IN THE HAMMOCK.
Just at this time the weather suddenly changed. After the cold and
dreariness of winter came soft spring days--came longer evenings and
brighter mornings.
Hester Thornton found that she could dress by daylight, then that she was
no longer cold and shivering when she reached the chapel, then that she
began intensely to enjoy her mid-day walk, then that she found her winter
things a little too hot, until at last, almost suddenly it seemed to the
expectant and anxious girls, glorious spring weather broke upon the
world, the winds were soft and westerly, the buds swelled and swelled
into leaf on the trees, and the flowers bloomed in the delightful
old-fashioned gardens of Lavender House. Instantly, it seemed to the
girls, their whole lives had altered. The play-room was deserted or only
put up with on wet days. At twelve o'clock, instead of taking a
monotonous walk on the roads, they ran races, played tennis, croquet, or
any other game they liked best in the gardens. Later on in the day, when
the sun was not so powerful, they took their walk; but even then they had
time to rush back to their beloved shady garden for a little time before
tea and preparation for their next day's work. Easter came this year
about the middle of April, and Easter found these girls almost enjoying
summer weather. How they looked forward to their few Easter holidays!
what plans they made, what tennis matches were arranged, what games and
amusements of all sorts were in anticipation! Mrs. Willis herself
generally went away for a few days at Easter; so did the French
governess, and the school was nominally placed under the charge of Miss
Good and Miss Danesbury. Mrs. Willis did not approve of long Easter
holidays; she never gave more than a week, and in consequence only the
girls who lived quite near went home. Out of the fifty girls who resided
at Lavender House about ten went away at Easter; the remaining forty
stayed behind, and were often heard to declare that holidays at Lavender
House were the most delightful things in the world.
At this particular Easter time the girls were rather surprised to hear
that Mrs. Willis had made up her mind not to go away as usual; Miss Good
was to have a holiday, and Mrs. Willis and Miss Danesbury were to look
after the school. This was felt to be an unusual, indeed unheard of,
proceeding, and the girls commented about it a good deal, and somehow,
without absolutely intending to do so, they began to settle in their own
minds that Mrs. Willis was staying in the school on account of Annie
Forest, and that in her heart of hearts she did not absolutely believe in
her innocence. Mrs. Willis certainly gave the girls no reason to come to
this conclusion; she was consistently kind to Annie, and had apparently
quite restored her to her old place in her favor. Annie was more gentle
than of old, and less inclined to get into scrapes; but the girls loved
her far less in her present unnatural condition of reserve and good
behavior than they did in her old daring and hoydenish days. Cecil Temple
always spent Easter with an old aunt who lived in a neighboring town; she
openly said this year that she did not wish to go away, but her governess
would not allow her to change her usual plans, and she left Lavender
House with a curious feeling of depression and coming trouble. As she was
getting into the cab which was to take her to the station Annie flew to
her side, threw a great bouquet of flowers which she had gathered into
her lap, and, flinging her arms tightly round her neck, whispered
suddenly and passionately:
"Oh, Cecil, believe in me."
"I--I--I don't know that I don't," said Cecil, rather lamely.
"No, Cecil, you don't--not in your heart of hearts. Neither you nor Mrs.
Willis--you neither of you believe in me from the very bottom of your
hearts; oh, it is hard!"
Annie gave vent to a little sob, sprang away from Cecil's arms, and
disappeared into a shrubbery close by.
She stayed there until the sound of the retreating cab died away in the
avenue, then, tossing back her hair, rearranging her rather tattered
garden hat, and hastily wiping some tears from her eyes, she came out
from her retreat, and began to look around her for some amusement. What
should she do? Where should she go? How should she occupy herself? Sounds
of laughter and merriment filled the air; the garden was all alive with
gay young figures running here and there. Girls stood in groups under the
horse-chestnut tree--girls walked two and two up the shady walk at the
end of the garden--little ones gamboled and rolled on the grass--a tennis
match was going on vigorously, and the croquet ground was occupied by
eight girls of the middle school. Annie was one of the most successful
tennis players in the school; she had indeed a gift for all games of
skill, and seldom missed her mark. Now she looked with a certain wistful
longing toward the tennis-court; but, after a brief hesitation, she
turned away from it and entered the shady walk at the farther end of the
garden. As she walked along, slowly, meditatively, and sadly, her eyes
suddenly lighted up. Glancing to one of the tall trees she saw a hammock
suspended there which had evidently been forgotten during the winter. The
tree was not yet quite in leaf, and it was very easy for Annie to climb
up its branches to re-adjust the hammock, and to get into it. After its
winter residence in the tree this soft couch was found full of withered
leaves, and otherwise rather damp and uncomfortable. Annie tossed the
leaves on to the ground, and laughed as she swung herself gently backward
and forward. Early as the season still was the sun was so bright and the
air so soft that she could not but enjoy herself, and she laughed with
pleasure, and only wished that she had a fairy tale by her side to help
to soothe her off to sleep.
In the distance she heard some children calling "Annie," "Annie Forest;"
but she was far too comfortable and too lazy to answer them, and
presently she closed her eyes and really did fall asleep.
She was awakened by a very slight sound--by nothing more nor less than
the gentle and very refined conversation of two girls, who sat under the
oak tree in which Annie's hammock swung. Hearing the voices, she bent a
little forward, and saw that the speakers were Dora Russell and Hester
Thornton. Her first inclination was to laugh, toss down some leaves, and
instantly reveal herself; the next she drew back hastily, and began to
listen with all her ears.
"I never liked her," said Hester--"I never even from the very first
pretended to like her. I think she is under-bred, and not fit to
associate with the other girls in the school-room."
"She is treated with most unfair partiality," retorted Miss Russell in
her thin and rather bitter voice. "I have not the smallest doubt, not the
smallest, that she was guilty of putting those messes into my desk, of
destroying my composition, and of caricaturing Mrs. Willis in Cecil
Temple's book. I wonder after that Mrs. Willis did not see through her,
but it is astonishing to what lengths favoritism will carry one. Mrs.
Willis and Mr. Everard are behaving in a very unfair way to the rest of
us in upholding this commonplace, disagreeable girl; but it will be to
Mrs. Willis' own disadvantage. Hester, I am, as you know, leaving school
at midsummer, and I shall certainly use all my influence to induce my
father and mother not to send the younger girls here; they could not
associate with a person like Miss Forest."
"I never take much notice of her," said Hester; "but of course what you
say is quite right, Dora. You have great discrimination, and your sisters
might possibly be taken in by her."
"Oh, not at all, I assure you; they know a true lady when they see her.
However, they must not be imperilled. I will ask my parents to send them
to Mdlle. Lablanché. I hear that her establishment is most _recherché_."
"Mrs. Willis is very nice herself, and so are most of the girls," said
Hester, after a pause. Then they were both silent, for Hester had stooped
down to examine some little fronds and moss which grew at the foot of the
tree. After a pause, Hester said:
"I don't think Annie is the favorite she was with the girls."
"Oh, of course not; they all, in their heart of hearts, know she is
guilty. Will you come indoors, and have tea with me in my drawing-room,
Hester?"
The two girls walked slowly away, and presently Annie let herself gently
out of her hammock and dropped to the ground.
She had heard every word; she had not revealed herself, and a new and
terrible--and, truth to say, absolutely foreign--sensation from her true
nature now filled her mind. She felt that she almost hated these two who
had spoken so cruelly, so unjustly of her. She began to trace her
misfortunes and her unhappiness to the date of Hester's entrance into the
school. Even more than Dora Russell did she dislike Hester; she made up
her mind to revenge herself on both these girls. Her heart was very, very
sore; she missed the old words, the old love, the old brightness, the old
popularity; she missed the mother-tones in Mrs. Willis' voice--her heart
cried out for them, at night she often wept for them. She became more and
more sure that she owed all her misfortunes to Hester, and in a smaller
degree to Dora. Dora believed that she had deliberately insulted her, and
injured her composition, when she knew herself that she was quite
innocent of even harboring such a thought, far less carrying it into
effect. Well, now, she would really do something to injure both these
girls, and perhaps the carrying out of her revenge would satisfy her sore
heart.