Three Girls from School

“Eh? How so? How so?”

“Well, you see, it is this way. If she cannot join Lady Lushington on Tuesday evening – that is, to-morrow – she cannot join her at all, for this lady is leaving Paris on the following day. Annie can either go with her or not go with her. There is, therefore, you will perceive, sir, no time to communicate with Mrs Lyttelton.”

“That is true,” said Mr Brooke. “But why didn’t Annie tell me so herself?”

“She couldn’t bear to worry you. Poor child! she was put out very much, but she meant to give up her visit rather than worry you.” Saxon wondered, as he was uttering the last words, if he were straining at the truth. He continued now abruptly: “And that is not all. From what your niece tells me, she goes, or hopes to go, to Paris for a very different reason from mere selfish pleasure. There is a young friend of hers whom she hopes most seriously to benefit by this visit. She will not tell me how, but she assures me emphatically that it is so.”

“Dear, dear!” said the old man. “Sweet of her! sweet of her! And you think – you really think I ought to waive my objection and trust my child?”

“She earnestly hopes that you will do so, sir – that you will permit her at least to go for a day or two, and then recall her if it is essential.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that; I wouldn’t for a moment be so selfish.”

“But she herself would wish to come back to you if you were really indisposed.”

“I would not be so selfish, John – not for a moment. Yes, you have opened my eyes; the dear child shall certainly go. It is a disappointment not to have her, but if we old folks cannot take a few little crosses when we are so near the summit of the hill, and all the crosses and all the difficulties are almost smoothed away, what are we worth, my dear young sir? Oh, I should be the last to stand in the way of my dear little girl.”

“On the other hand,” said Saxon, “Annie would be extremely unworthy if she stayed away from you did you really need her. To go to Paris, to transact her necessary business, and then quickly to return is a very different matter. And now, sir, don’t let us talk any more about it. Let me bring you back to your study, and let me fetch you a glass of good port wine.” Saxon met Annie as she was returning with Dawson’s receipt in her pocket.

“Good news!” he said, smiling at her. She felt herself turning pale.

“Oh, does he consent?”

“He does, and only as he could – right willingly and with all his heart. He is a man in ten thousand! I told him that you would not stay if he were really ill I shall trust you, therefore, to come back as soon as ever I send you word that it is necessary. Will you promise me that?”

“Of course, of course,” she replied.

“Well, go to him now. Don’t stay long. Remember that he is weak and will feel the parting. He has said nothing about money; and as you have sufficient you had better not worry him for the present.”

Annie’s conference with her uncle was of short duration. He kissed her two or three times, but there were no tears in his eyes.

“You should have confided in me, Annie,” he said once. “I am not an unreasonable man. I thought this was a pleasure visit; I did not know that my dear little girl had a noble and unselfish project at the back of everything. My Annie will herself know if Lady Lushington is the sort of woman I should like her to be with. If you find her as I should like her to be found, stay with her, Annie, until I recall you. You see how I trust you, my darling.”

“You do, you do,” answered the girl; “and I love you,” she added, “as I never loved you before.”

Chapter Fifteen

A Travelling Companion

Nothing interfered with Annie’s arrangements. She left Rashleigh by the train by which she had always intended to go up to town. She took a room at the Grosvenor Hotel for the night, spending what little time she had in doing some necessary shopping.

Her intention was to write to Uncle Maurice for further funds on her arrival at the Grand Hotel. She would know there Lady Lushington’s movements, and could tell her uncle where to forward letters. There was one thing, however, which brought rather a sting with it. There was a memory which she did not care to recall; that was the look on John Saxon’s face when he bade her good-bye.

John Saxon had been her very good friend. He had helped her with funds so that her wicked action with regard to Dawson’s cheque would never now be discovered. He had also smoothed the way for her with her uncle. She had gone away from the Rectory with Uncle Maurice’s blessing sounding in her ears; and although Mrs Shelf was decidedly chuff, and muttered things under her breath, and declared resolutely that she had no patience with gadabouts, and that there was a time for preserving, and not for preserving, and a time for nursing, and not for nursing; and a time for pleasuring, and not for pleasuring, these things made little impression on Annie; but John Saxon, who was silent and said nothing at all, made her feel uncomfortable. Just at the end he made a solitary remark:

“Give us your address as soon as possible; for, if necessary, I will telegraph for you. And now good-bye. I trust you will enjoy yourself and – and – save your friend.”

Then the train had whizzed out of sight. She no longer saw the upright figure and the manly face, and she no longer felt the disapproval in the voice and the want of confidence in the eyes. But the memory of these things remained with her, and she wanted to shut them away.

The next morning she was in good time at Victoria Station. But what was her amazement to find standing on the same platform, and evidently intending to go to Dover by the same train, no less a person than her old schoolfellow, Priscilla Weir!

“You look surprised, Annie,” said Priscilla. “Nevertheless, no less a thing has happened than that I am going to Paris too. Lady Lushington has invited me, and as she is good enough to pay all my expenses, you and I are travelling together. I had no time to let you know, or I would have done so. I hope you are pleased. But I don’t suppose,” added Priscilla, “that it makes much difference whether you are pleased or not.”

“I don’t suppose it does,” answered Annie, who was secretly very much annoyed. “Well, of course,” she continued, “we had best travel in the same carriage.”

The girls found their seats, and after a time, when the bustle of departure was over, Annie turned to Priscilla.

“How has this come about?” she asked.

“It was Mabel’s doing;” said Priscilla – “Mabel’s, and partly, I think, Mrs Lyttelton’s. Mrs Lyttelton found it rather inconvenient to keep me at the school during the holidays, for a good many of the rooms are to be redecorated. I couldn’t go to Uncle Josiah; and I cannot tell you how or why, but I had a long letter from Mabel, most jolly and affectionate, asking me to join her aunt and herself, and telling me that you would be sure to be of the party. There was enclosed a letter from Lady Lushington, sending me a cheque; and although I scarcely care for this sort of invitation, yet I have been forced to accept it. I am on my way now to share your fun. I can quite well believe that this is not agreeable to you, but it really cannot be helped.”

“Oh, agreeable or disagreeable, we must make the best of it,” said Annie. “Of coarse,” she added, “I am glad to have a companion. There’s no reason, Priscilla, why we should not be the best of friends. It did seem rather funny, at first, to think of you, of all people, joining this expedition. But if you are not sorry to be with me, I don’t see why I should not be pleased to be with you.”

“Were I to choose,” said Priscilla, “I would much prefer not to be either with you or Mabel. But that is neither here nor there. I have done wrong; I am very unhappy. I suppose I shall go on doing wrong now to the end of the chapter. But I don’t want to bother you about it. Let us look out of the window and enjoy the scenery. I suppose that is the correct thing to do.”

Annie still felt a strong sense of irritation. How hard she had worked to get this pleasure for herself, and now, was Priscilla, of all people, to damp her joys? Whatever her faults, however, Annie Brooke was outwardly good-natured and essentially good-tempered. There are a great many people of this sort in the world. They are lacking in principle and sadly wanting in sincerity, but nevertheless they are pleasant to be with. They show the sunny side of their character on most occasions, and in small matters are fairly unselfish and inclined to make the best of things.

Annie now, after a brief time of reflection, made up her mind to make the best of Priscilla. Priscilla was not to her taste. She was too conscientious and, in Annie’s opinion, far too narrow-minded. Nevertheless, they were outwardly very good friends, and must continue to act their parts. So on board the steamer she made herself pleasant, and useful also, to poor Priscilla, who felt the motion of the boat considerably, and had, in short, a bad time. Annie, who was never seasick in her life, won golden opinions while on board for her goodness and consideration to Priscilla; and when, finally, they were ensconced in two comfortable seats en route for Paris, her spirits rose high. She put aside all disagreeable memories and gave herself up to enjoyment.

“We shall have fun,” she said. “We must make the very best of things; we must forget all school disagreeables.”

“I only hope one thing,” said Priscilla, dropping her voice to a low tone, “and that is that the subject of the prize essay won’t be mentioned in my presence. You know how I acted with regard to it. Well, I have done the wicked deed, and want if possible, to forget it.”

“But why should it be spoken about?”

“Surely,” remarked Priscilla, “Lady Lushington is very likely to talk on the subject. You know it was on account of Mabel winning the prize that she has been taken away from school.”

“Oh yes,” said Annie in an off-hand way; “but I could quite imagine, from what I have heard of Lady Lushington, that she will forget all about the matter in an incredibly short space of time.”

“I hope so,” said Priscilla; “it will be all the better for me if she does.”

“There is one thing you must remember, Priscie,” said Annie; “if by any chance she alludes to it, you must keep up the deception.”

Priscilla looked at Annie with very wide-open, grey eyes.

“I shall leave the room,” she said; “I am not good at being deceitful.” Then she added quickly, “There are times when I feel that I can only recover my self-respect by making a clean breast of everything.”

“Oh!” said Annie, in some alarm, “you could not possibly do that; think what awful trouble you would get poor Mabel and me into.”

“I know,” said Priscilla; “and that is the one thing which keeps me back.”

“If I might venture to make the remark,” said Annie, “it is the one thing which in honour ought to keep you back. There is honour even amongst thieves, you know,” she added a little nervously.

“And that is what I am,” said poor Priscilla. “I have practically stolen my year’s schooling; I have, like Esau, sold my birthright for a mess of pottage. Oh! what shall I do?”

“Nothing,” said Annie; “and please don’t talk any more in that particularly intense way, for people will begin to stare at us.”

Priscilla sank back in her seat. Her head was aching. Annie, on the contrary, sat very upright, looking fresh, bright, and happy. After a time, however, something occurred which made her feel less comfortable. Priscilla bent towards her and said: