“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 mantelpiece.
“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’s 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 dishonourable 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 manuscript-book. Do you know anything of the handwriting?”
“Why, it is yours, of course, Dora,” said Annie, who was now absolutely bewildered.
“It is not mine,” began Dora, but Mrs Willis held up her hand.