Three Girls from School

“I’ll manage to let John have it some time,” she thought. “I don’t know how or when – but some time, and I don’t think he will be hard on me.”

Having made up her mind, she returned to the house. Mrs Shelf, who had been talking to Saxon, came up to her.

“You mustn’t fret really, missie,” she said. “All the doctor requires is that my dear master should have no anxiety of any sort. I am sure, miss, you would be the very last to give him any; and as we will all be equally careful, he will soon come round again.”

“Of course I wouldn’t hurt Uncle Maurice,” cried Annie. “What is he doing at present?” she added.

“He is asleep in his study, my dear; and I am going to watch by him this afternoon, for Dr Brett has given him a composing draught, and would like him to have a long rest. When he wakes I shall be handy to give him his tea. So I was thinking that if you and Mr Saxon went for a long walk it would do you both a sight of good.”

“Yes, do come, please,” said Saxon, who approached at that moment. “I want to see some of the country that you think so wild.”

“I shall be delighted,” said Annie, who felt that this proposal of Mrs Shelf’s would exactly fit in with her own plans.

Soon after three o’clock the young people started on their walk. Annie took her cousin on purpose up the hill at the back of the old Rectory and into the wildest part of the pariah, for she was determined to have him quite to herself. At last, when she was too tired to go any farther, they both sat down on the edge of a beetling crag, from where they could obtain a superb view both of land and ocean.

“Now,” said Annie, with a smile, “if you don’t call this a wild and desolate spot, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“The view is exceedingly fine,” replied Saxon; “but as to its being wild – why, look, Miss Annie, look – you can see a little thread of smoke there” – and he pointed to his right – “and there” – he pointed to his left; “in fact, all over the place. Each little thread of blue smoke,” he continued, “means a house, and each house means a family, or at least some human beings; and in addition to the human creatures, there are probably horses, and dogs, and cats, and barn-door fowls. Oh, I call this place thickly-peopled, if you ask me.”

Annie shuddered.

“I hate it,” she said with sudden emphasis.

“You what?” asked Saxon, bending towards her.

“Hate it,” she repeated. “I want to get away.”

“You can’t just now,” he said, speaking in a low, sympathetic tone. “It would be impossible – would it not? – while your uncle is so ill.”

“He isn’t really ill,” said Annie; “he just wants care.”

“He wants the sort of care you can give him,” repeated Saxon.

“Or you,” said Annie.

“I?” said the young man. “How can I possibly do what you would do for him?”

“You can do far better than I,” said Annie restlessly. “And the fact is, Cousin John – may I call you Cousin John?”

“Call me John, without the ‘cousin,’ as I will call you Annie if you don’t mind.”

“Then we are Annie and John to each other,” said the girl; “that means that we are friends. Give me your hand, John, to close the compact.” She laid her little white hand in his, and he grasped it with right goodwill.

“John,” said Annie, “I must confide in you; I have no one else.”

“Of course if I can help you I shall be glad,” he said a little coldly; for there was something in her words which brought back his distrust of her.

“Well, it is just this: I have to go to Paris for a short time – ”

“You have – I don’t understand.”

“And the painful part,” continued Annie, “is this – that I am unable to explain. But I can tell you this much. I have a school friend – indeed, two school friends – who are both in – in trouble; and they can’t possibly get out of their trouble without my help. If I go to Paris now to join my friend, things will be all right; if I don’t go, things will be all wrong.”

“But, excuse me,” said Saxon, “how can you go when your uncle is so ill?”

“That is it,” said Annie. “Of course, if he were in real danger I should be obliged to give my friends up. But he is not in danger, John; he only wants care. What I mean to do is this – or rather, I should say, what I should like to do. I would go, say, to-morrow to London, and then across to Paris, and there get through my little business and put things straight for those I love.”

Annie spoke most pathetically, and her blue eyes filled with tears.

“She has a feeling heart,” thought the young man. Once again his suspicions were disarmed.

He drew a little closer to her. She felt that she had secured his sympathy.

“Can’t you understand,” continued Annie, “that things may happen which involve other people? Can’t you understand?”

“It is difficult to know why you cannot speak about them, Annie,” replied the young man. “Nevertheless, if you say so, it is of course the case.”

“It is the case. I undertook, perhaps wrongly – although I don’t think so – to get a school fellow what she wanted most in the world last term. I wish you knew her; she is such a splendid, noble girl. She is very clever, too. I will tell you her name – Priscilla Weir. She has such a fine face, with, oh! so much in it. But she is unhappily situated. Her father is in India, and either cannot or will not help her; and she has no mother living, poor darling! and her uncle, her mother’s brother, is quite a dreadful sort of creature. Priscilla is, oh, so clever! She has quite wonderful talents. And what do you think this uncle wants to do? Why, to apprentice her to a dressmaker. Think of it – a dressmaker!”

John Saxon did think of it but he showed no surprise. One of the nicest girls he knew in Tasmania was a dressmaker. She was very well informed, and could talk well on many subjects. She read good books, and had a dear little house of her own, and often and often he sat and talked with her of an evening, when the day’s work was done and they were both at leisure to exchange confidences. John Saxon was not the least bit in love with the dressmaker, but for her sake now he could not condemn the occupation. He said, therefore, quietly:

“As long as women wear dresses there must be other women to make them, I suppose. I see nothing derogatory in that, Annie, provided your friend likes it.”

“Oh, how can you talk in such a way?” said Annie, her tone changing now to one of almost petulance. “Why, if Priscie were turned into a dressmaker she would lose her position; she wouldn’t have a chance; she would go under; and she is so clever – oh, so clever! It does not require that sort of cleverness to be a dressmaker.”

“Perhaps not,” said Saxon. “I begin to understand; your English view of the calling is not ours in Tasmania. And so you want to go to Paris to help this girl?”

“Yes; principally about her. In fact, I may say I am going almost wholly about her.”

“I am not to know the reason?”

“I cannot tell you, for it would betray her.”

“Have you spoken to your uncle on the subject?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“Well,” said Annie eagerly, “it was this way. My other great friend is a certain Mabel Lushington. She is staying with her aunt Lady Lushington; and Lady Lushington most kindly sent me an invitation to join them both on Tuesday evening. They are going to take me to Switzerland and pay all my expenses, and of course I shall have a jolly time.”

“But would that help your friend, the prospective dressmaker?”

“Yes. It may sound very puzzling; but if I were to join Mabel Lushington, it would put things all right for my friend.”

“It is puzzling, of course, for me to understand, Annie; but I must take you at your word and suppose that it is so.”

“Indeed it is, John; indeed it is. And I am, oh, so unhappy about it!”