A World of Girls: The Story of a School

“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 car, “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 candour 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 singsong 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 school-girls – 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 school-fellows 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 school-mate heard of her again.

Chapter Fifty

The Heart Of Little Nan

For several days now Annie had lain unconscious in Mrs Williams’s little bedroom; the kind-hearted woman could not find it in her heart to send the sick child away. Her husband and the neighbours 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 on in the workhouse infirmary.”

But Mrs Williams shook her head at her hard-featured and hard-hearted neighbour, 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 favourite’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 I love? No, no! I am innocent! God knows it. Yes, I am glad of that – God knows it.”

Over, and over in Mrs Willis’s 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 afterwards 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 – ”