Three Girls from School

Annie settled herself more comfortably on the bed. She faced her companion defiantly.

“I know what you are about to do,” she said.

“What do you know?”

“And if you do it,” continued Annie, “and turn traitor to those who have trusted you – to your own schoolfellows – you will be the meanest Judas that ever walked the earth!”

Priscilla’s face was very white, almost as white as death.

“Leave my room, please,” she said. “Whatever I have done, I have done at your instigation; and whatever I do in the future is my affair and no one else’s. Leave the room immediately.”

“I won’t until you make me a promise.”

“I will make you no promise. I have had too many dealings with you in the past. Leave the room, please.”

Priscilla spoke with such dignity that Annie, cowed and almost terrified, was forced to obey.

She went out on the landing. Priscilla, for the time being, had completely routed her. She scarcely knew how to act.

“Of one thing I am certain,” she said to herself when she reached the shelter of her own tiny room, which had not nearly such a magnificent view of the mountain and lake as Priscilla’s chamber, but was a little bit larger, and therefore suited Annie better – “of one thing I am indeed certain,” said Annie to herself: “Priscilla means to make grave trouble, to upset everything. Oh, well, I am glad I know. Was I ever wrong in my intuitions? I had an intuition that Priscilla was going to set her foot on all my little plans. But you sha’n’t, dear old Pris. You will go back to England as soon as ever I can get you there, and trust Annie Brooke for finding a way. This clinches things. As soon as ever I have settled Mrs Priestley and the affair of the necklace I must turn my attention to you, Priscie. There is no earthly reason, now I come to think of it, why everything should not be managed within the scope of this little day. Why should Priscie accompany us to Zermatt? I am sure she is no pleasure to any one with those great, reproachful eyes of hers, and that pale face, and those hideous garments that always remind me of poor consumptive Susan Martin and her silly poems. Yes, I think I can manage that you, dear Priscie, return to England to-morrow, while Lady Lushington, Mabel, and I proceed to Zermatt. Your little schoolfellow Annie Brooke, I rather imagine, is capable of tackling this emergency.” Accordingly, Annie dressed swiftly and deftly, as was her way, coiling her soft golden hair round her small but pretty head, allowing many little tendrils of stray curls to escape from the glittering mass, looking attentively into the shallows – for they certainly had no depths – of her blue eyes, regretting that her eyelashes were not black, and that her eyebrows were fair.

The day was going to be very hot, and Annie put on one of the fresh white cambric dresses which Lady Lushington’s maid kept her so well supplied with. Then she ran downstairs, as was her custom, for she always liked to be first in the breakfast salon in order to look over the morning’s post.

A pile of letters lay, as usual, by Lady Lushington’s plate. These Annie proceeded to take up one by one and to look at carefully. A lady, a certain Mrs Warden, who had made the acquaintance of Lady Lushington since she came to the hotel, came into the breakfast-room unobserved by Annie, and noticed the girl’s attitude. Her table was, however, situated in a distant part of the room, and Annie did not know that she was watched. Amongst the pile of letters she suddenly saw one addressed to herself. It had evidently been forwarded from the Grand Hotel in Paris, and was written in a bold, manly hand. Annie felt, the moment she touched this letter, that there was fresh trouble in store for her. She had an instinctive dislike to opening it. She guessed immediately that it was written by her cousin, John Saxon. Still, there was no use in deferring bad tidings, if bad tidings there were, and she would do well to acquaint herself with the contents before Mabel or Lady Lushington appeared.

It was one of Lady Lushington’s peculiarities always to wish to have her coffee and rolls in the breakfast salon. She said that lying in bed in the morning was bad for her figure, and for this reason alone took care, whatever had been the fatigues of the previous day, to get up early. Priscilla, strange as it may seem, was the only one of the party who had her rolls and coffee in her own room. But that Priscilla liked to rush through her breakfast, and then day after day to go out for a long ramble all alone, whereas Lady Lushington preferred to linger over her meal and talk to those acquaintances whom she happened to meet and know in the hotel.

Annie glanced at the clock which was hung over the great doorway, guessed that she would have two or three minutes to herself, and, taking a chair, seated herself and opened John Saxon’s letter. It was very short and to the point, and Annie perceived, both to her annoyance and distress, that it had been written some days ago.

“Dear Annie,” it ran, “I promised to let you know if your uncle was worse and if your presence here was a necessity. I grieve to say that it is; he is very far from well, and the doctor is in constant attendance. Your uncle does not know that I am writing this letter; but then, I am sorry to tell you that he has not often known during the last few days what is passing around him. He is quite confined to his bed, and lives, I believe, in a sort of dream. In that dream he is always talking of you. He often imagines that you come into the room, and over and over he begs that you will hold his hand. There is not the least doubt that he is pining for you very much, and it is your absolute duty to return to him at once. I hope this letter will be forwarded from the Grand Hotel in Paris, as you have forgotten, my dear Annie, to give us any further address. I am, therefore, forced to send it there. If you will send me a wire on receipt of this, I will manage to meet you in London; and in case you happen to want money for your return journey – which seems scarcely likely – I am enclosing two five-pound notes for the purpose. Do not delay to come, for there is imminent danger, and in any case your place is by the dear old man’s bedside. – I am, dear Annie, your affectionate cousin, John Saxon.”

Annie had barely read this letter and crushed it with its precious two five-pound notes into her pocket before Lady Lushington and Mabel made their appearance. Mabel looked rather white and worried. Lady Lushington, on the contrary, was in a good-humour, and seemed to have forgotten her vexation of the previous day; but Annie’s scarlet face and perturbed manner could not but attract the good lady’s attention.

“What is the matter, Miss Brooke? Is anything troubling you?”

“Oh no; at least, not much,” said Annie. She reflected for a minute, wondering what she could safely say. “The fact is, Uncle Maurice – the dear old uncle with whom I live – is not quite well. He is a little poorly, and confined to bed.”

“Then you would, of course, like to return to him,” said Lady Lushington, speaking quickly and with decision.

“Oh,” said Annie hastily and scalding herself with hot coffee as she spoke, “that is the very last thing Uncle Maurice wishes. It is quite a passing indisposition, and he is so glad that I am here enjoying my good time. I will wire, dear Lady Lushington, if you will permit me, after breakfast, and give my uncle and the cousin who is with him our address at Zermatt. Then if there should be the slightest danger I can go to him immediately, can I not?”

“Of course, child,” said Lady Lushington, helping herself to some toast; “but I should imagine that if he were ill your place now would be at his bedside.”

“Oh, but it would distress him most awfully – that is, of course, unless you wish to get rid of me – ”

“You know we don’t wish that, Annie,” said Mabel.

“Certainly we don’t,” said Lady Lushington in a more cordial tone. “You are exceedingly useful, and a pleasant, nice girl to take about. I have not half thanked you for all the help you have given me. If you can reconcile it to your conscience to remain while your uncle, who must stand in the place of a father to you, is ill, I shall be glad to keep you; so rest assured on that point.”

“I can certainly reconcile it to my conscience,” said Annie, breaking a roll in two as she spoke; “for, you see, it is not even as though my uncle Maurice were alone. My cousin can look after him.”

“Oh, you have a girl cousin? I did not know of that.”

“Not a girl; he is a man. His name is John Saxon.”

“What!” said Lady Lushington, her eyes sparkling; “Mr Saxon, the young Australian? Why, I met him in London last year. What a splendid fellow he is! I have seldom met any one I admired so much; and they say he is exceedingly rich. I want him to come over to London and enjoy himself for one of the seasons. I could get him no end of introductions.”

“He is with my uncle now,” said Annie, speaking rather faintly, for it seemed to her as though entanglements were spreading themselves round her feet more and more tightly each moment. “Doubtless he is a good nurse,” said Lady Lushington. She then turned the conversation to other matters.

After breakfast Annie went out and sent her telegram. In this she gave the address of the hotel where they were going to stay at Zermatt, at the same time saying that she much regretted, owing to the grave complications, that she could not leave Lady Lushington for a few days. She spent a fair amount of John Saxon’s money on this telegram, in which she begged of him to give her love to Uncle Maurice, and to say that if he really grew worse she would go to him notwithstanding that business which was involving all the future of her friend.

The telegram was as insincere as her own deceitful heart, and so it read to the young man, who received it later in the day. A great wave of colour spread over his face as he read the cruel words, but he felt that he was very near the presence of death itself, and not for worlds would he disturb the peace of that departing saint who was so soon to meet his Maker face to face.

“I will not wire to her,” he said to himself; “but if the old man still continues to fret, and if the doctor says that his longing for Annie is likely to shorten his days, I shall go to Zermatt and fetch her home myself. Nothing else will bring her. How could dear old Mr Brooke set his affections on one like Annie? But if he can die without being undeceived as to her true character, I at least shall feel that I have not lived in vain.”

Meanwhile, as these thoughts were passing through the mind of a very manly and strong and determined person, Annie herself was living through exciting times. She was not without feeling with regard to her uncle. After a certain fashion she loved him, but she did not love him nearly as well as she loved her own selfish pleasures and delights. She was sadly inexperienced, too, with regard to real illness. Her belief was that John Saxon had exaggerated, and that dear, kind Uncle Maurice would recover from this attack as he had done from so many others. Now she had much to attend to, and forced herself, therefore, after the telegram had gone, to dismiss the matter from her mind.

As Annie had predicted, Lady Lushington did call Mabel into her private sitting-room soon after early breakfast on that eventful day, and did speak very seriously to her with regard to Mrs Priestley and her bill.

“I don’t pretend for a single moment,” said Aunt Henrietta, “that I am poor, and that I am unable to meet a bill of three times that amount; but I do not choose you to be wantonly extravagant, Mabel, and it is simply an unheard-of and outrageous thing that a schoolgirl should spend seventy pounds on dress during one short term. You know I invariably pay your dressmaker at the end of each term. Now this bill is more than double the amount of any that I have hitherto paid for you. Will you kindly explain why it rises to such enormous dimensions?” Mabel was very much frightened, and stammered in a way that only increased her aunt’s displeasure.

“What is the matter with you, May? Can’t you speak out? Are you concealing anything from me?”

“Oh no, no, indeed, Aunt Hennie – indeed I am not! Only the fact is, I am quite certain Mrs Priestley must have made a mistake.”

“What is all this about?” said Annie Brooke, who entered the room at that moment.

“Oh, we were talking business.”

“I beg your pardon. Shall I go away?”

“No, don’t, Miss Brooke,” said Lady Lushington rather crossly; “you are really wanted here to help to clear matters. Seeing that I am honoured by the possession of so clever a niece as Mabel, I wish she would not on every possible occasion act the fool. She is as stupid over this outrageous bill as though she were an infant.”

“Well, Mabel,” said Annie, “you know quite well that you had some nice dresses, hadn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Mabel, who seemed to have a wonderful amount of added courage now that Annie had appeared on the scene. Then she nimbly quoted a description of the beautiful gowns which Annie had falsely described the day before.

“Most unsuitable for a schoolgirl,” said Lady Lushington. “And where are they, may I ask?”

“Oh, I – I – left them at school,” said Mabel.

“Worse and worse; you seem to have lost your head.”

“Poor May!” said Annie; “no wonder. You must know, Lady Lushington, that after your letter came May nearly worked herself into a fever to get that literature prize. She could think of nothing else. She did so long to be with you; didn’t you, May?”

“Indeed I did,” replied Mabel.

“Well, that is gratifying, I suppose,” said Lady Lushington; “although I am by no means certain, my dear May, that I return the compliment. My impression is that another year at that excellent school would do you no end of good. Well, you lost your head trying to get that prize. But how could that fact affect Mrs Priestley’s bill?”