World of Girls: The Story of a School — Chapters 32-34

CHAPTER XXXII. 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 fervor 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 blackmail.

On the day of Mrs. Willis' 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 mantel-piece.

"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' 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 dishonorable 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, willful 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.

CHAPTER XXXIII. UNTRUSTWORTHY.

Dora Russell had declared, in Hester's presence, and with intense energy in her manner, that the author of the insult to which she had been exposed should be publicly punished and, if possible, expelled.

On the evening of her interview with the head teacher, she had so far forgotten herself as to reiterate this desire with extreme vehemence.

She had boldly declared her firm conviction of Annie's guilt, and had broadly hinted at Mrs. Willis' favoritism toward her.

The great dignity, however, of her teacher's manner, and the half-sorrowful, half-indignant look she bestowed on the excited girl, calmed her down after a time.

Mrs. Willis felt full sympathy for Dora, and could well understand how trying and aggravating this practical joke must be to so proud a girl; but although her faith was undoubtedly shaken in Annie, she would not allow this sentiment to appear.

"I will do all I can for you, Dora," she said, when the weeping Annie had left the room; "I will do everything in my power to find out who has injured you.

Annie has absolutely denied the accusation you bring against her, and unless her guilt can be proved it is but right to believe her innocent.

There are many other girls in Lavender House, and to-morrow morning I will sift this unpleasant affair to the very bottom.

Go, now, my dear, and if you have sufficient self-command and self-control, try to have courage to write your essay over again.

I have no doubt that your second rendering of your subject will be more attractive than the first.

Beginners cannot too often re-write their themes."

Dora gave her head a proud little toss, but she was sufficiently in awe of Mrs. Willis to keep back any retort, and she went out of the room feeling unsatisfied and wretched, and inclined for a sympathizing chat with her little friend Hester Thornton.

Hester, however when she reached her, seemed not at all disposed to talk to any one.

"I've had it all out with Mrs. Willis, and there is no doubt she will be exposed to-morrow morning," said Dora half aloud.

Hester, whose head was bent over her French history, looked up with an annoyed expression.

"Who will be exposed?"

she asked, in a petulant voice.

"Oh, how stupid you are growing, Hester Thornton!"

exclaimed Dora; "why, that horrid Annie Forest, of course--but really I have no patience to talk to you; you have lost all your spirit.

I was very foolish to demean myself by taking so much notice of one of the little girls."

Dora sailed down the play-room to her own drawing-room, fully expecting Hester to rise and rush after her; but to her surprise Hester did not stir, but sat with her head bent over her book, and her cheeks slightly flushed.

The next morning Mrs. Willis kept her word to Dora, and made the very strictest inquiries with regard to the practical joke to which Dora had been subjected.

She first of all fully explained what had taken place in the presence of the whole school, and then each girl was called up in rotation, and asked two questions: first, had she done this mischievous thing herself?

second, could she throw any light on the subject.

One by one each girl appeared before her teacher, replied in the negative to both queries, and returned to her seat.

"Now, girls," said Mrs. Willis, "you have each of you denied this charge.

Such a thing as has happened to Dora could not have been done without hands.

The teachers in the school are above suspicion; the servants are none of them clever enough to perform this base trick.

I suspect one of you, and I am quite determined to get at the truth.

During the whole of this half-year there has been a spirit of unhappiness, of mischief, and of suspicion in our midst.

Under these circumstances love cannot thrive;

under these circumstances the true and ennobling sense of brotherly kindness, and all those feelings which real religion prompt must languish.

I tell you all now plainly that I will not have this thing in Lavender House.

It is simply disgraceful for one girl to play such tricks on her fellows.

This is not the first time nor the second time that the school desks have been tampered with.

I will find out--I am determined to find out, who this dishonest person is; and as she has not chosen to confess to me, as she has preferred falsehood to truth, I will visit her, when I do discover her, with my very gravest displeasure.

In this school I have always endeavored to inculcate the true principles of honor and of trust.

I have laid down certain broad rules, and expect them to be obeyed; but I have never hampered you with petty and humiliating restraints.

I have given you a certain freedom, which I believed to be for your best good, and I have never suspected one of you until you have given me due cause.

"Now, however, I tell you plainly that I alter all my tactics.

One girl sitting in this room is guilty.

For her sake I shall treat you all as guilty, and punish you accordingly.

For the remainder of this term, or until the hour when the guilty girl chooses to release her companions, you are all, with the exception of the little children and Miss Russell, who can scarcely have played this trick on herself, under punishment.

I

withdraw your half-holidays, I take from you the use of the south parlor for your acting, and every drawing-room in the play-room is confiscated.

But this is not all that I do.

In taking from you my trust, I must treat you as untrustworthy--you will no longer enjoy the liberty you used to delight in--everywhere you will be watched.

A teacher will sit in your play-room with you, a teacher will accompany you into the grounds, and I tell you plainly, girls, that chance words and phrases which drop from your lips shall be taken up, and used, if necessary, to the elucidation of this disgraceful mystery."

Here Mrs. Willis left the room, and the teachers desired the several girls in their classes to attend to their morning studies.

Nothing could exceed the dismay which her words had produced.

The innocent girls were fairly stunned, and from that hour for many a day all sunshine and happiness seemed really to have left Lavender House.

The two, however, who felt the change most acutely, and on whose altered faces their companions began to fix suspicious eyes, were Annie Forest and Hester Thornton.

Hester was burdened with an intolerable sense of the shameful falsehood she had told; Annie, guilty in another matter, succumbed at last utterly to a sense of misery and injustice.

Her orphaned and lonely position for the first time began to tell on her; she ate little and slept little, her face grew very pale and thin, and her health really suffered.

All the routine of happy life at Lavender House was changed.

In the large play-room the drawing-rooms were unused; there were no pleasant little knots of girls whispering happily and confidentially together, for whenever two or three girls sat down to have a chat they found that one or another of the teachers was within hearing.

The acting for the coming play progressed so languidly that no one expected it would really take place, and the one relief and relaxation to the unhappy girls lay in the fact that the holidays were not far off, and that in the meantime they might work hard for the prizes.

The days passed in a truly melancholy fashion, and, perhaps, for the first time the girls fully appreciated the old privileges of freedom and trust which were now forfeited.

There was a feeble little attempt at a joke and a laugh in the school at Dora's expense.

The most frivolous of the girls whispered of her as she passed as "the muddy stream;" but no one took up the fun with avidity--the shadow of somebody's sin had fallen too heavily upon all the bright young lives.

CHAPTER XXXIV. BETTY FALLS ILL AT AN AWKWARD TIME.

The eight girls who had gone out on their midnight picnic were much startled one day by an unpleasant discovery.

Betty had never come for her basket.

Susan Drummond, who had a good deal of curiosity, and always poked her nose into unexpected corners, had been walking with a Miss Allison in that part of the grounds where the laurel-bush stood.

She had caught a peep of the white handle of the basket, and had instantly turned her companion's attention to something else.

Miss Allison had not observed Susan's start of dismay; but Susan had taken the first opportunity of getting rid of her, and had run off in search of one of the girls who had shared in the picnic.

She came across Annie Forest, who was walking, as usual, by herself, with her head slightly bent, and her curling hair in sad confusion.

Susan whispered the direful intelligence that old Betty had forsaken them, and that the basket, with its ginger-beer bottles and its stained table-cloth, might be discovered at any moment.

Annie's pale face flushed slightly at Susan's words.

"Why should we try to conceal the thing?"

she said, speaking with sudden energy, and a look of hope and animation coming back to her face.

"Susy, let's go, all of us, and tell the miserable truth to Mrs. Willis; it will be much the best way.

We did not do the other thing, and when we have confessed about this, our hearts will be at rest."

"No, we did not do the other thing," said Susan, a queer, gray color coming over her face; "but confess about this, Annie Forest!

--I think you are mad.

You dare not tell."

"All right," said Annie, "I won't, unless you all agree to it," and then she continued her walk, leaving Susan standing on the graveled path with her hands clasped together, and a look of most genuine alarm and dismay on her usually phlegmatic face.

Susan quickly found Phyllis and Nora, and it was only too easy to arouse the fears of these timid little people.

Their poor little faces became almost pallid, and they were not a little startled at the fact of Annie Forest, their own arch-conspirator, wishing to betray their secret.

"Oh," said Susan Drummond, "she's not out and out shabby; she says she won't tell unless we all wish it.

But what is to become of the basket?"

"Come, come, young ladies; no whispering, if you please," said Miss Good, who came up at this moment.

"Susan, you are looking pale and cold, walk up and down that path half-a-dozen times, and then go into the house.

Phyllis and Nora, you can come with me as far as the lodge.

I want to take a message from Mrs. Willis to Mary Martin about the fowl for to-morrow's dinner."

Phyllis and Nora, with dismayed faces, walked solemnly away with the English teacher, and Susan was left to her solitary meditations.

Things had come to such a pass that her slow wits were brought into play, and she neither felt sleepy, nor did she indulge in her usual habit of eating lollipops.

That basket might be discovered any day, and then--then disgrace was imminent.

Susan could not make out what had become of old Betty; never before had she so utterly failed them.

Betty lived in a little cottage about half a mile from Lavender House.

She was a sturdy, apple-cheeked, little old woman, and had for many a day added to her income--indeed, almost supported herself--by means of the girls at Lavender House.

The large cherry-trees in her little garden bore their rich crop of fruit year after year for Mrs. Willis' girls, and every day at an early hour Betty would tramp into Sefton and return with a temptingly-laden basket of the most approved cakes and tarts.

There was a certain paling at one end of the grounds to which Betty used to come.

Here on the grass she would sit contentedly, with the contents of her baskets arranged in the most tempting order before her, and to this seductive spot she knew well that those little misses who loved goodies, cakes and tartlets would be sure to find their way.

Betty charged high for her wares; but, as she was always obliging in the matter of credit, the thoughtless girls cared very little that they paid double the shop prices for Betty's cakes.

The best girls in the school, certainly, never went to Betty; but Annie Forest, Susan Drummond, and several others had regular accounts with her, and few days passed that their young faces would not peep over the paling and their voices ask: "What have you got to tempt me with to-day, Betty?"

It was, however, in the matter of stolen picnics, of grand feasts in the old attic, etc. , etc. , that Betty was truly great.

No one so clever as she in concealing a basket of delicious eatables, no one knew better what schoolgirls liked.

She undoubtedly charged her own prices, but what she gave was of the best, and Betty was truly in her element when she had an order from the young ladies of Lavender House for a grand secret feast.

"You shall have it, my pretties--you shall have it," she would say, wrinkling up her bright blue eyes, and smiling broadly.

"You leave it to Betty, my little loves; you leave it to Betty."

On the occasion of the picnic to the fairies' field Betty had, indeed, surpassed herself in the delicious eatables she had provided; all had gone smoothly, the basket had been placed in a secure hiding-place under the thick laurel.

It was to be fetched away by Betty herself at an early hour on the following morning.

No wonder Susan was perplexed as she paced about and pretended to warm herself.

It was a June evening, but the weather was still a little cold.

Susan remembered now that Betty had not come to her favorite station at the stile for several days.

Was it possible that the old woman was ill?

As this idea occurred to her, Susan became more alarmed.

She knew that there was very little chance of the basket remaining long in concealment.

Rover might any day remember his pleasant picnic with affection, and drag the white basket from under the laurel-bush.

Michael the gardener would be certain to see it when next he cleaned up the back avenue.

Oh, it was more than dangerous to leave it there, and yet Susan knew of no better hiding-place.

A sudden idea came to her; she pulled out her pretty little watch, and saw that she need not return to the house for another half-hour.

"Suppose she ran as fast as possible to Betty's little cottage and begged of the old woman to come by the first light in the morning and fetch away the basket?"

The moment Susan conceived this idea she resolved to put it into execution.

She looked around her hastily: no teacher was in sight, Miss Good was away at the lodge, Miss Danesbury was playing with the little children.

Mademoiselle, she knew, had gone indoors with a bad headache.

She left the broad walk where she had been desired to stay, and plunging into the shrubbery, soon reached Betty's paling.

In a moment she had climbed the bars, had jumped lightly into the field, and was running as fast as possible in the direction of Betty's cottage.

She reached the high road, and started and trembled violently as a carriage with some ladies and gentlemen passed her.

She thought she recognized the faces of the two little Misses Bruce, but did not dare to look at them, and hurried panting along the road, and hoping she might be mistaken.

In less than a quarter of an hour she had reached Betty's little cottage, and was standing trying to recover her breath by the shut door.

The place had a deserted look, and several overripe cherries had fallen from the trees and were lying neglected on the ground.

Susan knocked impatiently.

There was no discernible answer.

She had no time to wait, she lifted the latch, which yielded to her pressure, and went in.

Poor old Betty, crippled, and in severe pain with rheumatism, was lying on her little bed.

"Eh, dear--and is that you, my pretty missy?"

she asked, as Susan, hot and tired, came up to her side.

"Oh, Betty, are you ill?"

asked Miss Drummond "I came to tell you you have forgotten the basket."

"No, my dear, no--not forgot.

By no means that, lovey; but I has been took with the rheumatism this past week, and can't move hand or foot.

I

was wondering how you'd do without your cakes and tartlets, dear, and to think of them cherries lying there good for nothing on the ground is enough to break one's 'eart."

"So it is," said Susan, giving an appreciative glance toward the open door.

"They are beautiful cherries, and full of juice, I am sure.

I'll take a few, Betty, as I am going out, and pay you for them another day.

But what I have come about now is the basket.

You must get the basket away, however ill you are.

If the basket is discovered we are all lost, and then good-by to your gains."

"Well, missy, dear, if I could crawl on my hands and knees I'd go and fetch it, rather than you should be worried; but I can't set foot to the ground at all.

The doctor says as 'tis somethink like rheumatic fever as I has."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Susan, not wasting any of her precious moments in pitying the poor suffering old woman.

"What _is_ to be done?

I tell you, Betty, if that basket is found we are all lost."

"But the laurel is very thick, lovey: it ain't likely to be found--it ain't, indeed."

"I tell you it _is_ likely to be found, you tiresome old woman, and you really must go for it or send for it.

You really must."

Old Betty began to ponder.

"There's Moses," she said, after a pause of anxious thought; "he's a 'cute little chap, and he might go.

He lives in the fourth cottage along the lane.

Moses is his name--Moses Moore.

I'd give him a pint of cherries for the job.

If you wouldn't mind sending Moses to me, Miss Susan, why, I'll do my best; only it seems a pity to let anybody into your secrets, young ladies, but old Betty herself."

"It is a pity," said Susan, "but, under the circumstances, it can't be helped.

What cottage did you say this Moses lived in?"

"The fourth from here, down the lane, lovey--Moses is the lad's name;

he's a freckled boy, with a cast in one eye.

You send him up to me, dearie; but don't mention the cherries, or he'll be after stealing them.

He's a sad rogue, is Moses; but I think I can tempt him with the cherries."

Susan did not wait to bid poor old Betty "good-bye," but ran out of the cottage, shutting the door after her, and snatching up two or three ripe cherries to eat on her way.

She was so far fortunate as to find the redoubtable Moses at home, and to convey him bodily to old Betty's presence.

The queer boy grinned horribly, and looked as wicked as boy could look; but on the subject of cherries he was undoubtedly susceptible, and after a good deal of haggling and insisting that the pint should be a quart, he expressed his willingness to start off at four o'clock on the following morning, and bring away the basket from under the laurel-tree.