Chapter Sixteen.
“An Enemy Hath Done This.”
The short evening service was over, and one by one, in orderly procession, the girls left the chapel. Annie was about to rise to her feet to follow her school-companions, when Mrs Willis stooped down and whispered something in her ear. Her face became instantly suffused with a dull red; she resumed her seat, and buried her face in both her hands. One or two of the girls noticed her despondent attitude as they left the chapel, and Cecil Temple looked back with a glance of such unutterable sympathy that Annie’s proud, suffering little heart would have been touched could she but have seen the look.
Presently the young steps died away, and Annie, raising her head, saw that she was alone with Mr Everard, who seated himself in the place which Mrs Willis had occupied by her side.
“Your governess has asked me to speak to you, my dear,” he said, in his kind and fatherly tones; “she wants us to discuss this thing which is making you so unhappy quite fully together.” Here the clergyman paused, and, noticing a sudden wistful and soft look in the girl’s brown eyes, he continued: “Perhaps, however, you have something to say to me which will throw light on this mystery?”
“No, sir, I have nothing to say,” replied Annie, and now again the sullen expression passed like a wave over her face.
“Poor child,” said Mr Everard. “Perhaps, Annie,” he continued, “you do not quite understand me—you do not quite read my motive in talking to you to-night. I am not here in any sense to reprove you. You are either guilty of this sin, or you are not guilty. In either case I pity you; it is very hard, very bitter, to be falsely accused—I pity you much if this is the case; but it is still harder, Annie, still more bitter, still more absolutely crushing to be accused of a sin which we are trying to conceal. In that terrible case God Himself hides His face. Poor child, poor child, I pity you most of all if you are guilty.”
Annie had again covered her face, and bowed her head over her hands. She did not speak for a moment, but presently Mr Everard heard a low sob, and then another, and another, until at last her whole frame was shaken with a perfect tempest of weeping.
The old clergyman, who had seen many strange phases of human nature, who had in his day comforted and guided more than one young school-girl, was far too wise to do anything to check this flow of grief. He knew Annie would speak more fully and more frankly when her tears were over. He was right. She presently raised a very tear-stained face to the clergyman.
“I felt very bitter at your coming to speak to me,” she began. “Mrs Willis has always sent for you when everything else has failed with us girls, and I did not think she would treat me so. I was determined not to say anything to you. Now, however, you have spoken good words to me, and I can’t turn away from you. I will tell you all that is in my heart. I will promise before God to conceal nothing, if only you will do one thing for me.”
“What is that, my child?”
“Will you believe me?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Ah, but you have not been tried yet. I thought Mrs Willis would certainly believe; but she said the circumstantial evidence was too strong—perhaps it will be too strong for you.”
“I promise to believe you, Annie Forest; if, before God, you can assure me that you are speaking the whole truth, I will fully believe you.”
Annie paused again, then she rose from her seat and stood a pace away from the old minister.
“This is the truth before God,” she said, as she locked her two hands together and raised her eyes freely and unshrinkingly to Mr Everard’s face.
“I have always loved Mrs Willis. I have reasons for loving her which the girls don’t know about. The girls don’t know that when my mother was dying she gave me into Mrs Willis’s charge, and she said, ‘You must keep Annie until her father comes back.’ Mother did not know where father was; but she said he would be sure to come back some day, and look for mother and me: and Mrs Willis said she would keep me faithfully until father came to claim me. That is four years ago, and my father has never come, nor have I heard of him, and I think, I am almost sure, that the little money which mother left must be all used up. Mrs Willis never says anything about money, and she did not wish me to tell my story to the girls. None of them know except Cecil Temple. I am sure some day father will come home, and he will give Mrs Willis back the money she has spent on me; but never, never, never can he repay her for her goodness to me. You see I cannot help loving Mrs Willis. It is quite impossible for any girl to have such a friend and not to love her. I know I am very wild, and that I do all sorts of mad things. It seems to me that I cannot help myself sometimes: but I would not willingly, indeed, I would not willingly hurt anybody. Last Wednesday, as you know, there was a great disturbance in the school. Dora Russell’s desk was tampered with, and so was Cecil Temple’s. You know, of course, what was found in both the desks. Mrs Willis sent for me, and asked me about the caricature which was drawn in Cecil’s book. I looked at it and I told her the truth. I did not conceal one thing. I told her the whole truth as far as I knew it. She did not believe me. She said so. What more could I do then?”
Here Annie paused, she began to unclasp and clasp her hands, and she looked full at Mr Everard with a most pleading expression.
“Do you mind repeating to me exactly what you said to your governess?” he questioned.
“I said this, sir. I said, ‘Yes, Mrs Willis, I did draw that caricature. You will scarcely understand how I, who love you so much, could have been so mad and ungrateful as to do anything to turn you into ridicule. I would cut off my right hand now not to have done it; but I did do it, and I must tell you the truth.’ ‘Tell me, dear,’ she said, quite gently then. ‘It was one wet afternoon about a fortnight ago,’ I said to her; ‘a lot of us middle-school-girls were sitting together, and I had a pencil and some bits of paper, and I was making up funny little groups of a lot of us, and the girls were screaming with laughter, for somehow I managed to make the likeness that I wanted in each case.’ It was very wrong of me, I know. It was against the rules; but I was in one of my maddest humours, and I really do not care what the consequences were. At last one of the girls said: ‘You won’t dare to make a picture like that of Mrs Willis, Annie—you know you won’t dare.’ The minute she said that name I began to feel ashamed. I remembered I was breaking one of the rules, and I suddenly tore up all my bits of paper and flung them into the fire, and I said, ‘No, I would not dare to show her dishonour.’ Well, afterwards, as I was washing my hands for tea up in my room, the temptation came over me so strongly that I felt I could not resist it, to make a funny little sketch of Mrs Willis. I had a little scrap of thin paper, and I took out my pencil and did it all in a minute. It seemed to me very funny, and I could not help laughing at it; and then I thrust it into my private writing-case, which I always keep locked, and I put the key in my pocket and ran downstairs. I forgot all about the caricature. I had never shown it to anyone. How it got into Cecil’s book is more than I can say. When I had finished speaking Mrs Willis looked very hard at the book. ‘You are right,’ she said; ‘this caricature is drawn on a very thin piece of paper, which has been cleverly pasted on the title-page.’ Then, Mr Everard, she asked me a lot of questions. Had I ever parted with my keys? Had I ever left my desk unlocked? ‘No,’ I said, ‘my desk is always locked, and my keys are always in my pocket. Indeed,’ I added, ‘my keys were absolutely safe for the last week, for they went in a white petticoat to the wash, and came back as rusty as possible.’ I could not open my desk for a whole week, which was a great nuisance. I told all this story to Mrs Willis, and she said to me, ‘You are positively certain that this caricature has been taken out of your desk by somebody else, and pasted in here? You are sure that the caricature you drew is not to be found in your desk?’ ‘Yes,’ I said; ‘how can I be anything but sure; these are my pencil marks, and that is the funny little turn I gave to your neck which made me laugh when I drew it. Yes; I am certainly sure.’
”‘I have always been told, Annie,’ Mrs Willis said, ‘that you are the only girl in the school who can draw these caricatures. You have never seen an attempt at this kind of drawing amongst your school-fellows, or amongst any of the teachers?’
”‘I have never seen any of them try this special kind of drawing,’ I said. ‘I wish I was like them. I wish I had never, never done it.’
”‘You have got your keys now?’ Mrs Willis said.
”‘Yes,’ I answered, pulling them all covered with rust out of my pocket.
“Then she told me to leave the keys on the table, and to go upstairs and fetch down my little private desk.
“I did so, and she made me put the rusty key in the lock and open the desk, and together we searched through its contents. We pulled out everything, or rather I did, and I scattered all my possessions about on the table, and then I looked up almost triumphantly at Mrs Willis.
”‘You see the caricature is not here,’ I said, ‘somebody picked the lock and took it away.’
”‘This lock has not been picked,’ Mrs Willis said, ‘and what is that little piece of white paper sticking out of the private drawer?’
”‘Oh, I forgot my private drawer,’ I said; ‘but there is nothing in it—nothing whatever,’ and then I touched the spring, and pulled it open, and there lay the little caricature which I had drawn in the bottom of the drawer. There it lay, not as I had left it, for I had never put it into the private drawer. I saw Mrs Willis’s face turn very white, and I noticed that her hands trembled. I was all red myself, and very hot, and there was a choking lump in my throat, and I could not have got a single word out even if I had wished to. So I began scrambling the things back into my desk, as hard as ever I could, and then I locked it, and put the rusty keys back in my pocket.
”‘What am I to believe now, Annie?’ Mrs Willis said.
”‘Believe anything you like now,’ I managed to say; and then I took my desk and walked out of the room, and would not wait even though she called me back.
“That is the whole story, Mr Everard,” continued Annie. “I have no explanation whatever to give. I did make the one caricature of my dear governess. I did not make the other. The second caricature is certainly a copy of the first, but I did not make it. I don’t know who made it. I have no light whatever to throw on the subject. You see after all,” added Annie Forest, raising her eyes to the clergyman’s face, “it is impossible for you to believe me. Mrs Willis does not believe me, and you cannot be expected to. I don’t suppose you are to be blamed. I don’t see how you can help yourself.”
“The circumstantial evidence is very strong against you, Annie,” replied the clergyman; “still, I promised to believe, and I have no intention of going back from my word. If, in the presence of God in this little church you would willingly and deliberately tell me a lie I should never trust human being again. No, Annie Forest, you have many faults, but you are not a liar. I see the impress of truth on your brow, in your eyes, on your lips. This is a very gainful mystery, my child; but I believe you. I am going to see Mrs Willis now. God bless you, Annie. Be brave, be courageous, don’t foster malice in your heart to any unknown enemy. An enemy has truly done this thing, poor child; but God Himself will bring this mystery to light. Trust Him, my dear; and now I am going to see Mrs Willis.”
While Mr Everard was speaking, Annie’s whole expressive face had changed; the sullen look had left it; the eyes were bright with renewed hope; the lips had parted in smiles. There was a struggle for speech, but no words came; the young girl stooped down and raised the old clergyman’s withered hands to her lips.
“Let me stay here a little longer,” she managed to say at last; and then he left her.
Chapter Seventeen.
“The Sweets Are Poisoned.”
“I think, my dear madam,” said Mr Everard to Mrs Willis, “that you must believe your pupil. She has not refused to confess to you from any stubbornness, but from, the simple reason that she has nothing to confess. I am firmly convinced that things are as she stated them, Mrs Willis. There is a mystery here which we neither of us can explain, but which we must unravel.”
Then Mrs Willis and the clergyman had a long and anxious talk together. It lasted for a long time, and some of its results at least were manifest the next morning, for, just before the morning’s work began, Mrs Willis came to the large school-room, and, calling Annie Forest to her side, laid her hand on the young girl’s shoulder.
“I wish to tell you all, young ladies,” she said, “that I completely and absolutely exonerate Annie Forest from having any part in the disgraceful occurrence which took place in this school-room a short time ago. I allude, of course, as you all know, to the book which was found tampered with in Cecil Temple’s desk. Some one else in this room is guilty, and the mystery has still to be unravelled, and the guilty girl has still to come forward and declare herself. If she is willing at this moment to come to me here, and fully and freely confess her sin, I will quite forgive her.”
The head-mistress paused, and, still with her hand on Annie’s shoulder, looked anxiously down the long room. The love and forgiveness which she felt shone in her eyes at this moment. No girl need have feared aught but tenderness from her just then.
No one stirred; the moment passed, and a look of sternness returned to the mistress’s fine face.
“No,” she said, in her emphatic and clear tones, “the guilty girl prefers waiting until God discovers her sin for her. My dear, whoever you are, that hour is coming, and you cannot escape from it. In the meantime, girls, I wish you all to receive Annie Forest as quite innocent. I believe in her, so does Mr Everard, and so must you. Anyone who treats Miss Forest except as a perfectly innocent and truthful girl incurs my severe displeasure. My dear, you may return to your seat.”
Annie, whose face was partly hidden by her curly hair during the greater part of this speech, now tossed it back, and raised her brown eyes with a look of adoration in them to her teacher. Mrs Willis’s face, however, still looked harassed. Her eyes met Annie’s, but no corresponding glow was kindled in them; their glance was just, calm, but cold.
The childish heart was conscious of a keen pang of agony, and Annie went back to her lessons without any sense of exultation.
The fact was this: Mrs Willis’s judgment and reason had been brought round by Mr Everard’s words, but in her heart of hearts, almost unknown to herself, there still lingered a doubt of the innocence of her wayward and pretty pupil. She said over and over to herself that she really now quite believed in Annie Forest, but then would come those whisperings from her pained and sore heart.
“Why did she ever make a caricature of one who has been as a mother to her? If she made one caricature, could she not make another? Above all things, if she did not do it, who did?”
Mrs Willis turned away from these unpleasant whispers—she would not let them stay with her, and turned a deaf ear to their ugly words. She had publicly declared in the school her belief in Annie’s absolute innocence, but at the moment when her pupil looked up at her with a world of love and adoration in her gaze, she found to her own infinite distress that she could not give her the old love.
Annie went back to her companions, and bent her head over her lessons, and tried to believe that she was very thankful and very happy, and Cecil Temple managed to whisper a gentle word of congratulation to her, and at the twelve o’clock walk Annie perceived that a few of her school-fellows looked at her with friendly eyes again. She perceived now that when she went into the play-room she was not absolutely tabooed, and that, if she chose, she might speedily resume her old reign of popularity. Annie had, to a remarkable extent, the gift of inspiring love, and her old favourites would quickly have flocked back to their sovereign had she so willed it. It is certainly true that the girls to whom the whole story was known in all its bearings found it difficult to understand how Annie could be innocent; but Mr Everard’s and Mrs Willis’s assertions were too potent to be disregarded, and most of the girls were only too willing to let the whole affair slide from their minds, and to take back their favourite Annie to their hearts again.
Annie, however, herself did not so will it. In the play-room she fraternised with the little ones who were alike her friends in adversity and sunshine; she rejected the overtures of her old favourites, but played, and romped, and was merry with the children of the sixth class. She even declined Cecil’s invitation to come and sit with her in her drawing-room.
“Oh, no,” she said, “I hate being still; I am in no humour for a talk. Another time, Cecil, another time. Now then, Sybil, my beauty, get well on my back, and I’ll be the willing dog carrying you round and round the room.”
Annie’s face had not a trace of care or anxiety on it, but her eyes would not quite meet Cecil’s, and Cecil sighed as she turned away, and her heart, too, began to whisper little, mocking, ugly doubts of poor Annie.
During the half-hour before tea that evening Annie was sitting on the floor with a small child in her lap, and two other little ones tumbling about her, when she was startled by a shower of lollipops being poured over her head, down her neck, and into her lap. She started up and met the sleepy gaze of Susan Drummond.
“That’s to congratulate you, Miss,” said Susan; “you’re a very lucky girl to have escaped as you did.”
The little ones began putting Susan’s lollipops vigorously into their mouths. Annie sprang to her feet, shaking the sticky sweetmeats out of her dress on to the floor.
“What have I escaped from?” she asked, turning round and facing her companion haughtily.
“Oh, dear me!” said Susan, stepping back a pace or two. “I—ah—” stifling a yawn—“I only meant you were very near getting into an ugly scrape. It’s no affair of mine, I’m sure; only I thought you’d like the lollipops.”
“No, I don’t like them at all,” said Annie, “nor you either. Go back to your own companions, please.”
Susan sulkily walked away, and Annie stooped down on the floor.
“Now, little darlings,” she said, “you mustn’t eat those. No, no, they are not good at all; and they have come from one of Annie’s enemies. Most likely they are full of poison. Let us collect them all, every one, and we will throw them into the fire before we go to tea.”
“But I don’t think there’s any poison in them,” said little Janie West in a regretful tone, as she gobbled down a particularly luscious chocolate cream; “they are all big, and fat, and bursty, and so sweet, Annie, dear.”
“Never mind, Janie, they are dangerous sweeties all the same. Come, come, throw them into my apron, and I will run over and toss them into the fire, and we’ll have time for a game of leap-frog before tea; oh, fie, Judy,” as a very small fat baby began to whimper, “you would not eat the sweeties of one of Annie’s enemies.”
This last appeal was successful. The children made a valiant effort, and dashed the tempting goodies into Annie’s alpaca apron. When they were all collected, she marched up the play-room and in the presence of Susan Drummond, Hester Thornton, Cecil Temple, and several more of her school-companions, threw them into the fire.
“So much for that overture, Miss Drummond,” she said, making a mock curtsey, and returning once more to the children.
Chapter Eighteen.
In The Hammock.
Just at this time the weather suddenly changed. After the cold and dreariness of winter came soft spring days—came longer evenings and brighter mornings.
Hester Thornton found that, she could dress by daylight, then that she was no longer cold and shivering when she reached the chapel, then that she began intensely to enjoy her mid-day walk, then that she found her winter things a little too hot, until at last, almost suddenly it seemed to the expectant and anxious girls, glorious spring weather broke upon the world, the winds were soft and westerly, the buds swelled and swelled into leaf on the trees, and the flowers bloomed in the delightful old-fashioned gardens of Lavender House. Instantly, it seemed to the girls, their whole lives had altered. The play-room was deserted or only put up with on wet days. At twelve o’clock, instead of taking a monotonous walk on the roads, they ran races, played tennis, croquet, or any other game they liked best in the gardens. Later on in the day, when the sun was not so powerful, they took their walk; but even then they had time to rush back to their beloved shady garden for a little time before tea and preparation for their next day’s work. Easter came this year about the middle of April, and Easter found these girls almost enjoying summer weather. How they looked forward to their few Easter holidays! what plans they made, what tennis matches were arranged, what games and amusements of all sorts were in anticipation! Mrs Willis herself generally went away for a few days at Easter; so did the French governess, and the school was nominally placed under the charge of Miss Good and Miss Danesbury. Mrs Willis did not approve of long Easter holidays; she never gave more than a week, and in consequence only the girls who lived quite near went home. Out of the fifty girls who resided at Lavender House about ten went away at Easter; the remaining forty stayed behind, and were often heard to declare that holidays at Lavender House were the most delightful things in the world.
At this particular Easter time the girls were rather surprised to near that Mrs Willis had made up her mind not to go away as usual; Miss Good was to have a holiday, and Mrs Willis and Miss Danesbury were to look after the school. This was felt to be an unusual, indeed unheard-of, proceeding, and the girls commented about it a good deal, and somehow, without absolutely intending to do so, they began to settle in their own minds that Mrs Willis was staying in the school on account of Annie Forest, and that in her heart of hearts she did not absolutely believe in her innocence. Mrs Willis certainly gave the girls no reason to come to this conclusion; she was consistently kind to Annie, and had apparently quite restored her to her old place in her favour. Annie was more gentle than of old, and less inclined to get into scrapes; but the girls loved her far less in her present unnatural condition of reserve and good behaviour than they did in her old daring and hoydenish days. Cecil Temple always spent Easter with an old aunt who lived in a neighbouring town; she openly said this year that she did not wish to go away, but her governess would not allow her to change her usual plans, and she left Lavender House with a curious feeling of depression and coming trouble. As she was getting into the cab which was to take her to the station Annie flew to her side, threw a great bouquet of flowers which she had gathered into her lap, and, flinging her arms tightly round her neck, whispered suddenly and passionately:
“Oh, Cecil, believe in me.”
“I—I—I don’t know that I don’t,” said Cecil, rather lamely.
“No, Cecil, you don’t—not in your heart of hearts. Neither you nor Mrs Willis—you neither of you believe in me from the very bottom of your hearts; oh, it is hard!”
Annie gave vent to a little sob, sprang away from Cecil’s arms, and disappeared into a shrubbery close by.
She stayed there until the sound of the retreating cab died away in the avenue, then, tossing back her hair, rearranging her rather tattered garden hat, and hastily wiping some tears from her eyes, she came out from her retreat, and began to look around her for some amusement. What should she do? Where should she go? How should she occupy herself? Sounds of laughter and merriment filled the air; the garden was all alive with gay young figures running here and there. Girls stood in groups under the horse chestnut tree—girls walked two and two up the shady walk at the end of the garden—little ones gambolled and rolled on the grass—a tennis match was going on vigorously, and the croquet ground was occupied by eight girls of the middle school. Annie was one of the most successful tennis players in the school; she had indeed a gift for all games of skill, and seldom missed her mark. Now she looked with a certain wistful longing toward the tennis-court; but, after a brief hesitation, she turned away from it and entered the shady walk at the farther end of the garden. As she walked along, slowly, meditatively, and sadly, her eyes suddenly lighted up. Glancing to one of the tall trees she saw a hammock suspended there which had evidently been forgotten during the winter. The tree was not yet quite in leaf, and it was very easy for Annie to climb up its branches, to readjust the hammock, and to get into it. After its winter residence in the tree this soft couch was found full of withered leaves, and otherwise rather damp and uncomfortable. Annie tossed the leaves on to the ground, and laughed as she swung herself gently backwards and forwards. Early as the season still was the sun was so bright and the air so soft that she could not but enjoy herself, and she laughed with pleasure, and only wished that she had a fairy tale by her side to help to soothe her off to sleep.
In the distance she heard some children calling “Annie,” “Annie Forest;” but she was far too comfortable and too lazy to answer them, and presently she closed her eyes and really did fall asleep.
She was awakened by a very slight sound—by nothing more nor less than the gentle and very refined conversation of two girls, who sat under the oak-tree in which Annie’s hammock swung. Hearing the voices, she bent a little forward, and saw that the speakers were Dora Russell and Hester Thornton. Her first inclination was to laugh, toss down some leaves, and instantly reveal herself: the next she drew back hastily, and began to listen with all her ears.
“I never liked her,” said Hester—“I never even from the very first pretended to like her. I think she is underbred, and not fit to associate with the other girls in the school-room.”
“She is treated with most unfair partiality,” retorted Miss Russell in her thin and rather bitter voice. “I have not the smallest doubt, not the smallest, that she was guilty of putting those messes into my desk, of destroying my composition, and of caricaturing Mrs Willis in Cecil Temple’s book. I wonder after that Mrs Willis did not see through her, but it is astonishing to what lengths favouritism will carry one. Mrs Willis and Mr Everard are behaving in a very unfair way to the rest of us in upholding this commonplace, disagreeable girl; but it will be to Mrs Willis’s own disadvantage. Hester, I am, as you know, leaving school at Midsummer, and I shall certainly use all my influence to induce my father and mother not to send the younger girls here; they could not associate with a person like Miss Forest.”
“I never take much notice of her,” said Hester; “but of course what you say is quite right, Dora. You have great discrimination, and your sisters might possibly be taken in by her.”
“Oh, not at all, I assure you; they know a true lady when they see her. However, they must not be imperilled. I will ask my parents to send them to Mdlle. Lablanché. I hear that her establishment is most recherché.”
“Mrs Willis is very nice herself, and so are most of the girls,” said Hester, after a pause. Then they were both silent, for Hester had stooped down to examine some little fronds and moss which grew at the foot of the tree. After a pause, Hester said—
“I don’t think Annie is the favourite she was with the girls.”
“Oh, of course not; they all, in their heart of hearts, know she is guilty. Will you come indoors, and have tea with me in my drawing-room, Hester?”
The two girls walked slowly away, and presently Annie let herself gently out of her hammock and dropped to the ground.
She had heard every word; she had not revealed herself, and a new and terrible—and, truth to say, absolutely foreign—sensation from her true nature now filled her mind. She felt that she almost hated those two who had spoken so cruelly, so unjustly of her. She began to trace her misfortunes and her unhappiness to the date of Hester’s entrance into the school. Even more than Dora Russell did she dislike Hester; she made up her mind to revenge herself on both these girls. Her heart was very, very sore; she missed the old words, the old love, the old brightness, the old popularity; she missed the mother-tones in Mrs Willis’s voice—her heart cried out for them, at night she often wept for them. She became more and more sure that she owed all her misfortunes to Hester, and in a smaller degree to Dora. Dora believed that she had deliberately insulted her, and injured her composition, when she knew herself that she was quite innocent of even harbouring such a thought, far less carrying it into effect. Well, now, she would really do something to injure both these girls, and perhaps the carrying out of her revenge would satisfy her sore heart.
Chapter Nineteen.
Cup And Ball.
Just toward the end of the Easter holidays, Hester Thornton was thrown into a great tumult of excitement, of wonder, of half regret and half joy, by a letter which she received from her father. In this letter he informed her that he had made up his mind to break up his establishment for several years, to go abroad, and to leave Hester altogether under Mrs Willis’s care.
When Hester had read so far, she flung her letter on the table, put her head into her hands, and burst into tears.
“Oh, how cruel of father!” she exclaimed; “how am I to live without ever going home—how am I to endure life without seeing my little Nan?”
Hester cried bitterly; the strongest love of her nature was now given to this pretty and sweet little sister, and dismal pictures rose rapidly before her of Nan growing up without in the least remembering her—perhaps, still worse, of Nan being unkindly treated and neglected by strangers. After a long pause, she raised her head, wiped her eyes, and resumed her letter. Now, indeed, she started with astonishment, and gave an exclamation of delight—Sir John Thornton had arranged that Mrs Willis was also to receive little Nan, although she was younger than any other child present in the school. Hester scarcely waited to finish her letter. She crammed it into her pocket, rushed up to Susan Drummond, and astonished that placid young lady by suddenly kissing her.
“Nan is coming, Susy!” she exclaimed; “dear, darling, lovely little Nan is coming—oh, I am so happy!”
She was far too impatient to explain matters to stolid Susan, and danced downstairs, her eyes sparkling and smiles on her lips. It was nothing to her now how long she stayed at school—her heart’s treasure would be with her there, and she could not but feel happy.
After breakfast Mrs Willis sent for her, and told her what arrangements were being made; she said that she was going to remove Susan Drummond out of Hester’s bedroom, in order that Hester might enjoy her little sister’s company at night. She spoke very gently, and entered with full sympathy into the girl’s delight over the little motherless sister, and Hester felt more drawn to her governess than she had ever been.
Nan was to arrive at Lavender House on the following evening, and for the first week her nurse was to remain with her until she got accustomed to her new life.
The morning of the day of Nan’s arrival was also the last of the Easter holidays, and Hester, awakening earlier than her wont, lay in bed, and planned what she would do to welcome the little one.
The idea of having Nan with her continually had softened and touched Hester. She was not unhappy in her school-life—indeed, there was much in its monotonous, busy, and healthy occupation to stimulate and rouse the good in her. Her intellect was being vigorously exercised, and, by contact with her school-fellows, her character was being moulded; but the perfect harmony and brightness of the school had been much interrupted since Hester’s arrival; her dislike to Annie Forest had been unfortunate in more ways than one, and that dislike, which was increasing each day, was hardening Hester’s heart.
But it was not hard this morning—all that was sweetest, and softest, and best in her had come to the surface—the little sister, whom her mother had left in her charge, was now to be her daily and hourly companion. For Nan’s sake, then, she must be very good; her deeds must be gentle and kind, and her thoughts charitable. Hester had an instinctive feeling that baby eyes saw deep below the surface; Hester felt if Nan were to lose even a shadow of her faith in her she could almost die of shame.
Hester had been very proud of Dora Russell’s friendship. Never before had it been known in the school that a first-class girl took a third into such close companionship, and Hester’s little head had been slightly turned by the fact. Her better judgment and her better nature had been rather blinded by the fascinations of this tall, graceful, satirical Dora. She had been weak enough to agree with Dora with her lips when in her heart of hearts she knew she was all wrong. By nature Hester was an honourable girl, with many fine traits in her character—by nature Dora was small and mean and poor of soul.
This morning Hester ran up to her favourite.
“Little Nan is coming to-night,” she said.
Dora was talking at the moment to Miss Maitland, another first-class girl, and the two stared rather superciliously at Hester, and, after a pause, Dora said in her finest drawl—
“Who is little Nan?”
It was Hester’s turn to stare, for she had often spoken of Nan to this beloved friend, who had listened to her narrative and had appeared to sympathise.
“My little sister, of course,” she exclaimed. “I have often talked to you about her, Dora. Are you not glad she is coming?”
“No, my dear child, I can’t say that I am. If you wish to retain my friendship, Hester, you must be careful to keep the little mite away from me; I can’t bear small children.”
Hester walked away with her heart swelling, and she fancied she heard the two elder girls laughing as she left the play-room.
Many other girls, however, in the school thoroughly sympathised with Hester, and amongst them no one was more delighted than Susan Drummond.
“I am awfully good-natured not to be as cross as two sticks, Hetty,” she exclaimed, “for I am being turned out of my comfortable room; and whose room do you suppose I am now to share? why, that little imp Annie Forest’s.” But Hester felt charitable, even toward Annie, on this happy day.
In the evening little Nan arrived. She was a very pretty, dimpled, brown-eyed creature, of just three years of age. She had all the imperious ways of a spoilt baby, and, evidently, fear was a word not to be found in her vocabulary. She clung to Hester, but smiled and nodded to the other girls, who made advances to her, and petted her, and thought her a very charming baby. Beside Nan, all the other little girls in the school looked old. She was quite, two years the youngest, and it was soon very evident that she would establish that most imperious of all reigns—a baby reign—in the school.
Hester fondled her and talked to her, and the little thing sat on her knee and stroked her face.
“Me like ’oo, Hetty,” she said several times, and she added many other endearing and pretty words which caused Hester’s heart to swell with delight. She alone, of all the girls, had taken no notice of the new plaything. She walked to her usual corner, sat down on the floor, and began to play cup and ball for the benefit of two or three of the smallest children. Hester did not regard her in the least; she sat with Nan on her knee, stroking back her sunny curls, and remarking on her various charms to several of the girls who sat round her.
“See, how pretty that dimple in her chin is,” she said, “and oh, my pet, your eyes look wiser, and bigger, and saucier than ever. Look at me, Nan; look at your own Hetty.”
Nan’s attention, however, was diverted by the gayly-painted cup and ball which Annie was using with her wonted dexterity.
“Dat a pitty toy,” she said, giving one quick and rather solemn glance at her sister, and again fixing her admiring gaze on the cup and ball.
Annie Forest had heard the words, and she darted a sudden, laughing look at the little one. Annie’s power over children was well-known. Nan began to wriggle on Hester’s knee.
“Dat a pitty lady,” she said again, “and dat a pitty, tibby (little) toy; Nan go see.”
In an instant, before Hester could prevent her, she had trotted across the room, and was kneeling with the other children and shouting with delight over Annie’s play.
“She’ll get her, you’ll see, Hester,” said one of the girls maliciously; “she’ll soon be much fonder of Annie Forest than of you. Annie wins the heart of every little child in the school.”
“She won’t win my Nan’s from me,” said Hester in a confident tone; but in spite of her words a great pang of jealousy had gone through her. She rose to her feet and followed her little sister.
“Nan, you are sleepy, you must go to bed.”
“No, no, Hetty; me not s’eepy, me kite awake; go ’way, Hetty, Nan want to see the pitty tibby toy.”
Annie raised her eyes to Hester’s. She did not really want to be unkind, and at that moment it had certainly never entered into her head to steal Hester’s treasure from her, but she could not help a look of suppressed delight and triumph filling her eyes.
Hester could scarcely bear the look; she stooped down, and taking one of Nan’s little dimpled hands tried to drag her away.
Instantly Annie threw the cup and ball on the floor.
“The play is all over to-night, little darling,” she said; “give Annie Forest one kiss, and run to bed with sister Hester.”
Nan, who had been puckering up her face to cry, smiled instantly; then she scrambled to her feet, and flung her little fat arms round Annie’s neck.
“Dat a vedy pitty p’ay,” she said in a patronising tone, “and me like ’oo, me do.”
Then she gave her hand willingly to Hester, and trotted out of the play-room by her side.
Chapter Twenty.
In The South Parlour.
Immediately after Easter the real excitement of the school-year began. All the girls who had ambition, who had industry, and who had a desire to please distant fathers, mothers, or guardians, worked hard for that great day at Midsummer when Mrs Willis distributed her valuable prizes.
From the moment of Hester’s entrance into the school she had heard this day spoken of. It was, without doubt, the greatest day of the year at Lavender House. Smaller prizes were given at Christmas, but the great honours were always reserved for this long sunshiny June day, when Mrs Willis herself presented her marks of approbation to her successful pupils.
The girls who had lived in the school for two or three years gave Hester vivid descriptions of the excitements, the pleasures, the delights of this day of days. In the first place, it was the first of the holidays, in the second it was spent almost from morning to night in the open air—for a great tent was erected on the lawn; and visitors thronged to Lavender House, and fathers and mothers, and aunts and uncles, arrived from a distance to witness the triumphs of the favoured children who had won the prizes. The giving away of the prizes was, of course, the event of the day; but there were many other minor joys. Always in the evenings there was some special entertainment. These entertainments differed from year to year, Mrs Willis allowing the girls to choose them for themselves, and only making one proviso, that they must take all the trouble, and all the pains—in short, that they themselves must be the entertainers. One year they had tableaux vivants; another a fancy ball, every pretty dress of which had been designed by themselves, and many even made by their own industrious little fingers. Mrs Willis delighted in the interest and occupation that this yearly entertainment gave to her pupils, and she not only, encouraged them in their efforts to produce something very unique and charming, but took care that they should have sufficient time to work up their ideas properly. Always after Easter she gave the girls of the three first classes two evenings absolutely to themselves; and these they spent in a pretty room called the South Parlour, which belonged to Mrs Willis’s part of the house, and was rarely used, except for these great preparations.
Hester, therefore, after Easter found her days very full indeed. Every spare moment she devoted to little Nan, but she was quite determined to win a substantial prize, and she was also deeply interested in various schemes proposed in the South Parlour.
With regard to prizes, Mrs Willis also went on a plan of her own. Each girl was expected to come up to a certain standard of excellence in all her studies, and if she fell very much below this standard she was not allowed to try for any prize; if she came up to it, she could select one subject, but only one, for competition.
On the Monday after the Easter holidays the special subjects for the Midsummer prizes were given out, and the girls were expected to send in their answers as to the special prize they meant to compete for by the following Friday.
When this day arrived Hester Thornton and Dora Russell both discovered that they had made the same choice—they were going to try for the English composition prize. This subject always obtained one of the most costly prizes, and several of the girls shook their heads over Hester’s choice.
“You are very silly to try for that, Hetty,” they exclaimed, “for Mrs Willis has such queer ideas with regard to English composition. Of course, we go in for it in a general way, and learn the rules of grammar and punctuation, and so forth, but Mrs Willis says that school-girls’ themes are so bad and affected, as a rule, and she says she does not think anyone will go in for her pet prize who has not natural ability. In consequence, she gives only one prize for composition between the three first classes. You had better change your mind, Hetty, before it is too late, for much older girls will compete with you, and there are several who are going to try.”
Hester, however, only smiled, and assured her eager friend that she would stick to her pet subject, and try to do the best she could.
On the morning when the girls signified their choice of subject, Mrs Willis came into the school-room and made one of her little yearly speeches with regard to the right spirit in which her girls should try for these honours. The few and well-chosen words of the head-mistress generally roused those girls who loved her best to a fever of enthusiasm, and even Hester, who was comparatively a newcomer, felt a great wish, as she listened to that clear and vibrating voice and watched the many expressions which passed over the noble face, that she might find something beyond the mere earthly honour and glory of success in this coming trial. Having finished her little speech, Mrs Willis made several remarks with regard to the choice of subjects. She spoke of the English composition prize last, and here she heightened the interest and excitement which always hung around this special prize. Contrary to her usual rule, she would this year give no subject for an English theme. Each girl might choose what pleased her best.
On nearing these words Annie Forest, who had been sitting by her desk looking rather dull and dejected, suddenly sprang to her feet, her face aglow, her eyes sparkling, and began whispering vigorously to Miss Good.
Miss Good nodded, and, going up to Mrs Willis, said aloud that Annie had changed her mind, and that from not wishing to try for any of the prizes, she now intended to compete for the English composition.
Mrs Willis looked a little surprised, but without any comment she immediately entered Annie’s name in the list of competitors, and Annie sat down again, not even glancing at her astonished school-fellows, who could not conceal their amazement, for she had never hitherto shown the slightest desire to excel in this department.
On the evening of this Friday the girls of the three first classes assembled for the first time in the South Parlour. Hitherto these meetings had been carried on in a systematic and business-like fashion. It was impossible for all the girls who belonged to these three large classes to assemble on each occasion. Careful selections, therefore, were, as a rule, made from their numbers. These girls formed a committee to superintend and carry on the real preparations for the coming treat, and the others only met when specially summoned by the committee to appear.
As usual now the three classes found themselves in the South Parlour—as usual they chattered volubly, and started schemes, to reject them again with peals of laughter. Many ideas were put forward, to be cast aside as utterly worthless. No one seemed to have any very brilliant thought, and as the first step on these occasions was to select what the entertainment should be, proceedings seemed to come to a standstill.
The fact was the most daring originator, the one whoso ideas were always flavoured with a spice of novelty, was absolutely silent.
Cecil Temple, who had taken a seat near Annie, suddenly, bent forward and spoke to her aloud.
“We have all said what we would like, and we none of us appear to have thought of anything at all worth having,” she said; “but you have not spoken at all, Annie. Give us an idea, dear—you know you originated the fancy ball last year.”
Thus publicly appealed to, Annie raised her full brown eyes, glanced at her companions, not one of whom, with the exception of Cecil, returned her gaze fully; then, rising to her feet, she spoke in a slightly contemptuous tone.
“These preparations seem to me to be much ado about nothing; they lake up a lot of our time, and the results aren’t worth the trouble—I have nothing particular to say. Oh, well, yes, if you like—let’s have blind man’s buff and a magic lantern;” and then, dropping a mock curtsey to her companions, she dashed out of the South Parlour.
“Insufferable girl!” said Dora Russell; “I wonder you try to draw her out, Cecil. You know perfectly that we none of us care to have anything to do with her.”
“I know perfectly that you are all doing your best to make her life miserable,” said Cecil, suddenly and boldly. “No one in this school has obeyed Mrs Willis’s command to treat Annie as innocent—you are practically sending her to Coventry, and I think it is unjust and unfair. You don’t know, girls, that you are ruining poor Annie’s happiness.”
“Oh, dear! she doesn’t seem at all dull,” said Miss West, a second-class girl. “I do think she’s a hardened little wretch.”
“Little you know about her,” said Cecil, the colour fading out of her pale face. Then, after a pause, she added, “The injustice of the whole thing is that in this treatment of Annie you break the spirit of Mrs Willis’s command—you, none of you, certainly tell her that she is guilty, but you treat her as such.”
Here Hester Thornton said a daring thing.
“I don’t believe Mrs Willis in her heart of hearts considers Annie guiltless.”
These words of Hester’s were laughed at by most of the girls, but Dora Russell gave her an approving nod, and Cecil, looking paler than ever, dropped suddenly into her seat, and no longer tried to defend her absent friend.
“At any rate,” said Miss Conway, who as the head girl of the whole school was always listened to with great respect. “It is unfortunate for the success of our entertainment that there should be all this discussion and bad feeling with regard to Miss Forest. For my own part, I cannot make out why the poor little creature should be hunted down, or what affair it is of ours whether she is innocent or not. If Mr Everard and Mrs Willis says she is innocent, is not that enough? The fact of her guilt or innocence can’t hurt us one way or another. It is a great pity, however, for our own sakes, that we should be out with her now, for, whatever her faults, she is the only one of us who is ever gifted with an original thought. But, as we can’t have her, let us set to work without her—we really can’t waste the whole evening over this sort of talk.”
Discussions as to the coming pleasure were now again resumed with vigour, and after a great deal of animated arguing it was resolved that two short plays should be acted; that a committee should be immediately formed, who should select the plays, and apportion their various parts to the different actors.
The committee selected included Miss Russell, Miss Conway, Hester Thornton, Cecil Temple, and two other girls of the second-class. The conference then broke up, but there was a certain sense of flatness over everything, and Cecil was not the only girl who sighed for the merry meetings of last year—when Annie had been the life and soul of all the proceedings, and when one brilliant idea after another with regard to the costumes for the fancy ball had dropped from her merry tongue.