Kitabı oku: «A World of Girls: The Story of a School», sayfa 14
Chapter Thirty Six
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 manoeuvred; 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 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 gayly 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 look 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 Thirty Seven
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 colourings! 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 greyness 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 bands pressed to her eyes, one line of one of her favourite 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 curtsey.
“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, coloured 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 honourable 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 honour, 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 very 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’s 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 honour, 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’s 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 Thirty Eight
Is She Still Guilty?
On the evening of that day Cecil Temple knocked at the door of Mrs Willis’s private sitting-room.
“Ah, Cecil! is that you?” said her governess. “I am always glad to see you, dear; but I happen to be particularly busy to-night. Have you anything in particular to say to me?”
“I only wanted to talk about Annie, Mrs Willis. You believe in her at last, don’t you?”
“Believe in her at last!” said the head-mistress in a tone of astonishment and deep pain. “No, Cecil, my dear; you ask too much of my faith. I do not believe in Annie.”
Cecil paused; she hesitated, and seemed half afraid to proceed.
“Perhaps,” she said at last in a slightly timid tone, “you have not seen her since this morning?”
“No; I have been particularly busy. Besides, the eight culprits are under punishment; part of their punishment is that I will not see them.”
“Don’t you think, Mrs Willis,” said Cecil, “that Annie made rather a brave confession this morning?”
“I admit, my dear, that Annie spoke in somewhat of her old impulsive way; she blamed herself, and did not try to screen her – misdemeanours behind her companions. In this one particular she reminded me of the old Annie who, notwithstanding all her faults. I used to trust and love. But as to her confession being very brave, my dear Cecil, you must remember that she did not confess until she was obliged; she knew, and so did all the other girls, that I could have got the truth out of old Betty had they chosen to keep their lips sealed. Then, my dear, consider what she did. On the very night that I was away she violated the trust I had in her – she bade me ‘good-bye’ with smiles and sweet glances, and then she did this in my absence. No, Cecil, I fear poor Annie is not what we thought her. She has done untold mischief during the half-year, and has willfully lied and deceived me. I find, on comparing dates, that it was on the very night of the girls picnic that Dora’s theme was changed. There is no doubt whatever that Annie was the guilty person. I did my best to believe in her, and to depend on Mr Everard’s judgment of her character, but I confess I can do so no longer. Cecil, dear, I am not surprised that you look pale and sad. No, we will not give up this poor Annie; we will try to love her even through her sin. Ah! poor child, poor child! how much I have prayed for her! She was to me as a child of my own. Now, dear Cecil, I must ask you to leave me.”
Cecil went slowly out of her governess’s presence, and, wandering across the wide stone hall, she entered the play-room. It happened to be a wet night, and the room was full of girls, who hung together in groups and whispered softly. There were no loud voices, and, except from the little ones, there was no laughter. A great depression hung over the place, and few could have recognised the happy girls of Lavender House in these sad young faces. Cecil walked slowly into the room, and presently finding Hester Thornton, she sat down by her side.
“I can’t get Mrs Willis to see it,” she said very sadly. “What?” asked Hester.
“Why, that we have got our old Annie back again; that she did take the girls out to that picnic, and was as wild, and reckless, and naughty as possible about it; and then, just like the old Annie I have always known, the moment the fun was over she began to repent, and that she has gone on repenting ever since, which has accounted for her poor, sad little face and white cheeks. Of course she longed to tell – Nora and Phyllis have told me so – but she would not betray them. Now at last there is a load off her heart, and, though she is in great disgrace and punishment, she is not very unhappy. I went to see her an hour ago, and I saw in her face that my own darling Annie has returned. But what do you think Mrs Willis does, Hester? She is so hurt and disappointed, that she believes Annie is guilty of the other thing – she believes that Annie stole Dora’s theme, and that she caricatured her in my book some time ago. She believes it – she is sure of it. Now, do you think, Hester, that Annie’s face would look quite peaceful and happy to-night if she had only confessed half her faults – if she had this meanness, this sin, these lies still resting on her soul? Oh! I wish Mrs Willis would see her! I wish – I wish I but I can do nothing. You agree with me, don’t you, Hester? Just put yourself in Annie’s place, and tell me if you would feel happy, and if your heart would be at rest, if you had only confessed half your sin, and if through you all your school-fellows were under disgrace and suspicion? You could not, could you, Hester? Why, Hester, how white you are!”
“You are so metaphysical,” said Hester, rising; “you quite puzzle me. How can I put myself in your friend Annie’s place? I never understood her – I never wanted to. Put myself in her place? – no, certainly that I’m never likely to. I hope that I shall never be in such a predicament.”
Hester walked away, and Cecil sat still in great perplexity. Cecil was a girl with a true sense of religion. The love of God guided every action of her simple and straightforward life. She was neither beautiful nor clever; but no one in the school was more respected and honoured, no one more sincerely loved. Cecil knew what the peace of God meant, and when she saw even a shadowy reflection of that peace on Annie’s little face, she was right in believing that she must be innocent of the guilt which was attributed to her.
The whole school assembled for prayers that night in the little chapel, and Mr Everard, who had heard the story of that day’s confession from Mrs Willis, said a few words appropriate to the occasion to the unhappy young girls.
Whatever effect his words had on the others, and they were very simple and straightforward, Annie’s face grew quiet and peaceful as she listened to them. The old clergyman assured the girls that God was waiting to forgive those who truly repented, and that the way to repent was to rise up and sin no more.
“The present fun is not worth the after-pain,” he said in conclusion. “It is an old saying that stolen waters are sweet, but only at the time: afterwards only those who drink of them know the full extent of their bitterness.”
This little address from Mr Everard strengthened poor Annie for an ordeal which was immediately before her, for Mrs Willis asked all the school to follow her to the play-room, and there she told them that she was about to restore to them their lost privileges; that circumstances, in her opinion, now so strongly pointed the guilt of the stolen essay in the direction of one girl, that she could no longer ask the school to suffer for her sake.
“She still refuses to confess her sin,” said Mrs Willis, “but, unless another girl proclaims herself guilty, and proves to me beyond doubt that she drew the caricature which was found in Cecil Temple’s book, and that she changed Dora Russell’s essay, and, imitating her hand, put another in its place, I proclaim the guilty person to be Annie Forest, and on her alone I visit my displeasure. You can retire to your rooms, young ladies. To-morrow morning Lavender House resumes its old cheerfulness.”
