"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 humors, and I really did 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 dishonor.' Well, afterward, 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 sc.r.a.p 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 any one. 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 t.i.tle-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 among your schoolfellows, or among 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' 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 circ.u.mstantial 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 G.o.d 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 painful mystery, my child; but I believe you. I am going to see Mrs. Willis now. G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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.

CHAPTER XVII.

"THE SWEETS ARE POISONED."

"I think, my dear madam," said Mr. Everard to Mrs. Willis, "that you must believe your pupil. She has not refused to confess to you from any stubbornness, but from the simple reason that she has nothing to confess.

I am firmly convinced that things are as she stated them, Mrs. Willis.

There is a mystery here which we neither of us can explain, but which we must unravel."

Then Mrs. Willis and the clergyman had a long and anxious talk together.

It lasted for a long time, and some of its results at least were manifest the next morning, for, just before the morning's work began, Mrs. Willis came to the large school-room, and, calling Annie Forest to her side, laid her hand on the young girl's shoulder.

"I wish to tell you all, young ladies," she said, "that I completely and absolutely exonerate Annie Forest from having any part in the disgraceful occurrence which took place in this school-room a short time ago. I allude, of course, as you all know, to the book which was found tampered with in Cecil Temple's desk. Some one else in this room is guilty, and the mystery has still to be unraveled, and the guilty girl has still to come forward and declare herself. If she is willing at this moment to come to me here, and fully and freely confess her sin, I will quite forgive her."

The head mistress paused, and, still with her hand on Annie's shoulder, looked anxiously down the long room. The love and forgiveness which she felt shone in her eyes at this moment. No girl need have feared aught but tenderness from her just then.

No one stirred; the moment pa.s.sed, and a look of sternness returned to the mistress' fine face.

"No," she said, in her emphatic and clear tones, "the guilty girl prefers waiting until G.o.d discovers her sin for her. My dear, whoever you are, that hour is coming, and you cannot escape from it. In the meantime, girls, I wish you all to receive Annie Forest as quite innocent. I believe in her, so does Mr. Everard, and so must you. Any one who treats Miss Forest except as a perfectly innocent and truthful girl incurs my severe displeasure. My dear, you may return to your seat."

Annie, whose face was partly hidden by her curly hair during the greater part of this speech, now tossed it back, and raised her brown eyes with a look of adoration in them to her teacher. Mrs. Willis' face, however, still looked hara.s.sed. Her eyes met Annie's, but no corresponding glow was kindled in them; their glance was just, calm, but cold.

The childish heart was conscious of a keen pang of agony, and Annie went back to her lessons without any sense of exultation.

The fact was this: Mrs. Willis' judgment and reason had been brought round by Mr. Everard's words, but in her heart of hearts, almost unknown to herself, there still lingered a doubt of the innocence of her wayward and pretty pupil. She said over and over to herself that she really now quite believed in Annie Forest, but then would come those whisperings from her pained and sore heart.

"Why did she ever make a caricature of one who has been as a mother to her? If she made one caricature, could she not make another? Above all things, if _she_ did not do it, who did?"

Mrs. Willis turned away from these unpleasant whispers--she would not let them stay with her, and turned a deaf ear to their ugly words. She had publicly declared in the school her belief in Annie's absolute innocence, but at the moment when her pupil looked up at her with a world of love and adoration in her gaze, she found to her own infinite distress that she could not give her the old love.

Annie went back to her companions, and bent her head over her lessons, and tried to believe that she was very thankful and very happy, and Cecil Temple managed to whisper a gentle word of congratulation to her, and at the twelve o'clock walk Annie perceived that a few of her schoolfellows looked at her with friendly eyes again. She perceived now that when she went into the play-room she was not absolutely tabooed, and that, if she chose, she might speedily resume her old reign of popularity. Annie had, to a remarkable extent, the gift of inspiring love, and her old favorites would quickly have flocked back to their sovereign had she so willed it.

It is certainly true that the girls to whom the whole story was known in all its bearings found it difficult to understand how Annie could be innocent; but Mr. Everard's and Mrs. Willis' a.s.sertions were too potent to be disregarded, and most of the girls were only too willing to let the whole affair slide from their minds, and to take back their favorite Annie to their hearts again.

Annie, however, herself did not so will it. In the play-room she fraternized with the little ones who were alike her friends in adversity and sunshine; she rejected almost coldly the overtures of her old favorites, but played, and romped, and was merry with the children of the sixth cla.s.s. She even declined Cecil's invitation to come and sit with her in her drawing-room.

"Oh, no," she said. "I hate being still; I am in no humor for talk.

Another time, Cecil, another time. Now then, Sybil, my beauty, get well on my back, and I'll be the willing dog carrying you round and round the room."

Annie's face had not a trace of care or anxiety on it, but her eyes would not quite meet Cecil's, and Cecil sighed as she turned away, and her heart, too, began to whisper little, mocking, ugly doubts of poor Annie.

During the half-hour before tea that evening Annie was sitting on the floor with a small child in her lap, and two other little ones tumbling about her, when she was startled by a shower of lollipops being poured over her head, down her neck, and into her lap. She started up and met the sleepy gaze of Susan Drummond.

"That's to congratulate you, miss," said Susan; "you're a very lucky girl to have escaped as you did."

The little ones began putting Susan's lollipops vigorously into their mouths. Annie sprang to her feet shaking the sticky sweetmeats out of her dress on to the floor.

"What have I escaped from?" she asked, turning round and facing her companion haughtily.

"Oh, dear me!" said Susan, stepping back a pace or two. "I--ah--"

stifling a yawn--"I only meant you were very near getting into an ugly sc.r.a.pe. It's no affair of mine, I'm sure; only I thought you'd like the lollipops."

"No, I don't like them at all," said Annie, "nor you, either. Go back to your own companions, please."

Susan sulkily walked away, and Annie stooped down on the floor.

"Now, little darlings," she said, "you mustn't eat those. No, no, they are not good at all; and they have come from one of Annie's enemies. Most likely they are full of poison. Let us collect them all, every one, and we will throw them into the fire before we go to tea."