Nothing was known; no fresh light had been thrown on the subject.

Everything went on as usual within the school, and a casual observer would never have noticed the cloud which rested over that usually happy dwelling. A casual observer would have noticed little or no change in Annie Forest; her merry laugh was still heard, her light step still danced across the play-room floor, she was in her place in cla.s.s, and was, if anything, a little more attentive and a little more successful over her lessons. Her pretty piquant face, her arch expression, the bright, quick and droll glance which she alone could give, were still to be seen; but those who knew her well and those who loved her best saw a change in Annie.

In the play-room she devoted herself exclusively to the little ones; she never went near Cecil Temple's drawing-room; she never mingled with the girls of the middle school as they cl.u.s.tered round the cheerful fire. At meal-times she ate little, and her room-fellow was heard to declare that she was awakened more than once in the middle of the night by the sound of Annie's sobs. In chapel, too, when she fancied herself quite un.o.bserved, her face wore an expression of great pain; but if Mrs. Willis happened to glance in her direction, instantly the little mouth became demure and almost hard, the dark eyelashes were lowered over the bright eyes, the whole expression of the face showed the extreme of indifference. Hester felt more sure than ever of Annie's guilt; but one or two of the other girls in the school wavered in this opinion, and would have taken Annie out of "Coventry" had she herself made the smallest advance toward them.

Annie and Hester had not spoken to each other now for several days; but on this afternoon, which was a bright one in early spring, as Hester was changing her school-dress for her Sunday one, and preparing for her visit to the Misses Bruce, there came a light knock at her door. She said, "Come in!" rather impatiently, for she was in a hurry, and dreaded being kept.

To her surprise Annie Forest put in her curly head, and then, dancing with her usual light movement across the room, she laid a little bunch of dainty spring flowers on the dressing-table beside Hester.

Hester stared, first at the intruder, and then at the early primroses.

She pa.s.sionately loved flowers, and would have exclaimed with ecstasy at these had any one brought them in except Annie.

"I want you," said Annie, rather timidly for her, "to take these flowers from me to Miss Agnes and Miss Jane Bruce. It will be very kind of you if you will take them. I am sorry to have interrupted you--thank you very much."

She was turning away when Hester compelled herself to remark:

"Is there any message with the flowers?"

"Oh, no--only Annie Forest's love. They'll understand----" she turned half round as she spoke, and Hester saw that her eyes had filled with tears. She felt touched in spite of herself. There was something in Annie's face now which reminded her of her darling little Nan at home.

She had seen the same beseeching, sorrowful look in Nan's brown eyes when she had wanted her friends to kiss her and take her to their hearts and love her.

Hester would not allow herself, however, to feel any tenderness toward Annie. Of course she was not really a bit like sweet little Nan, and it was absurd to suppose that a great girl like Annie could want caressing and petting and soothing; still, in spite of herself, Annie's look haunted her, and she took great care of the little flower-offering, and presented it with Annie's message instantly on her arrival to the little old ladies.

Miss Jane and Miss Agnes were very much pleased with the early primroses.

They looked at one another and said:

"Poor dear little girl," in tender voices, and then they put the flowers into one of their daintiest vases, and made much of them, and showed them to any visitors who happened to call that afternoon.

Their little house looked something like a doll's house to Hester, who had been accustomed all her life to large rooms and s.p.a.cious pa.s.sages; but it was the sweetest, daintiest, and most charming little abode in the world. It was not unlike a nest, and the Misses Bruce in certain ways resembled bright little robin redb.r.e.a.s.t.s, so small, so neat, so chirrupy they were.

Hester enjoyed her afternoon immensely; the little ladies were right in their prophesy, and she was no longer lonely at school. She enjoyed talking about her schoolfellows, about her new life, about her studies.

The Misses Bruce were decidedly fond of a gossip, but something which she could not at all define in their manner prevented Hester from retailing for their benefit any unkind news. They told her frankly at last that they were only interested in the good things which went on in the school, and that they found no pursuit so altogether delightful as finding out the best points in all the people they came across. They would not even laugh at sleepy, tiresome Susan Drummond; on the contrary, they pitied her, and Miss Jane wondered if the girl could be quite well, whereupon Miss Agnes shook her head, and said emphatically that it was Hester's duty to rouse poor Susy, and to make her waking life so interesting to her that she should no longer care to spend so many hours in the world of dreams.

There is such a thing as being so kind-hearted, so gentle, so charitable as to make the people who have not encouraged these virtues feel quite uncomfortable. By the mere force of contrast they begin to see themselves something as they really are. Since Hester had come to Lavender House she had taken very little pains to please others rather than herself, and she was now almost startled to see how she had allowed selfishness to get the better of her. While the Misses Bruce were speaking, old longings, which had slept since her mother's death, came back to the young girl, and she began to wish that she could be kinder to Susan Drummond, and that she could overcome her dislike to Annie Forest. She longed to say something about Annie to the little ladies, but they evidently did not wish to allude to the subject. When she was going away, they gave her a small parcel.

"You will kindly give this to your schoolfellow, Miss Forest, Hester, dear," they both said, and then they kissed her, and said they hoped they should see her again; and Hester got into the old-fashioned school brougham, and held the brown paper parcel in her hand.

As she was going into the chapel that night, Mary Bell came up to her and whispered:

"We have not got to the bottom of that mystery about Annie Forest yet.

Mrs. Willis can evidently make nothing of her, and I believe Mr. Everard is going to talk to her after prayers to-night."

As she was speaking, Annie herself pushed rather rudely past the two girls; her face was flushed, and her hair was even more untidy than was its wont.

"Here is a parcel for you, Miss Forest," said Hester, in a much more gentle tone than she was wont to use when she addressed this objectionable schoolmate.

All the girls were now filing into the chapel, and Hester should certainly not have presented the little parcel at that moment.

"Breaking the rules, Miss Thornton," said Annie; "all right, toss it here." Then, as Hester failed to comply, she ran back, knocking her schoolfellows out of place, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing the parcel from Hester's hand, threw it high in the air. This was a piece of not only willful audacity and disobedience, but it even savored of the profane, for Annie's step was on the threshold of the chapel, and the parcel fell with a noisy bang on the floor some feet inside the little building.

"Bring me that parcel, Annie Forest," whispered the stern voice of the head-mistress.

Annie sullenly complied; but when she came up to Mrs. Willis, her governess took her hand, and pushed her down into a low seat a little behind her.

CHAPTER XVI.

"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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 circ.u.mstantial evidence was too strong--perhaps it will be too strong for you."

"I promise to believe you, Annie Forest; if, before G.o.d, you can a.s.sure 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 G.o.d," 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' 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.