by L. T. Meade
school-room. "I am the most guilty of all," saidAnnie Forest.
"Annie!" said Mrs Willis, in a tone half of pain, half of relief, "haveyou come to your senses at last?"
"Oh, I'm so glad to be able to speak the truth," said Annie. "Pleasepunish me very, very hard; I am the most guilty of all."
"What did you do with this basket?"
"We took it for a picnic--it was my plan, I led the others."
"Where was your picnic?"
"In the fairies' field."
"Ah! At what time?"
"At night--in the middle of the night--the night you went to London."
Mrs Willis put her hand to her brow; her face was very white and thegirls could see that she trembled.
"I trusted my girls--" she said; then she broke off abruptly.
"You had companions in this wickedness--name them."
"Yes, I had companions; I led them on."
"Name them, Miss Forest."
For the first time Annie raised her eyes to Mrs Willis's face: then sheturned and looked down the long school-room. "Oh, won't they tellthemselves?" she said.
Nothing could be more appealing than her glance. It melted the heartsof Phyllis and Nora, who began to sob, and to declare brokenly that theyhad gone too, and that they were very, very sorry.
Spurred by their example Mary Price also confessed, and one by one allthe little conspirators revealed the truth, with the exception of Susan,who kept her eyes steadily fixed on the floor.
"Susan Drummond," said Mrs Willis, "come here."
There was something in her tone which startled every girl in the school.Never had they heard this ring in their teacher's voice before.
"Susan," said Mrs Willis, "I don't ask you if you are guilty; I fear,poor miserable girl, that if I did you would load your conscience with afresh lie. I don't ask you if you are guilty because I know you are.The fact of your running without leave to see old Betty iscircumstantial evidence. I judge you by that and pronounce you guilty.Now, young ladies, you who have treated me so badly, who have betrayedmy trust, who have been wanting in honour, I must think, I must ask Godto teach me how to deal with you. In the meantime, you cannot associatewith your companions. Miss Good, will you take each of these eightgirls to their bedrooms."
As Annie was leaving the room she looked full into Mrs Willis's face.Strange to say, at this moment of her great disgrace the cloud which hadso long brooded over her was lifted. The sweet eyes never lookedsweeter. The old Annie, and yet a better and a braver Annie than hadever existed before, followed her companions out of the school-room.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.
IS SHE STILL GUILTY?
On the evening of that day Cecil Temple knocked at the door of MrsWillis's private sitting-room.
"Ah, Cecil! is that you?" said her governess. "I am always glad to seeyou, dear; but I happen to be particularly busy to-night. Have youanything in particular to say to me?"
"I only wanted to talk about Annie, Mrs Willis. You believe in her atlast, don't you?"
"Believe in her at last!" said the head-mistress in a tone ofastonishment and deep pain. "No, Cecil, my dear; you ask too much of myfaith. 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 seenher since this morning?"
"No; I have been particularly busy. Besides, the eight culprits areunder punishment; part of their punishment is that I will not see them."
"Don't you think, Mrs Willis," said Cecil, "that Annie made rather abrave confession this morning?"
"I admit, my dear, that Annie spoke in somewhat of her old impulsiveway; she blamed herself, and did not try to screen her--misdemeanoursbehind her companions. In this one particular she reminded me of theold Annie who, notwithstanding all her faults. I used to trust andlove. But as to her confession being very brave, my dear Cecil, youmust remember that she did not _confess_ until she was obliged; sheknew, and so did all the other girls, that I could have got the truthout of old Betty had they chosen to keep their lips sealed. Then, mydear, consider what she did. On the very night that I was away sheviolated the trust I had in her--she bade me `good-bye' with smiles andsweet glances, and then she did this in my absence. No, Cecil, I fearpoor Annie is not what we thought her. She has done untold mischiefduring 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 picnicthat Dora's theme was changed. There is no doubt whatever that Anniewas the guilty person. I did my best to believe in her, and to dependon Mr Everard's judgment of her character, but I confess I can do so nolonger. 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 eventhrough her sin. Ah! poor child, poor child! how much I have prayed forher! She was to me as a child of my own. Now, dear Cecil, I must askyou to leave me."
Cecil went slowly out of her governess's presence, and, wandering acrossthe wide stone hall, she entered the play-room. It happened to be a wetnight, and the room was full of girls, who hung together in groups andwhispered softly. There were no loud voices, and, except from thelittle ones, there was no laughter. A great depression hung over theplace, and few could have recognised the happy girls of Lavender Housein these sad young faces. Cecil walked slowly into the room, andpresently finding Hester Thornton, she sat down by her side.
"I can't get Mrs Willis to see it," she said very sadly. "What?" askedHester.
"Why, that we have got our old Annie back again; that she did take thegirls out to that picnic, and was as wild, and reckless, and naughty aspossible about it; and then, just like the old Annie I have alwaysknown, the moment the fun was over she began to repent, and that she hasgone on repenting ever since, which has accounted for her poor, sadlittle face and white cheeks. Of course she longed to tell--Nora andPhyllis have told me so--but she would not betray them. Now at lastthere is a load off her heart, and, though she is in great disgrace andpunishment, she is not very unhappy. I went to see her an hour ago, andI saw in her face that my own darling Annie has returned. But what doyou think Mrs Willis does, Hester? She is so hurt and disappointed,that she believes Annie is guilty of the other thing--she believes thatAnnie stole Dora's theme, and that she caricatured her in my book sometime 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-nightif 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 Williswould see her! I wish--I wish I but I can do nothing. You agree withme, don't you, Hester? Just put yourself in Annie's place, and tell meif _you_ would feel happy, and if your heart would be at rest, if youhad only confessed half your sin, and if through you all yourschool-fellows were under disgrace and suspicion? You could not, couldyou, 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 understoodher--I never wanted to. Put myself in her place?--no, certainly thatI'm never likely to. I hope that I shall never be in such apredicament."
Hester walked away, and Cecil sat still in great perplexity. Cecil wasa girl with a true sense of religion. The love of God guided everyaction of her simple and straightforward life. She was neitherbeautiful nor clever; but no one in the school was more respected andhonoured, no one more sincerely loved. Cecil knew what the peace of Godmeant, and when she saw even a shadowy reflection of that peace onAnnie's little face, she was right in believing that she must beinnocent 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 fromMrs Willis, said a few words appropriate to the occasion to the unhappyyoung girls.
Whatever effect his words had on the others, and they were very simpleand straightf
orward, Annie's face grew quiet and peaceful as shelistened to them. The old clergyman assured the girls that God waswaiting to forgive those who truly repented, and that the way to repentwas 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:afterwards only those who drink of them know the full extent of theirbitterness."
This little address from Mr Everard strengthened poor Annie for anordeal which was immediately before her, for Mrs Willis asked all theschool to follow her to the play-room, and there she told them that shewas about to restore to them their lost