The whole school assembled for prayers that night in the little chapel, and Mr Everard, who had heard the story of that day’s confession from Mrs Willis, said a few words appropriate to the occasion to the unhappy young girls.
Whatever effect his words had on the others, and they were very simple and straightforward, Annie’s face grew quiet and peaceful as she listened to them. The old clergyman assured the girls that God was waiting to forgive those who truly repented, and that the way to repent was to rise up and sin no more.
“The present fun is not worth the after-pain,” he said in conclusion. “It is an old saying that stolen waters are sweet, but only at the time: afterwards only those who drink of them know the full extent of their bitterness.”
This little address from Mr Everard strengthened poor Annie for an ordeal which was immediately before her, for Mrs Willis asked all the school to follow her to the play-room, and there she told them that she was about to restore to them their lost privileges; that circumstances, in her opinion, now so strongly pointed the guilt of the stolen essay in the direction of one girl, that she could no longer ask the school to suffer for her sake.
“She still refuses to confess her sin,” said Mrs Willis, “but, unless another girl proclaims herself guilty, and proves to me beyond doubt that she drew the caricature which was found in Cecil Temple’s book, and that she changed Dora Russell’s essay, and, imitating her hand, put another in its place, I proclaim the guilty person to be Annie Forest, and on her alone I visit my displeasure. You can retire to your rooms, young ladies. To-morrow morning Lavender House resumes its old cheerfulness.”
Chapter Thirty Nine.
Hester’s Hour Of Trial.
However calmly or however peacefully Annie slept that night, poor Hester did not close her eyes. The white face of the girl she had wronged and injured kept rising before her. Why had she so deceived Annie? Why from the very first had she turned from her and misjudged her, and misrepresented her? Was Annie, indeed, all bad? Hester had to own to herself that to-night Annie was better than she—was greater than she. Could she now have undone the past, she would not have acted as she had done; she would not for the sake of a little paltry revenge have defiled her conscience with a lie, have told her governess that she could throw no light on the circumstance of the stolen essay. This was the first lie Hester had ever told; she was naturally both straightforward and honourable, but her sin of sins, that which made her hard and almost unlovable, was an intensely proud and haughty spirit. She was very sorry she had told that lie; she was very sorry she had yielded to that temptation; but not for worlds would she now humble herself to confess—not for worlds would she let the school know of her cowardice and shame. No, if there was no other means of clearing: Annie except through her confession, she must remain with the shadow of this sin over her to her dying day.