Kitabı oku: «A World of Girls: The Story of a School», sayfa 12
She was surprised to find the school-room door a little ajar, but she entered the room without hesitation, and, dark as it was, soon found her desk, and the book of poems lying on the top. Hester was about to return when she was startled by a little noise in that portion of the room where the first-class girls sat. The next moment somebody came heavily and rather clumsily down the room, and the moon which was just beginning to rise fell for an instant on a girl’s face. Hester recognised the face of Susan Drummond. What could she be doing here? She did not dare to speak, for she herself had broken a rule in visiting the school-room. She remained, therefore, perfectly still until Susan’s steps died away, and then, thankful to have secured her own property, returned to her bedroom, and a moment or two later was sound asleep.
Chapter Thirty
“A Muddy Stream.”
In the morning Dora Russell sat down as usual before her orderly and neatly-kept desk. She raised the lid to find everything in its place – her books and exercises all as they should be, and her pet essay in a neat brown-paper cover, lying just as she had left it the night before. She was really getting quite excited about her river, and as this was a half-holiday, she determined to have a good work at it in the afternoon. She was beginning also to experience that longing for an auditor which occasionally is known to trouble the breasts of genius. She felt that those graceful ideas, that elegant language, those measured periods, might strike happily on some other ears before they were read aloud as the great work of the Midsummer holidays.
She knew that Hester Thornton was making what she was pleased to term a poor little attempt at trying for the same prize. Hester would scarcely venture to copy anything from Dora’s essay; she would probably be discouraged, poor girl, in working any longer at her own composition; but Dora felt that the temptation to read “The River,” as far as it had gone, to Hester was really too great to be resisted. Accordingly, after dinner she graciously invited Hester to accompany her to a bower in the garden, where the two friends might revel over the results of Dora’s extraordinary talents.
Hester was still, to a certain extent, under Dora’s influence, and had not the courage to tell her that she intended to be very busy over her own essay this afternoon.
“Now, Hester, dear,” said Dora, when they found themselves both seated in the bower, “you are the only girl in the school to whom I could confide the subject of my great essay. I really believe that I have hit on something absolutely original. My dear child, I hope you won’t allow yourself to be discouraged. I fear that you won’t have much heart to go on with your theme after you have read my words; but, never mind, dear, it will be good practice for you, and you know it was rather silly to go in for a prize which I intended to compete for.”
“May I read your essay, please, Dora?” asked Hester. “I am very much interested in my own study, and, whether I win the prize or not, I shall always remember the pleasure I took in writing it.”
“What subject did you select, dear?” inquired Miss Russell.
“Well, I am attempting a little sketch of Marie Antoinette.”
“Ah, hackneyed, my dear girl – terribly hackneyed; but, of course, I don’t mean to discourage you. Now! – I draw a life – picture, and I call it ‘The River.’ See how it begins – why, I declare I know the words by heart, ‘As our eyes rest on this clear and limpid stream, as we see the sun sparkle.’ My dear Hester, you shall read me my essay aloud. I shall like to hear my own words from your lips, and you have really a pretty accent, dear.”
Hester folded back the brown-paper cover, and wanting to have her task over began to read nastily. But, as her eyes rested on the first lines, she turned to her companion, and said —
“Did you not tell me that your essay was called ‘The River’?”
“Yes, dear; the full title is ‘The Windings of a Noble River.’”
“That’s very odd,” replied Hester. “What I see here is ‘The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream.’ ‘As our dull orbs rest on this turbid water on which the sun cannot possibly shine.’ Why, Dora, this cannot be your essay, and yet, surely, it is your handwriting.”
Dora, with her face suddenly flushing a vivid crimson, snatched the manuscript from Hester’s hand, and looked over it eagerly. Alas! there was no doubt. The title of this essay was “The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream,” and the words which immediately followed were a smart and ridiculous parody on her own high-flown sentences. The resemblance to her handwriting was perfect. The brown-paper cover, neatly sewn on to protect the white manuscript, was undoubtedly her cover; the very paper on which the words were written seemed in all particulars the same. Dora turned the sheets eagerly, and here for the first time she saw a difference. Only four or five pages of the nonsense essay had been attempted, and the night before, when finishing her toil, she had proudly numbered her tenth page. She looked through the whole thing, turning leaf after leaf, while her cheeks were crimson, and her hands trembled. In the first moment of horrible humiliation and dismay she literally could not speak.
At last, springing to her feet, and confronting the astonished and almost frightened Hester, she found her voice.
“Hester, you must help me in this. The most dreadful, the most atrocious fraud has been committed. Some one has been base enough, audacious enough, wicked enough, to go to my desk privately, and take away my real essay – my work over which I have laboured and toiled. The expressions of my – my – yes, I will say it – my genius, have been ruthlessly burnt, or otherwise made away with, and this thing has been put in their place. Hester, why don’t you speak – why do you stare at me like this?”
“I am puzzled by the writing,” said Hester; “the writing is yours.”
“The writing is mine! – oh, you wicked girl! The writing is an imitation of mine – a feeble and poor imitation. I thought, Hester, that by this time you knew your friend’s handwriting. I thought that one in whom I have confided – one whom I have stooped to notice because I fancied we had a community of soul, would not be so ridiculous and so silly as to mistake this writing for mine. Look again, please, Hester Thornton, and tell me if I am ever so vulgar as to cross my t’s. You know I always loop them; and do I make a capital B in this fashion? And do I indulge in flourishes? I grant you that the general effect to a casual observer would be something the same, but you, Hester – I thought you knew me better.”
Here Hester, examining the false essay, had to confess that the crossed t’s and the flourishes were unlike Miss Russell’s calligraphy.
“It is a forgery, most cleverly done,” said Dora. “There is such a thing, Hester, as being wickedly clever. This spiteful, cruel attempt to injure another can have but proceeded from one very low order of mind. Hester, there has been plenty of favouritism in this school, but do you suppose I shall allow such a thing as this to pass over unsearched into? If necessary, I shall ask my father to interfere. This is a slight – an outrage; but the whole mystery shall at last be cleared up. Miss Good and Miss Danesbury shall be informed at once, and the very instant Mrs Willis returns she shall be told what a serpent she has been nursing in this false, wicked girl, Annie Forest.”
“Stop, Dora,” said Hester suddenly. She sprang to her feet, clasping her hands, and her colour varied rapidly from white to red. A sudden light poured in upon her, and she was about to speak when something – quite a small, trivial thing – occurred. She only saw little Nan in the distance flying swiftly, with outstretched arms, to meet a girl, whose knees she clasped in baby ecstasy. The girl stooped down and kissed the little face, and the round arms were flung around her neck. The next instant Annie Forest continued her walk alone, and Nan, looking wistfully back after her, went in another direction with her nurse. The whole scene took but a moment to enact, but as she watched, Hester’s face grew hard and white. She sat down again, with her lips firmly pressed together.
“What is it, Hester?” exclaimed Dora. “What were you going to say? You surely know nothing about this?”
“Well, Dora, I am not the guilty person. I was only going to remark that you cannot be sure it is Annie Forest.”
“Oh, so you are going to take that horrid girl’s part now? I wonder at you! She all but killed your little sister, and then stole her love away from you. Did you see the little thing now, how she flew to her? Why, she never kisses you like that.”
“I know – I know,” said Hester, and she turned away her face with a groan, and leant forward against the rustic bench, pressing her hot forehead down on her hands.
“You’ll have your triumph, Hester, when Miss Forest is publicly expelled,” said Dora, tapping her lightly on the shoulder, and then, taking up the forged essay, she went slowly out of the garden.
Chapter Thirty One
Good And Bad Angels
Hester stayed behind in the shady little arbour, and then, on that soft spring day, while the birds sang overhead, and the warm light breezes came in and fanned her hot cheeks, good angels and bad drew near to fight for a victory. Which would conquer? Hester had many faults, but hitherto she had been honourable and truthful; her sins had been those of pride and jealousy, but she had never told a falsehood in her life. She, knew perfectly – she trembled as the full knowledge overpowered her – that she had it in her power to exonerate Annie. She could not in the least imagine now stupid Susan Drummond could contrive and carry out such a clever and deep-laid plot; but she knew also that if she related what she had seen with her own eyes the night before, she would probably give such a clew to the apparent mystery that the truth would come to light.
If Annie was cleared from this accusation, doubtless the old story of her supposed guilt with regard to Mrs Willis’s caricature would also be read with its right key. Hester was a clever and sharp girl; and the fact of seeing Susan Drummond in the school-room in the dead of night opened her eyes also to one or two other apparent little mysteries. While Susan was her own room-mate she had often given a passing wonder to the fact of her extraordinary desire to overcome her sleepiness, and had laughed over the expedients Susan had used to wake at all moments.
These things, at the time, had scarcely given her a moment’s serious reflection; but now she pondered them carefully, and became more and more certain that, for some inexplicable and unfathomable reason, sleepy, and apparently innocent, Susan Drummond wished to sow the seeds of mischief and discord in the school. Hester was sure that if she chose to speak now she could clear poor Annie, and restore her to her lost place in Mrs Willis’s favour.
Should she do so? – ah! should she? Her lips trembled, her colour came and went as the angels, good and bad, fought hard for victory within her. How she had longed to revenge herself on Annie! How cordially she had hated her! Now was the moment of her revenge. She had but to remain silent now, and to let matters take their course; she had but to hold her tongue about the little incident of last night, and, without any doubt, circumstantial evidence would point at Annie Forest, and she would be expelled from the school. Mrs Willis must condemn her now. Mr Everard must pronounce her guilty now. She would go, and when the coast was again clear the love which she had taken from Hester – the precious love of Hester’s only little sister – would return.
“You will be miserable: you will be miserable,” whispered the good angels sorrowfully in her ear; but she did not listen to them.
“I said I would revenge myself, and this is my opportunity,” she murmured. “Silence – just simply silence – will be my revenge.”
Then the good angels went sorrowfully back to their Father in heaven, and the wicked angels rejoiced. Hester had fallen very low.
Chapter Thirty Two
Fresh Suspicions
Mrs Willis was not at home many hours before Dora Russell begged for an interview with her. Annie had not as yet heard anything of the changed essay; for Dora had resolved to keep the thing a secret until Mrs Willis herself took the matter in hand.
Annie was feeling not a little anxious and depressed. She was sorry now that she had led the girls that wild escapade through the wood. Phyllis and Nora were both suffering from heavy colds in consequence, and Susan Drummond was looking more pasty about her complexion, and was more dismally sleepy than usual. Annie was going through her usual season of intense remorse after one of her wild pranks. No one repented with more apparent fervour than she did, and yet no one so easily succumbed to the next temptation. Had Annie been alone in the matter she would have gone straight to Mrs Willis and confessed all; but she could not do this without implicating her companions, who would have screamed with horror at the very suggestion.
All the girls were more or less depressed by the knowledge that the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, shared their secret; and they often whispered together as to the chances of her betraying them. Old Betty they could trust; for Betty, the cake-woman, had been an arch-conspirator with the naughty girls of Lavender House from time immemorial. Betty had always managed to provide their stolen suppers for them, and had been most accommodating in the matter of pay. Yes, with Betty they felt they were safe; but Mother Rachel was a different person. She might like to be paid a few more sixpences for her silence; she might hover about the grounds; she might be noticed. At any moment she might boldly demand an interview with Mrs Willis.
“I’m awfully afraid of Mother Rachel,” Phyllis moaned, as she shivered under the influence of her bad cold.
Nora said “I should faint if I saw her again, I know I should while the other girls always went out provided with stray sixpences, in case the gypsy-mother should start up from some unexpected quarter and demand black-mail.”
On the day of Mrs Willis’s return, Annie was pacing up and down the shady walk, and indulging in some rather melancholy and regretful thoughts, when Susan Drummond and Mary Morris rushed up to her, white with terror.
“She’s down there by the copse, and she’s beckoning to us! Oh, do come with us – do, darling, dear Annie.”
“There’s no use in it,” replied Annie; “Mother Rachel wants money, and I am not going to give her any. Don’t be afraid of her, girls, and don’t give her money. After all, why should she tell on us? she would gain nothing by doing so.”
“Oh, yes, she would, Annie – she would, Annie,” said Mary Morris, beginning to sob; “oh, do come with us, do! We must pacify her, we really must.”
“I can’t come now,” said Annie; “hark! some one is calling me. Yes, Miss Danesbury – what is it?”
“Mrs Willis wishes to see you at once, Annie, in her private sitting-room,” replied Miss Danesbury; and Annie, wondering not a little, but quite unsuspicious, ran off.
The fact, however, of her having deliberately disobeyed Mrs Willis, and done something which she knew would greatly pain her, brought a shade of embarrassment to her usually candid face. She had also to confess to herself that she did not feel quite so comfortable about Mother Rachel as she had given Mary Morris and Susan Drummond to understand. Her steps lagged more and more as she approached the house, and she wished, oh, how longingly! oh, how regretfully! that she had not been naughty and wild and disobedient in her beloved teacher’s absence.
“But where is the use of regretting what is done?” she said, half aloud. “I know I can never be good – never, never!”
She pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains which shaded the door of the private sitting-room, and went in, to find Mrs Willis seated by her desk, very pale and tired and unhappy looking, while Dora Russell, with crimson spots on her cheeks and a very angry glitter in her eyes, stood by the mantelpiece.
“Come here, Annie dear,” said Mrs Willis in her usual gentle and affectionate tone.
Annie’s first wild impulse was to rush to her governess’s side, to fling her arms round her neck, and, as a child would confess to her mother, to tell her all that story of the walk through the wood, and the stolen picnic in the fairies’ field. Three things, however, restrained her – she must not relieve her own troubles at the expense of betraying others; she could not, even if she were willing, say a word in the presence of this cold and angry-looking Dora; in the third place, Mrs Willis looked very tired and very sad. Not for worlds would she add to her troubles at this instant. She came into the room, however, with a slight hesitation of manner, and a clouded brow, which caused Mrs Willis to watch her with anxiety, and Dora with triumph.
“Come here, Annie,” repeated the governess. “I want to speak to you. Something very dishonourable and disgraceful has been done in my absence.”
Annie’s face suddenly became as white as a sheet. Could the gypsy-mother have already betrayed them all?
Mrs Willis, noticing her too evident confusion, continued in a voice, which, in spite of herself, became stern and severe.
“I shall expect the truth at any cost, my dear. Look at this manuscript-book. Do you know anything of the handwriting?”
“Why, it is yours, of course, Dora,” said Annie, who was now absolutely bewildered.
“It is not mine,” began Dora, but Mrs Willis held up her hand.
“Allow me to speak, Miss Russell. I can best explain matters. Annie, during my absence some one has been guilty of a very base and wicked act. One of the girls in this school has gone secretly to Dora Russell’s desk, and taken away ten pages of an essay which she had called ‘The River,’ and which she was preparing for the prize competition next month. Instead of Dora’s essay this that you now see was put in its place. Examine it, my dear. Can you tell me anything about it?”
Annie took the manuscript-book, and turned the leaves.
“Is it meant for a parody?” she asked, after a pause; “it sounds ridiculous. No, Mrs Willis, I know nothing whatever about it; some one has imitated Dora’s handwriting. I cannot imagine who is the culprit.”
She threw the manuscript-book with a certain easy carelessness on the table by her side, and glanced up with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes at Dora.
“I suppose it is meant for a clever parody,” she repeated; “at least it is amusing.”
Her manner displeased Mrs Willis, and very nearly maddened poor Dora.
“We have not sent for you, Annie,” said her teacher, “to ask you your opinion of the parody, but to try and get you to throw light on the subject. We must find out, and at once, who has been so wicked as to deliberately injure another girl.”
“But why have you sent for me?” asked Annie, drawing herself up, and speaking with a little shade of haughtiness.
“Because,” said Dora Russell, who could no longer contain her outraged feelings, “because you alone can throw light on it – because you alone in the school are base enough to do anything so mean – because you alone can caricature.”
“Oh, that is it,” said Annie; “you suspect me, then. Do you suspect me, Mrs Willis?”
“My dear – what can I say?”
“Nothing, if you do. In this school my word has long gone for nothing. I am a naughty, headstrong, wilful girl, but in this matter I am perfectly innocent. I never saw that essay before; I never in all my life went to Dora Russell’s desk. I am headstrong and wild, but I don’t do spiteful things. I have no object in injuring Dora; she is nothing to me – nothing. She is trying for the essay prize, but she has no chance of winning it. Why should I trouble myself to injure her? why should I even take the pains to parody her words and copy her handwriting? Mrs Willis, you need not believe me – I see you do not believe me – but I am quite innocent.”
Here Annie burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room.
