IN THE CHAPEL.
The bright light from a full noontide sun was shining in colored bars
through the richly-painted windows of the little chapel when Mrs. Willis
sought Cecil Temple there.
Cecil's face was in many ways a remarkable one.
Her soft brown eyes were generally filled with a steadfast and kindly
ray. Gentleness was her special prerogative, but there was nothing weak
about her--hers was the gentleness of a strong, and pure, and noble soul.
To know Cecil was to love her. She was a motherless girl, and the only
child of a most indulgent father. Colonel Temple was now in India, and
Cecil was to finish her education under Mrs. Willis' care, and then, if
necessary, to join her father.
Mrs. Willis had always taken a special interest in this girl. She admired
her for her great moral worth. Cecil was not particularly clever, but she
was so studious, so painstaking, that she always kept a high place in
class. She was without doubt a religious girl, but there was nothing of
the prig about her. She was not, however, ashamed of her religion, and,
if the fitting occasion arose, she was fearless in expressing her
opinion.
Mrs. Willis used to call Cecil her "little standard-bearer," and she
relied greatly on her influence over the third-class girls. Mrs. Willis
considered the third class, perhaps, the most important in the school.
She was often heard to say:
"The girls who fill this class have come to a turning point--they have
come to the age when resolves may be made for life, and kept. The good
third-class girl is very unlikely to degenerate as she passes through the
second and first classes. On the other hand, there is very little hope
that the idle or mischievous third-class girl will mend her ways as she
goes higher in the school."
Mrs. Willis' steps were very slow, and her thoughts extremely painful, as
she entered the chapel to-day. Had any one else offered her defiance she
would have known how to deal with the culprit, but Cecil would never have
acted as she did without the strongest motive, and Mrs. Willis felt more
sorrowful than angry as she sat down by the side of her favorite pupil.
"I have kept you waiting longer than I intended, my dear," she said. "I
was unexpectedly interrupted, and I am sorry; but you have had more time
to think, Cecil."
"Yes, I have thought," answered Cecil, in a very low tone.
"And, perhaps," continued her governess, "in this quiet and beautiful and
sacred place, my dear pupil has also prayed?"
"I have prayed," said Cecil.
"Then you have been guided, Cecil," said Mrs. Willis, in a tone of
relief. "We do not come to God in our distress without being shown the
right way. Your doubts have been removed, Cecil; you can now speak fully
to me: can you not, dear?"
"I have asked God to tell me what is right," said Cecil. "I don't pretend
to know. I am very much puzzled. It seems to me that more good would be
done if I concealed what you asked me to confess in the school-room. My
own feeling is that I ought not to tell you. I know this is great
disobedience, and I am quite willing to receive any punishment you think
right to give me. Yes, I think I am quite willing to receive _any_
punishment."
Mrs. Willis put her hand on Cecil's shoulder.
"Ordinary punishments are not likely to affect you, Cecil," she said; "on
you I have no idea of inflicting extra lessons, or depriving you of
half-holidays, or even taking away your drawing-room. But there is
something else you must lose, and that I know will touch you deeply--I
must remove from you my confidence."
Cecil's face grew very pale.
"And your love, too?" she said, looking up with imploring eyes; "oh,
surely not your love as well?"
"I ask you frankly, Cecil," replied Mrs. Willis, "can perfect love exist
without perfect confidence? I would not willingly deprive you of my love,
but of necessity the love I have hitherto felt for you must be
altered--in short, the old love, which enabled me to rest on you and
trust you, will cease."
Cecil covered her face with her hands.
"This punishment is very cruel," she said. "You are right; it reaches
down to my very heart. But," she added, looking up with a strong and
sweet light in her face, "I will try and bear it, and some day you will
understand."
"Listen, Cecil," said Mrs. Willis; "you have just told me you have prayed
to God, and have asked Him to show you the right path. Now, my dear,
suppose we kneel together, and both of us ask Him to show us the way out
of this difficult matter. I want to be guided to use the right words with
you, Cecil. You want to be guided to receive the instruction which I, as
your teacher and mother-friend, would give you."
Cecil and Mrs. Willis both knelt down, and the head-mistress said a few
words in a voice of great earnestness and entreaty; then they resumed
their seats.
"Now, Cecil," said Mrs. Willis, "you must remember in listening to me
that I am speaking to you as I believe God wishes me to. If I can
convince you that you are doing wrong in concealing what you know from
me, will you act as I wish in the matter?"
"I long to be convinced," said Cecil, in a low tone.
"That is right, my dear; I can now speak to you with perfect freedom. My
words you will remember, Cecil, are now, I firmly believe, directed by
God; they are also the result of a large experience. I have trained many
girls. I have watched the phases of thought in many young minds. Cecil,
look at me. I can read you like a book."
Cecil looked up expectantly.
"Your motive for this concealment is as clear as the daylight, Cecil. You
are keeping back what you know because you want to shield some one. Am I
not right, my dear?"
The color flooded Cecil's pale face. She bent her head in silent assent,
but her eyes were too full of tears, and her lips trembled too much to
allow her to speak.
"The girl you want to defend," continued Mrs. Willis, in that clear,
patient voice of hers, "is one whom you and I both love--is one for whom
we both have prayed--is one for whom we would both gladly sacrifice
ourselves if necessary. Her name is----"
"Oh, don't," said Cecil imploringly--"don't say her name; you have no
right to suspect her."
"I must say her name, Cecil, dear. If you suspect Annie Forest, why
should not I? You do suspect her, do you not, Cecil?"
Cecil began to cry.
"I know it," continued Mrs. Willis. "Now, Cecil, we will suppose,
terrible as this suspicion is, fearfully as it pains us both, that Annie
Forest _is_ guilty. We must suppose for the sake of my argument that this
is the case. Do you not know, my dear Cecil, that you are doing the
falsest, cruelest thing by dear Annie in trying to hide her sin from me?
Suppose, just for the sake of our argument, that this cowardly conduct on
Annie's part was never found out by me; what effect would it have on
Annie herself?"
"It would save her in the eyes of the school," said Cecil.
"Just so; but God would know the truth. Her next downfall would be
deeper. In short, Cecil, under the idea of friendship you would have done
the cruelest thing in all the world for your friend."
Cecil was quite silent.
"This is one way to look at it," continued Mrs. Willis; "but there are
many other points from which this case ought to be viewed. You owe much
to Annie, but not all--you have a duty to perform to your other
schoolfellows. You have a duty to perform to me. If you possess a clue
which will enable me to convict Annie Forest of her sin, in common
justice you have no right to withhold it. Remember, that while she goes
about free and unsuspected, some other girl is under the ban--some other
girl is watched and feared. You fail in your duty to your schoolfellows
when you keep back your knowledge, Cecil. When you refuse to trust me,
you fail in your duty to your mistress; for I cannot stamp out this evil
and wicked thing from our midst unless I know all. When you conceal your
knowledge, you ruin the character of the girl you seek to shield. When
you conceal your knowledge, you go against God's express wish. There--I
have spoken to you as He directed me to speak."
Cecil suddenly sprang to her feet.
"I never thought of all these things," she said. "You are right, but it
is very hard, and mine is only a suspicion. Oh, do be tender to her,
and--forgive me--may I go away now?"
As she spoke, she pulled out the torn copy of Mrs. Browning, laid it on
her teacher's lap, and ran swiftly out of the chapel.