A World of Girls: The Story of a School

“When the little one is found, Miss Hetty will be quite well again,” said the good doctor: but the little one had not been found yet, and Hester had completely broken down. She lay on her bed, saying little or nothing, eating scarcely anything, sleeping not at all. All the girls were kind to her, and each one in the school took turns in trying to comfort her; but no one could win a smile from Hester, and even Mrs Willis failed utterly to reach or touch her heart.

Mr Everard came once to see her, but he had scarcely spoken many words when Hester broke into an agony of weeping, and begged him to go away. He shook his head when he left her, and said sadly to himself —

“That girl has got something on her mind; she is grieving for more than the loss of her little sister.”

The twentieth of June came at last, and the girls sat about in groups in the pleasant, shady garden, and talked of the very sad breaking-up day they were to have on the morrow, and wondered if, when they returned to school again, Annie and little Nan would have been found. Cecil Temple, Dora Russell, and one or two others were sitting together, and whispering in low voices. Mary Price joined them, and said anxiously —

“I don’t think the doctor is satisfied about Hester. Perhaps I ought not to have listened, but I heard him talking to Miss Danesbury just now; he said she must be got to sleep somehow, and she is to have a composing draught to-night.”

“I wish poor Hetty would not turn away from us all,” said Cecil; “I wish she would not quite give up hope; I do feel sure that Nan and Annie will be found yet.”

“Have you been praying about it, Cecil?” asked Mary, kneeling on the grass, laying her elbows on Cecil’s knees, and looking into her face. “Do you say this because you have faith?”

“I have prayed, and I have faith,” replied Cecil in her simple, earnest way. “Why, Dora, what is the matter?”

“Only that it’s horrid to leave like this,” said Dora; “I – I thought my last day at school would have been so different, and somehow I am sorry I spoke so much against that poor little Annie.”

Here Cecil suddenly rose from her seat, and, going up to Dora, clasped her arms round her neck.

“Thank you, Dora,” she said with fervour; “I love you for those words.”

“Here comes Susy,” remarked Mary Price. “I really don’t think anything would move Susy; she’s just as stolid and indifferent as ever. Ah, Susy, here’s a place for you – oh, what is the matter with Phyllis? see how she’s rushing toward us! Phyllis, my dear, don’t break your neck.”

Susan, with her usual nonchalance, seated herself by Dora Russell’s side. Phyllis burst excitedly into the group.

“I think,” she exclaimed, “I really, really do think that news has come of Annie’s father. Nora said that Janet told her that a foreign letter came this morning to Mrs Willis, and somebody saw Mrs Willis talking to Miss Danesbury – oh, I forgot, only I know that the girls of the school are whispering the news that Mrs Willis cried, and Miss Danesbury said, ‘After waiting for him four years, and now, when he comes back, he won’t find her!’ Oh, dear, oh, dear! there is Danesbury. Cecil, darling love, go to her, and find out the truth.”

Cecil rose at once, went across the lawn, said a few words to Miss Danesbury, and came back to the other girls.

“It is true,” she said sadly; “there came a letter this morning from Captain Forest; he will be at Lavender House in a week. Miss Danesbury says it is a wonderful letter, and he has been shipwrecked, and on an island by himself for ever so long; but he is safe now, and will soon be in England. Miss Danesbury says Mrs Willis can scarcely speak about that letter; she is in great, great trouble, and Miss Danesbury confesses that they are all more anxious than they dare to admit about Annie and little Nan.”

At this moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard on the drive, and Susan, peering forward to see who was arriving, remarked in her usual nonchalant manner —

“Only the little Misses Bruce in their basket-carriage – what dull-looking women they are!”

Nobody commented, however, on her observation, and gradually the little group of girls sank into absolute silence.

From where they sat they could see the basket-carriage waiting at the front entrance – the little ladies had gone inside, all was perfect silence and stillness.

Suddenly on the stillness a sound broke – the sound of a girl running quickly; nearer and nearer came the steps, and the four or five who sat together under the oak-tree noticed the quick panting breath, and felt even before a word was uttered that evil tidings were coming to them. They all started to their feet, however; they all uttered a cry of horror and distress when Hester herself broke into their midst. She was supposed to be lying down in a darkened room, she was supposed to be very ill – what was she doing here?

“Hetty!” exclaimed Cecil.

Hester pushed past her; she rushed up to Susan Drummond, and seized her arm.

“News has come!” she panted; “news – news at last! Nan is found! – and Annie – they are both found – but Annie is dying. Come, Susan, come this moment; we must both tell what we know now.”

By her impetuosity, by the intense fire of her passion and agony, even Susan was electrified into leaving her seat and going with her.

Chapter Forty Nine

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’s 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 hen 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 Hester 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’s 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’s kind face, then they sought the floor.

“The story can be told in a few words, dear,” said the little lady. “A work-woman 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 apologise 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 gipsy garments, fainting in a field. She took her into her house, and, on undressing her, found that she was no true gipsy, 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 round, 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 clew 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 school-fellows must know of this, and must – must judge you accordingly?”