"Hester, you must help me in this. The most dreadful, the most atrocious fraud has been committed. Some one has been base enough, audacious enough, wicked enough, to go to my desk privately, and take away my real essay--my work over which I have labored and toiled. The expressions of my--my--yes, I will say it--my genius, have been ruthlessly burned, or otherwise made away with, and _this_ thing has been put in their place.

Hester, why don't you speak--why do you stare at me like this?"

"I am puzzled by the writing," said Hester; "the writing is yours."

"The writing is mine!--oh, you wicked girl! The writing is an imitation of mine--a feeble and poor imitation. I thought, Hester, that by this time you knew your friend's handwriting. I thought that one in whom I have confided--one whom I have stooped to notice because, I fancied we had a community of soul, would not be so ridiculous and so silly as to mistake this writing for mine. Look again, please, Hester Thornton, and tell me if I am ever so vulgar as to cross my _t's_. You know I _always_ loop them; and do I make a capital B in this fashion? And do I indulge in flourishes? I grant you that the general effect to a casual observer would be something the same, but you, Hester--I thought you knew me better."

Here Hester, examining the false essay, had to confess that the crossed _t's_ and the flourishes were unlike Miss Russell's calligraphy.

"It is a forgery, most cleverly done," said Dora. "There is such a thing, Hester, as being wickedly clever. This spiteful, cruel attempt to injure another can have but proceeded from one very low order of mind. Hester, there has been plenty of favoritism in this school, but do you suppose I shall allow such a thing as this to pa.s.s over unsearched into? If necessary, I shall ask my father to interfere. This is a slight--an outrage; but the whole mystery shall at last be cleared up. Miss Good and Miss Danesbury shall be informed at once, and the very instant Mrs.

Willis returns she shall be told what a serpent she has been nursing in this false, wicked girl, Annie Forest."

"Stop, Dora," said Hester suddenly. She sprang to her feet, clasping her hands, and her color varied rapidly from white to red. A sudden light poured in upon her, and she was about to speak when something--quite a small, trivial thing--occurred. She only saw little Nan in the distance flying swiftly, with outstretched arms, to meet a girl, whose knees she clasped in baby ecstasy. The girl stooped down and kissed the little face, and the round arms were flung around her neck. The next instant Annie Forest continued her walk alone, and Nan, looking wistfully back after her, went in another direction with her nurse. The whole scene took but a moment to enact, but as she watched, Hester's face grew hard and white. She sat down again, with her lips firmly pressed together.

"What is it, Hester?" exclaimed Dora. "What were you going to say? You surely know nothing about this?"

"Well, Dora, I am not the guilty person. I was only going to remark that you cannot be _sure_ it is Annie Forest."

"Oh, so you are going to take that horrid girl's part now? I wonder at you! She all but killed your little sister, and then stole her love away from you. Did you see the little thing now, how she flew to her? Why, she never kisses you like that."

"I know--I know," said Hester, and she turned away her face with a groan, and leaned forward against the rustic bench, pressing her hot forehead down on her hands.

"You'll have your triumph, Hester, when Miss Forest is publicly expelled," said Dora, tapping her lightly on the shoulder, and then, taking up the forged essay, she went slowly out of the garden.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

Hester stayed behind in the shady little arbor, and then, on that soft spring day, while the birds sang overhead, and the warm light breezes came in and fanned her hot cheeks, good angels and bad drew near to fight for a victory. Which would conquer? Hester had many faults, but hitherto she had been honorable and truthful; her sins had been those of pride and jealousy, but she had never told a falsehood in her life. She knew perfectly--she trembled as the full knowledge overpowered her--that she had it in her power to exonerate Annie. She could not in the least imagine how stupid Susan Drummond could contrive and carry out such a clever and deep-laid plot; but she knew also that if she related what she had seen with her own eyes the night before, she would probably give such a clue to the apparent mystery that the truth would come to light.

If Annie was cleared from this accusation, doubtless the old story of her supposed guilt with regard to Mrs. Willis' caricature would also be read with its right key. Hester was a clever and sharp girl; and the fact of seeing Susan Drummond in the school-room in the dead of night opened her eyes also to one or two other apparent little mysteries. While Susan was her own room-mate she had often given a pa.s.sing wonder to the fact of her extraordinary desire to overcome her sleepiness, and had laughed over the expedients Susan had used to wake at all moments.

These things, at the time, had scarcely given her a moment's serious reflection; but now she pondered them carefully, and became more and more certain, that, for some inexplicable and unfathomable reason sleepy, and apparently innocent, Susan Drummond wished to sow the seeds of mischief and discord in the school. Hester was sure that if she chose to speak now she could clear poor Annie, and restore her to her lost place in Mrs.

Willis' favor.

Should she do so? ah! should she? Her lips trembled, her color came and went as the angels, good and bad, fought hard for victory within her. How she had longed to revenge herself on Annie! How cordially she had hated her! Now was the moment of her revenge. She had but to remain silent now, and to let matters take their course; she had but to hold her tongue about the little incident of last night, and, without any doubt, circ.u.mstantial evidence would point at Annie Forest, and she would be expelled from the school. Mrs. Willis must condemn her now. Mr. Everard must p.r.o.nounce her guilty now. She would go, and when the coast was again clear the love which she had taken from Hester--the precious love of Hester's only little sister--would return.

"You will be miserable; you will be miserable," whispered the good angels sorrowfully in her ear; but she did not listen to them.

"I said I would revenge myself, and this is my opportunity," she murmured. "Silence--just simply silence--will be my revenge."

Then the good angels went sorrowfully back to their Father in heaven, and the wicked angels rejoiced. Hester had fallen very low.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

FRESH SUSPICIONS.

Mrs. Willis was not at home many hours before Dora Russell begged for an interview with her. Annie had not as yet heard anything of the changed essay; for Dora had resolved to keep the thing a secret until Mrs. Willis herself took the matter in hand.

Annie was feeling not a little anxious and depressed. She was sorry now that she had led the girls that wild escapade through the wood. Phyllis and Nora were both suffering from heavy colds in consequence, and Susan Drummond was looking more pasty about her complexion, and was more dismally sleepy than usual. Annie was going through her usual season of intense remorse after one of her wild pranks. No one repented with more apparent fervor than she did, and yet no one so easily succ.u.mbed to the next temptation. Had Annie been alone in the matter she would have gone straight to Mrs. Willis and confessed all; but she could not do this without implicating her companions, who would have screamed with horror at the very suggestion.

All the girls were more or less depressed by the knowledge that the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, shared their secret; and they often whispered together as to the chances of her betraying them. Old Betty they could trust; for Betty, the cake-woman, had been an arch-conspirator with the naughty girls of Lavender House from time immemorial. Betty had always managed to provide their stolen suppers for them, and had been most accommodating in the matter of pay. Yes, with Betty they felt they were safe; but Mother Rachel was a different person. She might like to be paid a few more sixpences for her silence; she might hover about the grounds; she might be noticed. At any moment she might boldly demand an interview with Mrs. Willis.

"I'm awfully afraid of Mother Rachel," Phyllis moaned, as she shivered under the influence of her bad cold.

Nora said "I should faint if I saw her again, I know I should;" while the other girls always went out provided with stray sixpences, in case the gypsy mother should start up from some unexpected quarter and demand blackmail.

On the day of Mrs. Willis' return, Annie was pacing up and down the shady walk, and indulging in some rather melancholy and regretful thoughts, when Susan Drummond and Mary Morris rushed up to her, white with terror.

"She's down there by the copse, and she's beckoning to us! Oh, do come with us--do, darling, dear Annie."

"There's no use in it," replied Annie; "Mother Rachel wants money, and I am not going to give her any. Don't be afraid of her, girls, and don't give her money. After all, why should she tell on us? she would gain nothing by doing so."

"Oh, yes, she would, Annie--she would, Annie," said Mary Morris, beginning to sob; "oh, do come with us, do! We must pacify her, we really must."

"I can't come now," said Annie; "hark! some one is calling me. Yes, Miss Danesbury--what is it?"

"Mrs. Willis wishes to see you at once, Annie, in her private sitting-room," replied Miss Danesbury; and Annie, wondering not a little, but quite unsuspicious, ran off.

The fact, however, of her having deliberately disobeyed Mrs. Willis, and done something which she knew would greatly pain her, brought a shade of embarra.s.sment to her usually candid face. She had also to confess to herself that she did not feel quite so comfortable about Mother Rachel as she had given Mary Morris and Susan Drummond to understand. Her steps lagged more and more as she approached the house, and she wished, oh, how longingly! oh, how regretfully! that she had not been naughty and wild and disobedient in her beloved teacher's absence.

"But where is the use of regretting what is done?" she said, half aloud.

"I know I can never be good--never, never!"

She pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains which shaded the door of the private sitting-room, and went in, to find Mrs. Willis seated by her desk, very pale and tired and unhappy looking, while Dora Russell, with crimson spots on her cheeks and a very angry glitter in her eyes, stood by the mantel-piece.

"Come here, Annie dear," said Mrs. Willis in her usual gentle and affectionate tone.

Annie's first wild impulse was to rush to her governess' side, to fling her arms round her neck, and, as a child would confess to her mother, to tell her all that story of the walk through the wood, and the stolen picnic in the fairies' field. Three things, however, restrained her--she must not relieve her own troubles at the expense of betraying others; she could not, even if she were willing, say a word in the presence of this cold and angry-looking Dora; in the third place, Mrs. Willis looked very tired and very sad. Not for worlds would she add to her troubles at this instant. She came into the room, however, with a slight hesitation of manner and a clouded brow, which caused Mrs. Willis to watch her with anxiety and Dora with triumph.

"Come here, Annie," repeated the governess. "I want to speak to you.

Something very dishonorable and disgraceful has been done in my absence."

Annie's face suddenly became as white as a sheet. Could the gypsy mother have already betrayed them all?

Mrs. Willis, noticing her too evident confusion, continued in a voice which, in spite of herself, became stern and severe.

"I shall expect the truth at any cost, my dear. Look at this ma.n.u.script-book. Do you know anything of the handwriting?"

"Why, it is yours, of course, Dora," said Annie, who was now absolutely bewildered.