World of Girls: The Story of a School — Chapters 35-37

CHAPTER XXXV.

"YOU ARE WELCOME TO TELL."

Annie continued her walk.

The circumstances of the last two months had combined to do for her what nothing had hitherto effected.

When a little child she had known hardship and privation, she had passed through that experience which is metaphorically spoken of as "going down hill."

As a baby little Annie had been surrounded by comforts and luxuries, and her father and mother had lived in a large house, and kept a carriage, and Annie had two nurses to wait on herself alone.

These were in the days before she could remember anything.

With her first early memories came the recollection of a much smaller house, of much fewer servants, of her mother often in tears, and her father often away.

Then there was no house at all that the Forests could call their own, only rooms of a tolerably cheerful character--and Annie's nurse went away, and she took her daily walks by her mother's side and slept in a little cot in her mother's room.

Then came a very, very sad day, when her mother lay cold and still and fainting on her bed, and her tall and handsome father caught Annie in his arms and pressed her to his heart, and told her to be a good child and to keep up her spirits, and, above all things, to take care of mother.

Then her father had gone away; and though Annie expected him back, he did not come, and she and her mother went into poorer and shabbier lodgings, and her mother began to try her tear-dimmed eyes by working at church embroidery, and Annie used to notice that she coughed a good deal as she worked.

Then there was another move, and this time Mrs. Forest and her little daughter found themselves in one bedroom, and things began to grow very gloomy, and food even was scarce.

At last there was a change.

One day a lady came into the dingy little room, and all on a sudden it seemed as if the sun had come out again.

This lady brought comforts with her--toys and books for the child, good, brave words of cheer for the mother.

At last Annie's mother died, and she went away to Lavender House to live with this good friend who had made her mother's dying hours easy.

"Annie, Annie," said the dying mother, "I owe everything to Mrs. Willis;

we knew each other long ago when we were girls, and she has come to me now and made everything easy.

When I am gone she will take care of you.

Oh, my child, I cannot repay her; but will you try?"

"Yes, mother," said little Annie, gazing full into her mother's face with her sweet bright eyes, "I'll--I'll love her, mother; I'll give her lots and lots of love."

Annie had gone to Lavender House, and kept her word, for she had almost worshiped the good mistress who was so true and kind to her, and who had so befriended her mother.

Through all the vicissitudes of her short existence Annie had, however, never lost one precious gift.

Hers was an affectionate, but also a wonderfully bright, nature.

It was as impossible for Annie to turn away from laughter and merriment as it would be for a flower to keep its head determinately turned from the sun.

In their darkest days Annie had managed to make her mother laugh; her little face was a sunbeam, her very naughtinesses were of a laughable character.

Her mother died--her father was still away, but Annie retained her brave and cheerful spirit, for she gave and received love.

Mrs. Willis loved her--she bestowed upon her among all her girls the tenderest glances, the most motherly caresses.

The teachers undoubtedly corrected and even scolded her, but they could not help liking her, and even her worst scrapes made them smile.

Annie's companions adored her; the little children would do anything for their own Annie, and even the servants in the school said that there was no young lady in Lavender House fit to hold a candle to Miss Forest.

During the last half-year, however, things had been different.

Suspicion and mistrust began to dog the footsteps of the bright young girl; she was no longer a universal favorite--some of the girls even openly expressed their dislike of her.

All this Annie could have borne, but for the fact that Mrs. Willis joined in the universal suspicion.

The old glance now never came to her eyes, nor the old tone to her voice.

For the first time Annie's spirits utterly flagged; she could not bear this universal coldness, this universal chill.

She began to droop physically as well as mentally.

She was pacing up and down the walk, thinking very sadly, wondering vaguely, if her father would ever return, and conscious of a feeling of more or less indifference to everything and every one, when she was suddenly roused from her meditation by the patter of small feet and by a very eager little exclamation: "Me tumming--me tumming, Annie!"

and then Nan raised her charming face and placed her cool baby hand in Annie's. There was delicious comfort in the clasp of the little hand, and in the look of love and pleasure which lit up the small face.

"Me yiding from naughty nurse--me 'tay with you, Annie--me love 'oo, Annie."

Annie stooped down, kissed the little one, and lifted her into her arms.

"Why ky?"

said Nan, who saw with consternation two big tears in Annie's eyes; "dere, poor ickle Annie--me love 'oo--me buy 'oo a new doll."

"Dearest little darling," said Annie in a voice of almost passionate pain; then, with that wonderful instinct which made her in touch with all little children, she cheered up, wiped away her tears, and allowed laughter once more to wreathe her lips and fill her eyes.

"Come, Nan," she said, "you and I will have such a race."

She placed the child on her shoulder, clasped the little hands securely round her neck, and ran to the sound of Nan's shouts down the shady walk.

At the farther end Nan suddenly tightened her clasp, drew herself up, ceased to laugh, and said with some fright in her voice: "Who dat?"

Annie, too, stood still with a sudden start, for the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, was standing directly in their path.

"Go 'way, naughty woman," said Nan, shaking her small hand imperiously.

The gypsy dropped a low courtesy, and spoke in a slightly mocking tone.

"A pretty little dear," she said.

"Yes, truly now, a pretty little winsome dear; and oh, what shoes!

and little open-work socks!

and I don't doubt real lace trimming on all her little garments--I don't doubt it a bit."

"Go 'way--me don't like 'oo," said Nan.

"Let's wun back--gee, gee," she said, addressing Annie, whom she had constituted into a horse for the time being.

"Yes, Nan; in one minute," said Annie.

"Please, Mother Rachel, what are you doing here?"

"Only waiting to see you, pretty missie," replied the tall gypsy.

"You are the dear little lady who crossed my hand with silver that night in the wood.

Eh, but it was a bonny night, with a bonny bright moon, and none of the dear little ladies meant any harm--no, no, Mother Rachel knows that."

"Look here," said Annie, "I'm not going to be afraid of you.

I have no more silver to give you.

If you like, you may go up to the house and tell what you have seen.

I am very unhappy, and whether you tell or not can make very little difference to me now.

Good-night; I am not the least afraid of you--you can do just as you please about telling Mrs. Willis."

"Eh, my dear?"

said the gypsy; "do you think I'd work you any harm--you, and the seven other dear little ladies?

No, not for the world, my dear--not for the world.

You don't know Mother Rachel when you think she'd be that mean."

"Well, don't come here again," said Annie.

"Good-night."

She turned on her heel, and Nan shouted back: "Go way, naughty woman--Nan don't love 'oo, 'tall, 'tall."

The gypsy stood still for a moment with a frown knitting her brows; then she slowly turned, and, creeping on all-fours through the underwood, climbed the hedge into the field beyond.

"Oh, no," she laughed, after a moment; "the little missy thinks she ain't afraid of me; but she be.

Trust Mother Rachel for knowing that much.

I

make no doubt," she added after a pause, "that the little one's clothes are trimmed with real lace.

Well, little Missie Annie Forest, I can see with half an eye that you set store by that baby-girl.

You had better not cross Mother Rachel's whims, or she can punish you in a way you don't think of."

CHAPTER XXXVI. HOW MOSES MOORE KEPT HIS APPOINTMENT.

Susan Drummond got back to Lavender House without apparent discovery.

She was certainly late when she took her place in the class-room for her next day's preparation; but, beyond a very sharp reprimand from mademoiselle, no notice was taken of this fact.

She managed to whisper to Nora and Phyllis that the basket would be moved by the first dawn the next morning, and the little girls went to bed happier in consequence.

Nothing ever could disturb Susan's slumbers, and that night she certainly slept without rocking.

As she was getting into bed she ventured to tell Annie how successfully she had manoeuvered; but Annie received her news with the most absolute indifference, looking at her for a moment with a queer smile, and then saying: "My own wish is that this should be found out.

As a matter of course, I sha'n't betray you, girls; but as things now stand I am anxious that Mrs. Willis should know the very worst of me."

After a remark which Susan considered so simply idiotic, there was, of course, no further conversation between the two girls.

Moses Moore had certainly promised Betty to rise soon after dawn on the following morning, and go to Lavender House to carry off the basket from under the laurel-tree.

Moses, a remarkably indolent lad, had been stimulated by the thought of the delicious cherries which would be his as soon as he brought the basket to Betty.

He had cleverly stipulated that a quart--not a pint--of cherries was to be his reward, and he looked forward with considerable pleasure to picking them himself, and putting a few extra ones into his mouth on the sly.

Moses was not at all the kind of a boy who would have scrupled to steal a few cherries; but in this particular old Betty, ill as she was, was too sharp for him or for any of the other village lads.

Her bed was drawn up close to her little window, and her window looked directly on to the two cherry trees.

Never, to all appearance, did Betty close her eyes.

However early the hour might be in which a village boy peeped over the wall of her garden, he always saw her white night-cap moving, and he knew that her bright blue eyes would be on him, and he would be proclaimed a thief all over the place before many minutes were over.

Moses, therefore, was very glad to secure his cherries by fair means, as he could not obtain them by foul; and he went to bed and to sleep, determined to be off on his errand with the dawn.

A very natural thing, however, happened.

Moses, unaccustomed to getting up at half-past three in the morning, never opened his eyes until the church clock struck five.

Then he started upright, rubbed and rubbed at his sleepy orbs, tumbled into his clothes, and, softly opening the cottage door, set off on his errand.

The fact of his being nearly an hour and a half late did not trouble him in the least.

In any case, he would get to Lavender House before six o'clock, and would have consumed his cherries in less than an hour from that date.

Moses sauntered gaily along the roads, whistling as he went, and occasionally tossing his battered cap in the air.

He often lingered on his way, now to cut down a particularly tempting switch from the hedge, now to hunt for a possible bird's nest.

It was very nearly six o'clock when he reached the back avenue, swung himself over the gate, which was locked, and ran softly on the dewy grass in the direction of the laurel bush.

Old Betty had given him most careful instructions, and he was far too sharp a lad to forget what was necessary for the obtaining of a quart of cherries.

He found his tree, and lay flat down on the ground in order to pull out the basket.

His fingers had just clasped the handle when there came a sudden interruption--a rush, a growl, and some very sharp teeth had inserted themselves into the back of his ragged jacket.

Poor Moses found himself, to his horror, in the clutches of a great mastiff.

The creature held him tight, and laid one heavy paw on him to prevent him rising.

Under these circumstances, Moses thought it quite unnecessary to retain any self-control.

He shrieked, he screamed, he wriggled; his piercing yells filled the air, and, fortunately for him, his being two hours too late brought assistance to his aid.

Michael, the gardener, and a strong boy who helped him, rushed to the spot, and liberated the terrified lad, who, after all, was only frightened, for Rover had satisfied himself with tearing his jacket to pieces, not himself.

"Give me the b-basket," sobbed Moses, "and let me g-g-go."

"You may certainly go, you little tramp," said Michael, "but Jim and me will keep the basket.

I much misdoubt me if there isn't mischief here.

What's the basket put hiding here for, and who does it belong to?"

"Old B-B-Betty," gasped forth the agitated Moses.

"Well, let old Betty fetch it herself.

Mrs. Willis will keep it for her," said Michael.

"Come along, Jim, get to your weeding, do.

There, little scamp, you had better make yourself scarce."

Moses certainly took his advice, for he scuttled off like a hare.

Whether he ever got his cherries or not, history does not disclose.

Michael, looking gravely at Jim, opened the basket, examined its contents, and, shaking his head solemnly, carried it into the house.

"There's been deep work going on, Jim, and my missis ought to know," said Michael, who was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian.

Jim, however, had a soft corner in his heart for the young ladies, and he commenced his weeding with a profound sigh.

CHAPTER XXXVII A BROKEN TRUST.

The next morning Annie Forest opened her eyes with that strange feeling of indifference and want of vivacity which come so seldom to youth.

She saw the sun shining through the closed blinds; she heard the birds twittering and singing in the large elm-tree which nearly touched the windows; she knew well how the world looked at this moment, for often and often in her old light-hearted days she had risen before the maid came to call her, and, kneeling by the deep window-ledge, had looked out at the bright, fresh, sparkling day.

A new day, with all its hours before it, its light vivid but not too glaring, its dress all manner of tender shades and harmonious colorings!

Annie had a poetical nature, and she gloried in these glimpses which she got all by herself of the fresh, glad world.

To-day, however, she lay still, sorry to know that the brief night was at an end, and that the day, with its coldness and suspicion, its terrible absence of love and harmony, was about to begin.

Annie's nature was very emotional; she was intensely sensitive to her surroundings; the grayness of her present life was absolute destruction to such a nature as hers.

The dressing-bell rang; the maid came in to draw up the blinds, and call the girls.

Annie rose languidly and began to dress herself.

She first finished her toilet, and then approached her little bed, and stood by its side for a moment hesitating.

She did not want to pray, and yet she felt impelled to go down on her knees.

As she knelt with her curls falling about her face, and her hands pressed to her eyes, one line of one of her favorite poems came flashing with swiftness and power across her memory: "A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again."

The words filled her whole heart with a sudden sense of peace and of great longing.

The prayer-bell rang: she rose, and, turning to Susan Drummond, said earnestly: "Oh, Susy, I do wish Mrs. Willis could know about our going to the fairy-field; I do so want God to forgive me."

Susan stared in her usual dull, uncomprehending way; then she flushed a little, and said brusquely: "I think you have quite taken leave of your senses, Annie Forest."

Annie said no more, but at prayers in the chapel she was glad to find herself near gentle Cecil Temple, and the words kept repeating themselves to her all during the morning lessons: "A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again."

Just before morning school several of the girls started and looked distressed when they found that Mrs. Willis lingered in the room.

She stood for a moment by the English teacher's desk, said something to her in a low voice, and then, walking slowly to her own post at the head of the great school-room, she said suddenly: "I want to ask you a question, Miss Drummond.

Will you please just stand up in your place in class and answer me without a moment's hesitation."

Phyllis and Nora found themselves turning very pale; Mary Price and one or two more of the rebels also began to tremble, but Susan looked dogged and indifferent enough as she turned her eyes toward her teacher.

"Yes, madam," she said, rising and dropping a courtesy.

"My friends, the Misses Bruce, came to call on me yesterday evening, Susan, and told me that they saw you running very quickly on the high road in the direction of the village.

You, of course, know that you broke a very distinct rule when you left the grounds without leave.

Tell me at once where you were going."

Susan hesitated, colored to her dullest red, and looked down.

Then, because she had no ready excuse to offer, she blurted out the truth: "I was going to see old Betty."

"The cake-woman?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"I--I heard she was ill."

"Indeed--you may sit down, Miss Drummond.

Miss Good, will you ask Michael to step for a moment into the school-room?"

Several of the girls now indeed held their breath, and more than one heart beat with heavy, frightened bumps as a moment later Michael followed Miss Good into the room, carrying the redoubtable picnic-basket on his arm.

"Michael," said Mrs. Willis, "I wish you to tell the young ladies exactly how you found the basket this morning.

Stand by my side, please, and speak loud enough for them to hear."

After a moment's pause Michael related somewhat diffusely and with an occasional break in his narrative the scene which had occurred between him and Moses that morning.

"That will do, Michael; you can now go," said the head mistress.

She waited until the old servant had closed the door, and then she turned to her girls: "It is not quite a fortnight since I stood where I now stand, and asked one girl to be honorable and to save her companions.

One girl was guilty of sin and would not confess, and for her sake all her companions are now suffering.

I am tired of this sort of thing--I am tired of standing in this place and appealing to your honor, which is dead, to your truth which is nowhere.

Girls, you puzzle me--you half break my heart.

In this case more than one is guilty.

How many of the girls in Lavender House are going to tell me a lie this morning?"

There was a brief pause; then a slight cry, and a girl rose from her seat and walked up the long school-room.

"I am the most guilty of all," said Annie Forest.

"Annie!"

said Mrs. Willis, in a tone half of pain, half of relief, "have you come to your senses at last?"

"Oh, I'm so glad to be able to speak the truth," said Annie.

"Please punish me very, very hard; I am the most guilty of all."

"What did you do with this basket?"

"We took it for a picnic--it was my plan, I led the others."

"Where was your picnic?"

"In the fairies' field."

"Ah!

At what time?"

"At night--in the middle of the night--the night you went to London."

Mrs. Willis put her hand to her brow; her face was very white and the girls could see that she trembled.

"I trusted my girls----" she said; then she broke off abruptly.

"You had companions in this wickedness--name them."

"Yes, I had companions; I led them on."

"Name them, Miss Forest."

For the first time Annie raised her eyes to Mrs. Willis' face; then she turned and looked down the long school-room.

"Oh, won't they tell themselves?"

she said.

Nothing could be more appealing than her glance.

It melted the hearts of Phyllis and Nora, who began to sob, and to declare brokenly that they had gone too, and that they were very, very sorry.

Spurred by their example Mary Price also confessed, and one by one all the little conspirators revealed the truth, with the exception of Susan, who kept her eyes steadily fixed on the floor.

"Susan Drummond," said Mrs. Willis, "come here."

There was something in her tone which startled every girl in the school.

Never had they heard this ring in their teacher's voice before.

"Susan," said Mrs. Willis, "I don't ask you if you are guilty; I fear, poor miserable girl, that if I did you would load your conscience with a fresh lie.

I don't ask you if you are guilty because I know you are.

The fact of your running without leave to see old Betty is circumstantial evidence.

I judge you by that and pronounce you guilty.

Now, young ladies, you who have treated me so badly, who have betrayed my trust, who have been wanting in honor, I must think, I must ask God to teach me how to deal with you.

In the meantime, you cannot associate with your companions.

Miss Good, will you take each of these eight girls to their bedrooms."

As Annie was leaving the room she looked full into Mrs. Willis' face.

Strange to say, at this moment of her great disgrace the cloud which had so long brooded over her was lifted.

The sweet eyes never looked sweeter.

The old Annie, and yet a better and a braver Annie than had ever existed before, followed her companions out of the school-room.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.