World of Girls: The Story of a School — Chapters 49-51

CHAPTER XLIX. TWO CONFESSIONS.

Hester dragged her startled and rather unwilling companion in through the front entrance, past some agitated-looking servants who stood about in the hall, and through the velvet curtains into Mrs. Willis' boudoir.

The Misses Bruce were there, and Mrs. Willis in her bonnet and cloak was hastily packing some things into a basket.

"I--I must speak to you," said Hester, going up to her governess.

"Susan and I have got something to say, and we must say it here, now at once."

"No, not now, Hester," replied Mrs. Willis, looking for a moment into her pupil's agitated face.

"Whatever you and Susan Drummond have to tell cannot be listened to by me at this moment.

I have not an instant to lose."

"You are going to Annie?"

asked Hester.

"Yes; don't keep me.

Good-bye, my dears; good-bye."

Mrs. Willis moved toward the door.

Hester, who felt almost beside herself, rushed after her, and caught her arm.

"Take us with you, take Susy and me with you--we must, we must see Annie before she dies."

"Hush, my child," said Mrs. Willis very quietly; "try to calm yourself.

Whatever you have got to say shall be listened to later on--now moments are precious, and I cannot attend to you.

Calm yourself, Hester, and thank God for your dear little sister's safety.

Prepare yourself to receive her, for the carriage which takes me to Annie will bring little Nan home."

Mrs. Willis left the room, and Hester threw herself on her knees and covered her face with her trembling hands.

Presently she was aroused by a light touch on her arm; it was Susan Drummond.

"I may go now I suppose, Hester?

You are not quite determined to make a fool of me, are you?"

"I have determined to expose you, you coward; you mean, mean girl!"

answered Hester, springing to her feet.

"Come, I have no idea of letting you go.

Mrs. Willis won't listen--we will find Mr. Everard."

Whether Susan would really have gone with Heater remains to be proved, but just at that moment all possibility of retreat was cut away from her by Miss Agnes Bruce, who quietly entered Mrs. Willis' private sitting-room, followed by the very man Hester was about to seek.

"I thought it best, my dear," she said, turning apologetically to Hester, "to go at once for our good clergyman; you can tell him all that is in your heart, and I will leave you.

Before I go, however, I should like to tell you how I found Annie and little Nan."

Hester made no answer; just for a brief moment she raised her eyes to Miss Agnes' kind face, then they sought the floor.

"The story can be told in a few words, dear," said the little lady.

"A workwoman of the name of Williams, whom my sister and I have employed for years, and who lives near Oakley, called on us this morning to apologize for not being able to finish some needlework.

She told us that she had a sick child, and also a little girl of three, in her house.

She said she had found the child, in ragged gypsy garments, fainting in a field.

She took her into her house, and on undressing her, found that she was no true gypsy, but that her face and hands and arms had been dyed; she said the little one had been treated in a similar manner.

Jane's suspicions and mine were instantly roused, and we went back with the woman to Oakley, and found, as we had anticipated, that the children were little Nan and Annie.

The sad thing is that Annie is in high fever, and knows no one.

We waited there until the doctor arrived, who spoke very, very seriously of her case.

Little Nan is well, and asked for you."

With these last words Miss Agnes Bruce softly left the room closing the door after her.

"Now, Susan," said Hester, without an instant's pause; "come, let us tell Mr. Everard of our wickedness.

Oh, sir," she added, raising her eyes to the clergyman's face, "if Annie dies I shall go mad.

Oh, I cannot, cannot bear life if Annie dies!"

"Tell me what is wrong, my poor child," said Mr. Everard.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and gradually and skillfully drew from the agitated and miserable girl the story of her sin, of her cowardice, and of her deep, though until now unavailing repentance.

How from the first she had hated and disliked Annie; how unjustly she had felt toward her; how she had longed and hoped Annie was guilty; and how, when at last the clue was put into her hands to prove Annie's absolute innocence, she had determined not to use it.

"From the day Nan was lost," continued Hester, "it has been all agony and all repentance; but, oh, I was too proud to tell!

I was too proud to humble myself to the very dust!"

"But not now," said the clergyman, very gently.

"No, no; not now.

I care for nothing now in all the world except that Annie may live."

"You don't mind the fact that Mrs. Willis and all your schoolfellows must know of this, and must--must judge you accordingly?"

"They can't think worse of me than I think of myself.

I only want Annie to live."

"No, Hester," answered Mr. Everard, "you want more than that--you want far more than that.

It may be that God will take Annie Forest away.

We cannot tell.

With Him alone are the issues of life or death.

What you really want, my child, is the forgiveness of the little girl you have wronged, and the forgiveness of your Father in heaven."

Hester began to sob wildly.

"If--if she dies--may I see her first?"

she gasped.

"Yes; I will try and promise you that.

Now, will you go to your room?

I

must speak to Miss Drummond alone; she is a far worse culprit than you."

Mr. Everard opened the door for Hester, who went silently out.

"Meet me in the chapel to-night," he whispered low in her ear, "I will talk with you and pray with you there."

He closed the door, and came back to Susan.

All throughout this interview his manner had been very gentle to Hester: but the clergyman could be stern, and there was a gleam of very righteous anger in his eyes as he turned to the sullen girl who leaned heavily against the table.

"This narrative of Hester Thornton's is, of course, quite true, Miss Drummond?"

"Oh, yes; there seems to be no use in denying that," said Susan.

"I must insist on your telling me the exact story of your sin.

There is no use in your attempting to deny anything; only the utmost candor on your part can now save you from being publicly expelled."

"I am willing to tell," answered Susan.

"I meant no harm; it was done as a bit of fun.

I had a cousin at home who was very clever at drawing caricatures, and I happened to have nothing to do one day, and I was alone in Annie's bedroom, and I thought I'd like to see what she kept in her desk.

I always had a fancy for collecting odd keys, and I found one on my bunch which fitted her desk exactly.

I opened it, and I found such a smart little caricature of Mrs. Willis.

I sent the caricature to my cousin, and begged of her to make an exact copy of it.

She did so, and I put Annie's back in her desk, and pasted the other into Cecil's book.

I

didn't like Dora Russell, and I wrapped up the sweeties in her theme; but I did the other for pure fun, for I knew Cecil would be so shocked; but I never guessed the blame would fall on Annie.

When I found it did, I felt inclined to tell once or twice, but it seemed too much trouble and, besides, I knew Mrs. Willis would punish me, and, of course, I didn't wish that.

"Dora Russell was always very nasty to me, and when I found she was putting on such airs, and pretending she could write such a grand essay for the prize, I thought I'd take down her pride a bit.

I went to her desk, and I got some of the rough copy of the thing she was calling 'The River,' and I sent it off to my cousin, and my cousin made up such a ridiculous paper, and she hit off Dora's writing to the life, and, of course, I had to put it into Dora's desk and tear up her real copy.

It was very unlucky Hester being in the room.

Of course I never guessed that, or I wouldn't have gone.

That was the night we all went with Annie to the fairies' field.

I never meant to get Hester into a scrape, nor Annie either, for that matter; but, of course, I couldn't be expected to tell on myself."

Susan related her story in her usual monotonous and sing-song voice.

There was no trace of apparent emotion on her face, or of regret in her tones.

When she had finished speaking Mr. Everard was absolutely silent.

"I took a great deal of trouble," continued Susan, after a pause, in a slightly fretful key.

"It was really nothing but a joke, and I don't see why such a fuss should have been made.

I know I lost a great deal of sleep trying to manage that twine business round my foot.

I don't think I shall trouble myself playing any more tricks upon schoolgirls--they are not worth it."

"You'll never play any more tricks on these girls," said Mr. Everard, rising to his feet, and suddenly filling the room and reducing Susan to an abject silence by the ring of his stern, deep voice.

"I take it upon me, in the absence of your mistress, to pronounce your punishment.

You leave Lavender House in disgrace this evening.

Miss Good will take you home, and explain to your parents the cause of your dismissal.

You are not to see _any_ of your schoolfellows again.

Your meanness, your cowardice, your sin require no words on my part to deepen their vileness.

Through pure wantonness you have cast a cruel shadow on an innocent young life.

If that girl dies, you indeed are not blameless in the cause of her early removal, for through you her heart and spirit were broken.

Miss Drummond, I pray God you may at least repent and be sorry.

There are some people mentioned in the Bible who are spoken of as past feeling.

Wretched girl, while there is yet time, pray that you may not belong to them.

Now I must leave you, but I shall lock you in.

Miss Good will come for you in about an hour to take you away."

Susan Drummond sank down on the nearest seat, and began to cry softly;

one or two pin-pricks from Mr. Everard's stern words may possibly have reached her shallow heart--no one can tell.

She left Lavender House that evening, and none of the girls who had lived with her as their schoolmate heard of her again.

CHAPTER L. THE HEART OF LITTLE NAN.

For several days now Annie had lain unconscious in Mrs. Williams' little bedroom; the kind-hearted woman could not find it in her heart to send the sick child away.

Her husband and the neighbors expostulated with her, and said that Annie was only a poor little waif.

"She has no call on you," said Jane Allen, a hard-featured woman who lived next door.

"Why should you put yourself out just for a sick lass?

and she'll be much better off in the workhouse infirmary."

But Mrs. Williams shook her head at her hard-featured and hard-hearted neighbor, and resisted her husband's entreaties.

"Eh!"

she said, "but the poor lamb needs a good bit of mothering, and I misdoubt me she wouldn't get much of that in the infirmary."

So Annie stayed, and tossed from side to side of her little bed, and murmured unintelligible words, and grew daily a little weaker and a little more delirious.

The parish doctor called, and shook his head over her; he was not a particularly clever man, but he was the best the Williamses could afford.

While Annie suffered and went deeper into that valley of humiliation and weakness which leads to the gate of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, little Nan played with Peggy Williams, and accustomed herself after the fashion of little children to all the ways of her new and humble home.

It was on the eighth day of Annie's fever that the Misses Bruce discovered her, and on the evening of that day Mrs. Willis knelt by her little favorite's bed.

A better doctor had been called in, and all that money could procure had been got now for poor Annie; but the second doctor considered her case even more critical, and said that the close air of the cottage was much against her recovery.

"I didn't make that caricature; I took the girls into the fairies' field, but I never pasted that caricature into Cecil's book.

I know you don't believe me, Cecil; but do you think I would really do anything so mean about one whom love?

No, No!

I am innocent!

God knows it.

Yes, I am glad of that--God knows it."

Over and over in Mrs. Willis' presence these piteous words would come from the fever-stricken child, but always when she came to the little sentence "God knows I am innocent," her voice would grow tranquil, and a faint and sweet smile would play round her lips.

Late that night a carriage drew up at a little distance from the cottage, and a moment or two afterward Mrs. Willis was called out of the room to speak to Cecil Temple.

"I have found out the truth about Annie; I have come at once to tell you," she said; and then she repeated the substance of Hester's and Susan's story.

"God help me for having misjudged her," murmured the head-mistress; then she bade Cecil "good-night" and returned to the sick-room.

The next time Annie broke out with her piteous wail, "They believe me guilty--Mrs. Willis does--they all do," the mistress laid her hand with a firm and gentle pressure on the child's arm.

"Not now, my dear," she said, in a slow, clear, and emphatic voice.

"God has shown your governess the truth, and she believes in you."

The very carefully-uttered words pierced through the clouded brain; for a moment Annie lay quite still, with her bright and lovely eyes fixed on her teacher.

"Is that really you?"

she asked.

"I am here, my darling."

"And you believe in me?"

"I do, most absolutely."

"God does, too, you know," answered Annie--bringing out the words quickly, and turning her head to the other side.

The fever had once more gained supremacy, and she rambled on unceasingly through the dreary night.

Now, however, when the passionate words broke out, "They believe me guilty," Mrs. Willis always managed to quiet her by saying, "I know you are innocent."

The next day at noon those girls who had not gone home--for many had started by the morning train--were wandering aimlessly about the grounds.

Mr. Everard had gone to see Annie, and had promised to bring back the latest tidings about her.

Hester, holding little Nan's hand--for she could scarcely bear to have her recovered treasure out of sight--had wandered away from the rest of her companions, and had seated herself with Nan under a large oak-tree which grew close to the entrance of the avenue.

She had come here in order to be the very first to see Mr. Everard on his return.

Nan had climbed into Hester's lap, and Hester had buried her aching head in little Nan's bright curls, when she started suddenly to her feet and ran forward.

Her quick ears had detected the sound of wheels.

How soon Mr. Everard had returned; surely the news was bad!

She flew to the gate, and held it open in order to avoid the short delay which the lodge-keeper might cause in coming to unfasten it.

She flushed, however, vividly, and felt half inclined to retreat into the shade, when she saw that the gentleman who was approaching was not Mr. Everard, but a tall, handsome, and foreign-looking man, who drove a light dog-cart himself.

The moment he saw Hester with little Nan clinging to her skirts he stopped short.

"Is this Lavender House, little girl?"

"Yes, sir," replied Hester.

"And can you tell me--but of course you know--you are one of the young ladies who live here, eh?"

Hester nodded.

"Then you can tell me if Mrs. Willis is at home--but of course she is."

"No, sir," answered Hester; "I am sorry to tell you that Mrs. Willis is away.

She has been called away on very, very sad business; she won't come back to-night."

Something in Hester's tone caused the stranger to look at her attentively; he jumped off the dog-cart and came to her side.

"See here, Miss----" "Thornton," put in Hester.

"Yes, Miss--Miss Thornton, perhaps you can manage for me as well as Mrs. Willis; after all I don't particularly want to see her.

If you belong to Lavender House, you, of course, know my--I mean you have a schoolmate here, a little, pretty gypsy rogue called Forest--little Annie Forest.

I

want to see her--can you take me to her?"

"You are her father?"

gasped Hester.

"Yes, my dear child, I am her father.

Now you can take me to her at once."

Hester covered her face.

"Oh, I cannot," she said--"I cannot take you to Annie.

Oh, sir, if you knew all, you would feel inclined to kill me.

Don't ask me about Annie--don't, don't." The stranger looked fairly non-plussed and not a little alarmed.

Just at this moment Nan's tiny fingers touched his hand.

"Me'll take 'oo to my Annie," she said--"mine poor Annie.

Annie's vedy sick, but me'll take 'oo."

The tall, foreign-looking man lifted Nan into his arms.

"Sick, is she?"

he answered.

"Look here young lady," he added, turning to Hester, "whatever you have got to say, I am sure you will try and say it;

you will pity a father's anxiety and master your own feelings.

Where _is_ my little girl?"

Hester hastily dried her tears.

"She is in a cottage near Oakley, sir."

"Indeed!

Oakley is some miles from here?"

"And she is very ill."

"What of?"

"Fever; they--they fear she may die."

"Take me to her," said the stranger.

"If she is ill and dying she wants me.

Take me to her at once.

Here, jump on the dog-cart; and, little one, you shall come too."

So furiously did Captain Forest drive that in a very little over an hour's time his panting horse stopped at a few steps from the cottage.

He called to a boy to hold him, and, accompanied by Hester, and carrying Nan in his arms, he stood on the threshold of Mrs. Williams' humble little abode.

Mr. Everard was coming out.

"Hester," he said, "you here?

I was coming for you."

"Oh, then she is worse?"

"She is conscious, and has asked for you.

Yes, she is very, very ill."

"Mr. Everard, this gentleman is Annie's father."

Mr. Everard looked pityingly at Captain Forest.

"You have come back at a sad hour, sir," he said.

"But no, it cannot harm her to see you.

Come with me."

Captain Forest went first into the sick-room; Hester waited outside.

She had the little kitchen to herself, for all the Williamses, with the exception of the good mother, had moved for the time being to other quarters.

Surely Mr. Everard would come for her in a moment?

Surely Captain Forest, who had gone into the sick-room with Nan in his arms, would quickly return?

There was no sound.

All was absolute quiet.

How soon would Hester be summoned?

Could she--could she bear to look at Annie's dying face?

Her agony drove her down on her knees.

"Oh, if you would only spare Annie!"

she prayed to God.

Then she wiped her eyes.

This terrible suspense seemed more than she could bear.

Suddenly the bedroom door was softly and silently opened, and Mr. Everard came out.

"She sleeps," he said; "there is a shadow of hope.

Little Nan has done it.

Nan asked to lie down beside her, and she said, 'Poor Annie!

poor Annie!'

and stroked her cheek; and in some way, I don't know how, the two have gone to sleep together.

Annie did not even glance at her father; she was quite taken up with Nan.

You can come to the door and look at her, Hester."

Hester did so.

A time had been when she could scarcely have borne that sight without a pang of jealousy; now she turned to Mr. Everard: "I--I could even give her the heart of little Nan to keep her here," she murmured.

CHAPTER LI. THE PRIZE ESSAY.

Annie did not die.

The fever passed away in that long and refreshing sleep, while Nan's cool hand lay against her cheek.

She came slowly, slowly back to life--to a fresh, a new, and a glad life.

Hester, from being her enemy, was now her dearest and warmest friend.

Her father was at home again, and she could no longer think or speak of herself as lonely or sad.

She recovered, and in future days reigned as a greater favorite than ever at Lavender House.

It is only fair to say that Tiger never went back to the gypsies, but devoted himself first and foremost to Annie, and then to the captain, who pronounced him a capital dog, and when he heard his story vowed he never would part with him.

Owing to Annie's illness, and to all the trouble and confusion which immediately ensued, Mrs. Willis did not give away her prizes at the usual time; but when her scholars once more assembled at Lavender House she astonished several of them by a few words.

"My dears," she said, standing in her accustomed place at the head of the long school-room, "I intend now before our first day of lessons begins, to distribute those prizes which would have been yours, under ordinary circumstances, on the twenty-first of June.

The prizes will be distributed during the afternoon recess; but here, and now, I wish to say something about--and also to give away--the prize for English composition.

Six essays, all written with more or less care, have been given to me to inspect.

There are reasons which we need not now go into which made it impossible to me to say anything in favor of a theme called 'The River,' written by my late pupil, Miss Russell; but I can cordially praise a very nice historical sketch of Marie Antoinette, the work of Hester Thornton.

Mary Price has also written a study which pleases me much, as it shows thought and even a little originality.

The remainder of the six essays simply reach an ordinary average.

You will be surprised therefore, my dears, to learn that I do not award the prize to any of these themes, but rather to a seventh composition, which was put into my hands yesterday by Miss Danesbury.

It is crude and unfinished, and doubtless but for her recent illness would have received many corrections; but these few pages, which are called 'A Lonely Child,' drew tears from my eyes; crude as they are, they have the merit of real originality.

They are too morbid to read to you, girls, and I sincerely trust and pray the young writer may never pen anything so sad again.

Such as they are, however, they rank first in the order of merit and the prize is hers.

Annie, my dear, come forward."

Annie left her seat, and, amid the cheers of her companions, went up to Mrs. Willis, who placed a locket, attached to a slender gold chain, round her neck; the locket contained a miniature of the head-mistress' much-loved face.

"After all, think of our Annie Forest turning out clever as well as being the prettiest and dearest girl in the school!"

exclaimed several of her companions.

"Only I do wish," added one, "that Mrs. Willis had let us see the essay.

Annie, treasure, come here; tell us what the 'Lonely Child' was about."

"I don't remember," answered Annie.

"I don't know what loneliness means now, so how can I describe it?"

THE END

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