“I am very, very sorry,” said Miss Thompson. “I wish with all my heart I had understood the child better, but of course she was a stranger to me. The circumstance was this: I gave her the history of the reign of Edward I. to look over during class, as of course on her first day at school she had no regular lessons ready. She glanced at it, told me she knew the reign, and amused herself looking about during the remainder of the time. At recess I called her to me and questioned her. She seemed to be totally ignorant of anything relating to Edward I. I reproved her for having made an incorrect statement – ”
“For having told a lie, you mean,” snapped Lady Frances.
Miss Thompson bowed.
“I reproved her, and as a punishment desired her to look over the reign while the other girls were in the playground.”
“And quite right,” said Lady Frances.
“She was very much annoyed, but I was firm. I left her with the book in her hand. I have nothing more to say. At six o’clock that evening I removed Sesame and Lilies from its place in the classroom, and took it away to continue the preparation of a lecture. I then found that several pages had been removed. This morning, early, I happened to take this very copy of the History, and found these fragments in the part of the book which contains the reign of Edward I.”
“Suspicion undoubtedly now points to Evelyn,” said Miss Henderson; “and I must say, Lady Frances, that although a matter of this kind pertains entirely to the school, and must be dealt with absolutely by the head-mistress, yet your having called, and in a measure taken the matter up, relieves me of a certain responsibility.”
“Suspicion does undoubtedly point to the unhappy child,” said Lady Frances; “but still, I can scarcely believe it. What do you mean to do?”
“I shall to-morrow morning have to state before the entire school what I have now stated to you.”
“It might be best for me to remove Evelyn, and let her confess to you in writing.”
“I do not think that would be either right or fair. If the girl is taken away now she is practically injured for life. Give her a chance, I beseech you, Lady Frances, of retrieving her character.”
“Oh, what is to be done?” said Lady Frances. “To think that my daughter should have a girl like that for a companion! You do not know how we are all to be pitied.”
“I do indeed; you have my sincere sympathy,” said Miss Henderson.
“And what do you advise?”
“I think, as she is a member of the school, you must leave her to me. She committed this offense on the very first day of her school-life, and if possible we must not be too severe on her. She has not been brought up as an English girl.”
Lady Frances talked a little longer with the head-mistress, and went away; she felt terribly miserable and unhappy.
CHAPTER XXII. – “STICK TO YOUR COLORS, EVELYN.”
Evelyn met Jasper, as arranged, on Tuesday evening. She found it quite easy to slip away unnoticed, for in truth Lady Frances was too unhappy to watch her movements particularly. The girls had been dining alone. Audrey had a headache, and had gone to bed early. Evelyn rushed up to her room, put on a dark shawl, which completely covered her fair hair and white-robed little figure, and rushed out by a side entrance. She wore thin shoes, however, being utterly reckless with regard to her health. Jasper was waiting for her. It took but an instant for Jasper to clasp her in her arms, lifting her off the ground as she did so.
“Oh, my little darling,” cried the affectionate woman – “my sweet little white Eve! Oh, let me hug you; let me kiss you! Oh, my pet! it is like cold water to a thirsty person to clasp you in my arms again.”
“Do not squeeze me quite so tight, Jasper,” said Evelyn. “Yes, of course, I am glad to see you – very glad.”
“But let me feel your feet, pet. Oh, to think of your running out like this in your house-shoes! You will catch your death! Here, I will sit down on this step and keep you in my arms. Now, is not that cozy, my fur cloak wrapped round you, feet and all? Is not that nice, little Eve?”
“Yes, very nice,” said Evelyn. “It is almost as good as if I were back again on the ranch with mothery and you.”
“Ah, the happy old days!” sighed Jasper.
“Yes, they were very happy, Jasper. I almost wish I was back again. I am worried a good bit; things are not what I thought they would be in England. There is no fuss made about me, and at school they treat me so horribly.”
“You bide your time, my love; you bide your time.”
“I don’t like school, Jas.”
“And why not, my beauty? You know you must be taught, my dear Miss Evelyn; an ignorant young lady has no chance at all in these enlightened days.”
“Oh! please, Jas, do not talk so much like a horrid book; be your true old self. What does learning matter?”
“Everything, love; I assure you it does.”
“Well, I shall never be learned; it is too much trouble.”
“But why don’t you like school, pet?”
“I will tell you. I have got into a scrape; I did not mean to, but I have.”
“Oh, you mean about that book. Sylvia told me. Why did you tell Sylvia, Evelyn?”
“I had to tell some one, and she is not a schoolgirl.”
“She is not your sort, Evelyn.”
“Is she not? I like her very much.”
“But she is not your sort; for instance, she could not do a thing of that kind.”
“Oh, I do not suppose many people would have spirit enough,” said Evelyn in the voice of one who had done a very fine act.
“She could not do it,” repeated Jasper; “and I expect she is in the right, and that you, my little love, are in the wrong. You were differently trained. Well, my dear Eve, the long and short of it is that I admire what you did, only somehow Sylvia does not, and you will have to be very careful or she may – ”
“What – what, Jasper?”
“She may not regard it as a secret that she will always keep.”
“Is she that sort? Oh, the horrid, horrid thing!” said Evelyn. “Oh, to think that I should have told her! But you cannot mean it; it is impossible that you can mean it, Jasper!”
“Don’t you fret, love, for I will not let her. If she dares to tell on you, why, I will leave her, and then it is pretty near starvation for the poor little miss.”
“You are sure you will not let her tell? I really am in rather a nasty scrape. They are making such a horrid fuss at school. This evening was the limit given for the guilty person – I should not say the guilty person, but the spirited person – to tell, and the spirited person has not told; and to-morrow morning goodness knows what will happen. Miss Henderson has a rod in pickle for us all, I expect. I declare it is quite exciting. None of the girls suspect me, and I talk so openly, and sometimes they laugh, too. I suppose we shall all be punished. I do not really know what is going to be done.”
“You hold your tongue and let the whole matter slide. That is my advice,” said Jasper. “I would either do that or I would out with it boldly – one or the other. Say you did it, and that you are not ashamed to have done it.”
“I could not – I could not,” said Evelyn. “I may be brave after a fashion, but I am not brave enough for that. Besides, you know, Jasper, I did say already that I had not done it.”
“Oh, to be sure,” answered Jasper. “I forgot that. Well, you must stick to your colors now, Eve; and at the worst, my darling, you have but to come to me and I will shield you.”
“At the worst – yes, at the worst,” said Evelyn. “I will remember that. But if I want to come to you very badly how can I?”
“I will come every night to this stile at nine o’clock, and if you want me you will find me. I will stay here for exactly five minutes, and any message you may like to give you can put under this stone. Now, is not that a ’cute thought of your dear old Jasper’s?”
“It is – it is,” said the little girl. “Perhaps, Jasper, I had better be going back now.”
“In a minute, darling – in a minute.”
“And how are you getting on with Sylvia, Jasper?”
“Oh, such fun, dear! I am having quite an exciting time – hidden from the old gentleman, and acting the gipsy, and pretending I am feeding him with old fowls when I am giving him the tenderest chicken. You have not, darling, a little scrap of money to spare that you can help old Jasper with?”
“Oh! you are so greedy, Jasper; you are always asking for things. Uncle Edward makes me an allowance, but not much; no one would suppose I was the heiress of everything.”
“Well dear, the money don’t matter. I will come here again to-morrow night. Now, keep up your pecker, little Eve, and all will be well.”
Evelyn kissed Jasper, and was about to run back to the house when the good woman remembered the light shoes in which she had come out.
“I’ll carry you back,” she said. “Those precious little feet shall not touch the frosty ground.”
Jasper was very strong, and Evelyn was all too willing. She was carried to within fifty yards of the side entrance in Jasper’s strong arms; then she dashed back to the house, kissed her hand to the dark shadow under a tree, and returned to her own room. Read had seen her, but Evelyn knew nothing of that. Read had had her suspicions before now, and determined, as she said, to keep a sharp lookout on young miss in future.
CHAPTER XXIII. – ONE WEEK OF GRACE
There never was a woman more distressed and puzzled than Miss Henderson. She consulted with her sister, Miss Lucy; she consulted with her favorite teacher, Miss Thompson. They talked into the small hours of the night, and finally it was resolved that Evelyn should have another chance.
“I must appeal to her honor; it is impossible that any girl could be quite destitute of that quality,” said Miss Henderson.
“I am sure you are doing right, sister,” said Miss Lucy. “Once you harden a girl you do for her. Whatever Evelyn Wynford’s faults may be, she will hold a high position one day. It would be terrible – more than terrible – if she grew up a wicked woman. How awful to have power and not to use it aright! My dear Maria, whatever you are, be merciful.”
“I must pray to God to guide me aright,” answered Miss Maria. “This is a case for a right judgment in all things. Poor child! I pity her from my heart; but how to bring her to the necessary confession is the question.”
Miss Henderson went to bed, but not to sleep. Early in the morning she arose, having made up her mind what to do.
Accordingly, when Audrey and Evelyn arrived in the pretty little governess-cart – Audrey with a high color in her cheeks, looking as sweet and fresh and good and nice as English girl could look, and Evelyn tripping after her with a certain defiance on her white face and a look of hostility in her brown eyes – they were both greeted by Miss Henderson herself.
“Ah, Audrey dear,” she said in a cheerful and friendly tone, “how are you this morning? – How do you do, Evelyn? – No, Audrey, you are not late; you are quite in nice time. Will you go to the schoolroom, my dear? I will join you presently for prayers. – Evelyn, can I have a word with you?”
“Why so?” asked Evelyn, backing a little.
“Because I have something I want to say to you.”
Audrey also stood still. She cast a hostile glance at Miss Henderson, saying to herself:
“After all, my head-mistress is horribly unfair; she is doubtless going to tell Evelyn that she suspects her.”
“Evelyn,” said Audrey, “I will wait for you in the dressing-room if Miss Henderson has no objection.”
“But I have, for it may be necessary for me to detain your cousin for a short time,” said Miss Henderson. “Go, Audrey; do not keep me any longer.”
Evelyn stood sullenly and perfectly still in the hall; Audrey disappeared in the direction of the schoolrooms. Miss Henderson now took Evelyn’s hand and led her into her private sitting-room.
“What do you want me for?” asked the little girl.
“I want to say something to you, Evelyn.”
“Then say it, please.”
“You must not be pert.”
“I do not know what ‘pert’ is.”
“What you are now. But there, my dear child, please control yourself; believe me, I am truly sorry for you.”
“Then you need not be,” said Evelyn, with a toss of her head. “I do not want anybody to be sorry for me. I am one of the most lucky girls in the world. Sorry for me! Please don’t. Mothery could never bear to be pitied, and I won’t be pitied; I have nothing to be pitied for.”
“Who did you say never cared to be pitied?” asked Miss Henderson.
“Never you mind.”
“And yet, Evelyn, I think I have heard the words. You allude to your mother. I understand from Lady Frances that your mother is dead. You loved her, did you not?”
Evelyn gave a quick nod; her face seemed to say, “That is nothing to you.”
“I see you did, and she was fond of you.”
In spite of herself Evelyn gave another nod.
“Poor little girl; how sad to be without her!”
“Don’t,” said Evelyn in a strained voice.
“You lived all your early days in Tasmania, and your mother was good to you because she loved you, and you loved her back; you tried to please her because you loved her.”
“Oh, bother!” said Evelyn.
“Come here, dear.”
Evelyn did not budge an inch.
“Come over to me,” said Miss Henderson.
Miss Henderson was not accustomed to being disobeyed. Her tone was not loud, but it was quiet and determined. She looked full at Evelyn. Her eyes were kind. Evelyn felt as if they mesmerized her. Step by step, very unwillingly, she approached the side of the head-mistress.
“I love girls like you,” said Miss Henderson then.
“Bother!” said Evelyn again.
“And I do not mind even when they are sulky and rude and naughty, as you are now; still, I love them – I love them because I am sorry for them.”
“You need not be sorry for me; I won’t have you sorry for me,” said Evelyn.
“If I must not be sorry for you I must be something else.”
“What?”
“Angry with you.”
“Why so? I never! What do you mean now?”
“I must be angry with you, Evelyn – very angry. But I will say no more by way of excusing my own conduct. I will say nothing of either sorrow or anger. I want to state a fact to you.”
“Get it over,” said Evelyn.
Miss Henderson now approached the table; she opened the History at the reign of Edward I., and taking two tiny fragments of torn paper from the pages of the book, she laid them in her open palm. In her other hand she held the mutilated copy of Sesame and Lilies. The print on the torn scrap exactly corresponded with the print in the injured volume. Miss Henderson glanced from Evelyn to the scraps of paper, and from Evelyn to the copy of Ruskin.
“You have intelligence,” she said; “you must see what this means.”
She then carefully replaced the bits of paper in the History and laid it on the table by her side.
“Between now,” she said, “and this time yesterday Miss Thompson discovered these scraps of paper in the copy of the History which you had to read on the morning of the day when you first came to school. The scraps are evidently part of the pages torn from the injured book. Have you anything to say with regard to them?”
Evelyn shook her head; her face was white and her eyes bright. But there was a small red spot on each cheek – a spot about the size of a farthing. It did not grow any larger. It gave a curious effect to the pallid face. The obstinacy of the mouth was very apparent. The cleft in the chin still further showed the curious bias of the girl’s character.
“Have you anything to say – any remark to make?”
Again the head was slowly shaken.
“Is there any reason why I should not immediately after prayers to-day explain these circumstances to the whole school, and allow the school to draw its own conclusions?”
Evelyn now raised her eyes and fixed them on Miss Henderson’s face.
“You will not do that, will you?” she asked.
“Have you ever, Evelyn, heard of such a thing as circumstantial evidence?”
“No. What is it?”
“You are very ignorant, my dear child – ignorant as well as wilful; wilful as well as wicked.”
“No, I am not wicked; you shall not say it!”
“Tell me, is there any reason why I should not show what I have now shown you to the rest of the school, and allow the school to draw its own conclusion?”
“You won’t – will you?”
“Must I explain to you, Evelyn, what this means?”
“You can say anything you like.”
“These scraps of paper prove beyond doubt that you, for some extraordinary reason, were the person who tore the book. Why you did it is beyond my conception, is beyond Miss Thompson’s conception, is beyond the conception of my sister Lucy; but that you did do it we none of us for a moment doubt.”
“Oh, you are wicked! How dare you think such things of me?”
“Tell me, Evelyn – tell me why you did it. Come here and tell me. I will not be unkind to you, my poor little girl. I am sorry for one so ignorant, so wanting in all conceptions of right or wrong. Tell me, dear, and as there is a God in heaven, Evelyn, I will forgive you.”
“I will not tell you what I did not do,” said the angry child.
“You are vexed now and do not know what you are saying. I will go away, and come back again at the end of half an hour; perhaps you will tell me then.”
Evelyn stood silent. Miss Henderson, taking the History with her, left the room. She turned the key in the lock. Evelyn rushed to the window. Could she get out by it? She rushed to the door and tried to open it. Window and door defied her efforts. She was locked in. She was like a wild creature in a trap. To scream would do no good. Never before had the spoilt child found herself in such a position. A wild agony seized her; even now she did not repent.
If only mothery were alive! If only she were back on the ranch! If only Jasper were by her side!
“Oh mothery! oh Jasper!” she cried; and then a sob rose to her throat, tears burst from her eyes. The tension for the time was relieved; she huddled up in a chair, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Miss Henderson came back again in half an hour. Evelyn was still sobbing.
“Well, Evelyn,” she said, “I am just going into the schoolroom now for prayers. Have you made up your mind? Will you tell me why you did it, and how you did it, and why you denied it? Just three questions, dear; answer truthfully, and you will have got over the most painful and terrible crisis of your life. Be brave, little girl; ask God to help you.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know,” burst now from the angry child. “Think what you like. Do what you like. I am at your mercy; but I hate you, and I will never be a good girl – never, never! I will be a bad girl always – always; and I hate you – I hate you!”
Miss Henderson did not speak a word. The most violent passion cannot long retain its hold when the person on whom its rage is spent makes no reply. Even Evelyn cooled down a little. Miss Henderson stood quite still; then she said gently:
“I am deeply sorry. I was prepared for this. It will take more than this to subdue you.”
“Are you going into the schoolroom with those scraps of paper, and are you going to tell all the girls I am guilty?” said Evelyn.
“No, I shall not do that; I will give you another chance. There was to have been a holiday to-day, but because of that sin of yours there will be no holiday. There was to be a visit on Saturday to the museum at Chisfield, which the girls were all looking forward to; they are not to go on account of you. There were to be prizes at the break-up; they will not be given on account of you. The girls will not know that you are the cause of this deprivation, but they will know that the deprivation is theirs because there is a guilty person in the school, and because she will not confess. Evelyn, I give you a week from now to think this matter over. Remember, my dear, that I know you are guilty; remember that my sister Lucy knows it, and Miss Thompson; but before you are publicly disgraced we wish to give you a chance. We will treat you during the week that has yet to run as we would any other girl in the school. You will be treated until the week is up as though you were innocent. Think well whether you will indeed doom your companions to so much disappointment as will be theirs during the next week, to so dark a suspicion. During the next week the school will practically be sent to Coventry. Those who care for the girls will have to hold aloof from them. All the parents will have to be written to and told that there is an ugly suspicion hanging over the school. Think well before you put your companions, your schoolfellows, into this cruel position.”
“It is you who are cruel,” said Evelyn.
“I must ask God to melt your hard heart, Evelyn.”
“And are you really going to do all this?”
“Certainly.”
“And at the end of the week?”
“If you have not confessed before then I shall be obliged to confess for you before all the school. But, my poor child, you will; you must make amends. God could not have made so hard a heart!”
Evelyn wiped away her tears. She scarcely knew what she felt; she scarcely comprehended what was going to happen.
“May I bathe my eyes,” she said, “before I go with you into the schoolroom?”
“You may. I will wait for you here.”
The little girl left the room.
“I never met such a character,” said Miss Henderson to herself. “God help me, what am I to do with her? If at the end of a week she has not confessed her sin, I shall be obliged to ask Lady Frances to remove her. Poor child – poor child!”
Evelyn came back looking pale but serene. She held out her hand to Miss Henderson.
“I do not want your hand, Evelyn.”
“You said you would treat me for a week as if I were innocent.”
“Very well, then; I will take your hand.”
Miss Henderson entered the schoolroom holding Evelyn’s hand. Evelyn was looking as if nothing had happened; the traces of her tears had vanished. She sat down on her form; the other girls glanced at her in some wonder. Prayers were read as usual; the head-mistress knelt to pray. As her voice rose on the wings of prayer it trembled slightly. She prayed for those whose hearts were hard, that God would soften them. She prayed that wrong might be set right, that good might come out of evil, and that she herself might be guided to have a right judgment in all things. There was a great solemnity in her prayer, and it was felt throughout the hush in the big room. When she rose from her knees she ascended to her desk and faced the assembled girls.
“You know,” she said, “what an unpleasant task lies before me. The allotted time for the confession of the guilty person who injured my book, Sesame and Lilies, has gone by. The guilty person has not confessed, but I may as well say that the injury has been traced home to one of your number – but to whom, I am at present resolved not to tell. I give that person one week in order to make her confession. I do this for reasons which my sister and I consider all-sufficient; but during that week, I am sorry to say, my dear girls, you must all bear with her and for her the penalty of her wrong-doing. I must withhold indulgences, holidays, half-holidays, visits from friends; all that makes life pleasant and bright and home-like will have to be withdrawn. Work will have to be the order of the hour – work without the impetus of reward – work for the sake of work. I am sorry to have to do this, but I feel that such a course of conduct is due to myself. In a week’s time from now, if the girl has not confessed, I must take further steps; but I can assure the school that the cloud of my displeasure will then alone visit the guilty person, on whom it will fall with great severity.”
There was a long, significant pause when Miss Henderson ceased speaking. She was about to descend from her seat when Brenda Fox spoke.
“Is this quite fair?” she said. “I hope I am not asking an impertinent question, but is it fair that the innocent should suffer for the guilty?”
“I must ask you all to do so. Think of the history of the past, girls. Take courage; it is not the first time.”
“I think,” said Brenda Fox later on that same day to Audrey, “that Miss Henderson is right.”
“Then I think her wrong,” answered Audrey. “Of course I do not know her as well as you do, Brenda, and I am also ignorant with regard to the ordinary rules of school-life, but I cannot but feel it would be much better, if the guilty girl will not confess, to punish her at once and put an end to the thing.”
“It would be pleasanter for us,” replied Brenda Fox; “but then, Miss Henderson never thinks of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Miss Henderson is the sort of woman who would think very little of small personal pain and inconvenience compared with the injury which might be permanently inflicted on a girl who was harshly dealt with.”
“Still I do not quite understand. If any girl in the school did such a disgraceful thing it ought to be known at once.”
“Miss Henderson evidently does know, but for some reason she hopes the girl will repent.”
“And we are to be punished?”
“Is it not worth having a little discomfort if the girl’s character can be saved?”
“Yes, of course; if it does save her.”
“We must hope for that. For my part,” said Brenda in a reverent tone, “I shall pray about it. I believe in prayer.”
“And so do I,” answered Audrey. “But do you know, Brenda, that I think Miss Henderson was greatly wanting in tact when she mentioned my poor little cousin’s name two days ago.”
“Why so? Your cousin did happen to be alone in the room.”
“But it seemed to draw a very unworthy suspicion upon her head.”
“Oh no, no, Audrey!” answered Brenda. “Who could think that your cousin would do it? Besides, she is quite a stranger; it was her first day at school.”
“Then have you the least idea who did it?”
“None; no one has. We are all very fond of Miss Thompson. We are all fond of Miss Henderson; we respect her and Miss Lucy as most able and worthy mistresses. We enjoy our school-life. Who could have been so unkind?”
Audrey had an uncomfortable sensation at her heart that Evelyn at least did not enjoy her school-life; that Evelyn disliked Miss Thompson, and openly said that she hated Miss Henderson. Still, that Evelyn could really be guilty did not for an instant visit her brain.
Meanwhile Evelyn went recklessly on her way. The dénouement, of whatever nature, was still a week off. For a week she could be gay or impertinent or rude or defiant or good, just as the mood took her; at the end of the week, or towards the end, she would run away. She would go to Jasper and tell her she must hide her. This was her resolve. She was as inconsequent as an infant. To save herself trouble and pain was her one paramount idea; even her schoolfellows’ annoyance and distress scarcely worried her. As she and Audrey always spent their evenings at home, the dulness of the school, the increase of lessons and the absence of play, the walks two and two in absolute silence, scarcely depressed her; she could laugh and play at home, and talk to her uncle and draw him out to tell her stories of her father. The one redeeming trait in her character was her love for Uncle Edward. She was certainly going downhill very rapidly at this time. Poor child! who was there to understand her, to bring her to a standstill, to help her to choose right?