TWO CONFESSIONS.
Hester dragged her startled and rather unwilling companion in through the
front entrance, past some agitated-looking servants who stood about in
the hall, and through the velvet curtains into Mrs. Willis' boudoir.
The Misses Bruce were there, and Mrs. Willis in her bonnet and cloak was
hastily packing some things into a basket.
"I--I must speak to you," said Hester, going up to her governess. "Susan
and I have got something to say, and we must say it here, now at once."
"No, not now, Hester," replied Mrs. Willis, looking for a moment into her
pupil's agitated face. "Whatever you and Susan Drummond have to tell
cannot be listened to by me at this moment. I have not an instant to
lose."
"You are going to Annie?" asked Hester.
"Yes; don't keep me. Good-bye, my dears; good-bye."
Mrs. Willis moved toward the door. Hester, who felt almost beside
herself, rushed after her, and caught her arm.
"Take us with you, take Susy and me with you--we must, we must see Annie
before she dies."
"Hush, my child," said Mrs. Willis very quietly; "try to calm yourself.
Whatever you have got to say shall be listened to later on--now moments
are precious, and I cannot attend to you. Calm yourself, Hester, and
thank God for your dear little sister's safety. Prepare yourself to
receive her, for the carriage which takes me to Annie will bring little
Nan home."
Mrs. Willis left the room, and Hester threw herself on her knees and
covered her face with her trembling hands. Presently she was aroused by a
light touch on her arm; it was Susan Drummond.
"I may go now I suppose, Hester? You are not quite determined to make a
fool of me, are you?"
"I have determined to expose you, you coward; you mean, mean girl!"
answered Hester, springing to her feet. "Come, I have no idea of letting
you go. Mrs. Willis won't listen--we will find Mr. Everard."
Whether Susan would really have gone with Heater remains to be proved,
but just at that moment all possibility of retreat was cut away from her
by Miss Agnes Bruce, who quietly entered Mrs. Willis' private
sitting-room, followed by the very man Hester was about to seek.
"I thought it best, my dear," she said, turning apologetically to Hester,
"to go at once for our good clergyman; you can tell him all that is in
your heart, and I will leave you. Before I go, however, I should like to
tell you how I found Annie and little Nan."
Hester made no answer; just for a brief moment she raised her eyes to
Miss Agnes' kind face, then they sought the floor.
"The story can be told in a few words, dear," said the little lady. "A
workwoman of the name of Williams, whom my sister and I have employed for
years, and who lives near Oakley, called on us this morning to apologize
for not being able to finish some needlework. She told us that she had a
sick child, and also a little girl of three, in her house. She said she
had found the child, in ragged gypsy garments, fainting in a field. She
took her into her house, and on undressing her, found that she was no
true gypsy, but that her face and hands and arms had been dyed; she said
the little one had been treated in a similar manner. Jane's suspicions
and mine were instantly roused, and we went back with the woman to
Oakley, and found, as we had anticipated, that the children were little
Nan and Annie. The sad thing is that Annie is in high fever, and knows no
one. We waited there until the doctor arrived, who spoke very, very
seriously of her case. Little Nan is well, and asked for you."
With these last words Miss Agnes Bruce softly left the room closing the
door after her.
"Now, Susan," said Hester, without an instant's pause; "come, let us tell
Mr. Everard of our wickedness. Oh, sir," she added, raising her eyes to
the clergyman's face, "if Annie dies I shall go mad. Oh, I cannot, cannot
bear life if Annie dies!"
"Tell me what is wrong, my poor child," said Mr. Everard. He laid his
hand on her shoulder, and gradually and skillfully drew from the agitated
and miserable girl the story of her sin, of her cowardice, and of her
deep, though until now unavailing repentance. How from the first she had
hated and disliked Annie; how unjustly she had felt toward her; how she
had longed and hoped Annie was guilty; and how, when at last the clue was
put into her hands to prove Annie's absolute innocence, she had
determined not to use it.
"From the day Nan was lost," continued Hester, "it has been all agony and
all repentance; but, oh, I was too proud to tell! I was too proud to
humble myself to the very dust!"
"But not now," said the clergyman, very gently.
"No, no; not now. I care for nothing now in all the world except that
Annie may live."
"You don't mind the fact that Mrs. Willis and all your schoolfellows must
know of this, and must--must judge you accordingly?"
"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 ear, "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 candor 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 sing-song 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 schoolgirls--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 schoolfellows 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 schoolmate
heard of her again.