CHAPTER VII

TRUTH WILL OUT

"I WOULDN'T mind so much, Mrs. Snowden, only that Grannie thinks I'm telling a story about it."

"Then your Grannie is a silly old cuckoo, that's what she is."

It was Kenneth who thus broke in.

"Ken, Ken, my dear boy, you forget yourself," said his mother reprovingly.

Kenneth blushed a bit under his freckled skin, and remained silent for a while.

Ella was spending Saturday afternoon, by special invitation, at the Hall a few days after the incidents recorded in the last chapter.

The Snowden children, every one, stood by her in her time of trouble, and, to crown it all, their mother also firmly believed in her innocence. Ella was more grateful to them than she could tell, and their trust and confidence in her, was balm to her little wounded heart.

Mrs. Russell, strange to say, in spite of Ella's protestations, believed the little girl had fallen under a sudden temptation, and urged her to confess her guilt.

"Your father once told me a story," said the stern old lady, "and I never forgave him till he had made a clean breast of it, and neither shall I forgive you."

These words had entered like iron into Ella's soul, and she grieved over them night and day.

It was plain to see the child's health was suffering under her unjust accusation, and Mrs. Snowden, to counteract the ill-effects, did her best to lighten the load which was pressing so hardly on the young shoulders.

"You must keep up heart and hope, Ella, my child," said she. "God, who sees the wrong, will one day set it right—be sure of that."

"Gertie, how white you look! What's the matter?"

So said Rupert, suddenly catching sight of his sister's face, which had grown very pale.

"There's nothing the matter!" replied Gertie irritably. "How silly you are, Rupert!"

"Gertie is, like the rest of us," gently interposed Mrs. Snowden, "troubled about Ella. However,—" this with a look of kindly sympathy into her little visitor's face—"don't worry more than you can help, childie; the clouds will all roll by one day, you know."

"Yes," said Ella, brightening up; "everything will be right when father comes home. He won't think I'm a story-teller, I know."

"Of course he won't," was Kenneth's reply; "neither would any one else with a grain of sense in his head."

And so, for a while, the subject was dropped.

The following Monday week was to be more or less of a festive occasion, for it was little Marcia's birthday, and many and various were the presents destined for the little maid. Rupert's gift, however, was to be something quite out of the common, only Kenneth as yet being in his confidence.

"I am going to buy Marcia's present to-day."

So said Rupert to his brother on their way to school one morning, a few days before the eventful Monday.

"How are you going to manage it?" queried Kenneth. "The gipsy encampment is out of bounds, and you won't have time to go there after four o'clock."

"'Where there's a will, there's a way,'" replied Rupert easily.

"I wouldn't do it, old chap, if I were you." Kenneth looked rather serious. "Leave it till Saturday. If it's found out, you'll get into no end of a row, and another thing, I sometimes wonder whether mother will care for Marcia to have a monkey about the place."

"I'm sure she won't mind," said Rupert. "Besides, Marcia wants one awfully."

Kenneth said no more, seeing his brother was bent upon the matter. The idea of buying a monkey had been simmering in Rupert's head for days, owing to the fact of a gipsy lad offering him one for sale in the street a short while previously. The boy had been obliged to decline the offer for lack of means, but at the same time he had agreed to call at the gipsy encampment, which was situated about a mile out of Farley, as soon as he possibly could, with a view to considering the purchase.

And so it happened that Kenneth's counsel fell on deaf ears, for directly mid-day lessons were over, Rupert made off for the encampment, returning home with his coveted possession well before the dinner hour.

"Hullo! What have you got there?"

So said Charlie Grey, one of his classmates, seeing Rupert in the act of smuggling something which looked like a good-sized cage into an outhouse.

"It's a monkey for Marcia's birthday," replied Rupert, a bit breathlessly, for he had been hurrying somewhat; "only I don't want the Head to know, as I've had to go out of boundaries for it."

The boy, who was Dorothy Grey's brother, was much interested in the little creature, and pronounced it a bargain. Shortly after this, the dinner-bell rang. Just before the close of the afternoon's lessons, the head-master, Dr. Winston by name, came into the room with a very severe expression on his countenance.

"It has come to my knowledge," said he, "that one of you boys has been out of boundaries to-day. Snowden,—" here he fixed his spectacled eyes on Rupert's face—"what have you to say about the matter? Have you, or have you not, disobeyed me?"

Rupert stood up and, crimson with shame, confessed his fault.

"What made you do such a thing, when you know it's against the rules?" demanded the Head.

Rupert was silent, feeling inwardly very much disgusted at the turn of affairs.

The punishment which was meted out to him was pretty severe, and the boy fumed with anger against Grey, who, he felt sure, had been telling tales. He tackled his class-mate on the subject as soon as school was over.

"A pretty thing you are," he said in the hearing of Kenneth, "to split on me like that. A mean sneak—that's what I call you!"

Grey, who was at heart a well-meaning lad, lost his temper likewise, the accusation being unjust. The Head, in reality, had discovered Rupert's disobedience, for himself.

"Sneak yourself!" retorted Grey. "I didn't split on you."

"I wouldn't tell a story about it, if I were you," sneered Rupert. "I'd keep a little rag of honour."

"Before you crow so loudly about honour, I think you'd better look at home."

"What do you mean?" cried Rupert hotly.

"I mean this," continued Grey, red with anger; "ask your sister Gertie who prigged the Arithmetic Key, and hid it in another girl's desk?"

Rupert was utterly taken aback, his own vexation for a moment forgotten. He seemed to see in a flash, Gertie's white face when the matter was under discussion, a face whereon—so he fancied now—guilt was written.

It was Kenneth who first found speech. "What do you mean, Grey?" he said, his young voice not quite steady.

In a moment Grey's temper seemed to have evaporated, and shame had taken its place.

"I say, old chap," he stammered, "I'm awfully sorry I said it—I'd have bitten my tongue out sooner."

"It isn't true, it can't be true," spluttered Rupert, but all the same, in his heart, he felt sure it was.

"How did you know anything about the affair?" said Kenneth.

"I heard of it from Dorothy," replied Grey, his honest eyes full of contrition, "and I promised faithfully I'd never tell; but it's out now—worse luck!"

"Now you've told us so much, you must tell us the rest."

There was quite a note of command in Kenneth's voice.

"Well, it was like this," said Grey unwillingly; "my sister Dorothy happened to look in the class-room window just at the time your sister was using the Key. She saw her, too, put the book in Ella Russell's desk all in a hurry."

"Then why didn't she speak up?" cried Rupert sharply.

"Because, you see, Gertie is her own particular chum, and somehow she didn't like to."

"I see," said Kenneth, looking as humiliated as though he had been caught in an act of theft.

"I shall never forgive myself," cried poor Grey, "for being such a mean cad."

"It was my fault for riling you," generously responded Rupert.

"Then you don't think I split on you?"

"I don't know and I don't care."

With this, Rupert turned on his heels, Kenneth following, both boys feeling too shamed and heavy-hearted for another word.