The Girls of St. Wode's

“But you won’t be in it when you are in your hostel,” said Annie, with a gleam of humor in her sad eyes; “you will be apart from it, and that is not according to Leslie Gilroy’s ideas.”

“Dear, pretty Leslie!” said Belle with sudden enthusiasm. “But the cares of the world have her in their grip. I admire her more than any worldly girl I have ever come across; but the world has her in its grip. Some day she will see her folly. I hope to convert her to my views in the long run.”

“That you never will,” said Annie.

“Think so? Well, I don’t agree with you. Now, let us count.”

The canvas bags were opened, and they did count, or rather, Belle did. The money in the bags amounted to nearly ninety pounds.

“How glad I am I did not buy that new summer dress,” said Belle; “my old serge does capitally.” She held out the dusty, fusty garment as she spoke. “That economy added three pounds ten shillings to my hoard. See, I will write down the exact amount.”

She took a sheet of paper, scribbled the sum in rough writing, and thrust it into the box.

“Eighty-nine pounds, seven shillings, and tenpence,” she said. “Even the pence are not to be despised. I shall be at St. Wode’s until next June. During that time I hope to save, by the strictest economy, quite fifty pounds more. We can then start our hostel almost immediately.”

“But what about food and furniture and all the rest of the things?”

“Well, each girl, of course, must bring her own share. Wherever we are we must live.”

“Must we?” said Annie in a very pathetic voice.

“Why, of course; it is absolutely essential that each human being should have his or her modicum of food. Now, don’t let us talk of anything so very elemental. Let us consider the charming picture which lies before us. A charming little cottage in the country – we shall get it for twenty pounds a year; the rest of the money will buy the furniture. There, Annie, you need not stay up any longer; you look as if you wished to sleep. Do sleep – enjoy it – look like an ordinary mortal to-morrow; for, if you don’t, mother will begin to take to you more than ever, and that will not suit my plans at all.”

Annie went to her room. She was so weary that she could not even think any longer. The box which held her few possessions had arrived. She took out her nightdress and, soon afterward, got into bed. She slept heavily all night, but toward morning she began to have confused and troubled dreams with regard to Belle’s wooden box. She wished she had not been with Belle when she counted her money. The thought of that money became an oppression and a dreadful nightmare to her.

At seven o’clock the servant appeared with a daintily prepared tray containing tea.

“Mrs. Acheson hopes you are quite rested, miss. She says if you are at all tired she would like you to stay in bed for breakfast.”

“Oh, no, I am quite refreshed. Tell her I thank her very much,” said poor Annie.

The girl bustled about the room preparing Annie’s bath. She then left her to enjoy her tea.

Annie sat up and stirred the cream into the fragrant cup.

“How queer and dreamlike and wonderful all this is,” she said to herself. “I enjoying tea at this hour in bed, and drinking it out of such delicate china; and, oh, what a sweet little silver spoon! How pretty the room is and everything belonging to it; and yet I possess only four shillings in the world. Mrs. Acheson is quite the sweetest woman I ever met. Oh, if my own mother had only lived. I should not be the miserable, hopeless creature I am to-day!”

At breakfast Belle was in the best of spirits. She also had dreamed about her hostel, and the thought of the money she had saved was reflected in her face. After breakfast she proposed to Annie that they should spend the morning at the British Museum.

“I can easily get you a day’s ticket for the reading room,” she said. “You shall sit near me, and we can have a good time.”

“But perhaps Annie would rather not go to the Museum to-day,” said Mrs. Acheson. “She looks very tired, as if she had been overdoing it.”

“I assure you, mother,” said Belle, “that most of the St. Wode’s students have that sort of look; there is nothing whatever in it. The rosy cheek, the bright eye which sparkles with no soul beneath, the pouting lips full of rude health, do not belong to the earnest student. Don’t be alarmed about either of us, pray; we like our life, and we mean to cling to it.”

“Oh, I am not at all anxious about you, dear,” said Mrs. Acheson. “You are always somewhat sallow, but you look well. Now, this poor child – how very thin she is!”

Belle prepared to leave the room.

“You will excuse me,” she said, turning to Annie. “I have to get back to my work. Do you mean to come with me or not?”

“I should like to come,” said Annie.

“Well, that is all right,” said Belle, slightly mollified; “you meet me in the hall in half-an-hour.”

She dashed away, and Mrs. Acheson began to ask Annie some impossible questions with regard to her health.

“If I could but tell her the truth,” thought the poor girl. “If I could say: ‘Will you tell me how long four shillings – that means forty-eight pence – will keep any girl in food and raiment, I should be greatly obliged to you. If you can solve that problem you would indeed be my greatest friend on earth.’ But no, no,” thought Annie, “I cannot confide in her; that would be quite the worst of all.”

Presently Belle appeared, and the girls set off for the Museum. On their way home Belle went for a moment into a stationer’s.

“You need not come in,” she said to Annie; “just walk slowly on and I’ll soon overtake you.”

Annie had not gone a dozen yards before Rupert came up to her.

“I just thought I would meet you on the road home,” he said. “I have made up my mind; I shall call on you at Mrs. Acheson’s this evening.”

“Oh, Rupert, surely you wouldn’t dare?”

“Dare?” said Rupert; “why shouldn’t I dare? You are to introduce me to the Achesons as your brother. As to that girl you are staying with, anyone can take her in. I shall be at 30 Newbolt Square between eight and nine to-night. Look out for me, and don’t fail.”

He nodded and walked away. The next instant Belle came up.

“I saw you talking to a man,” said Belle. “Who was he? Do you know many men? Are you deceiving me, Annie Colchester?”

“Deceiving you? What do you mean?” said Annie.

“If you contemplate marriage you had better tell me so at once.”

Notwithstanding all her misery, Annie could not help laughing.

“The man I was speaking to is my brother,” she said.

“Your brother? I thought you were an orphan and alone.”

“I have one brother; his name is Rupert.”

“And that was he? Why in the world didn’t you ask him to come home with us; I am sure mother would be delighted to see him.”

“He is coming to see me this evening,” said Annie, her heart in her mouth. “Do you suppose that your mother will think that it is – ”

“Think what?”

“That he is taking a liberty?”

“Of course not. It is quite natural that a sister should like to talk to a brother: and mother will be full of sympathy. Yes, he is welcome, provided he does not come more than once. Give him to understand, please, Annie, that we have no time to waste in idle conversation with him. Yes, I will say it frankly, if there is a creature in the wide world I thoroughly despise, it is man in his first adolescence.”

At lunch Belle mentioned to her mother that Annie Colchester had a brother, and that he proposed to call that evening.

“I shall give him a hearty welcome for your sake, my dear,” said Mrs. Acheson. “What a pity I did not know, and I would have asked him to share our dinner.”

“It is very kind of you to see him at all,” said Annie, who felt more wretched each moment. If Mrs. Acheson really knew the sort of man she was receiving into her house would she ever forgive Annie?

CHAPTER XXX – ANNIE IN THE TOILS

At seven the Achesons dined. Soon after eight o’clock there came a ring to the front door, and Rupert Colchester was announced. He came in looking brisk, smart, and handsome. He had managed, Annie could not imagine how, to get himself up well. He wore a frock-coat of the newest cut, his tie was immaculate, so were his collar and cuffs. He had a hemstitched handkerchief in his pocket with a slight scent about it. His hair had been cut, his face was clean-shaven; he was so good-looking that poor, foolish Annie felt a glow at her heart when she saw him enter the room.

Mrs. Acheson was kind to Annie’s brother, and Annie’s brother managed to make himself extremely agreeable. He talked to Mrs. Acheson, but he looked at Belle.

Now Belle, although she declared that there was no one in the world she despised like a man in his first adolescence, was disturbed by these glances from Rupert’s dark eyes. She pretended not to remark them, nevertheless she found her own short-sighted orbs meeting his again and again. After the fourth or fifth meeting of the two pairs of eyes Rupert got up, left his seat by Mrs. Acheson, and came over to where Belle sat.

“Do you know,” he said, dropping into a chair by her side, “that you interest me immensely?”

“Indeed,” answered Belle, “I am rather surprised to hear you say so. I never yet knew the man who wanted to look at me a second time. I know I am extremely plain, and the fact is I glory in being so.”

“It is my turn now to be surprised,” said Rupert very gently; “good looks are a great gift. You are quite mistaken in considering yourself plain. However, it is not your coloring, nor the size of your mouth, nor the shape of your face which specially strikes me; it is the remarkable development of your forehead. I spent several of my early years in America, and I remember when there meeting a man with a forehead like yours. He was the greatest classical scholar at Harvard College, near Boston.”

Belle could not help blushing with intense gratification.

“Ah,” she said, “I also have the same tastes. I passionately love the classics.”

Rupert dropped his voice. He began to talk to Belle at once about Cicero, Socrates, Homer, and her other favorite writers of antiquity. Soon they were in the full flow of a most animated conversation. Belle spoke eagerly and well; she unfolded the riches of her really great knowledge, and Rupert cleverly led her on. He had a smattering of Greek and Latin at his fingers’ ends, but no more. He managed, however, to use his very little knowledge to the best advantage; and Belle was so flattered by his covert glances, by his skillfully veiled compliments, by his pretended comprehension of her and her moods, that she never guessed how shallow were his acquirements, and opened out herself more and more.

If Annie was nice, her brother was even nicer. He was the exception that proves the rule. After all, there always was an exception – always, always.

A faint color came into her thin cheeks. Coffee was brought in, very fragrant, strong coffee. A servant approached Belle with a tray, but she waved it aside.

“Not now,” she said. Then she turned to Rupert. “Why will mother always insist upon spoiling a great intellectual treat with those tiresome attentions to creature comforts. Who wants coffee at a moment like this?”

Now Rupert, who had not been able to indulge in a good dinner, would have liked a cup of fragrant coffee immensely; but he instantly took his cue from Belle, and declined it with a wave of the hand.

“None for me,” he said. “Yes, Miss Acheson, I agree with you; at a moment like the present one cannot think of sublunary matters.”

“Do go on,” said Belle; “So you really studied – ” And then once more the conversation assumed its classical complexion.

Annie, looking on from afar, felt more and more dreadful each moment. Rupert was undoubtedly trying to be agreeable to Belle for a purpose. Annie knew her brother quite sufficiently well to be certain that Belle’s manners, her attachment to the classics, her whole style, would be the very last that Rupert, in easier moments of his career, would have deigned to notice.

At last, soon after ten o’clock, he took his leave. In the meantime he had learned, not only all that Belle could tell him of her own college life, but also the darling hope of the future. The little wooden box which contained the eighty-nine pounds odd was pointed out to Rupert.

He nodded to Annie as he left the room. She followed him into the hall.

“Well, how did I get on?” he inquired.

“I don’t understand you,” answered Annie; “you frighten me dreadfully.”

“What a little goose you are. Well, I’m coming again. I shall come to-morrow or next day. Be sure you follow up the impression I have made with the fair Belle.” Then he made a grimace, kissed Annie lightly on her forehead, and left the house.

She went to bed feeling intensely uncomfortable. By the first post in the morning she received a letter. It was from Rupert, and ran as follows:

“My Dear Annie:

“For the desperate, only desperate devices. I am desperate. I have made up my mind. The fair and delightful Miss Belle shall be my deliverer. I want you and she to meet me in the Broad Walk in Regent’s Park between four and five this afternoon. I mean boldly to secure forty pounds out of her wooden box. She herself shall give it to me. While I am talking to her you must be engaged in another way. Excellent! Get the good mamma to come too. You and the mamma can walk behind, the fascinating Belle and I in front. I foretell that I can twist my fair Belle round my little finger. Help me now, Annie, as you value your brother’s future. You perceive how nobly I take the matter out of your hands. Miss Belle Acheson has her sphere in life, but it is not what she thinks. It is not to open a hostel for idiotic women who think themselves learned, but to help Rupert Colchester in his hour of need.

“Your Affectionate Brother.”

Annie read this letter twice. At each perusal her sense of dismay grew greater. The worst of it was, too, that Rupert had given no address. She could not write in reply, or send him a telegram, or do anything to stop him. He would walk in the Broad Walk in Regent’s Park that afternoon, and if Annie and Belle did not appear would go boldly to the house in Newbolt Square. Annie felt that she herself was a guest in that house more or less on false pretenses; but that Rupert should take advantage of Mrs. Acheson’s hospitality was more than the poor girl could stand.

“I must have it out with him,” she said to herself; “but Belle shall not come with me. I must go and brave him alone. Oh, I know what he will say, and what torture I shall have to endure; for, great sins as he has committed, I still love him. No. I will be brave now. I won’t sin again for him. But God help me, I do not know how to bear all this awful burden.”

The poor girl looked so miserable at breakfast that Mrs. Acheson remarked it.

“My dear child,” she said, “do you know that your appearance quite concerns me? I am certain you are not well; I am also sure that you are troubled about something. Have you no relations, dear, except that extremely nice-looking brother of yours?”

“I have no relations at all,” replied Annie, “except Rupert. My father and mother lived in America, where they died. I was quite a child when I came to England. Since then Rupert and I have been practically alone. We were brought up during the early years of our life by a guardian, who has since died.”

“Well, at any rate, I congratulate you on your brother, Annie,” said Belle from the far end of the room, where she was reading Socrates. “He has what I call a pure taste for the classics. I shall be very pleased indeed to see him here again. Mother, don’t you agree with me that Mr. Rupert Colchester is a scholarly and gentlemanly man?”

“Yes, dear Belle, I do,” said Mrs. Acheson. “Now, I tell you what it is,” she said, turning in a confidential way to Annie, “you and your brother shall see as much of each other as possible while you are with me. If you will just give me his address I will send him a line asking him to dine with us this evening. He feels leaving you so much.”

“Leaving me?” said Annie. “Did he say anything about that?”

“Yes, my dear, when he goes to India, he says, you will feel the parting terribly. He has secured an excellent post in the Civil Service, and has to start in about a fortnight. Why, what is the matter, dear Annie?” for Annie’s eyes had dropped on to her plate and her face looked like death.

“I did not know that Rupert was going to India,” she said at last, raising them desperately and fixing them on Mrs. Acheson.

“Perhaps he did not like to tell you, my love. From the way he spoke I rather judged that he had only just got his appointment. Of course you must know in the end. He feels so very full of sympathy for you, Annie.”

Annie got up. She made an excuse to leave the room; she felt that she could not contain herself another moment.

“Give me his address, dear, before you go,” said Mrs. Acheson. “I think it might be best for me to send him a telegram. Where is he staying?”

Annie turned, stood bolt upright, and uttered as if she was charging the words out of a cannon:

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where your brother is staying? That does seem strange. But has he no permanent address?”

“Dear me, mother,” said Belle from the other end of the room, “does that matter? A man with Mr. Colchester’s extensive tastes doubtless cares little where he lays his head at night. He is, I presume, at one of the hotels. There are many hotels in London; have you not discovered that yet?”

“I never thought of the hotels,” said Mrs. Acheson in an apologetic voice. “He did not happen to tell you which one he was staying at, my love?”

“No,” said Annie, “he did not.”

“That is a pity.”

“But,” continued the young girl, “I can give him your invitation. It is very kind of you to ask him. I had a letter from him this morning asking me to meet him in Regent’s Park.”

“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Acheson; “of course he wants to tell you this news about India. Certainly, my love, you shall go; it will be quite convenient. And now, what do you say to having a nice drive? I think a little fresh air would do you good. Belle, suppose you go for a drive with Annie? I will send round to Marchand’s for a landau. You might take her to Richmond.”

“Really, mother,” answered Belle in a tart and injured voice, “do you suppose I have time for such frivolity, for a drive with no object whatever except to inhale the air? Do you not understand that all my life is mapped out, that each moment is lived by rule? This morning I intend to make a careful study of my Greek grammar, as it is my intention to write an exhaustive essay on the characteristics of the Æolic dialect, with illustrations from literature.”

Mrs. Acheson sighed, and rose hastily.

“You must do as you please, Belle, of course,” she said.

“Certainly, dear mother, I intend to. If Annie likes, she can stay and help me, for she has quite a good taste in Greek, and a nice accent; but if, on the other hand, she prefers the utter inanity of a drive, why, surely you can go with her?”

“So I will,” said Mrs. Acheson; “and I believe that Annie and I will enjoy the ‘inanity,’ as you call it, immensely. Annie, we will go to Richmond.”

“So be it,” said Belle. “I do not expect to see either of you until this evening. I am off at once to my study. The Greek dialects, classified as Ionian and non-Ionian, are full of the deepest interest.”

She fled from the room in a sort of whirlwind, slamming the door after her.

Mrs. Acheson looked at Annie.

“Belle is a dear, good creature,” she said in a half-hesitating way; “but still it seems a pity.”

“What?” asked Annie.

“That she should be quite so devoted to the dead languages. Surely things of living moment are much more important?”

“Well, I happen to be very fond of the classics myself,” answered Annie, “so I ought not to blame Belle; but she does go to the fair with the thing, does she not?”

“It seems so to me, dear; but then I am, comparatively speaking, an ignorant woman. We women of the last generation had not the advantages which you young creatures now receive. What Belle means by the Ionian and non-Ionian dialects I am absolutely ignorant about.”

“It does not matter,” said Annie gently.

“I agree with you; my love, it scarcely matters much; but your pale cheeks and that anxious expression in your eyes matter a great deal. If I can be of any use to you, Annie, understand that I shall be only too pleased.”

“Do you mean it?” said Annie. She went up to Mrs. Acheson. The widow held out her hand, which Annie clasped.

“Do you really mean it?” continued Annie.

“I do, my dear child. I wish you would tell me what really troubles you.”

“I long to confide everything to you,” replied Annie, “but I dare not; please don’t ask me. Let me be happy while I am here, and don’t be – oh, don’t be too kind!”

“What does the poor child mean?” thought Mrs. Acheson. She now laid her hand on Annie’s shoulder, drew her to her side, and kissed her tenderly on her forehead.

“I am drawn to you because you are a motherless girl,” she said; “and whenever you feel that you can give me your confidence I shall be only too happy to receive it, and also, Annie, my dear, to respect it. I am an old woman, and have seen much of life; perhaps I could counsel you if you are in any difficulty.”

“No, no; it may not be,” said Annie in a whisper which nearly choked her.

“Very well; we will say no more at present. I am going now to give directions about the carriage.”

At eleven o’clock an open landau was at the door, and Mrs. Acheson and Annie went for their drive. It was a lovely summer’s day, and Regent’s Park looked its best. Long years afterward Annie Colchester remembered that drive. The delightful motion of the easy carriage in which she was seated, the soft breezes on her cheeks, Mrs. Acheson’s kind and intelligent conversation returned to her memory again and again. Oh, why was life so different for her to what it was for other girls! Oh, that she could confide in Mrs. Acheson! But then the knowledge that this good woman pitied her because she imagined that she was suffering from a girlish depression, or some other equally unimportant contretemps, caused her heart to rise with wild rebellion in her breast.

“If I could tell her the truth – the truth – would not her ears tingle and her heart beat,” thought Annie to herself. “Good as she is, she is not the person to help me in a great calamity of this sort. In her quiet, sheltered, prosperous life, what can she know of sorrows like mine? Oh, Rupert, why were you and I left alone in the world, and why – why did you turn out bad, and why do I love you so much?”

The drive was over, and the time arrived when Annie was to set off to meet Rupert in Regent’s Park. She arrived at the rendezvous a minute or two late, and he was already waiting for her. He still wore the immaculate frock-coat, and looked quite the handsome, smart young man of the world; but when he saw Annie coming to meet him alone a heavy frown completely altered his expression, his lips took a sarcastic and even malignant curve. He went up to his sister and shook her by the shoulder.

“Now, what is the meaning of this?” he said.

But Rupert’s very insolence made Annie brave.

“It means,” she replied, “that I do not intend to do what you ask.”

“You don’t? You’re a nice girl to help a fellow.”

“I have made up my mind,” continued Annie. “I won’t ever do anything wrong to help you again.”

“Oh, you won’t, won’t you? Then listen – heartless girl. Don’t you know that I have you completely in my power? If I were to tell what you did at Wingfield you could be arrested on a charge of forgery. There is an ugly punishment accorded by the law to such proceedings.”

“You cannot frighten me, Rupert,” said Annie, much to the astonishment of that gentleman, “for I have thought the whole thing carefully over. It would be quite impossible for me to be punished and for you to go scot-free; so, for your own safety, you will keep what you know in the dark. Now, the thing for you to consider is that I do not intend to help you to get any money from my friends, the Achesons.”

Rupert was so much astonished at Annie’s tone that for a moment he did not reply. Then, all of a sudden, he changed his tactics. He ceased to be furious, and became, in the poor girl’s opinion, far more dangerous. He drew her hand through his arm and invited her to walk with him. He then proceeded to sketch a most vivid and graphic picture of his own sufferings, the extreme danger in which he stood, and the awful disgrace which would fall upon Annie’s devoted head when the law of the land took its course upon him.