"AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS."
The short evening service was over, and one by one, in orderly
procession, the girls left the chapel. Annie was about to rise to her
feet to follow her school-companions, when Mrs Willis stooped down and
whispered something in her ear. Her face became instantly suffused with
a dull red; she resumed her seat, and buried her face in both her hands.
One or two of the girls noticed her despondent attitude as they left
the chapel, and Cecil Temple looked back with a glance of such
unutterable sympathy that Annie's proud, suffering little heart would
have been touched could she but have seen the look.
Presently the young steps died away, and Annie, raising her head, saw
that she was alone with Mr Everard, who seated himself in the place
which Mrs Willis had occupied by her side.
"Your governess has asked me to speak to you, my dear," he said, in his
kind and fatherly tones; "she wants us to discuss this thing which is
making you so unhappy quite fully together." Here the clergyman paused,
and, noticing a sudden wistful and soft look in the girl's brown eyes,
he continued: "Perhaps, however, you have something to say to me which
will throw light on this mystery?"
"No, sir, I have nothing to say," replied Annie, and now again the
sullen expression passed like a wave over her face.
"Poor child," said Mr Everard. "Perhaps, Annie," he continued, "you do
not quite understand me--you do not quite read my motive in talking to
you to-night. I am not here in any sense to reprove you. You are
either guilty of this sin, or you are not guilty. In either case I pity
you; it is very hard, very bitter, to be falsely accused--I pity you
much if this is the case; but it is still harder, Annie, still more
bitter, still more absolutely crushing to be accused of a sin which we
are trying to conceal. In that terrible case God Himself hides His
face. Poor child, poor child, I pity you most of all if you are
guilty."
Annie had again covered her face, and bowed her head over her hands.
She did not speak for a moment, but presently Mr Everard heard a low
sob, and then another, and another, until at last her whole frame was
shaken with a perfect tempest of weeping.
The old clergyman, who had seen many strange phases of human nature, who
had in his day comforted and guided more than one young school-girl, was
far too wise to do anything to check this flow of grief. He knew Annie
would speak more fully and more frankly when her tears were over. He
was right. She presently raised a very tear-stained face to the
clergyman.
"I felt very bitter at your coming to speak to me," she began. "Mrs
Willis has always sent for you when everything else has failed with us
girls, and I did not think she would treat me so. I was determined not
to say anything to you. Now, however, you have spoken good words to me,
and I can't turn away from you. I will tell you all that is in my
heart. I will promise before God to conceal nothing, if only you will
do one thing for me."
"What is that, my child?"
"Will you believe me?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Ah, but you have not been tried yet. I thought Mrs Willis would
certainly believe; but she said the circumstantial evidence was too
strong--perhaps it will be too strong for you."
"I promise to believe you, Annie Forest; if, before God, you can assure
me that you are speaking the whole truth, I will fully believe you."
Annie paused again, then she rose from her seat and stood a pace away
from the old minister.
"This is the truth before God," she said, as she locked her two hands
together and raised her eyes freely and unshrinkingly to Mr Everard's
face.
"I have always loved Mrs Willis. I have reasons for loving her which
the girls don't know about. The girls don't know that when my mother
was dying she gave me into Mrs Willis's charge, and she said, `You must
keep Annie until her father comes back.' Mother did not know where
father was; but she said he would be sure to come back some day, and
look for mother and me: and Mrs Willis said she would keep me
faithfully until father came to claim me. That is four years ago, and
my father has never come, nor have I heard of him, and I think, I am
almost sure, that the little money which mother left must be all used
up. Mrs Willis never says anything about money, and she did not wish
me to tell my story to the girls. None of them know except Cecil
Temple. I am sure some day father will come home, and he will give Mrs
Willis back the money she has spent on me; but never, never, never can
he repay her for her goodness to me. You see I cannot help loving Mrs
Willis. It is quite impossible for any girl to have such a friend and
not to love her. I know I am very wild, and that I do all sorts of mad
things. It seems to me that I cannot help myself sometimes: but I would
not willingly, indeed, I would not willingly hurt anybody. Last
Wednesday, as you know, there was a great disturbance in the school.
Dora Russell's desk was tampered with, and so was Cecil Temple's. You
know, of course, what was found in both the desks. Mrs Willis sent for
me, and asked me about the caricature which was drawn in Cecil's book.
I looked at it and I told her the truth. I did not conceal one thing.
I told her the whole truth as far as I knew it. She did not believe me.
She said so. What more could I do then?"
Here Annie paused, she began to unclasp and clasp her hands, and she
looked full at Mr Everard with a most pleading expression.
"Do you mind repeating to me exactly what you said to your governess?"
he questioned.
"I said this, sir. I said, `Yes, Mrs Willis, I did draw that
caricature. You will scarcely understand how I, who love you so much,
could have been so mad and ungrateful as to do anything to turn you into
ridicule. I would cut off my right hand now not to have done it; but I
did do it, and I must tell you the truth.' `Tell me, dear,' she said,
quite gently then. `It was one wet afternoon about a fortnight ago,' I
said to her; `a lot of us middle-school-girls were sitting together, and
I had a pencil and some bits of paper, and I was making up funny little
groups of a lot of us, and the girls were screaming with laughter, for
somehow I managed to make the likeness that I wanted in each case.' It
was very wrong of me, I know. It was against the rules; but I was in
one of my maddest humours, and I really do not care what the
consequences were. At last one of the girls said: `You won't dare to
make a picture like that of Mrs Willis, Annie--you know you won't
dare.' The minute she said that name I began to feel ashamed. I
remembered I was breaking one of the rules, and I suddenly tore up all
my bits of paper and flung them into the fire, and I said, `No, I would
not dare to show her dishonour.' Well, afterwards, as I was washing my
hands for tea up in my room, the temptation came over me so strongly
that I felt I could not resist it, to make a funny little sketch of Mrs
Willis. I had a little scrap of thin paper, and I took out my pencil
and did it all in a minute. It seemed to me very funny, and I could not
help laughing at it; and then I thrust it into my private writing-case,
which I always keep locked, and I put the key in my pocket and ran
downstairs. I forgot all about the caricature. I had never shown it to
anyone. How it got into Cecil's book is more than I can say. When I
had finished speaking Mrs Willis looked very hard at the book. `You
are right,' she said; `this caricature is drawn on a very thin piece of
paper, which has been cleverly pasted on the title-page.' Then, Mr
Everard, she asked me a lot of questions. Had I ever parted with my
keys? Had I ever left my desk unlocked? `No,' I said, `my desk is
always locked, and my keys are always in my pocket. Indeed,' I added,
`my keys were absolutely safe for the last week, for they went in a
white petticoat to the wash, and came back as rusty as possible.' I
could not open my desk for a whole week, which was a great nuisance. I
told all this story to Mrs Willis, and she said to me, `You are
positively certain that this caricature has been taken out of your desk
by somebody else, and pasted in here? You are sure that the caricature
you drew is not to be found in your desk?' `Yes,' I said; `how can I be
anything but sure; these are my pencil marks, and that is the funny
little turn I gave to your neck which made me laugh when I drew it.
Yes; I am certainly sure.'
"`I have always been told, Annie,' Mrs Willis said, `that you are the
only girl in the school who can draw these caricatures. You have never
seen an attempt at this kind of drawing amongst your school-fellows, or
amongst any of the teachers?'
"`I have never seen any of them try this special kind of drawing,' I
said. `I wish I was like them. I wish I had never, never done it.'
"`You have got your keys now?' Mrs Willis said.
"`Yes,' I answered, pulling them all covered with rust out of my pocket.
"Then she told me to leave the keys on the table, and to go upstairs and
fetch down my little private desk.
"I did so, and she made me put the rusty key in the lock and open the
desk, and together we searched through its contents. We pulled out
everything, or rather I did, and I scattered all my possessions about on
the table, and then I looked up almost triumphantly at Mrs Willis.
"`You see the caricature is not here,' I said, `somebody picked the lock
and took it away.'
"`This lock has not been picked,' Mrs Willis said, `and what is that
little piece of white paper sticking out of the private drawer?'
"`Oh, I forgot my private drawer,' I said; `but there is nothing in it--
nothing whatever,' and then I touched the spring, and pulled it open,
and there lay the little caricature which I had drawn in the bottom of
the drawer. There it lay, not as I had left it, for I had never put it
into the private drawer. I saw Mrs Willis's face turn very white, and
I noticed that her hands trembled. I was all red myself, and very hot,
and there was a choking lump in my throat, and I could not have got a
single word out even if I had wished to. So I began scrambling the
things back into my desk, as hard as ever I could, and then I locked it,
and put the rusty keys back in my pocket.
"`What am I to believe now, Annie?' Mrs Willis said.
"`Believe anything you like now,' I managed to say; and then I took my
desk and walked out of the room, and would not wait even though she
called me back.
"That is the whole story, Mr Everard," continued Annie. "I have no
explanation whatever to give. I did make the one caricature of my dear
governess. I did not make the other. The second caricature is
certainly a copy of the first, but I did not make it. I don't know who
made it. I have no light whatever to throw on the subject. You see
after all," added Annie Forest, raising her eyes to the clergyman's
face, "it is impossible for you to believe me. Mrs Willis does not
believe me, and you cannot be expected to. I don't suppose you are to
be blamed. I don't see how you can help yourself."
"The circumstantial evidence is very strong against you, Annie," replied
the clergyman; "still, I promised to believe, and I have no intention of
going back from my word. If, in the presence of God in this little
church you would willingly and deliberately tell me a lie I should never
trust human being again. No, Annie Forest, you have many faults, but
you are not a liar. I see the impress of truth on your brow, in your
eyes, on your lips. This is a very gainful mystery, my child; but I
believe you. I am going to see Mrs Willis now. God bless you, Annie.
Be brave, be courageous, don't foster malice in your heart to any
unknown enemy. An enemy has truly done this thing, poor child; but God
Himself will bring this mystery to light. Trust Him, my dear; and now I
am going to see Mrs Willis."
While Mr Everard was speaking, Annie's whole expressive face had
changed; the sullen look had left it; the eyes were bright with renewed
hope; the lips had parted in smiles. There was a struggle for speech,
but no words came; the young girl stooped down and raised the old
clergyman's withered hands to her lips.
"Let me stay here a little longer," she managed to say at last; and then
he left her.