The bright light from a full noontide sun was shining in coloured 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's 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's 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 favourite
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 colour 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, cruellest 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 cruellest 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
school-fellows. 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
school-fellows 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.