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's 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 hen 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 Hester 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's 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's kind face, then they sought the floor.
"The story can be told in a few words, dear," said the little lady. "A
work-woman 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
apologise 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 gipsy garments,
fainting in a field. She took her into her house, and, on undressing
her, found that she was no true gipsy, 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 round, 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
clew 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 school-fellows
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 car, "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 candour 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 singsong 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 school-girls--
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 school-fellows 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
school-mate heard of her again.