World of Girls: The Story of a School — Chapters 29-31

CHAPTER XXIX. 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' 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' own favorite 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 any one show me a book with thoughts in it?

Can any one 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 among 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 coloring of her water-color 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' 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' 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 unhackneyed 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 penciled 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 mold 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 revelers 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 dreamed 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 down stairs, 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 recognized 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 XXX.

"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_--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 hastily.

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 labored and toiled.

The expressions of my--my--yes, I will say it--my genius, have been ruthlessly burned, 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 favoritism 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 color 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 leaned 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 XXXI. GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

Hester stayed behind in the shady little arbor, 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 honorable 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 how 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 clue 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' 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' favor.

Should she do so?

ah!

should she?

Her lips trembled, her color 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.