The suddenness of my relief made me laugh outright, and then,—Oh, baseness of the human heart!—I sought to strengthen my own position by denouncing some one else. “Not Annie Churchill?” I asked.
Elizabeth considered. “No, not even Annie Churchill. What makes you think of her?”
It was an awkward question. How could I say that two nights before the retreat, Annie had slipped into my alcove,—a reprehensible habit she had,—and, with an air of mystery, had informed me she was “trying to do something,”—she didn’t like to tell me what, because she thought that maybe I was trying to do it, too. Upon my intimating that I was trying to go to bed, and nothing else that I knew of, she had said quite solemnly: “I am trying to gain Elizabeth’s affections.” As it was impossible for me to adduce this piece of evidence (even an unsought confidence we held sacred), I observed somewhat lamely: “Oh, she does seem to get suddenly fond of people.”
“Who’s she fond of?” asked the unsuspecting—and ungrammatical—Elizabeth.
“Oh, do go on!” I urged, and, even as I said it, the Benediction bell rang. A score of girls, serious, black-veiled young penitents, appeared, as if by magic, hastening to the chapel. We joined them silently, and filed into rank. Already my conscience was pricking. Had our “serious” conversation been either charitable or edifying? Was it for this that Madame Rayburn had sent us out to walk under the mulberry trees?
It pricked harder still—this sore little conscience—the next day, when Lilly came to me, looking downcast and miserable. “Madame Duncan said I might speak to you,” she whispered, “because it was about something important. It is important, very. Father Santarius is sure to tell us we must put those straws back, and I’ve broken one of mine.”
Straws! I stared at her aghast. Where were my straws? I didn’t know. I hadn’t the faintest idea. I had lost them both, as I lost everything else, except the empty head so firmly, yet so uselessly fixed upon my shoulders. It was really wonderful that a little girl who had only three places in the world in which to put anything—a desk, a washstand drawer, and a japanned dressing-case (our clothes were all kept for us with exquisite neatness in the vestry)—should not have known where her few possessions were; but I could have lost them all in any of these receptacles, and never have found one of them again. When a mad scramble through my desk had furnished incontestable proof that no straws were there, and Lilly had departed, somewhat comforted by my more desperate case, I sat gloomily facing the complicated problem before me. I must confess my sin, I would be called upon to make restitution, and I had nothing to restore. The more I thought about it, the more hopeless I grew, and the more confused became my sense of proportion. If I had stolen the Bambino himself,—as a peasant woman, it is said, once stole the Baby of Ara-Cœli,—I could not have felt guiltier.
“Agnes,” said Madame Rayburn’s voice, “you had better go to the chapel now, and prepare for confession.”
She was looking down on me, and, as I rose to my feet, a light broke in upon my darkness. I knew where to turn for help.
“If you’ve taken a thing, and you haven’t got it any more to give it back, what can you do?” I asked.