Three Girls from School

“Congratulation. True to my word. Join me in Paris on Friday. Writing to Mrs Lyttelton.”

The three girls with whom this story first opened were together once more in the private sitting-room at Lyttelton School. When Mabel had read her telegram she flung it across to Priscilla.

“Then all is well,” she said; “and we owe it to Annie.”

“Yes,” said Priscilla. “And I have had a telegram,” she added, “an hour ago. It is from Uncle Josiah. He wishes me to remain with Mrs Lyttelton daring the vacation. He doesn’t care that I should return home at present.”

“Well, that will suit you exactly, won’t it?” said Annie.

“I suppose so. I only wonder what Mrs Lyttelton will say.”

“And I am going to my uncle. We all break up to-morrow; but you and I shall meet again in the autumn, Priscilla. You will have to say good-bye to dear old Mabel now.”

“You must wish me luck,” said Mabel. “I won’t forget my part; you need have no anxiety about your school fees.”

“Uncle Josiah seems pleased on the whole that I should remain,” answered Priscilla, “although I cannot make out the wording of his telegram; but I do wonder what arrangement he will make for paying Mrs Lyttelton.”

“If he cannot pay her you ought to go back,” said Annie, who did not at all wish to have this additional expense laid at Mabel’s door. She wished as much as possible of Mabel’s money should be devoted to herself. “But I suppose you will hear in the morning.”

“Yes; I suppose so,” said Priscilla.

“You look pretty miserable, Priscie. I wonder why, seeing all that Mabel and I have done for you.”

“All that I have done for you, you mean,” said Priscilla.

“Well, I like that,” said Annie.

“I will speak out for once,” said Priscilla, her eyes flashing fire and her pale face becoming suffused with colour. “I have gone under, and I hate myself. The hour of triumph to-day ought to have been mine. Don’t you suppose that I feel it? I loathe myself so deeply that I don’t think I am even a good enough girl to help my aunt in the house-work at home; and I pity the village dressmaker who would have me apprenticed to her. I am so bad that I loathe myself. Oh, you think that I shall be happy. You don’t know me; I can never be happy again!”

Mabel’s face immediately became pale. She looked at Priscilla as though she were going to cry. It was Annie who took the bull by the horns.

“Now, this is sheer nonsense,” she said. “You know perfectly well, Priscilla, that no better thing could have been done than what has happened to-day. In the first place, you are not disgraced, for the essay you read was quite creditable. It ought to have been, indeed, seeing that it was my work. And, in the second place, you have a year’s schooling guaranteed. With your brains, think what you will achieve – a fine scholarship at least, and then Girton as your reward. You mean to say that for the sake of some little pricks of conscience you would not take these advantages? Of course you will! Indeed, you have done so, so there’s no good saying anything more about it.”

“I know there isn’t,” said Priscilla. “I don’t expect sympathy; I deserve all that I can get.” She left the room as she spoke.

“Oh, isn’t she quite too dreadful?” said Annie.

“I don’t know,” answered Mabel; “I expect I’d feel much the same if I were she.”

The next day Priscilla received a letter from her uncle. She had written to tell him that the funds for another year’s schooling had been provided for her.

“My dear Priscilla,” he wrote, “I am more disappointed than glad at your news; but of course, if a friend wants to pay for your schooling, I don’t interfere. You say that you hope to win a scholarship at the end of the term. That may or may not be the case. All that I can say is that I hope you will get it, for it is my intention to wash my hands of you. I made you a sensible offer, and you have rejected it. Your aunt and I agree that as you are too grand for us, we, on our part, are too poor for you. Henceforth you may look to your father in India for any assistance you may require. But as I don’t want to be hard on you, I am willing to pay a small sum for your support during the coming holidays, which I wish you to spend at Lyttelton School. I enclose money herewith – five pounds. I have no doubt the mistress will keep you for that for it will more than cover your consumption of food.

“Good-bye, my dear Priscilla. I look upon you as an instance of want of gratitude. You are too fine a lady for your aunt and me. – Your uncle, Josiah.”

Chapter Nine

The Rector

It was a pretty old Rectory to which Annie Brooke was going in order to spend the first week of her holidays. It was situated on the borders of Wales, and the scenery was superb. Mountains surrounded it, and seemed, after a fashion, to shut it in. But these glorious mountains, with their ever-changing, ever-shifting effects of light and shade, their dark moments, their moments of splendour, were all lost upon such a nature as that of Annie Brooke.

She hated the Rectory. Her feelings towards Uncle Maurice were only those of toleration.

She loathed the time she spent there, and now the one thought in her breast was the feeling that her emancipation was near, and that very soon she would be on her way to gay Paris to join Mabel Lushington.

Yes, Annie had achieved much, if those actions of hers could be spoken of in such a light; she had won that which she desired. Priscilla remained at school. Mabel had left Lyttelton School, and she (Annie) was to join her friend on the Continent.

Still, of course, there was a small thing to be done. Uncle Maurice must produce the needful. Annie could not travel to Paris without money, and Uncle Maurice must supply it. She did not anticipate much difficulty in getting the necessary sum from her uncle. Her dress was, of course, very unsuitable for the time of triumph she hoped to have in the gay capital and during her time abroad with Lady Lushington and Mabel. But nevertheless, she was not going to fret about these things in advance, and perhaps Uncle Maurice would be good for more than the money for her journey.

She was seated now in a high gig, her uncle himself driving her. He had come to meet her at the nearest railway station ten miles away, and as the old horse jogged along and the old gig bumped over the uneven road Annie congratulated herself again and again on having such a short time to spend at home.

Mr Brooke was an old clergyman approaching seventy years of age. He had lived in this one parish for over forty years; he loved every stone on the road, every light on the hills, every bush that grew, every plant that flowered; and as to the inhabitants of the little parish of Rashleigh, they were to old Maurice Brooke as his own children.

He was pleased to see Annie, and showed it now by smiling at her from time to time and doing his best to make her comfortable.

“Is the rug tucked tightly round you, Annie?” he said. “You will feel the fresh air a bit after your time down south. It’s fine air we have in these ports – none finer in the land – but it’s apt to be a little fresh when you come new upon it. And how are you, my dear girl? I’ve been looking, forward to your holidays. There’s a great deal for you to do, as usual.”

“Oh uncle!” said Annie, “but you know I don’t like doing things.”

“Eh, my love?” said the old clergyman. “But we have to do them, all the same, when they come to us in the guise of duty.”

“That is what I hate,” said Annie, speaking crossly. “Don’t let’s worry about them to-night, Uncle Maurice; I have had a long journey, and am tired.”

“Poor bit thing!” said the old man. He stopped for a minute to pull the rag up higher round Annie’s knees. “Mrs Shelf is so pleased at your coming back, Annie. She looks to you to help her with the preserving. She is not as young as she was, and her rheumatism is worse.”

“Oh, I hate rheumatic old folks!” thought Annie, but she did not say the words aloud.

By-and-by they reached the Rectory, and while the rector took old Rover back to his stable Annie ran into the house.

The Rectory was large and rambling, and had

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“You are looking well, my dear,” said the woman, “and I am glad you are back, for we want young life about the old place.”

“You won’t have it long,” said Annie.

Mrs Shelf took no notice. “The raspberries are past,” she said; “but there are a good few gooseberries still to preserve, and there are the early pears coming on; they make beautiful jam, if boiled whole with cloves and lemon-peel and a little port wine thrown in. But you must stand over them the whole time in order to keep them from breaking. Then there are the peaches; I set store by them, and always put them in bottles and bury them in the garden. There are gherkins, too, for pickling; and there are a whole lot of walnuts. We mustn’t lose a day about pickling the walnuts, or they’ll be spoiled. We might begin over some of the jams to-morrow. What do you think?”

“You may if you like, Shelfy,” said Annie; “but I sha’n’t. I have only come here for a visit. I’m off to Paris immediately.”

“You off to Paris!” said the old woman. “Highty-tighty! what will your uncle say?”

“Uncle Maurice will say just what I like him to say,” answered Annie. “Please have a chop or something nice for my supper, for I can’t stand slops. And is my room ready?”

“I hope so, child. I told Peggie to see to it.” Peggie was not the best of servants, and Annie’s room was by no means in a state of immaculate order. It was a large room, but, like the rest of the house, very badly furnished. There was a huge old four-poster for the girl to sleep in, and there was a little rickety table which held a looking-glass with a crack down the middle, and there was a cracked white basin and jug on another table at the farther end of the room. Of wardrobe there was none; but a large door, when opened, revealed some shelves and a hanging press.

“Oh! it is just as of old,” thought the girl – “an intolerable, horrid place. I could never live here – never; and what’s more, I won’t. How wise I was to make provision for myself while at school! I declare, bad as I thought the old place, I didn’t imagine it to be quite so ramshackle.”