Chapter 18 A World of Girls: The Story of a School by L. T. Meade
In The Hammock
Just at this time the weather suddenly changed. After the cold and dreariness of winter came soft spring days – came longer evenings and brighter mornings.
Hester Thornton found that, she could dress by daylight, then that she was no longer cold and shivering when she reached the chapel, then that she began intensely to enjoy her mid-day walk, then that she found her winter things a little too hot, until at last, almost suddenly it seemed to the expectant and anxious girls, glorious spring weather broke upon the world, the winds were soft and westerly, the buds swelled and swelled into leaf on the trees, and the flowers bloomed in the delightful old-fashioned gardens of Lavender House. Instantly, it seemed to the girls, their whole lives had altered. The play-room was deserted or only put up with on wet days. At twelve o’clock, instead of taking a monotonous walk on the roads, they ran races, played tennis, croquet, or any other game they liked best in the gardens. Later on in the day, when the sun was not so powerful, they took their walk; but even then they had time to rush back to their beloved shady garden for a little time before tea and preparation for their next day’s work. Easter came this year about the middle of April, and Easter found these girls almost enjoying summer weather. How they looked forward to their few Easter holidays! what plans they made, what tennis matches were arranged, what games and amusements of all sorts were in anticipation! Mrs Willis herself generally went away for a few days at Easter; so did the French governess, and the school was nominally placed under the charge of Miss Good and Miss Danesbury. Mrs Willis did not approve of long Easter holidays; she never gave more than a week, and in consequence only the girls who lived quite near went home. Out of the fifty girls who resided at Lavender House about ten went away at Easter; the remaining forty stayed behind, and were often heard to declare that holidays at Lavender House were the most delightful things in the world.
At this particular Easter time the girls were rather surprised to near that Mrs Willis had made up her mind not to go away as usual; Miss Good was to have a holiday, and Mrs Willis and Miss Danesbury were to look after the school. This was felt to be an unusual, indeed unheard-of, proceeding, and the girls commented about it a good deal, and somehow, without absolutely intending to do so, they began to settle in their own minds that Mrs Willis was staying in the school on account of Annie Forest, and that in her heart of hearts she did not absolutely believe in her innocence. Mrs Willis certainly gave the girls no reason to come to this conclusion; she was consistently kind to Annie, and had apparently quite restored her to her old place in her favour. Annie was more gentle than of old, and less inclined to get into scrapes; but the girls loved her far less in her present unnatural condition of reserve and good behaviour than they did in her old daring and hoydenish days. Cecil Temple always spent Easter with an old aunt who lived in a neighbouring town; she openly said this year that she did not wish to go away, but her governess would not allow her to change her usual plans, and she left Lavender House with a curious feeling of depression and coming trouble. As she was getting into the cab which was to take her to the station Annie flew to her side, threw a great bouquet of flowers which she had gathered into her lap, and, flinging her arms tightly round her neck, whispered suddenly and passionately:
“Oh, Cecil, believe in me.”
“I – I – I don’t know that I don’t,” said Cecil, rather lamely.
“No, Cecil, you don’t – not in your heart of hearts. Neither you nor Mrs Willis – you neither of you believe in me from the very bottom of your hearts; oh, it is hard!”
Annie gave vent to a little sob, sprang away from Cecil’s arms, and disappeared into a shrubbery close by.
She stayed there until the sound of the retreating cab died away in the avenue, then, tossing back her hair, rearranging her rather tattered garden hat, and hastily wiping some tears from her eyes, she came out from her retreat, and began to look around her for some amusement. What should she do? Where should she go? How should she occupy herself? Sounds of laughter and merriment filled the air; the garden was all alive with gay young figures running here and there. Girls stood in groups under the horse chestnut tree – girls walked two and two up the shady walk at the end of the garden – little ones gambolled and rolled on the grass – a tennis match was going on vigorously, and the croquet ground was occupied by eight girls of the middle school. Annie was one of the most successful tennis players in the school; she had indeed a gift for all games of skill, and seldom missed her mark. Now she looked with a certain wistful longing toward the tennis-court; but, after a brief hesitation, she turned away from it and entered the shady walk at the farther end of the garden. As she walked along, slowly, meditatively, and sadly, her eyes suddenly lighted up. Glancing to one of the tall trees she saw a hammock suspended there which had evidently been forgotten during the winter. The tree was not yet quite in leaf, and it was very easy for Annie to climb up its branches, to readjust the hammock, and to get into it. After its winter residence in the tree this soft couch was found full of withered leaves, and otherwise rather damp and uncomfortable. Annie tossed the leaves on to the ground, and laughed as she swung herself gently backwards and forwards. Early as the season still was the sun was so bright and the air so soft that she could not but enjoy herself, and she laughed with pleasure, and only wished that she had a fairy tale by her side to help to soothe her off to sleep.
In the distance she heard some children calling “Annie,” “Annie Forest;” but she was far too comfortable and too lazy to answer them, and presently she closed her eyes and really did fall asleep.
She was awakened by a very slight sound – by nothing more nor less than the gentle and very refined conversation of two girls, who sat under the oak-tree in which Annie’s hammock swung. Hearing the voices, she bent a little forward, and saw that the speakers were Dora Russell and Hester Thornton. Her first inclination was to laugh, toss down some leaves, and instantly reveal herself: the next she drew back hastily, and began to listen with all her ears.
“I never liked her,” said Hester – “I never even from the very first pretended to like her. I think she is underbred, and not fit to associate with the other girls in the school-room.”
“She is treated with most unfair partiality,” retorted Miss Russell in her thin and rather bitter voice. “I have not the smallest doubt, not the smallest, that she was guilty of putting those messes into my desk, of destroying my composition, and of caricaturing Mrs Willis in Cecil Temple’s book. I wonder after that Mrs Willis did not see through her, but it is astonishing to what lengths favouritism will carry one. Mrs Willis and Mr Everard are behaving in a very unfair way to the rest of us in upholding this commonplace, disagreeable girl; but it will be to Mrs Willis’s own disadvantage. Hester, I am, as you know, leaving school at Midsummer, and I shall certainly use all my influence to induce my father and mother not to send the younger girls here; they could not associate with a person like Miss Forest.”
“I never take much notice of her,” said Hester; “but of course what you say is quite right, Dora. You have great discrimination, and your sisters might possibly be taken in by her.”
“Oh, not at all, I assure you; they know a true lady when they see her. However, they must not be imperilled. I will ask my parents to send them to Mdlle. Lablanché. I hear that her establishment is most recherché.”
“Mrs Willis is very nice herself, and so are most of the girls,” said Hester, after a pause. Then they were both silent, for Hester had stooped down to examine some little fronds and moss which grew at the foot of the tree. After a pause, Hester said —
“I don’t think Annie is the favourite she was with the girls.”
“Oh, of course not; they all, in their heart of hearts, know she is guilty. Will you come indoors, and have tea with me in my drawing-room, Hester?”
The two girls walked slowly away, and presently Annie let herself gently out of her hammock and dropped to the ground.
She had heard every word; she had not revealed herself, and a new and terrible – and, truth to say, absolutely foreign – sensation from her true nature now filled her mind. She felt that she almost hated those two who had spoken so cruelly, so unjustly of her. She began to trace her misfortunes and her unhappiness to the date of Hester’s entrance into the school. Even more than Dora Russell did she dislike Hester; she made up her mind to revenge herself on both these girls. Her heart was very, very sore; she missed the old words, the old love, the old brightness, the old popularity; she missed the mother-tones in Mrs Willis’s voice – her heart cried out for them, at night she often wept for them. She became more and more sure that she owed all her misfortunes to Hester, and in a smaller degree to Dora. Dora believed that she had deliberately insulted her, and injured her composition, when she knew herself that she was quite innocent of even harbouring such a thought, far less carrying it into effect. Well, now, she would really do something to injure both these girls, and perhaps the carrying out of her revenge would satisfy her sore heart.