IS SHE STILL GUILTY?
On the evening of that day Cecil Temple knocked at the door of Mrs.
Willis' private sitting-room.
"Ah, Cecil! is that you?" said her governess. "I am always glad to see
you, dear; but I happen to be particularly busy to-night. Have you
anything in particular to say to me?"
"I only wanted to talk about Annie, Mrs. Willis. You believe in her at
last, don't you?"
"Believe in her at last!" said the head-mistress in a tone of
astonishment and deep pain. "No, Cecil, my dear; you ask too much of my
faith. I do not believe in Annie."
Cecil paused; she hesitated, and seemed half afraid to proceed.
"Perhaps," she said at last in a slightly timid tone, "you have not seen
her since this morning?"
"No; I have been particularly busy. Besides, the eight culprits are under
punishment; part of their punishment is that I will not see them."
"Don't you think, Mrs. Willis," said Cecil, "that Annie made rather a
brave confession this morning?"
"I admit, my dear, that Annie spoke in somewhat of her old impulsive way;
she blamed herself, and did not try to screen her misdemeanors behind her
companions. In this one particular she reminded me of the old Annie who,
notwithstanding all her faults, I used to trust and love. But as to her
confession being very brave, my dear Cecil, you must remember that she
did not _confess_ until she was obliged; she knew, and so did all the
other girls, that I could have got the truth out of old Betty had they
chosen to keep their lips sealed. Then, my dear, consider what she did.
On the very night that I was away she violated the trust I had in
her--she bade me 'good-bye' with smiles and sweet glances, and then she
did this in my absence. No, Cecil, I fear poor Annie is not what we
thought her. She has done untold mischief during the half-year, and has
willfully lied and deceived me. I find, on comparing dates, that it was
on the very night of the girls' picnic that Dora's theme was changed.
There is no doubt whatever that Annie was the guilty person. I did my
best to believe in her, and to depend on Mr. Everard's judgment of her
character, but I confess I can do so no longer. Cecil, dear. I am not
surprised that you look pale and sad. No, we will not give up this poor
Annie: we will try to love her even through her sin. Ah! poor child, poor
child! how much I have prayed for her! She was to me as a child of my
own. Now, dear Cecil, I must ask you to leave me."
Cecil went slowly out of her governess' presence, and, wandering across
the wide stone hall, she entered the play-room. It happened to be a wet
night, and the room was full of girls, who hung together in groups and
whispered softly. There were no loud voices, and, except from the little
ones, there was no laughter. A great depression hung over the place, and
few could have recognized the happy girls of Lavender House in these sad
young faces. Cecil walked slowly into the room, and presently finding
Hester Thornton, she sat down by her side.
"I can't get Mrs. Willis to see it," she said very sadly.
"What?" asked Hester.
"Why, that we have got our old Annie back again; that she did take the
girls out to that picnic, and was as wild, and reckless, and naughty as
possible about it; and then, just like the old Annie I have always known,
the moment the fun was over she began to repent, and that she has gone on
repenting ever since, which has accounted for her poor sad little face
and white cheeks. Of course she longed to tell--Nora and Phyllis have
told me so--but she would not betray them. Now at last there is a load
off her heart, and, though she is in great disgrace and punishment, she
is not very unhappy. I went to see her an hour ago, and I saw in her face
that my own darling Annie has returned. But what do you think Mrs. Willis
does, Hester? She is so hurt and disappointed, that she believes Annie is
guilty of the other thing--she believes that Annie stole Dora's theme,
and that she caricatured her in my book some time ago. She believes
it--she is sure of it. Now, do you think, Hester, that Annie's face would
look quite peaceful and happy to-night if she had only confessed half her
faults--if she had this meanness, this sin, these lies still resting on
her soul? Oh! I wish Mrs. Willis would see her! I wish--I wish! but I can
do nothing. You agree with me, don't you, Hester? Just put yourself in
Annie's place, and tell me if _you_ would feel happy, and if your heart
would be at rest, if you had only confessed half your sin, and if through
you all your schoolfellows were under disgrace and suspicion? You could
not, could you, Hester? Why, Hester, how white you are!"
"You are so metaphysical," said Hester, rising; "you quite puzzle me. How
can I put myself in your friend Annie's place? I never understood her--I
never wanted to. Put myself in her place?--no, certainly that I'm never
likely to. I hope that I shall never be in such a predicament."
Hester walked away, and Cecil sat still in great perplexity.
Cecil was a girl with a true sense of religion. The love of God guided
every action of her simple and straightforward life. She was neither
beautiful nor clever; but no one in the school was more respected and
honored, no one more sincerely loved. Cecil knew what the peace of God
meant, and when she saw even a shadowy reflection of that peace on
Annie's little face, she was right in believing that she must be innocent
of the guilt which was attributed to her.
The whole school assembled for prayers that night in the little chapel,
and Mr. Everard, who had heard the story of that day's confession from
Mrs. Willis, said a few words appropriate to the occasion to the unhappy
young girls.
Whatever effect his words had on the others, and they were very simple
and straightforward, Annie's face grew quiet and peaceful as she listened
to them. The old clergyman assured the girls that God was waiting to
forgive those who truly repented, and that the way to repent was to rise
up and sin no more.
"The present fun is not worth the after-pain," he said, in conclusion.
"It is an old saying that stolen waters are sweet, but only at the time;
afterward only those who drink of them know the full extent of their
bitterness."
This little address from Mr. Everard strengthened poor Annie for an
ordeal which was immediately before her, for Mrs. Willis asked all the
school to follow her to the play-room, and there she told them that she
was about to restore to them their lost privileges; that circumstances,
in her opinion, now so strongly pointed the guilt of the stolen essay in
the direction of one girl, that she could no longer ask the school to
suffer for her sake.
"She still refuses to confess her sin," said Mrs. Willis, "but, unless
another girl proclaims herself guilty, and proves to me beyond doubt that
she drew the caricature which was found in Cecil Temple's book, and that
she changed Dora Russell's essay, and, imitating her hand, put another in
its place, I proclaim the guilty person to be Annie Forest, and on her
alone I visit my displeasure. You can retire to your rooms, young ladies.
Tomorrow morning Lavender House resumes its old cheerfulness."