FRESH SUSPICIONS.
Mrs. Willis was not at home many hours before Dora Russell begged for an
interview with her. Annie had not as yet heard anything of the changed
essay; for Dora had resolved to keep the thing a secret until Mrs. Willis
herself took the matter in hand.
Annie was feeling not a little anxious and depressed. She was sorry now
that she had led the girls that wild escapade through the wood. Phyllis
and Nora were both suffering from heavy colds in consequence, and Susan
Drummond was looking more pasty about her complexion, and was more
dismally sleepy than usual. Annie was going through her usual season of
intense remorse after one of her wild pranks. No one repented with more
apparent fervor than she did, and yet no one so easily succumbed to the
next temptation. Had Annie been alone in the matter she would have gone
straight to Mrs. Willis and confessed all; but she could not do this
without implicating her companions, who would have screamed with horror
at the very suggestion.
All the girls were more or less depressed by the knowledge that the gypsy
woman, Mother Rachel, shared their secret; and they often whispered
together as to the chances of her betraying them. Old Betty they could
trust; for Betty, the cake-woman, had been an arch-conspirator with the
naughty girls of Lavender House from time immemorial. Betty had always
managed to provide their stolen suppers for them, and had been most
accommodating in the matter of pay. Yes, with Betty they felt they were
safe; but Mother Rachel was a different person. She might like to be paid
a few more sixpences for her silence; she might hover about the grounds;
she might be noticed. At any moment she might boldly demand an interview
with Mrs. Willis.
"I'm awfully afraid of Mother Rachel," Phyllis moaned, as she shivered
under the influence of her bad cold.
Nora said "I should faint if I saw her again, I know I should;" while the
other girls always went out provided with stray sixpences, in case the
gypsy mother should start up from some unexpected quarter and demand
blackmail.
On the day of Mrs. Willis' return, Annie was pacing up and down the shady
walk, and indulging in some rather melancholy and regretful thoughts,
when Susan Drummond and Mary Morris rushed up to her, white with terror.
"She's down there by the copse, and she's beckoning to us! Oh, do come
with us--do, darling, dear Annie."
"There's no use in it," replied Annie; "Mother Rachel wants money, and I
am not going to give her any. Don't be afraid of her, girls, and don't
give her money. After all, why should she tell on us? she would gain
nothing by doing so."
"Oh, yes, she would, Annie--she would, Annie," said Mary Morris,
beginning to sob; "oh, do come with us, do! We must pacify her, we really
must."
"I can't come now," said Annie; "hark! some one is calling me. Yes, Miss
Danesbury--what is it?"
"Mrs. Willis wishes to see you at once, Annie, in her private
sitting-room," replied Miss Danesbury; and Annie, wondering not a little,
but quite unsuspicious, ran off.
The fact, however, of her having deliberately disobeyed Mrs. Willis, and
done something which she knew would greatly pain her, brought a shade of
embarrassment to her usually candid face. She had also to confess to
herself that she did not feel quite so comfortable about Mother Rachel as
she had given Mary Morris and Susan Drummond to understand. Her steps
lagged more and more as she approached the house, and she wished, oh, how
longingly! oh, how regretfully! that she had not been naughty and wild
and disobedient in her beloved teacher's absence.
"But where is the use of regretting what is done?" she said, half aloud.
"I know I can never be good--never, never!"
She pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains which shaded the door of the
private sitting-room, and went in, to find Mrs. Willis seated by her
desk, very pale and tired and unhappy looking, while Dora Russell, with
crimson spots on her cheeks and a very angry glitter in her eyes, stood
by the mantel-piece.
"Come here, Annie dear," said Mrs. Willis in her usual gentle and
affectionate tone.
Annie's first wild impulse was to rush to her governess' side, to fling
her arms round her neck, and, as a child would confess to her mother, to
tell her all that story of the walk through the wood, and the stolen
picnic in the fairies' field. Three things, however, restrained her--she
must not relieve her own troubles at the expense of betraying others; she
could not, even if she were willing, say a word in the presence of this
cold and angry-looking Dora; in the third place, Mrs. Willis looked very
tired and very sad. Not for worlds would she add to her troubles at this
instant. She came into the room, however, with a slight hesitation of
manner and a clouded brow, which caused Mrs. Willis to watch her with
anxiety and Dora with triumph.
"Come here, Annie," repeated the governess. "I want to speak to you.
Something very dishonorable and disgraceful has been done in my absence."
Annie's face suddenly became as white as a sheet. Could the gypsy mother
have already betrayed them all?
Mrs. Willis, noticing her too evident confusion, continued in a voice
which, in spite of herself, became stern and severe.
"I shall expect the truth at any cost, my dear. Look at this
manuscript-book. Do you know anything of the handwriting?"
"Why, it is yours, of course, Dora," said Annie, who was now absolutely
bewildered.
"It is _not_ mine," began Dora, but Mrs. Willis held up her hand.
"Allow me to speak, Miss Russell. I can best explain matters. Annie,
during my absence some one has been guilty of a very base and wicked act.
One of the girls in this school has gone secretly to Dora Russell's desk
and taken away ten pages of an essay which she had called 'The River,'
and which she was preparing for the prize competition next month. Instead
of Dora's essay this that you now see was put in its place. Examine it,
my dear. Can you tell me anything about it?"
Annie took the manuscript-book and turned the leaves.
"Is it meant for a parody?" she asked, after a pause; "it sounds
ridiculous. No, Mrs. Willis, I know nothing whatever about it; some one
has imitated Dora's handwriting. I cannot imagine who is the culprit."
She threw the manuscript-book with a certain easy carelessness on the
table by her side, and glanced up with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes at
Dora.
"I suppose it is meant for a clever parody," she repeated; "at least it
is amusing."
Her manner displeased Mrs. Willis, and very nearly maddened poor Dora.
"We have not sent for you, Annie," said her teacher, "to ask you your
opinion of the parody, but to try and get you to throw light on the
subject. We must find out, and at once, who has been so wicked as to
deliberately injure another girl."
"But why have you sent for _me_?" asked Annie, drawing herself up, and
speaking with a little shade of haughtiness.
"Because," said Dora Russell, who could no longer contain her outraged
feelings, "because you alone can throw light on it--because you alone in
the school are base enough to do anything so mean--because you alone can
caricature."
"Oh, that is it," said Annie; "you suspect me, then. Do _you_ suspect me,
Mrs. Willis?"
"My dear--what can I say?"
"Nothing, if you do. In this school my word has long gone for nothing. I
am a naughty, headstrong, willful girl, but in this matter I am perfectly
innocent. I never saw that essay before: I never in all my life went to
Dora Russell's desk. I am headstrong and wild, but I don't do spiteful
things. I have no object in injuring Dora; she is nothing to me--nothing.
She is trying for the essay prize, but she has no chance of winning it.
Why should I trouble myself to injure her? Why should I even take the
pains to parody her words and copy her handwriting? Mrs. Willis, you need
not believe me--I see you do not believe me--but I am quite innocent."
Here Annie burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room.