Chapter Twenty Six.
Under The Laurel-Bush.
Mrs Willis owned to herself that she was nonplussed; it was quite impossible to allow Annie to neglect her studies, and yet little Nan’s health was still too precarious to allow her to run the risk of having the child constantly fretted.
Suddenly a welcome idea occurred to her; she would write at once to Nan’s old nurse, and see if she could come to Lavender House for the remainder of the present term. Mrs Willis dispatched her letter that very day, and by the following evening the nurse was once more in possession of her much-loved little charge. The habits of her babyhood were too strong for Nan; she returned to them gladly enough, and though in her heart of hearts she was still intensely loyal to Annie, she no longer fretted when she was not with her.
Annie resumed her ordinary work and though Hester was very cold to her, several of the other girls in the school frankly confided to their favourite how much they had missed her, and how glad they were to have her back with them once more.
Annie found herself at this time in an ever-shifting mood—one moment she longed intensely for a kiss, and a fervent pardon from Mrs Willis’s lips; another, she said to herself defiantly she could and would live without it; one moment the hungry and sorrowful look in Hester’s eyes went straight to Annie’s heart, and she wished she might restore her little treasure whom she had stolen; the next she rejoiced in her strange power over Nan, and resolved to keep all the love she could get.
In short, Annie was in that condition when she could be easily influenced for good or evil—she was in that state of weakness when temptation is least easily resisted.
A few days after the arrival of Nan’s nurse Mrs Willis was obliged unexpectedly to leave home; a near relative was dangerously ill in London, and the school-mistress went away in much trouble and anxiety. Some of her favourite pupils flocked to the front entrance to see their beloved mistress off. Amongst the group Cecil stood, and several girls of the first-class; many of the little girls were also present, but Annie was not amongst them. Just at the last moment she rushed up breathlessly; she was tying some starry jasmine and some blue forget-me-nots together, and as the carriage was moving off she flung the charming bouquet into her mistress’s lap.
Mrs Willis rewarded her with one of her old looks of confidence and love; she raised the flowers to her lips and kissed them, and her eyes smiled on Annie.
“Good-bye, dear,” she called out; “good-bye, all my dear girls; I will try and be back to-morrow night. Remember, my children, during my absence I trust you.”
The carriage disappeared down the avenue, and the group of girls melted away. Cecil looked round for Annie, but Annie had been the first to disappear.
When her mistress had kissed the flowers and smiled at her, Annie darted into the shrubbery and stood there wiping the fast-falling tears from her eyes. She was interrupted in this occupation by the sudden cries of two glad and eager voices, and instantly her hands were taken, and some girls rather younger than herself began to drag her in the opposite direction through the shrubbery.
“Come, Annie—come at once, Annie, darling,” exclaimed Phyllis and Nora Raymond. “The basket has come; it’s under the thick laurel-tree in the back avenue. We are all waiting for you; we none of us will open it till you arrive.”
Annie’s face, a truly April one, changed as if by magic. The tears dried on her cheeks; her eyes filled with sunlight; she was all eager for the coming fun.
“Then we won’t lose a moment, Phyllis,” she said; “we’ll see what that duck of a Betty has done for us.”
The three girls scampered down the back avenue, where they found five of their companions, amongst them Susan Drummond, standing in different attitudes of expectation near a very large and low-growing laurel-tree. Everyone raised a shout when Annie appeared; she was undoubtedly recognised as queen and leader of the proceedings. She took her post without an instant’s hesitation, and began ordering her willing subjects about.
“Now, is the coast clear? yes, I think so. Come, Susie, greedy as you are, you must take your part. You alone of all of us can cackle with the exact imitation of an old hen: get behind that tree at once and watch the yard. Don’t forget to cackle for your life if you even see the shadow of a footfall. Norah, my pretty birdie, you must be the thrush for the nonce; here, lake your post, watch the lawn and the front avenue. Now then, girls, the rest of us can see what spoils Betty has provided for us.”
The basket was dragged from its hiding-place, and longing faces peered eagerly and greedily into its contents.
“On, oh! I say, cherries! and what a lot! Good Betty! dear, darling Betty! you gathered those from your own trees, and they are as ripe as your apple-blossom cheeks! Now then, what next? I do declare, meringues! Betty knew my weakness. Twelve meringues—that is one and a half apiece; Susan Drummond sha’n’t have more than her share. Meringues and cheesecakes and—tartlets—oh! oh! what a duck Betty is! A plum-cake—good, excellent Betty, she deserves to be canonised! What have we here? Roast chickens—better and better! What is in this parcel? Slices of ham; Betty knew she dare not show her face again if she forgot the ham. Knives and forks, spoons—fresh rolls—salt and pepper, and a dozen bottles of ginger-beer, and a little corkscrew in case we want it.”
These various exclamations came from many lips. The contents of the basket were carefully and tenderly replaced, the lid was fastened down, and it was once more consigned to its hiding-place under the thick boughs of the laurel.
Not a moment too soon, for just at this instant Susan cackled fiercely, and the little group withdrew, Annie first whispering—
“At twelve to-night, then, girls—oh, yes, I have managed the key.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Truants.
It was a proverbial saying in the school that Annie Forest was always in hot water; she was exceedingly daring, and loved what she called a spice of danger. This was not the first stolen picnic at which Annie reigned as queen, but this was the largest she had yet organised, and this was the first time she had dared to go out of doors with her satellites.
Hitherto these naughty sprites had been content to carry their baskets full of artfully-concealed provisions to a disused attic which was exactly over the box-room, and consequently out of reach of the inhabited part of the house. Here, making a table of a great chest which stood in the attic, they feasted gloriously, undisturbed by the musty smell or by the innumerable spiders and beetles which disappeared rapidly in all directions at their approach; but when Annie one day incautiously suggested that on summer nights the outside world was all at their disposal, they began to discover flaws in their banqueting-hall. Mary Price said the musty smell made her half sick; Phyllis declared that at the sight of a spider she invariably turned faint; and Susan Drummond was heard to murmur that in a dusty, fusty attic even meringues scarcely kept her awake. The girls were all wild to try a midnight picnic out of doors, and Annie in her present mood, was only too eager for the fun.
With her usual skill she organised the whole undertaking, and eight agitated, slightly frightened, but much excited girls retired to their rooms that night. Annie, in her heart of hearts, felt rather sorry that Mrs Willis should happen to be away; dim ideas of honour and trustworthiness were still stirring in her breast, but she dared not think now.
The night was in every respect propitious; the moon would not rise until after twelve, so the little party could get away under the friendly shelter of the darkness, and soon afterwards have plenty of light to enjoy their stolen feast. They had arranged to make no movement until close on midnight, and then they were all to meet in a passage which belonged to the kitchen regions, and where there was a side door which opened directly into the shrubbery. This door was not very often unlocked, and Annie had taken the key from its place in the lock some days before. She went to bed with her companions at nine o’clock as usual, and presently fell into an uneasy doze. She awoke to hear the great clock in the hall strike eleven and a few minutes afterwards she heard Miss Danesbury’s footsteps retiring to her room at the other end of the passage.
“Danesbury is always the last to go to bed,” whispered Annie to herself; “I can get up presently.”
She lay for another twenty minutes, then, softly rising, began to put on her clothes in the dark. Over her dress she fastened her waterproof, and placed a close-fitting brown velvet cap on her curly head. Having dressed herself, she approached Susan’s bed with the intention of rousing her.
“I shall have fine work now,” she said, “and shall probably have to resort to cold water. Really, if Susy proves too hard to wake, I shall let her sleep on—her drowsiness is past bearing.”
Annie, however, was considerably startled when she discovered that Miss Drummond’s bed was without an occupant.
At this moment the room door was very softly opened, and Susan, fully dressed and in her waterproof, came in.
“Why, Susy, where have you been?” exclaimed Annie. “Fancy you being awake a moment before it is necessary!”
“For once in a way I was restless,” replied Miss Drummond, “so I thought I would get up, and take a turn in the passage outside. The house is perfectly quiet, and we can come now; most of the girls are already waiting at the side door.”
Holding their shoes in their hands, Annie and Susan went noiselessly down the carpetless stairs, and found the remaining six girls waiting for them by the side door.
“Rover is our one last danger now,” said Annie, as she fitted the well-oiled key into the lock. “Put on your shoes, girls, and let me out first; I think I can manage him.”
She was alluding to a great mastiff which was usually kept chained up by day. Phyllis and Norah laid their hands on her arm.
“Oh, Annie, oh, love, suppose he seizes on you, and knocks you down—oh, dare you venture?”
“Let me go,” said Annie a little contemptuously; “you don’t suppose I am afraid?”
Her fingers trembled, for her nerves were highly strung; but she managed to unlock the door and draw back the bolts, and, opening it softly, she went out into the silent night.
Very slight as the noise she made was, it had aroused the watchful Rover, who trotted around swiftly to know what was the matter. But Annie had made friends with Rover long ago by stealing to his kennel door and feeding him, and she had now but to say “Rover” in her melodious voice, and throw her arms around his neck, to completely subvert his morals.
“He is one of us, girls,” she called in a whisper to her companions; “come out. Rover will be as naughty as the rest of us, and go with us as our bodyguard to the fairies’ field. Now, I will lock the door on the outside, and we can be off. Ah, the moon is getting up splendidly, and when we have secured Betty’s basket, we shall be quite out of reach of danger.”
At Annie’s words of encouragement the seven girls ventured out. She locked the door, put the key into her pocket, and, holding Rover by his collar; led the way in the direction of the laurel-bush. The basket was secured, and Susan, to her disgust, and Mary Morris were elected for the first part of the way to carry it. The young truants then walked quickly down the avenue until they came to a turn-stile which led into a wood.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
In The Fairies’ Field.
The moon had now come up brilliantly, and the little party were in the highest possible spirits. They had got safely away from the house, and there was now, comparatively speaking, little fear of discovery. The more timid ones, who ventured to confess that their hearts were in their mouths while Annie was unlocking the side door, now became the most excited, and perhaps the boldest, under the reaction, which set in. Even the wood, which was comparatively dark, with only patches of moonlight here and there, and queer weird shadows where the trees were thinnest, could not affect their spirits.
The poor, sleepy rabbits must have been astonished that night at the shouts of the revellers, as they hurried past them, and the birds must have taken their sleepy heads from under their downy wings, and wondered if the morning had come some hours before its usual time.
More than one solemn old owl blinked at them, and hooted as they passed, and told them in owl language what silly, naughty young things they were, and how they would repent of this dissipation by-and-by. But if the girls were to have an hour of remorse, it did not visit them then; their hearts were like feathers, and by the time they reached the fields where the fairies were supposed to play their spirits had become almost uncontrollable.
Luckily for them this small green field lay in a secluded hollow, and more luckily for them no tramps were about to hear their merriment. Rover, who constituted himself Annie’s protector, now lay down by her side, and as she was the real ringleader and queen of the occasion, she ordered her subjects about pretty sharply.
“Now, girls, quick; open the basket. Yes, I’m going to rest. I have organised the whole thing, and I’m fairly tired; so I’ll just sit quietly here, and Rover will take care of me while you set things straight. Ah! good Betty; she did not even forget the white table-cloth.”
Here one of the girls remarked casually that the grass was wet with dew, and that it was well they had all put on their waterproofs.
Annie interrupted again in a petulant voice—
“Don’t croak, Mary Morris. Out with the chickens, lay the ham in this corner, and the cherries will make a picturesque pile in the middle. Twelve meringues in all, that means a meringue and a half each. We shall have some difficulty in dividing. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how hungry I am! I was far too excited to eat anything at supper-time.”
“So was I,” said Phyllis, coming up and pressing close to Annie. “I do think Miss Danesbury cuts the bread and butter too thick—don’t you, Annie? I could not eat mine at all, to-night, and Cecil Temple asked me if I was not well.”
“Those who don’t want chicken hold up their hands,” here interrupted Annie, who had tossed her brown cap on the grass, and between whose brows a faint frown had passed for an instant at the mention of Cecil’s name.
The feast now began in earnest, and silence reigned for a short time, broken only by the clatter of plates, and such an occasional remark as “Pass the salt, please,” “Pepper this way, if you’ve no objection,” “How good chicken tastes in fairy-land,” etc. At last the ginger-beer bottles began to pop—the girl’s first hunger was appeased. Rover gladly crunched up all the bones, and conversation flowed once more, accompanied by the delicate diversion of taking alternate bites at meringues and cheesecakes.
“I wish the fairies would come out,” said Annie.
“Oh, don’t!” shivered Phyllis, looking round her nervously.
“Annie, darling, do tell us a ghost story,” cried several voices.
Annie laughed, and commenced a series of nonsense tales, all of a slightly eerie character, which she made up on the spot.
The moon riding high in the heavens looked down on the young giddy heads, and their laughter, naughty as they were, sounded sweet in the night air.
Time flew quickly, and the girls suddenly discovered that they must pack up their table-cloth and remove all traces of the feast unless they wished the bright light of morning to discover them. They rose hastily, sighing, and slightly depressed now that their fun was over. The white table-cloth, no longer very white, was packed into the basket, the ginger-beer bottles placed on top of it, and the lid fastened down. Not a crumb of the feast remained; Rover had demolished the bones, and the eight girls had made short work of everything else, with the exception of the cherry-stones, which Phyllis carefully collected and popped into a little hole in the ground.
The party then progressed slowly homewards, and once more entered the dark wood. They were much more silent now; the wood was darker, and the chill which foretells the dawn was making itself felt in the air. Either the sense of cold, or a certain effect produced by Annie’s ridiculous stories, made many of the little party unduly nervous.
They had only taken a few steps through the wood when Phyllis suddenly uttered a piercing shriek. This shriek was echoed by Nora and by Mary Morris, and all their hearts seemed to leap into their mouths when they saw something move among the trees. Rover uttered a growl, and, but for Annie’s detaining hand, would have sprung forward. The high-spirited girl was not to be easily daunted.
“Behold, girls, the goblin of the woods,” she exclaimed. “Quiet, Rover; stand still.”
The next instant the fears of the little party reached their culmination when a tall, dark figure stood directly in their paths.
“If you don’t let us pass at once,” said Annie’s voice, “I’ll set Rover at you.”
The dog began to bark loudly, and quivered from head to foot.
The figure moved a little to one side, and a rather deep and slightly dramatic voice said—
“I mean you no harm, young ladies; I’m only a gypsy-mother from the tents yonder. You are welcome to get back to Lavender House. I have then one course plain before me.”
“Come on, girls,” said Annie, now considerably frightened, while Phyllis, and Nora, and one or two more began to sob.
“Look here, young ladies,” said the gypsy in a whining voice, “I don’t mean you no harm, my pretties, and it’s no affair of mine telling the good ladies at Lavender House what I’ve seen. You cross my hand, dears, each of you, with a bit of silver, and all I’ll do is to tell your pretty fortunes, and mum is the word with the gypsy-mother as far as this night’s prank is concerned.”
“We had better do it, Annie—we had better do it,” here sobbed Phyllis. “If this was found out by Mrs Willis we might be expelled—we might, indeed; and that horrid woman is sure to tell of us—I know she is.”
“Quite sure to tell, dear,” said the tall gypsy, dropping a curtsey in a manner which looked frightfully sarcastic in the long shadows made by the trees. “Quite sure to tell, and to be expelled is the very least that could happen to such naughty little ladies. Here’s a nice little bit of clearing in the wood, and we’ll all come over, and Mother Rachel will tell your fortunes in a twinkling, and no one will be the wiser. Sixpence apiece, my dears—only sixpence apiece.”
“Oh, come; do, do come,” said Nora, and the next moment they were all standing in a circle round Mother Rachel, who pocketed her black-mail eagerly, and repeated some gibberish over each little hand. Over Annie’s palm she lingered for a brief moment, and looked with her penetrating eyes into the girl’s face.
“You’ll have suffering before you, miss; some suspicion, and danger even to life itself. But you’ll triumph, my dear, you’ll triumph. You’re a plucky one, and you’ll do a brave deed. There—good-night, young ladies; you have nothing more to fear from Mother Rachel.”
The tall dark figure disappeared into the blackest shadows of the wood, and the girls, now like so many frightened hares, flew home. They deposited their basket where Betty would find it, under the shadow of the great laurel in the back avenue. They all bade Rover an affectionate “good-night.” Annie softly unlocked the side door, and one by one, with their shoes in their hands, they regained their bedrooms. They were all very tired, and very cold, and a dull fear and sense of insecurity rested over each little heart. Suppose Mother Rachel proved unfaithful, notwithstanding the sixpences?
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Hester’s Forgotten Book.
It wanted scarcely three weeks to the holidays, and therefore scarcely three weeks to that auspicious day when Lavender House was to be the scene of one long triumph, and was to be the happy spot selected for a Midsummer holiday, accompanied by all that could make a holiday perfect—for youth and health would be there, and even the unsuccessful competitors for the great prizes would not have too sore hearts, for they would know that on the next day they were going home. Each girl who had done her best would have a word of commendation, and only those who were very naughty, or very stubborn, could resist the all-potent elixir of happiness which would be poured out so abundantly for Mrs Willis’s pupils on this day.
Now that the time was drawing so near, those girls who were working for prizes found themselves fully occupied from morning to night. In play-hours even, girls would be seen with their heads bent over their books, and, between the prizes and the acting, no little bees in any hive could be more constantly employed than were these young girls just now.
No happiness is, after all, to be compared to the happiness of healthful occupation. Busy people have no time to fret and no time to grumble. According to our old friend, Dr Watts, people who are healthily busy have also no time to be naughty, for the old doctor says that it is for idle hands that mischief is prepared.
Be that as it may, and there is great truth in it, some naughty sprites, some bad fairies, were flitting around and about that apparently peaceful atmosphere. That sunny home, governed by all that was sweet and good, was not without its serpent.
Of all the prizes which attracted interest and aroused competition, the prize for English composition was this year the most popular. In the first place, this was known to be Mrs Willis’s own favourite subject. She had a great wish that her girls should write intelligibly—she had a greater wish that, if possible, they should think.
“Never was there so much written and printed,” she was often heard to say; “but can anyone show me a book with thoughts in it? Can anyone show me, unless as a rare exception, a book which will live? Oh, yes, these books which issue from the press in thousands are, many of them, very smart, a great many of them clever, but they are thrown off too quickly. All great things, great books amongst them, must be evolved slowly.”
Then she would tell her pupils what she considered the reason of this.
“In these days,” she would say, “all girls are what is called highly educated. Girls and boys alike must go in for competitive examinations, must take out diplomas, and must pass certain standards of excellence. The system is cramming from beginning to end. There is no time for reflection. In short, my dear girls, you swallow a great deal, but you do not digest your intellectual food.”
Mrs Willis hailed with pleasure any little dawnings of real thought in her girls’ prize essays. More than once she bestowed the prize upon the essay which seemed to the girls the most crude and unfinished.
“Never mind,” she would say, “here is an idea—or at least half an idea. This little bit of composition is original, and not, at best, a poor imitation of Sir Walter Scott or Lord Macaulay.”
Thus the girls found a strong stimulus to be their real selves in these little essays, and the best of them chose their subject and let it ferment in their brains without the aid of books, except for the more technical parts.
More than one girl in the school was surprised at Dora Russell exerting herself to try for the prize essay. She was just about to close her school career, and they could not make out why she roused herself to work for the most difficult prize, for which she would have to compete with any girl in the school who chose to make a similar attempt.
Dora, however, had her own, not very high motive for making the attempt. She was a thoroughly accomplished girl, graceful in her appearance and manner; in short, just the sort of girl who would be supposed to do credit to a school. She played with finish, and even delicacy of touch. There was certainly no soul in her music, but neither were there any wrong notes. Her drawings were equally correct, her perspective good, her trees were real trees, and the colouring of her water-colour sketches was pure. She spoke French extremely well, and with a correct accent, and her German also was above the average. Nevertheless, Dora was commonplace, and those girls who knew her best spoke sarcastically, and smiled at one another when she alluded to her prize essay, and seemed confident of being the successful competitor.
“You won’t like to be beaten, Dora, say, by Annie Forest,” they would laughingly remark; whereupon Dora’s calm face would slightly flush and her lips would assume a very proud curve. If there was one thing she could not bear it was to be beaten.
“Why do you try for it, Dora?” her class-fellows would ask; but here Dora made no reply: she kept her reason to herself.
The fact was Dora, who must be a copyist to the end of the chapter, and who could never to her latest day do anything original, had determined to try for the composition prize because she happened accidentally to hear a conversation between Mrs Willis and Miss Danesbury, in which something was said about a gold locket with Mrs Willis’s portrait inside.
Dora instantly jumped at the conclusion that this was to be the great prize bestowed upon the successful essayist. Delightful idea; how well the trinket would look round her smooth white throat! Instantly she determined to try for this prize, and of course as instantly the bare idea of defeat became intolerable to her. She went steadily and methodically to work. With extreme care she chose her subject. Knowing something of Mrs Willis’s peculiarities, she determined that her theme should not be historical; she believed that she could express herself freely and with power if only she could secure an un-hackneyed subject. Suddenly an idea which she considered brilliant occurred to her. She would call her composition “The River.” This should not bear reference to Father Thames, or any other special river of England, but it should trace the windings of some fabled stream of Dora’s imagination, which, as it flowed along, should tell something of the story of the many places by which it passed. Dora was charmed with her own thought, and worked hard, evening after evening, at her subject, covering sheets of manuscript paper with pencilled jottings, and arranging and rearranging her somewhat confused thoughts. She greatly admired a perfectly rounded period, and she was most particular as to the style in which she wrote. For the purpose of improving her style she even studied old volumes of Addison’s Spectator; but after a time she gave up this course of study, for she found it so difficult to mould her English to Addison’s that she came to the comfortable conclusion that Addison was decidedly obsolete, and that if she wished to do full justice to “The River” she must trust to her own unaided genius.
At last the first ten pages were written. The subject was entered upon with considerable flourishes, and some rather apt poetical quotations from a book containing a collection of poems; the river itself had already left its home in the mountain, and was careering merrily past sunny meadows and little rural, impossible cottages, where the golden-haired children played.
Dora made a very neat copy of her essay so far. She now began to see her way clearly—there would be a very powerful passage as the river approached the murky town. Here, indeed, would be room for powerful and pathetic writing. She wondered if she might venture so far as to hide a suicide in her rushing waters; and then at last the brawling river would lose itself in the sea; and, of course, there would not be the smallest connection between her river, and Kingsley’s well-known song, “Clear and cool.”
She finished writing her ten pages, and being now positively certain of her gold locket, went to bed in a happy state of mind.
This was the very night when Annie was to lead her revellers through the dark wood, but Dora, who never troubled herself about the younger classes, would have been certainly the last to notice the fact that a few of the girls in Lavender House seemed little disposed to eat their suppers of thick bread-and-butter and milk. She went to bed and dreamt happy dreams about her golden locket, and had little idea that any mischief was about to be performed.
Hester Thornton also, but in a very different spirit, was working hard at her essay. Hester worked conscientiously; she had chosen “Marie Antoinette” as her theme, and she read the sorrowful story of the beautiful queen with intense interest, and tried hard to get herself into the spirit of the times about which she must write. She had scarcely begun her essay yet, but she had already collected most of the historical facts.
Hester was a very careful little student, and as she prepared herself for the great work. She thought little or nothing about the prize; she only wanted to do justice to the unfortunate Queen of France. She was in bed that night, and just dropping off to sleep, when she suddenly remembered that she had left a volume of French poetry on her school-desk. This was against the rules, and she knew that Miss Danesbury would confiscate the book in the morning, and would not let her have it back for a week. Hester particularly wanted this special book just now, as some of the verses bore reference to her subject, and she could scarcely get on with her essay without having it to refer to She must lose no time in instantly beginning to write her essay, and to do without her book of poetry for a week would be a serious injury to her.
She resolved, therefore, to break through one of the rules, and, after lying awake until the whole house was quiet, to slip downstairs, enter the school-room and secure her poems. She heard the clock strike eleven, and she knew that in a very few moments Miss Danesbury and Miss Good would have retired to their rooms. Ah, yes, that was Miss Danesbury’s step passing her door. Ten minutes later she glided out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, and opening her door, ran swiftly down the carpetless stairs, and found herself in the great stone hall which led to the school-room.
She was surprised to find the school-room door a little ajar, but she entered the room without hesitation, and, dark as it was, soon found her desk, and the book of poems lying on the top. Hester was about to return when she was startled by a little noise in that portion of the room where the first-class girls sat. The next moment somebody came heavily and rather clumsily down the room, and the moon which was just beginning to rise fell for an instant on a girl’s face. Hester recognised the face of Susan Drummond. What could she be doing here? She did not dare to speak, for she herself had broken a rule in visiting the school-room. She remained, therefore, perfectly still until Susan’s steps died away, and then, thankful to have secured her own property, returned to her bedroom, and a moment or two later was sound asleep.
Chapter Thirty.
“A Muddy Stream.”
In the morning Dora Russell sat down as usual before her orderly and neatly-kept desk. She raised the lid to find everything in its place—her books and exercises all as they should be, and her pet essay in a neat brown-paper cover, lying just as she had left it the night before. She was really getting quite excited about her river, and as this was a half-holiday, she determined to have a good work at it in the afternoon. She was beginning also to experience that longing for an auditor which occasionally is known to trouble the breasts of genius. She felt that those graceful ideas, that elegant language, those measured periods, might strike happily on some other ears before they were read aloud as the great work of the Midsummer holidays.
She knew that Hester Thornton was making what she was pleased to term a poor little attempt at trying for the same prize. Hester would scarcely venture to copy anything from Dora’s essay; she would probably be discouraged, poor girl, in working any longer at her own composition; but Dora felt that the temptation to read “The River,” as far as it had gone, to Hester was really too great to be resisted. Accordingly, after dinner she graciously invited Hester to accompany her to a bower in the garden, where the two friends might revel over the results of Dora’s extraordinary talents.
Hester was still, to a certain extent, under Dora’s influence, and had not the courage to tell her that she intended to be very busy over her own essay this afternoon.
“Now, Hester, dear,” said Dora, when they found themselves both seated in the bower, “you are the only girl in the school to whom I could confide the subject of my great essay. I really believe that I have hit on something absolutely original. My dear child, I hope you won’t allow yourself to be discouraged. I fear that you won’t have much heart to go on with your theme after you have read my words; but, never mind, dear, it will be good practice for you, and you know it was rather silly to go in for a prize which I intended to compete for.”
“May I read your essay, please, Dora?” asked Hester. “I am very much interested in my own study, and, whether I win the prize or not, I shall always remember the pleasure I took in writing it.”
“What subject did you select, dear?” inquired Miss Russell.
“Well, I am attempting a little sketch of Marie Antoinette.”
“Ah, hackneyed, my dear girl—terribly hackneyed; but, of course, I don’t mean to discourage you. Now!—I draw a life—picture, and I call it ‘The River.’ See how it begins—why, I declare I know the words by heart, ‘As our eyes rest on this clear and limpid stream, as we see the sun sparkle.’ My dear Hester, you shall read me my essay aloud. I shall like to hear my own words from your lips, and you have really a pretty accent, dear.”
Hester folded back the brown-paper cover, and wanting to have her task over began to read nastily. But, as her eyes rested on the first lines, she turned to her companion, and said—
“Did you not tell me that your essay was called ‘The River’?”
“Yes, dear; the full title is ‘The Windings of a Noble River.’”
“That’s very odd,” replied Hester. “What I see here is ‘The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream.’ ‘As our dull orbs rest on this turbid water on which the sun cannot possibly shine.’ Why, Dora, this cannot be your essay, and yet, surely, it is your handwriting.”
Dora, with her face suddenly flushing a vivid crimson, snatched the manuscript from Hester’s hand, and looked over it eagerly. Alas! there was no doubt. The title of this essay was “The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream,” and the words which immediately followed were a smart and ridiculous parody on her own high-flown sentences. The resemblance to her handwriting was perfect. The brown-paper cover, neatly sewn on to protect the white manuscript, was undoubtedly her cover; the very paper on which the words were written seemed in all particulars the same. Dora turned the sheets eagerly, and here for the first time she saw a difference. Only four or five pages of the nonsense essay had been attempted, and the night before, when finishing her toil, she had proudly numbered her tenth page. She looked through the whole thing, turning leaf after leaf, while her cheeks were crimson, and her hands trembled. In the first moment of horrible humiliation and dismay she literally could not speak.
At last, springing to her feet, and confronting the astonished and almost frightened Hester, she found her voice.
“Hester, you must help me in this. The most dreadful, the most atrocious fraud has been committed. Some one has been base enough, audacious enough, wicked enough, to go to my desk privately, and take away my real essay—my work over which I have laboured and toiled. The expressions of my—my—yes, I will say it—my genius, have been ruthlessly burnt, or otherwise made away with, and this thing has been put in their place. Hester, why don’t you speak—why do you stare at me like this?”
“I am puzzled by the writing,” said Hester; “the writing is yours.”
“The writing is mine!—oh, you wicked girl! The writing is an imitation of mine—a feeble and poor imitation. I thought, Hester, that by this time you knew your friend’s handwriting. I thought that one in whom I have confided—one whom I have stooped to notice because I fancied we had a community of soul, would not be so ridiculous and so silly as to mistake this writing for mine. Look again, please, Hester Thornton, and tell me if I am ever so vulgar as to cross my t’s. You know I always loop them; and do I make a capital B in this fashion? And do I indulge in flourishes? I grant you that the general effect to a casual observer would be something the same, but you, Hester—I thought you knew me better.”
Here Hester, examining the false essay, had to confess that the crossed t’s and the flourishes were unlike Miss Russell’s calligraphy.
“It is a forgery, most cleverly done,” said Dora. “There is such a thing, Hester, as being wickedly clever. This spiteful, cruel attempt to injure another can have but proceeded from one very low order of mind. Hester, there has been plenty of favouritism in this school, but do you suppose I shall allow such a thing as this to pass over unsearched into? If necessary, I shall ask my father to interfere. This is a slight—an outrage; but the whole mystery shall at last be cleared up. Miss Good and Miss Danesbury shall be informed at once, and the very instant Mrs Willis returns she shall be told what a serpent she has been nursing in this false, wicked girl, Annie Forest.”
“Stop, Dora,” said Hester suddenly. She sprang to her feet, clasping her hands, and her colour varied rapidly from white to red. A sudden light poured in upon her, and she was about to speak when something—quite a small, trivial thing—occurred. She only saw little Nan in the distance flying swiftly, with outstretched arms, to meet a girl, whose knees she clasped in baby ecstasy. The girl stooped down and kissed the little face, and the round arms were flung around her neck. The next instant Annie Forest continued her walk alone, and Nan, looking wistfully back after her, went in another direction with her nurse. The whole scene took but a moment to enact, but as she watched, Hester’s face grew hard and white. She sat down again, with her lips firmly pressed together.
“What is it, Hester?” exclaimed Dora. “What were you going to say? You surely know nothing about this?”
“Well, Dora, I am not the guilty person. I was only going to remark that you cannot be sure it is Annie Forest.”
“Oh, so you are going to take that horrid girl’s part now? I wonder at you! She all but killed your little sister, and then stole her love away from you. Did you see the little thing now, how she flew to her? Why, she never kisses you like that.”
“I know—I know,” said Hester, and she turned away her face with a groan, and leant forward against the rustic bench, pressing her hot forehead down on her hands.
“You’ll have your triumph, Hester, when Miss Forest is publicly expelled,” said Dora, tapping her lightly on the shoulder, and then, taking up the forged essay, she went slowly out of the garden.
Chapter Thirty One.
Good And Bad Angels.
Hester stayed behind in the shady little arbour, and then, on that soft spring day, while the birds sang overhead, and the warm light breezes came in and fanned her hot cheeks, good angels and bad drew near to fight for a victory. Which would conquer? Hester had many faults, but hitherto she had been honourable and truthful; her sins had been those of pride and jealousy, but she had never told a falsehood in her life. She, knew perfectly—she trembled as the full knowledge overpowered her—that she had it in her power to exonerate Annie. She could not in the least imagine now stupid Susan Drummond could contrive and carry out such a clever and deep-laid plot; but she knew also that if she related what she had seen with her own eyes the night before, she would probably give such a clew to the apparent mystery that the truth would come to light.
If Annie was cleared from this accusation, doubtless the old story of her supposed guilt with regard to Mrs Willis’s caricature would also be read with its right key. Hester was a clever and sharp girl; and the fact of seeing Susan Drummond in the school-room in the dead of night opened her eyes also to one or two other apparent little mysteries. While Susan was her own room-mate she had often given a passing wonder to the fact of her extraordinary desire to overcome her sleepiness, and had laughed over the expedients Susan had used to wake at all moments.
These things, at the time, had scarcely given her a moment’s serious reflection; but now she pondered them carefully, and became more and more certain that, for some inexplicable and unfathomable reason, sleepy, and apparently innocent, Susan Drummond wished to sow the seeds of mischief and discord in the school. Hester was sure that if she chose to speak now she could clear poor Annie, and restore her to her lost place in Mrs Willis’s favour.
Should she do so?—ah! should she? Her lips trembled, her colour came and went as the angels, good and bad, fought hard for victory within her. How she had longed to revenge herself on Annie! How cordially she had hated her! Now was the moment of her revenge. She had but to remain silent now, and to let matters take their course; she had but to hold her tongue about the little incident of last night, and, without any doubt, circumstantial evidence would point at Annie Forest, and she would be expelled from the school. Mrs Willis must condemn her now. Mr Everard must pronounce her guilty now. She would go, and when the coast was again clear the love which she had taken from Hester—the precious love of Hester’s only little sister—would return.
“You will be miserable: you will be miserable,” whispered the good angels sorrowfully in her ear; but she did not listen to them.
“I said I would revenge myself, and this is my opportunity,” she murmured. “Silence—just simply silence—will be my revenge.”
Then the good angels went sorrowfully back to their Father in heaven, and the wicked angels rejoiced. Hester had fallen very low.
Chapter Thirty Two.
Fresh Suspicions.
Mrs Willis was not at home many hours before Dora Russell begged for an interview with her. Annie had not as yet heard anything of the changed essay; for Dora had resolved to keep the thing a secret until Mrs Willis herself took the matter in hand.
Annie was feeling not a little anxious and depressed. She was sorry now that she had led the girls that wild escapade through the wood. Phyllis and Nora were both suffering from heavy colds in consequence, and Susan Drummond was looking more pasty about her complexion, and was more dismally sleepy than usual. Annie was going through her usual season of intense remorse after one of her wild pranks. No one repented with more apparent fervour than she did, and yet no one so easily succumbed to the next temptation. Had Annie been alone in the matter she would have gone straight to Mrs Willis and confessed all; but she could not do this without implicating her companions, who would have screamed with horror at the very suggestion.
All the girls were more or less depressed by the knowledge that the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, shared their secret; and they often whispered together as to the chances of her betraying them. Old Betty they could trust; for Betty, the cake-woman, had been an arch-conspirator with the naughty girls of Lavender House from time immemorial. Betty had always managed to provide their stolen suppers for them, and had been most accommodating in the matter of pay. Yes, with Betty they felt they were safe; but Mother Rachel was a different person. She might like to be paid a few more sixpences for her silence; she might hover about the grounds; she might be noticed. At any moment she might boldly demand an interview with Mrs Willis.
“I’m awfully afraid of Mother Rachel,” Phyllis moaned, as she shivered under the influence of her bad cold.
Nora said “I should faint if I saw her again, I know I should while the other girls always went out provided with stray sixpences, in case the gypsy-mother should start up from some unexpected quarter and demand black-mail.”
On the day of Mrs Willis’s return, Annie was pacing up and down the shady walk, and indulging in some rather melancholy and regretful thoughts, when Susan Drummond and Mary Morris rushed up to her, white with terror.
“She’s down there by the copse, and she’s beckoning to us! Oh, do come with us—do, darling, dear Annie.”
“There’s no use in it,” replied Annie; “Mother Rachel wants money, and I am not going to give her any. Don’t be afraid of her, girls, and don’t give her money. After all, why should she tell on us? she would gain nothing by doing so.”
“Oh, yes, she would, Annie—she would, Annie,” said Mary Morris, beginning to sob; “oh, do come with us, do! We must pacify her, we really must.”
“I can’t come now,” said Annie; “hark! some one is calling me. Yes, Miss Danesbury—what is it?”
“Mrs Willis wishes to see you at once, Annie, in her private sitting-room,” replied Miss Danesbury; and Annie, wondering not a little, but quite unsuspicious, ran off.
The fact, however, of her having deliberately disobeyed Mrs Willis, and done something which she knew would greatly pain her, brought a shade of embarrassment to her usually candid face. She had also to confess to herself that she did not feel quite so comfortable about Mother Rachel as she had given Mary Morris and Susan Drummond to understand. Her steps lagged more and more as she approached the house, and she wished, oh, how longingly! oh, how regretfully! that she had not been naughty and wild and disobedient in her beloved teacher’s absence.
“But where is the use of regretting what is done?” she said, half aloud. “I know I can never be good—never, never!”
She pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains which shaded the door of the private sitting-room, and went in, to find Mrs Willis seated by her desk, very pale and tired and unhappy looking, while Dora Russell, with crimson spots on her cheeks and a very angry glitter in her eyes, stood by the mantelpiece.
“Come here, Annie dear,” said Mrs Willis in her usual gentle and affectionate tone.
Annie’s first wild impulse was to rush to her governess’s side, to fling her arms round her neck, and, as a child would confess to her mother, to tell her all that story of the walk through the wood, and the stolen picnic in the fairies’ field. Three things, however, restrained her—she must not relieve her own troubles at the expense of betraying others; she could not, even if she were willing, say a word in the presence of this cold and angry-looking Dora; in the third place, Mrs Willis looked very tired and very sad. Not for worlds would she add to her troubles at this instant. She came into the room, however, with a slight hesitation of manner, and a clouded brow, which caused Mrs Willis to watch her with anxiety, and Dora with triumph.
“Come here, Annie,” repeated the governess. “I want to speak to you. Something very dishonourable and disgraceful has been done in my absence.”
Annie’s face suddenly became as white as a sheet. Could the gypsy-mother have already betrayed them all?
Mrs Willis, noticing her too evident confusion, continued in a voice, which, in spite of herself, became stern and severe.
“I shall expect the truth at any cost, my dear. Look at this manuscript-book. Do you know anything of the handwriting?”
“Why, it is yours, of course, Dora,” said Annie, who was now absolutely bewildered.
“It is not mine,” began Dora, but Mrs Willis held up her hand.
“Allow me to speak, Miss Russell. I can best explain matters. Annie, during my absence some one has been guilty of a very base and wicked act. One of the girls in this school has gone secretly to Dora Russell’s desk, and taken away ten pages of an essay which she had called ‘The River,’ and which she was preparing for the prize competition next month. Instead of Dora’s essay this that you now see was put in its place. Examine it, my dear. Can you tell me anything about it?”
Annie took the manuscript-book, and turned the leaves.
“Is it meant for a parody?” she asked, after a pause; “it sounds ridiculous. No, Mrs Willis, I know nothing whatever about it; some one has imitated Dora’s handwriting. I cannot imagine who is the culprit.”
She threw the manuscript-book with a certain easy carelessness on the table by her side, and glanced up with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes at Dora.
“I suppose it is meant for a clever parody,” she repeated; “at least it is amusing.”
Her manner displeased Mrs Willis, and very nearly maddened poor Dora.
“We have not sent for you, Annie,” said her teacher, “to ask you your opinion of the parody, but to try and get you to throw light on the subject. We must find out, and at once, who has been so wicked as to deliberately injure another girl.”
“But why have you sent for me?” asked Annie, drawing herself up, and speaking with a little shade of haughtiness.
“Because,” said Dora Russell, who could no longer contain her outraged feelings, “because you alone can throw light on it—because you alone in the school are base enough to do anything so mean—because you alone can caricature.”
“Oh, that is it,” said Annie; “you suspect me, then. Do you suspect me, Mrs Willis?”
“My dear—what can I say?”
“Nothing, if you do. In this school my word has long gone for nothing. I am a naughty, headstrong, wilful girl, but in this matter I am perfectly innocent. I never saw that essay before; I never in all my life went to Dora Russell’s desk. I am headstrong and wild, but I don’t do spiteful things. I have no object in injuring Dora; she is nothing to me—nothing. She is trying for the essay prize, but she has no chance of winning it. Why should I trouble myself to injure her? why should I even take the pains to parody her words and copy her handwriting? Mrs Willis, you need not believe me—I see you do not believe me—but I am quite innocent.”
Here Annie burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room.