its accustomed place, but in a corner of the desk were two bulky and mysterious parcels, one of which contained a great junk of rich plum-cake, and the other some very sticky and messy “Turkish delight;” while the paper which enveloped these luxuries was found to be that on which the missing composition was written. Dora’s face grew very white—she forgot the ordinary rules of the school, and, leaving her class, walked down the room, and interrupted Miss Good, who was beginning to instruct the third-class in English grammar.
“Will you please come and see something in my desk, Miss Good?” she said in a voice which trembled with excitement.
It was while she was speaking that Cecil found the copy of Mrs Browning mutilated, and with the disgraceful caricature on its title-page. Startled as she was by this discovery, and also by Miss Russell’s extraordinary behaviour, she had presence of mind enough to hide the sight which pained her from her companions. Unobserved, in the strong interest of the moment, for all the girls were watching Dora Russell and Miss Good, she managed to squeeze the little volume into her pocket. She had indeed received a great shock, for she knew well that the only girl who could caricature in the school was Annie Forest. For a moment her troubled eyes sought the ground, but then she raised them and looked at Annie. Annie, however, with a particularly cheerful face, and her bright dark eyes full of merriment, was gazing in astonishment at the scene which was taking place in front of Miss Russell’s desk.
Dora, whose enunciation was very clear, seemed to have absolutely forgotten herself; she disregarded Miss Good’s admonitions, and declared stoutly that at such a moment she did not care what rules she broke. She was quite determined that the culprit who had dared to desecrate her composition, and put plum-cake and “Turkish delight” into her desk, should be publicly exposed and punished.
“The thing cannot go on any longer, Miss Good,” she said; “there is a girl in this school who ought to be expelled from it, and I for one declare openly that I will not submit to associate with a girl who is worse than unladylike. If you will permit me, Miss Good, I will carry these things at once to Mrs Willis, and beg of her to investigate the whole affair, and bring the culprit to justice, and to turn her out of the school.”
“Stay, Miss Russell,” exclaimed the English teacher, “you strangely and completely forget yourself. You are provoked. I own, but you have no right to stand up and absolutely hoist the flag of rebellion in the faces of the other girls. I cannot excuse your conduct. I will myself take away these parcels which were found in your desk, and will report the affair to Mrs Willis. She will take what steps she thinks right in bringing you to order, and in discovering the author of this mischief. Return instantly to your desk, Miss Russell; you strangely forget yourself.”
Miss Good left the room, having removed the plum-cake and “Turkish delight” from Dora Russell’s desk, and lessons continued as best they could under such exciting circumstances.
At twelve o’clock that day, just as the girls were preparing to go up to their rooms to get ready for their usual walk, Mrs Willis came into the school-room.
“Stay one moment, young ladies,” said the head-mistress in that slightly vibrating and authoritative voice of hers. “I have a word or two to say to you all. Miss Good has just brought me a painful story of wanton and cruel mischief. There are fifty girls in this school, who, until lately, lived happily together. There is now one girl among the fifty whose object it is to sow seeds of discord and misery among her companions. Miss Good has told me of three different occasions on which mischief has been done to different girls in the school. Twice Miss Russell’s desk has been disturbed, once Miss Thornton’s. It is possible that other girls may also have suffered who have been noble enough not to complain. There is, however, a grave mischief, in short, a moral disease in our midst. Such a thing is worse than bodily illness—it must be stamped out instantly and completely at the risk of any personal suffering. I am now going to ask you, girls, a simple question, and I demand instant truth without any reservation. Miss Russell’s desk has been tampered with—Miss Thornton’s desk has been tampered with. Has any other girl suffered injury—has any other girl’s desk been touched?”
Mrs Willis looked down the long room—her voice had reached every corner, and the quiet, dignified, and deeply-pained expression in her fine eyes was plainly visible to each girl in the school. Even the little ones were startled and subdued by the tone of Mrs Willis’s voice, and one or two of them suddenly burst into tears. Mrs Willis paused for a full moment, then she repeated her question.
“I insist upon knowing the exact truth, my dear children,” she said gently but with great decision.
“My desk has also been tampered with,” said Miss Temple in a low voice.
Every one started when Cecil spoke, and even Annie Forest glanced at her with a half-frightened and curious expression. Cecil’s voice indeed was so low, so shaken with doubt and pain, that her companions scarcely recognised it.
“Come here, Miss Temple,” said Mrs Willis.
Cecil instantly left her desk and walked up the room.
“Your desk has also been tampered with, you say?” repeated the head-mistress.
“Yes, madam.”
“When did you discover this?”
“To-day, Mrs Willis.”
“You kept it to yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Will you now repeat in the presence of the school, and in a loud enough voice to be heard by all here, exactly what was done?”
“Pardon me,” answered Cecil, and now her voice was a little less agitated and broken, and she looked full into the face of her teacher, “I cannot do that.”
“You deliberately disobey me, Cecil?” said Mrs Willis.
“Yes, madam.”
Mrs Willis’s face flushed—she did not, however, look angry—she laid her hand on Cecil’s shoulder and looked full into her eyes.
“You are one of my best pupils, Cecil,” she said tenderly. “At such a moment as this honour requires you to stand by your mistress. I must insist on your telling me here and now exactly what has occurred.”
Cecil’s face grew whiter and whiter.
“I cannot tell you,” she murmured; “it breaks my heart, but I cannot tell you.”
“You have defied me, Cecil,” said Mrs Willis in a tone of deep pain. “I must, my dear, insist on your obedience, but not now. Miss Good, will you take Miss Temple to the chapel? I will come to you, Cecil, in an hour’s time.”
Cecil walked down the room crying silently. Her deep distress and her very firm refusal to disclose what she knew had made a great impression on her school-fellows. They all felt troubled and uneasy, and Annie Forest’s face was very pale.
“This thing, this wicked, mischievous thing has gone deeper than I feared,” said Mrs Willis, when Cecil had left the room.
“Only some very strong motive would make Cecil Temple behave as she is now doing. She is influenced by a mistaken idea of what is right; she wishes to shield the guilty person. I may as well tell you all, young ladies, that, dear as Cecil is to me, she is now under the ban of my severe displeasure. Until she confesses the truth and humbles herself before me, I cannot be reconciled to her. I cannot permit her to associate with you. She has done very wrong, and her punishment must be proportionately severe. There is one chance for her, however. Will the girl whom she is mistakenly, though generously, trying to shield, come forward and confess her guilt, and so release poor Cecil from the terrible position in which she has placed herself? By doing so, the girl who has caused all this misery will at least show me that she is trying to repent.”
Mrs Willis paused again, and now she looked down the room with a face of almost entreaty. Several pairs of eyes were fixed anxiously on her, several looked away, and many girls glanced in the direction of Annie Forest, who, feeling herself suspected, returned their glances with bold defiance, and instantly assumed her most reckless manner.
Mrs Willis waited for a full minute.
“The culprit is not noble enough,” she said then. “Now, girls, I must ask each of you to come up one by one and deny or confess this charge. As you do so, you are silently to leave the school-room and go up to your rooms, and prepare for the walk which has been so painfully delayed. Miss Conway, you are at the head of the school, will you set the example?”
One by one the girls of the head class stepped up to their teacher, and of each one she asked the same question—
“Are you guilty?”
Each girl replied in the negative and walked out of the school-room. The second-class followed the example of the first, and then the third-class came up to their teacher. Several ears were strained to hear Annie Forest’s answer, but her eyes were lifted fearlessly to Mrs Willis’s face, and her “No!” was heard all over the room.
Chapter Twelve.
In The Chapel.
The bright light from a full noontide sun was shining in coloured bars through the richly-painted windows of the little chapel when Mrs Willis sought Cecil Temple there.
Cecil’s face was in many ways a remarkable one. Her soft brown eyes were generally filled with a steadfast and kindly ray. Gentleness was her special prerogative, but there was nothing weak about her—hers was the gentleness of a strong and pure and noble soul. To know Cecil was to love her. She was a motherless girl, and the only child of a most indulgent father. Colonel Temple was now in India, and Cecil was to finish her education under Mrs Willis’s care, and then, if necessary, to join her father.
Mrs Willis had always taken a special interest in this girl. She admired her for her great moral worth. Cecil was not particularly clever, but she was so studious, so painstaking, that she always kept a high place in class. She was without doubt a religious girl, but there was nothing of the prig about her. She was not, however, ashamed of her religion, and, if the fitting occasion arose, she was fearless in expressing her opinion.
Mrs Willis used to call Cecil her “little standard-bearer,” and she relied greatly on her influence over the third-class girls. Mrs Willis considered the third-class, perhaps, the most important in the school. She was often heard to say—
“The girls who fill this class have come to a turning-point—they have come to the age when resolves may be made for life, and kept. The good third-class girl is very unlikely to degenerate as she passes through the second and first classes. On the other hand, there is very little hope that the idle or mischievous third-class girl will mend her ways as she goes higher in the school.”
Mrs Willis’s steps were very slow, and her thoughts extremely painful, as she entered the chapel to-day. Had any one else offered her defiance she would have known how to deal with the culprit, but Cecil would never have acted as she did without the strongest motive, and Mrs Willis felt more sorrowful than angry as she sat down by the side of her favourite pupil.
“I have kept you waiting longer than I intended, my dear,” she said. “I was unexpectedly interrupted, and I am sorry; but you have had more time to think, Cecil.”
“Yes, I have thought,” answered Cecil, in a very low tone.
“And, perhaps,” continued her governess, “in this quiet and beautiful and sacred place, my dear pupil has also prayed?”
“I have prayed,” said Cecil.
“Then you have been guided, Cecil,” said Mrs Willis in a tone of relief. “We do not come to God in our distress without being shown the right way. Your doubts have been removed, Cecil; you can now speak fully to me; can you not, dear?”
“I have asked God to tell me what is right,” said Cecil. “I don’t pretend to know. I am very much puzzled. It seems to me that more good would be done if I concealed what you asked me to confess in the school-room. My own feeling is that I ought not to tell you. I know this is great disobedience, and I am quite willing to receive any punishment you think right to give me. Yes, I think I am quite willing to receive any punishment.”
Mrs Willis put her hand on Cecil’s shoulder.
“Ordinary punishments are not likely to affect you, Cecil,” she said; “on you I have no idea of inflicting extra lessons, or depriving you of half-holidays, or even taking away your drawing-room. But there is something else you must lose, and that I know will touch you deeply—I must remove from you my confidence.”
Cecil’s face grew very pale.
“And your love, too?” she said, looking up with imploring eyes: “oh, surely not your love as well?”
“I ask you frankly, Cecil,” replied Mrs Willis, “can perfect love exist without perfect confidence? I would not willingly deprive you of my love, but of necessity the love I have hitherto felt for you must be altered—in short, the old love which enabled me to rest on you and trust you, will cease.”
Cecil covered her face with her hands.
“This punishment is very cruel,” she said. “You are right; it reaches down to my very heart. But,” she added, looking up with a strong and sweet light in her face, “I will try and bear it, and some day you will understand.”
“Listen, Cecil,” said Mrs Willis, “you have just told me you have prayed to God, and have asked Him to show you the right path. Now, my dear, suppose we kneel together, and both of us ask Him to show us the way out of this difficult matter. I want to be guided to use the right words with you, Cecil. You want to be guided to receive the instruction which I, as your teacher and mother-friend, would give you.”
Cecil and Mrs Willis both knelt down, and the head-mistress said a few words in a voice of great earnestness and entreaty; then they resumed their seats.
“Now, Cecil,” said Mrs Willis, “you must remember in listening to me that I am speaking to you as I believe God wishes me to. If I can convince you that you are doing wrong in concealing what you know from me, will you act as I wish in the matter?”
“I long to be convinced,” said Cecil, in a low tone.
“That is right, my dear; I can now speak to you with perfect freedom. My words you will remember, Cecil, are now, I firmly believe, directed by God; they are also the result of a large experience. I have trained many girls. I have watched the phases of thought in many young minds. Cecil, look at me. I can read you like a book.”
Cecil looked up expectantly.
“Your motive for this concealment is as clear as the daylight, Cecil. You are keeping back what you know because you want to shield some one. Am I not right, my dear?” The colour flooded Cecil’s pale face. She bent her head in silent assent, but her eyes were too full of tears, and her lips trembled too much to allow her to speak.
“The girl you want to defend,” continued Mrs Willis, in that clear patient voice of hers, “is one whom you and I both love; is one for whom we both have prayed; is one for whom we would both gladly sacrifice ourselves if necessary—her name is—”
“Oh, don’t,” said Cecil imploringly—“don’t say her name; you have no right to suspect her.”
“I must say her name, Cecil dear. If you suspect Annie Forest, why should not I? You do suspect her, do you not, Cecil?”
Cecil began to cry.
“I know it,” continued Mrs Willis. “Now, Cecil, we will suppose, terrible as this suspicion is, fearfully as it pains us both, that Annie Forest is guilty. We must suppose for the sake of my argument that this is the case. Do you not know, my dear Cecil, that you are doing the falsest, cruellest thing by dear Annie in trying to hide her sin from me? Suppose, just for the sake of our argument, that this cowardly conduct on Annie’s part was never found out by me; what effect would it have on Annie herself?”
“It would save her in the eyes of the school,” said Cecil.
“Just so, but God would know the truth. Her next downfall would be deeper. In short, Cecil, under the idea of friendship you would have done the cruellest thing in all the world for your friend.”
Cecil was quite silent.
“This is one way to look at it,” continued Mrs Willis, “but there are many other points from which this case ought to be viewed. You owe much to Annie, but not all—you have a duty to perform to your other school-fellows. You have a duty to perform to me. If you possess a clue which will enable me to convict Annie Forest of her sin, in common justice you have no right to withhold it. Remember that while she goes about free and unsuspected some other girl is under the ban—some other girl is watched and feared. You fail in your duty to your school-fellows when you keep back your knowledge, Cecil. When you refuse to trust me, you fail in your duty to your mistress; for I cannot stamp out this evil and wicked thing from our midst unless I know all. When you conceal your knowledge, you ruin the character of the girl you seek to shield. When you conceal your knowledge, you go against God’s express wish. There—I have spoken to you as He directed me to speak.”
Cecil suddenly sprang to her feet.
“I never thought of all these things,” she said. “You are right, but it is very hard, and mine is only a suspicion. Oh, do be tender to her, and—forgive me—may I go away now?”
As she spoke, she pulled out the torn copy of Mrs Browning, laid it on her teacher’s lap, and ran swiftly out of the chapel.
Chapter Thirteen.
Talking Over The Mystery.
Annie Forest sitting in the midst of a group of eager admirers, was chatting volubly. Never had she been in higher spirits, never had her pretty face looked more bright and daring.
Cecil Temple, coming into the play-room, started when she saw her. Annie, however, instantly rose from the low hassock on which she had perched herself and, running up to Cecil, put her hand through her arm.
“We are all discussing the mystery, darling,” said she; “we have discussed it, and literally torn it to shreds, and yet never got at the kernel. We have guessed and guessed what your motive can be in concealing the truth from Mrs Willis, and we all unanimously vote that you are a dear old martyr, and that you have some admirable reason for keeping back the truth. You cannot think what an excitement we are in—even Susy Drummond has stayed awake to listen to our chatter. Now, Cecil, do come and sit here in this most inviting little armchair, and tell us what our dear head-mistress said to you in the chapel. It did seem so awful to send you to the chapel, poor dear Cecil.”
Cecil stood perfectly still and quiet while Annie was pouring out her torrent of eager words; her eyes, indeed, did not quite meet her companion’s, but she allowed Annie to retain her clasp of her arm, and she evidently listened with attention to her words. Now, however, when Miss Forest tried to draw her into the midst of the eager and animated group who sat round the play-room fire, she hesitated and looked longingly in the direction of her peaceful little drawing-room. Her hesitation, however, was but momentary. Quite silently she walked with Annie down the large play-room and entered the group of girls.
“Here’s your throne, Queen Cecil,” said Annie trying to push her into the little armchair; but Cecil would not seat herself.
“How nice that you have come, Cecil!” said Mary Pierce, a second-class girl. “I really think, we all think, that you were very brave to stand out against Mrs Willis as you did. Of course we are devoured with curiosity to know what it means; aren’t we, Flo?”
“Yes, we’re in agonies,” answered Flo Dunstan, another second-class girl.
“You will tell exactly what Mrs Willis said, darling heroine?” proceeded Annie in her most dulcet tones. “You concealed your knowledge, didn’t you? you were very firm, weren’t you? dear, brave love!”
“For my part, I think Cecil Temple the soul of brave firmness,” here interrupted Susan Drummond. “I fancy she’s as hard and firm in herself when she wants to conceal a thing as that rocky sweetmeat which always hurts our teeth to get through. Yes, I do fancy that.”
“Oh, Susy, what a horrid metaphor!” here interrupted several girls.
One, however, of the eager group of school-girls had not opened her lips or said a word; that girl was Hester Thornton. She had been drawn into the circle by an intense curiosity; but she had made no comment with regard to Cecil’s conduct. If she knew anything of the mystery she had thrown no light on it. She had simply sat motionless, with watchful and alert eyes and silent tongue. Now, for the first time, she spoke.
“I think, if you will allow her, that Cecil has got something to say,” she remarked.
Cecil glanced down at her with a very brief look of gratitude.
“Thank you, Hester,” she said. “I won’t keep you a moment, girls. I cannot offer to throw any light on the mystery which makes us all so miserable to-day; but I think it right to undeceive you with regard to myself. I have not concealed what I know from Mrs Willis. She is in possession of all the facts, and what I found in my desk this morning is now in her keeping. She has made me see that in concealing my knowledge I was acting wrongly, and whatever pain has come to me in the matter, she now knows all.”
When Cecil had finished her sad little speech she walked straight out of the group of girls, and, without glancing at one of them, went across the play-room to her own compartment. She had failed to observe a quick and startled glance from Susan Drummond’s sleepy blue eyes, nor had she heard her mutter—half to her companions, half to herself—“Cecil is not like the rocky sweetmeat; I was mistaken in her.”
Neither had Cecil seen the flash of almost triumph in Hester’s eyes, nor the defiant glance she threw at Miss Forest. Annie stood with her hands clasped, and a little frown of perplexity between her brows, for a moment; then she ran fearlessly down the play-room, and said in a low voice at the other side of Cecil’s curtains—
“May I come in?”
Cecil said “Yes,” and Annie, entering the pretty little drawing-room, flung her arms round Miss Temple’s neck.
“Cecil,” she exclaimed impulsively, “you’re in great trouble. I am a giddy, reckless thing, I know, but I don’t laugh at people when they are in real trouble. Won’t you tell me all about it, Cecil?”
“I will, Annie. Sit down there and I will tell you everything. I think you have a right to know, and I am glad you have come to me. I thought, perhaps—but no matter. Annie, can’t you guess what I am going to say?”
“No, I’m sure I can’t,” said Annie. “I saw for a moment or two to-day that some of those absurd girls suspected me of being the author of all this mischief. Now, you know, Cecil, I love a bit of fun beyond words. If there’s any going on I feel nearly mad until I am in it; but what was done to-day was not at all in accordance with my ideas of fun. To tear up Miss Russell’s essay and fill her desk with stupid plum-cake and Turkish delight seems to me but a sorry kind of jest. Now, if I had been guilty of that sort of thing, I’d have managed something far cleverer than that. If I had tampered with Dora Russell’s desk, I’d have done the thing in style. The dear, sweet, dignified creature should have shrieked in real terror. You don’t know perhaps, Cecil, that our admirable Dora is no end of a coward. I wonder what she would have said if I had put a little nest of field-mice in her desk. I saw that the poor thing suspected me, as she gave way to her usual little sneer about the ‘underbred girl:’ but, of course, you know me, Cecil. Why, my dear Cecil, what is the matter? How white you are, and you are actually crying! What is it, Cecil? what is it, Cecil, darling?”
Cecil dried her eyes quickly.
“You know my pet copy of Mrs Browning’s poems, don’t you, Annie?”
“Oh, yes, of course. You lent it to me one day. Don’t you remember how you made me cry over that picture of little Alice, the over-worked factory girl? What about the book, Cecil?”
“I found the book in my desk,” said Cecil, in a steady tone, and now fixing her eyes on Annie, who knelt by her side—“I found the book in my desk, although I never keep it there; for it is quite against the rules to keep our recreation books in our school-desks, and you know, Annie, I always think it is so much easier to keep these little rules. They are matters of duty and conscience after all. I found my copy of Mrs Browning in my desk this morning with the cover torn off, and with a very painful and ludicrous caricature of our dear Mrs Willis sketched on the title-page.”
“What?” said Annie. “No, no; impossible.”
“You know nothing about it do you, Annie?”
“I never put it there, if that’s what you mean,” said Annie. But her face had undergone a curious change. Her light and easy and laughing manner had altered. When Cecil mentioned the caricature she flushed a vivid crimson. Her flush had quickly died away, leaving her olive-tinted face paler than its wont.
“I see,” she said, after a long pause, “you, too, suspected me, Cecil, and that is why you tried to conceal the thing. You know that I am the only girl in the school who can draw caricatures, but did you suppose that I would show her dishonour? Of course things look ugly for me, if this is what you found in your book; but I did not think that you would suspect me, Cecil.”
“I will believe you, Annie,” said Cecil eagerly. “I long beyond words to believe you. With all your faults, no one has ever yet found you out in a lie. If you look at me, Annie, and tell me honestly that you know nothing whatever about that caricature, I will believe you. Yes, I will believe you fully, and I will go with you to Mrs Willis and tell her that, whoever did the wrong, you are innocent in this matter. Say you know nothing about it, dear, dear Annie, and take a load off my heart.”
“I never put the caricature into your book, Cecil.”
“And you know nothing about it?”
“I cannot say that; I never—never put it in your book.”
“Oh, Annie, exclaimed poor Cecil, you are trying to deceive me. Why won’t you be brave? Oh, Annie, I never thought you would stoop to a lie!”
“I’m telling no lie,” answered Annie with sudden passion. “I do know something about the caricature, but I never put it into that book. There! you doubt me, you have ceased to believe me, and I won’t waste any more words on the matter.”
Chapter Fourteen.
“Sent To Coventry.”
There were many girls in the school who remembered that dismal half-holiday—they remembered its forced mirth and its hidden anxiety; and as the hours flew by the suspicion that Annie Forest was the author of all the mischief grew and deepened. A school is like a little world, and popular opinion is apt to change with great rapidity. Annie was undoubtedly the favourite of the school; but favourites are certain to have enemies, and there were several girls unworthy enough and mean enough to be jealous of poor Annie’s popularity. She was the kind of girl whom only very small natures could really dislike. Her popularity arose from the simple fact that hers was a peculiarly joyous and unselfish nature. She was a girl with scarcely any self-consciousness; those she loved, she loved devotedly; she threw herself with a certain feverish impetuosity into their lives, and made their interests her own. To get into mischief and trouble for the sake of a friend was an every-day occurrence with Annie. She was not the least studious; she had no one particular talent, unless it was an untrained and birdlike voice; she was always more or less in hot water about her lessons, always behindhand in her tasks, always leaving undone what she should do, and doing what she should not do. She was a contradictory, erratic creature—jealous of no one, envious of no one—dearly loving a joke, and many times inflicting pain from sheer thoughtlessness, but always ready to say she was sorry, always ready to make friends again.
It is strange that such a girl as Annie should have enemies, but she had, and in the last few weeks the feeling of jealousy and envy which had always been smouldering in some breasts took more active form. Two reasons accounted for this: Hester’s openly avowed and persistent dislike to Annie, and Miss Russell’s declared conviction that she was underbred and not a lady.
Miss Russell was the only girl in the first-class who had hitherto given wild little Annie a thought.
In the first-class, to-day, Annie had to act the unpleasing part of the wicked little heroine. Miss Russell was quite certain of Annie’s guilt; she and her companions condescended to discuss poor Annie and to pull all her little virtues to pieces, and to magnify her sins to an alarming extent.
After two or three hours of judicious conversation, Dora Russell and most of the other first-class girls decided that Annie ought to be expelled, and unanimously resolved that they at least, would do what they could to “send her to Coventry.”
In the lower part of the school Annie also had a few enemies, and these girls, having carefully observed Hester’s attitude toward her, now came up close to this dignified little lady, and asked her boldly to declare her opinion with regard to Annie’s guilt.
Hester, without the least hesitation, assured them that “of course Annie had done it.”
“There is not room for a single doubt on the subject,” she said; “there—look at her now.”
At this instant Annie was leaving Cecil’s compartment, and with red eyes, and hair, as usual, falling about her face, was running out of the play-room. She seemed in great distress; but, nevertheless, before she reached the door, she stopped to pick up a little girl of five, who was fretting about some small annoyance. Annie took the little one in her arms, kissed her tenderly, whispered some words in her ear, which caused the little face to light up with some smiles and the round arms to clasp Annie with an ecstatic hug. She dropped the child, who ran back to play merrily with her companions, and left the room.
The group of middle-class girls still sat on by the fire, but Hester Thornton now, not Annie, was the centre of attraction. It was the first time in all her young life that Hester had found herself in the enviable position of a favourite; and without at all knowing what mischief she was doing, she could not resist improving the occasion, and making the most of her dislike for Annie.
Several of those who even were fond of Miss Forest came round to the conviction that she was really guilty, and one by one, as is the fashion not only among school-girls but in the greater world outside, they began to pick holes in their former favourite. These girls, too, resolved that, if Annie were really so mean as maliciously to injure other girls’ property and get them into trouble, she must be “sent to Coventry.”
“What’s Coventry?” asked one of the little ones, the child whom Annie had kissed and comforted, now sidling up to the group.
“Oh, a nasty place, Phena,” said Mary Bell, putting her arm round the pretty child and drawing her to her side.
“And who is going there?”
“Why, I am afraid it is naughty Annie Forest.”
“She’s not naughty! Annie sha’n’t go to any nasty place. I hate you, Mary Bell.” The little one looked round the group with flashing eyes of defiance, then wrenched herself away to return to her younger companions.
“It was stupid of you to say that, Mary,” remarked one of the girls. “Well,” she continued, “I suppose it is all settled, and poor Annie, to say the least of it, is not a lady. For my own part, I always thought her great fun, but if she is proved guilty of this offence I wash my hands of her.”
“We all wash our hands of her,” echoed the girls, with the exception of Susan Drummond, who, as usual, was nodding in her chair.
“What do you say, Susy?” asked one or two—“you have not opened your lips all this lime.”
“I—eh?—what?” asked Susan, stretching herself and yawning, “oh, about Annie Forest—I suppose you are right, girls. Is not that the tea-gong? I’m awfully hungry.”
Hester Thornton went into the tea-room that evening feeling particularly virtuous, and with an idea that she had distinguished herself in some way.
Poor foolish, thoughtless Hester, she little guessed what seed she had sown, and what a harvest she was preparing for her own reaping by-and-by.
Chapter Fifteen.
About Some People Who Thought No Evil.
A few days after this Hester was much delighted to receive an invitation from her little friends, the Misses Bruce. These good ladies had not forgotten the lonely and miserable child whom they had comforted not a little during her journey to school six weeks ago. They invited Hester to spend the next half-holiday with them, and as this happened to fall on a Saturday, Mrs Willis gave Hester permission to remain with her friends until eight o’clock, when she would send the carriage to fetch her home.
The trouble about Annie had taken place the Wednesday before, and all the girls’ heads were full of the uncleared-up mystery when Hester started on her little expedition.
Nothing was known; no fresh light had been thrown on the subject. Everything went on as usual within the school, and a casual observer would never have noticed the cloud which rested over that usually happy dwelling. A casual observer would have noticed little or no change in Annie Forest; her merry laugh was still heard, her light step still danced across the play-room floor, she was in her place in class, and was, if anything, a little more attentive and a little more successful over her lessons. Her pretty, piquant face, her arch expression, the bright, quick and droll glance which she alone could give, were still to be seen; but those who knew her well and those who loved her best saw a change in Annie.
In the play-room she devoted herself exclusively to the little ones; she never went near Cecil Temple’s drawing-room, she never mingled with the girls of the middle school as they clustered round the cheerful fire. At meal-times she ate little, and her room-fellow was heard to declare that she was awakened more than once in the middle of the night by the sound of Annie’s sobs. In chapel, too, when she fancied herself quite unobserved, her face wore an expression of great pain; but if Mrs Willis happened to glance in her direction, instantly the little mouth became demure and almost hard, the dark eyelashes were lowered over the bright eyes, the whole expression of the face showed the extreme of indifference. Hester felt more sure than ever of Annie’s guilt; but one or two of the other girls in the school wavered in this opinion, and would have taken Annie out of “Coventry” had she herself made the smallest advance toward them.
Annie and Hester had not spoken to each other now for several days; but on this afternoon, which was a bright one in early spring, as Hester was changing her school-dress for her Sunday one, and preparing for her visit to the Misses Bruce, there came a light knock at her door. She said “Come in,” rather impatiently, for she was in a hurry, and dreaded being kept.
To her surprise Annie Forest put in her curly head, and then, dancing with her usual light movement across the room, she laid a little bunch of dainty spring flowers on the dressing-table beside Hester.
Hester stared, first at the intruder and then at the early primroses. She passionately loved flowers, and would have exclaimed with ecstasy at these had anyone brought them in except Annie.
“I want you,” said Annie, rather timidly for her, “to take these flowers from me to Miss Agnes and Miss Jane Bruce. It will be very kind of you if you will take them. I am sorry to have interrupted you—thank you very much.”
She was turning away when Hester compelled herself to remark—
“Is there any message with the flowers?”
“Oh, no—only Annie Forest’s love. They’ll understand.” She turned half round as she spoke, and Hester saw that her eyes had filled with tears. She felt touched in spite of herself. There was something in Annie’s face now which reminded her of her darling little Nan at home. She had seen the same beseeching, sorrowful look in Nan’s brown eyes when she had wanted her friends to kiss her and take her to their hearts and love her.
Hester would not allow herself, however, to feel any tenderness toward Annie. Of course she was not really a bit like sweet little Nan, and it was absurd to suppose that a great girl like Annie could want caressing and petting and soothing; still, in spite of herself, Annie’s look haunted her, and she took great care of the little flower-offering, and presented it with Annie’s message instantly on her arrival to the little old ladies.
Miss Jane and Miss Agnes were very much pleased with the early primroses. They looked at one another and said—
“Poor dear little girl,” in tender voices, and then they put the flowers into one of their daintiest vases, and made much of them, and showed them to any visitors who happened to call that afternoon.
Their little house looked something like a doll’s house to Hester, who had been accustomed all her life to large rooms and spacious passages; but it was the sweetest, daintiest, and most charming little abode in the world. It was not unlike a nest, and the Misses Bruce in certain ways resembled bright little robin redbreasts, so small, so neat, so chirrupy they were.
Hester enjoyed her afternoon immensely; the little ladies were right in their prophecy, and she was no longer lonely at school. She enjoyed talking about her school-fellows, about her new life, about her studies. The Misses Bruce were decidedly fond of a gossip, but something which she could not at all define in their manner prevented Hester from retailing for their benefit any unkind news. They told her frankly at last that they were only interested in the good things which went on in the school, and that they found no pursuit so altogether delightful as finding out the best points in all the people they came across. They would not even laugh at sleepy, tiresome Susan Drummond; on the contrary, they pitied her, and Miss Jane wondered if the girl could be quite well, whereupon Miss Agnes shook her head, and said emphatically that it was Hester’s duty to rouse poor Susy, and to make her waking life so interesting to her that she should no longer care to spend so many hours in the world of dreams.
There is such a thing as being so kind-hearted, so gentle, so charitable as to make the people who have not encouraged these virtues feel quite uncomfortable. By the mere force of contrast they begin to see themselves something as they really are. Since Hester had come to Lavender House she had taken very little pains to please others rather than herself, and she was now almost startled to see how she had allowed selfishness to get the better of her. While the Misses Bruce were speaking, old longings, which had slept since her mother’s death, came back to the young girl, and she began to wish that she could be kinder to Susan Drummond, and that she could overcome her dislike to Annie Forest. She longed to say something about Annie to the little ladies, but they evidently did not wish to allude to the subject. When she was going away, they gave her a small parcel.
“You will kindly give this to your schoolfellow, Miss Forest, Hester dear,” they both said, and then they kissed her, and said they hoped they should see her again: and Hester got into the old-fashioned school brougham, and held the brown-paper parcel in her hand.
As she was going into the chapel that night, Mary Bell came up to her and whispered—
“We have not got to the bottom of that mystery about Annie Forest yet. Mrs Willis can evidently make nothing of her, and I believe Mr Everard is going to talk to her after prayers to-night.”
As she was speaking, Annie herself pushed rather rudely past the two girls; her face was flushed, and her hair was even more untidy than was its wont.
“Here is a parcel for you, Miss Forest,” said Hester, in a much more gentle tone than she was wont to use when she addressed this objectionable school-mate.
All the girls were now filing into the chapel, and Hester should certainly not have presented the little parcel at that moment.
“Breaking the rules, Miss Thornton,” said Annie; “all right, toss it here.” Then, as Hester failed to comply, she ran back, knocking her school-fellows out of place, and, snatching the parcel from Hester’s hand, threw it high in the air. This was a piece of not only wilful audacity and disobedience, but it even savoured of the profane, for Annie’s step was on the threshold of the chapel, and the parcel fell with a noisy bang on the floor some feet inside the little building.
“Bring me that parcel, Annie Forest,” whispered the stern voice of the head-mistress.
Annie sullenly complied; but when she came up to Mrs Willis, her governess took her hand, and pushed her down into a low seat a little behind her.