The Girls of St. Wode's

Leslie turned from white to red.

“I thought – ” she began.

“No, young lady; no,” said Mr. Parker. “I can read character well enough, and you have never told me the truth with regard to that money. There is something concealed at the back of it. The more I think the more assured I am, and your face tells me so plainly at the present moment. When I know the simple truth, Leslie Gilroy, I will restore you into my full favor again, and your friend shall be my private secretary.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said,” replied poor Leslie, trembling from head to foot. “I cannot tell you more than you know already.”

“What I know already is not the truth. Go, child; tell your friend that you have failed, and that the fault is yours.”

Leslie walked across the room. Mr. Parker preceded her and flung open the door. He followed Leslie into Annie’s presence. He stood and faced Annie Colchester.

“I understand,” he said, bringing out his words coldly, “that you have asked Leslie Gilroy to come here and plead for you. You want to be my secretary?”

“I could do the work well,” said Annie, standing up and speaking with glistening eyes.

“Your brother also assured me that he could do my work well. He had brains enough, but nothing else, the scoundrel!”

Annie bit her lips until the blood nearly came. She made a valiant effort not to speak; but to hear Rupert abused was like dragging her through fire.

“Now, listen to me.” said Parker. “I have spoken to Leslie Gilroy; I have told her that I will grant her request when she tells me the whole truth about that sixty pounds which you took from me to her. It is true I have her letter; but it was not only her letter, it was your pleading which induced me to give it. Since that hour I have felt certain that something is hidden. When Leslie tells me the exact truth, you, Annie Colchester shall have the place. You had better go away, both of you girls, and consult – there is something at the back of this. I will keep the post open for forty-eight hours, but no longer. Now go; you have my decision.”

CHAPTER XXVIII – RUPERT

When the girls found themselves once more in the open air neither of them spoke. Then Annie said in a gasping sort of voice:

“I see quite well, Leslie, that it is all useless. I give up the hope which seemed so bright a short time ago. You have done your very best, and I thank you from my heart. I will go to Belle Acheson now. Perhaps something will turn up at the end of a week. At any rate, I have that week to turn round in.”

“We will go to the Bank,” said Leslie; “omnibuses go from there in all directions. As to what Mr. Parker said, you know, Annie, that it remains with yourself.”

“And do you think,” said Annie, coloring and shivering, “that if I could bring myself to tell the real truth I should get the post?”

“I think so; for Mr. Parker is a man who never goes back on his word. He promised to give it to you if the truth were known. He made no condition.”

“And you – you will be restored to his favor?”

“I have nothing to say,” replied Leslie somewhat proudly. “I will not plead for myself. You won’t get the post you covet unless the truth is known.”

“I cannot do it,” said Annie. “It would be betraying not only myself, but Rupert. Can you find your way back to the Chetwynds’?”

“Certainly I can; and that is your omnibus with Maida Vale marked on it.” Leslie held up her parasol and the driver stopped. Annie got in; Leslie nodded to her and turned away.

Annie shrank back in her corner. She shut her eyes: her head was aching violently. Her one desire – the only desire that she had at that moment – was not to tell but to hide the truth. The secretaryship would have saved her – it would have enabled her to live respectably and in comfort; but it was not to be hers. Between it and her lay a sin – a sin which she committed for the one she loved best in the world. Now she had to think how she was to manage. Where could she get work? What work could she best undertake? How long would Belle keep her as a guest? Belle was known to be erratic and uncertain. Well, at least for a week she was safe. During that time she would treasure her shillings as if they were gold.

The drive was a long one, but presently she reached her destination. The omnibus drew up, she alighted and turned forlornly into the square where Belle lived with her mother. Belle’s house was No. 30; it was at the left-hand side of the square. Annie had nearly reached it when she felt a hand laid lightly on her shoulder. She turned round in an access of terror, then a cry of mingled astonishment, fear, and delight burst from her, and the next instant she had clasped her arms round her brother’s neck.

“Oh, Rupert!” she cried, “where did you come from? I thought you were at the other side of the world.”

“I will tell you all,” replied Rupert in a cheerful voice. “There’s no manner of use in your giving way, and don’t, for goodness’ sake! hug me in public, Annie. Of course I’m not in Australia – I never went there; I’m not such a fool. Do you think it’s likely I would leave this place when I had sixty pounds in my pocket?”

“But you owed that money; it was given you to pay a debt.”

“Well, I paid part of it – not all. The fellows were only too glad to get twenty pounds from me; so you see, my dear little sister, I had forty pounds left to go on the spree with. But now my creditors are clamoring for the second instalment. Annie, my dear, I want your help again; and what is more, I must have it. You little guessed, when you were shrinking up in that corner of the omnibus, that I was enjoying a cigar on the roof. I hurried down when you alighted, and have followed you. That precious, goody-goody Miss Gilroy little knew how close I was to her vicinity when she bade you good-by at the Bank.”

“Oh, Rupert, I am so terribly frightened; and yet – and yet it is a real joy to see you.”

“Poor old girl,” said Rupert, patting Annie on her shoulder; “you always were affectionate. You’ve got me out of more than one scrape, and you’ll get me out of this one; won’t you, kiddy? Now, where can we go for a real good talk?”

“I don’t know this part of London,” replied Annie.

“Well, it is like any other part, I suppose. We must talk in the streets; but it’s abominably hard. What is your address, Annie? Where are you staying?”

“I am just going to spend a week with Mrs. Acheson. She lives in No. 30 in this square – Newbolt Square it is called.”

“No. 30 Newbolt Square; then here we are. I’ll come and see you; nothing more natural.”

“But, Rupert, you must not – it would be most dangerous.”

“Why should it be dangerous? Why should not a bona-fide brother go to see his only sister? You are my sister, Annie.”

“And I glory in the fact,” said Annie. “Whatever you do, I shall always feel glad that I belong to you. You will always be the darling of my heart; but oh, Rupert, if Leslie finds out that you have broken your word, it is in her to be very hard. She is hard already. I never knew anyone so changed. I live in constant terror of her. Do you know what happened only to-day?”

“No, Annie; and what is more, I don’t want to know. I am too full of my own affairs to be bothered by your minor troubles.”

“That is so like you, Rupert. I am afraid you are growing terribly selfish.”

“Now, don’t begin to preach, old girl. There, if it will make you any happier you shall tell me your little adventure, whatever it was; only be quick about it.”

They walked round the square many times. Miserable as Annie felt, there was a strange glow at her heart, the color had flamed into her pale cheeks, and light into her red-brown eyes. She looked wonderfully handsome, and more than one person turned to gaze at her. She briefly told Rupert what had occurred at Mr. Parker’s.

“The old wretch!” cried Rupert. “If there is a man in the world whom I fairly loathe, it is Parker. And so he spoke of me as a scoundrel, did he? Perhaps I’ll have my little revenge yet.”

“But you would not really do anything wrong, Rupert?”

“Oh, dear me, no!” said Rupert in a sarcastic voice; “all I want at present is twenty pounds. Do let us drop Parker out of this conversation. If I could bleed him to that extent I would, right heartily; but as I do not see my way to doing so a second time, we must get it in some other fashion; and that remains for you to discover, Annie mine.”

“But, dear Rupert, there are no means open to me; and I would not, if I could, help you in that dreadful way again.”

“But you might think out another dodge. I laugh now when I think of how you managed before – forging a letter in another girl’s name and taking it to Parker of all people, and Parker giving the money and blaming that bread-and-butter Miss Gilroy, and you and I getting off scot-free. It was about the cheekiest, boldest, cleverest deed that any girl ever did, and you did it for your brother’s sake. Annie, my dear, you will be as clever, as cheeky, as bold again for your poor brother’s sake.”

“Rupert, I cannot.”

“Then you know, of course, what the consequence will be.”

Rupert Colchester now completely changed his manner. He had an expressive face, capable of almost any emotion. He had been sad, he had been jocular, in Annie’s presence during this short interview. Now he looked as if despair had seized him. His face changed color, it lengthened, and seemed to grow thinner and more haggard each moment.

“Then I cannot help it,” he said. “I suppose there is nothing further to say. You did your best, and you can do no more. I’ll be locked up; I have got into a scrape which I cannot explain to you. There is a fellow to whom I owe twenty pounds, and if I don’t get it I’ll be locked up. Think what you will feel when you have to go to the police court to give evidence against your brother.”

“But, oh, Rupert! Rupert! how can you go in for such bad ways? Oh, if only mother were alive!”

“Look here, Annie, none of that,” said Colchester, his voice becoming so stern that poor Annie nearly shook. “There,” he added, instantly changing his tone when he saw that she shivered and shrank from him. “I know you will help me if you can. You’ll just think it over, and let me know when next we meet. Where did you say you were going to stay – at No. 30? Who lives at No. 30 Newbolt Square?”

“People of the name of Acheson.”

“But who are they?”

“I don’t know, Rupert.”

“They live in a respectable house, and must be well off,” said Rupert. “I tell you what you’ll do, Annie. You get Mrs. Acheson to lend you twenty pounds. Now, see you do it, and be quick about it. She’ll lend it fast enough if you pull a long face, and make up a pitiable story, and I’ll meet you somehow or other to-morrow. Oh, yes, I’ll manage; I need not enter into particulars just now. You will tell me what you can do when we meet. That is all I require for the present. If you get me that twenty pounds I’ll let you alone – I promise I will – for a month or two.”

“But, Rupert, I don’t know anything whatever about Mrs. Acheson. I have never even seen her. Belle, her daughter, is a very odd, clever creature; but I am quite certain the Achesons are not rich.”

“Is this Belle one of the St. Wode’s undergraduates?”

“Yes.”

“Then, of course, they must be rich, or she could not go to a place like Wingfield. And that reminds me, Annie, what a goose you were not to take honors in your exam. You barely qualified – no more. If you had taken a first, I know a fellow who would have lent me twenty pounds on the strength of your getting a good post; but now all that is knocked on the head, and by your laziness. Positively it’s enough to sicken a fellow. Well, Annie, you know what you have before you. You must get twenty pounds for your brother within the next two or three days, or there is a prison ahead of him.”

“Oh, Rupert! Rupert! you do make me so perfectly wretched,” said poor Annie. “I must frankly confess that I have no hope at all of being able to help you.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” said Rupert, whistling gaily. “Now I’m not going to bother you any more. My words will sink deep, I know, my pretty little Annie. Think of the old times. Do you remember that spring when we went out together and picked primroses, and that time when you had the measles, and I was so awfully good to you? Don’t you remember when you were so tired of being left by yourself I used to come in, and risk taking the beastly thing a second time, to amuse you? Oh, you’ll help me; you won’t leave your brother Rupert in a lurch. Well, go off now to your precious Achesons and your comfortable home. Think, when you are lapped in luxury, of your poor, starving brother.”

“Oh, Rupert, you surely are not starving?”

“Well, I have not had a decent meal for a week. Last time I ate was yesterday evening, so you can imagine I’m pretty peckish. By the way, you don’t happen to have a sovereign about you?”

“No, indeed, I don’t possess so much in the world. I’ve only got fourteen shillings, not a penny more.”

Rupert gave vent to a prolonged whistle.

“Are things really as bad as that?” he cried. “Well, at any rate, you won’t want money while you are at the Achesons’. You might let me have those few shillings; you can have them back when you want them.”

“But, Rupert, they are all I possess, all I have between me and the workhouse.”

“Bother the workhouse! Much chance a pretty girl like you has of going there. Let me have ten shillings at least. You surely do not mean to refuse your starving brother?”

“Of course I cannot refuse you,” said Annie. She took up her purse, opened it, and gave Rupert half a sovereign.

“Ta-ta,” he replied; “this will do until we meet to-morrow. You do look a bit dragged, Annie, now I come to examine you carefully; but better days will dawn.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and walked down the street. Poor as he professed himself to be, he was by no means shabbily dressed. He had a fine figure, square shoulders, and a swagger in his walk.

Annie gazed long after his retreating form.

“Why is he about the most wicked person in the world, and why do I love him so much?” she thought. “There, I have only four shillings now. How I am to get that twenty pounds Heaven only knows. Oh, I am a miserable, most miserable girl!”

CHAPTER XXIX – 30 NEWBOLT SQUARE

Mrs. Acheson, although a most kind-hearted woman and affectionate mother, would, if she had spoken her innermost thoughts, have confessed that Belle was not at all to her mind. Being her daughter she thought it her duty to be as good as she could possibly be to Belle, but she would infinitely have preferred a girl in the style of Lettie Chetwynd, a sociable, agreeable, pleasant girl, who would have done credit to pretty dresses, have won a desirable lover, and married comfortably. She would indeed have considered her cup of happiness complete had such a girl as Leslie Gilroy been hers; but Belle being the child allotted to her by Providence, she was wise enough to make the best of her, not to attempt to turn her into any other groove, and to endeavor to counteract her eccentricities as far as possible.

When Belle mentioned to her mother that she had invited a St. Wode’s girl to stay with her, Mrs. Acheson was pleased. She went happily upstairs to see that Annie’s room was neat and comfortable, the bed well aired, and all the necessary accessories of a bedroom as they ought to be.

When her young guest arrived, she hurried downstairs to welcome her; and seeing that the girl looked forlorn and tired, with a droop about her lips and an expression in her eyes which quite went to the good woman’s heart, she kissed her affectionately, bade her welcome, and took her into the drawing room.

“You don’t look well, dear,” she said. “I am very pleased that Belle has asked you to stay with us. May I ask if you and my daughter are great friends?”

“No,” replied Annie; “in fact we scarcely know each other. We did not live in the same house at St. Wode’s, but we have met often. I happened to be at the Chetwynds’ this morning, where Leslie Gilroy was staying, when Miss Acheson arrived, and most kindly invited me here for a week. I was only too glad to accept the invitation,” continued Annie, raising her pathetic, half-starved eyes to Mrs. Acheson’s face, “for I have no home at present.”

“Dear, dear, my poor child; that is truly sad,” said the good lady. “But you must tell me all your story later on. I am deeply interested in young girls, and any friend of my Belle’s has my kindest sympathy. Now, let me take you to your room.”

Mrs. Acheson took Annie upstairs. She saw that the girl had hot water, said that Belle would be glad to lend her anything until her own trunk arrived, and left her.

“But I don’t like the look on her face, all the same,” thought the good woman as she trotted downstairs. Belle was standing in the hall.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Acheson eagerly, “Miss Colchester has arrived.”

Belle did not immediately reply. She was hanging her jacket on the hat-stand; she seldom troubled to take it upstairs.

“Yes, mother,” she answered, putting her hand to her forehead and arranging her short locks into position; “but what about it? I thought naturally she would arrive.”

“She does not look very well, Belle. She seems so tired, and – I scarcely like to say the word – so hungry.”

“Oh, I dare say she is!” replied Belle in a careless tone. “She was always a good bit of an oddity, and in the pursuit of knowledge doubtless neglected her food; but as to her being ill, I think she is all right. She has worked rather hard, that is all.”

“Then we will give her a right good time; won’t we, dear?” said Mrs. Acheson.

Belle stared at her mother through her glasses, and again did not reply. She went into the drawing room in her dusty boots.

“As we have a guest to-night, Belle, dear; and – ”

“What in the world is it, mother? What are you fidgeting so dreadfully about?”

“Nothing, my love; only would you greatly mind going upstairs to wash your hands, tidy your hair, and take off your dusty boots before dinner?”

“Oh, dear,” replied Belle in an impatient voice. “If I had thought Annie Colchester’s being here would mean all this sort of thing I would have thought twice before I invited her.”

It was now Mrs. Acheson’s turn to make no reply. She knew Belle quite well enough to be certain that it was worse than useless to argue with her. If she left that eccentric young person to herself, things as a rule turned out according to Mrs. Acheson’s wish.

Belle hummed and hawed, and looked very cross, but finally did leave the room.

When dinner was announced, the two girls entered the dining-room together. Annie was only able to make a very scanty and imperfect toilet; for her clothes, which she had telegraphed to her late landlady to forward, had not yet arrived.

They went down to dinner. The meal was a good one, and nicely served. Annie ate heartily, and felt considerably refreshed afterwards. She was tired too; there was a sort of stunned feeling over her. If Mrs. Acheson only knew the truth, if she could guess even for a single moment that between Annie and starvation were only four shillings, would she not immediately think that she, Annie, had come into her house on false pretenses. People as a rule, do not ask starving girls to partake of the comforts of their luxurious homes. There is the workhouse for such as them. Annie shivered. The idea of confiding in Mrs. Acheson never occurred to her.

Meanwhile, that good and excellent woman had taken a fancy to the forlorn girl. She determined to give her a right good time, and to get at that secret which knitted her dark brows, and made her beautiful red-brown eyes so full of indescribable melancholy. Annie could not help cheering up after a little, in the sunshine of this rare kindness. The little week which lay before her was an oasis in the desert; she would enjoy it while she could. She might gather some strength during these few days for the solitary and miserable time which lay before her. But, after all, her poverty was scarcely her worst trouble now. It was the thought of Rupert, the terrible and awful thought that he had once more been guilty, that he had broken his solemn word, that the police even now were at his heels.

“What is to be done?” thought the wretched girl. “How am I to help him?”

Presently Mrs. Acheson suggested that they should go to bed.

“You can scarcely keep your eyes open,” she said, looking at Annie. “Do go up to your room at once, dear, and have a long, good sleep.”

“Not quite yet, mother,” said Belle, looking up from her book. “I want Annie Colchester to help me with this translation. I know she has gone right through the sixth book of Herodotus, and I have not. I want her to help me with the translation of the story which gave rise to the saying ‘What does Hippocleides care?’”

Mrs. Acheson sighed, and made no answer: a moment later she left the room.

“You are not dead tired? You are willing to help me?” said Belle, looking at Annie when they found themselves alone.

“I will help you of course, Belle, if I can. I have read Herodotus, and thought it splendid; but I do not know the story to which you allude.”

“Well, you can help me, anyhow. Dear, dear, it does seem a pity that mother should have taken to you in this extraordinary manner. I know mother’s ways so well. She will begin to fuss over you, and then you will imagine all sorts of things; but now, if you will take my advice, you won’t consider yourself an ill-used martyr simply because mother has taken a fancy to you.”

“Oh, I have never thought myself a martyr,” said Annie.

“Then, for goodness’ sake, don’t wear that pensive air. I wish, too, you would not open your eyes so wide. It gives you a sort of starved look.”

“Starved? Really, Belle – I mean Miss Acheson.”

“You can call me Belle while you are here; it is shorter and more convenient. I could not possibly ‘Miss Colchester’ you; the name is a great deal too long for everyday use. You shall be Anne, or Ann, while you are here. And now, pray, Ann, take this chair and let us get through our work.”

They did so. Annie soon became interested. She had considerable intellectual power, and between them the girls worked out the problem with regard to Hippocleides. Belle, the first to recognize genius when she saw it, clapped her hands with pleasure.

“This is quite splendid,” she said. “I never could get at the bottom of that stiff rendering before. I am delighted you are here. We can become the very closest friends. Some day, Annie, you shall come and live with me in my hostel. Mother does not yet know of my darling scheme. Poor mother herself must be excluded, and she will feel it, poor thing; but I shall have quite money enough of my own to pay the rent of the house for a couple of years after I leave college. Let me see; if you don’t mind, I’ll get the money-box now, and count my savings. I declare I am getting quite miserly over this matter.”

Belle went to the other end of the drawing room, and from a desk, where her own special treasures were kept, took a square deal box. From her pocket she extracted a little key, fitted it into the box, and opened it.

“Is it safe to leave so much money about in that careless way?” said Annie, who thought of her own four shillings, and quite shivered as Belle lifted out three canvas bags.

“Safe. Of course it’s safe,” answered Belle. “Do you think our servants would touch my money? Besides, they do not know it is here; even mother does not know what this box contains. She likes to dust the drawing room herself, and, a few days ago, she lifted the box and said: ‘Whatever is in here, Belle? It is so heavy?’ I made no reply; and she said, ‘I suppose, love, you are collecting coins.’ I said, ‘Yes, mother; I am collecting coins.’ It was perfectly true, wasn’t it. Clever of me – eh?”

“Very clever,” answered Annie, with the ghost of a smile.

“Well, now, let us count. You shall help me by and by with my dear hostel. How happy we shall be! The world quite out of sight, we delving in the riches of the past. Oh, happy, happy maidens! We will eschew marriage; we will be nuns in the true sense of the word. How silent you are; are you not glad?”

“I cannot quite realize it,” said Annie.

“You will when you come to live with me. We won’t need much furniture, will we, dear? Just the plainest rooms. Any spare cash we have will go for books – first editions, original manuscripts. Oh, lovely, lovely, bewitching, intoxicating! I see myself as I shall be during all the coming years on to the decline of life, absorbing more and more knowledge, living above the world; in it, but not of it.”