Three Girls from School

As to the old man himself, he felt that he hated her; but he was glad to have made a good stroke of business, although he was very rich. That was always worth something. He would in all probability clear one hundred and fifty pounds on the necklace, which would more than pay for his trip abroad and for the benefit he had derived from the air of the Swiss mountains.

Annie went into the house, rushed up to Mabel’s room, and, taking three ten-pound notes out of her pocket, said exultantly:

“There, I have done it! Now who is clever?”

“Oh, you are,” said Mabel. “But where did you sell it, and to whom? We must keep Aunt Henrietta from going to any of the shops to-day.”

“Oh, we will easily manage that,” said Annie. “She is going to have a little drive after lunch, and I am going with her – trust me. We must get to Zermatt to-morrow. Now I am going to write a long letter to Mrs Priestley enclosing this. I shall barely have time before déjeuner.” When that day Annie Brooke did sit down to déjeuner she considered herself a remarkably wealthy young woman, for she had in her possession nearly eighty pounds, every one of which she intended to keep for her own special aggrandisement; and Mrs Priestley was paid – paid in full, with a long explanatory letter desiring her emphatically to send an account to Lady Lushington which would only amount to forty pounds.

Annie was exceedingly pleased. The colour of excitement bloomed on her cheeks; her eyes looked quite dark. At these times she was so nearly pretty that many people remarked on her and turned to look at her again. She was in her wildest, most captivating mood, too, and Priscilla looked by her side both limp and uninteresting. If only Priscilla would go. Her very face was a reproach. Annie wondered if she could accomplish this feat also. Mr Manchuri could take her to England. What an excellent idea, if Annie could only work it!

“I have had everything else I wanted to-day,” thought the girl, “and if I can do this one last thing I will see the pinnacle of my success reached.”

“You will come for a drive, won’t you?” said Annie, bending towards Lady Lushington as the tedious meal of déjeuner was coming to an end.

Lady Lushington yawned slightly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said; “the heat is so great that I have not energy for anything. I wonder if I ought to travel to-morrow.”

“Oh yes,” said Annie; “it will be cooler at Zermatt.”

“That is true; but the journey – ”

“We have taken our rooms in the hotel, have we not?” said Annie.

“Well, that is just it; I am not sure. I telegraphed this morning to the ‘Beau Séjour,’ but have not had a reply yet. I insist on staying at the ‘Beau Séjour.’ There is no hotel like it in the place.”

“There are such a lot of us, of course,” said Annie; “but Priscie and I do not mind sharing the tiniest little room together; do we, Pris?”

Here she glanced at Priscilla. Priscilla looked up.

“I don’t want to be unpleasant,” she said, “but I certainly should like a room to myself.”

“Of course, my dear,” said Lady Lushington.

“Dear, dear! I must consult with Parker. There’s a room for me, a room for Mabel, a room each for you two girls – that makes four; and Parker’s room, five. You two girls would not by any chance mind sleeping in another hotel, would you?”

Here she looked first at Annie and then at Priscilla.

“Certainly not,” said Annie. “I do not mind anything.”

Priscilla was quite silent. Just then one of the waiters appeared with a telegram. It was to Lady Lushington. She opened it. There were only four bedrooms available at the “Beau Séjour.”

Annie spoke impulsively. “I tell you what,” she said. “I won’t be in the way; I won’t. I will go back to England to-night. I can go with Mr Manchuri, that funny old Jew gentleman whom I have been so friendly with. I know he will let me travel with him. It is just too bad, Lady Lushington; you must let me. I have been, oh! so happy, and it will be a cruel disappointment to go; but I will. Yes, I will go.”

“Seeing that your uncle is ill, perhaps – ” began Lady Lushington.

“Oh, please don’t think that it is on account of that. Uncle Maurice constantly has these attacks. He is probably as well as ever by now; but it is just because I won’t crowd you up.”

“But, Annie,” said Mabel in a troubled voice, “you know I can’t live without you.”

“It is very awkward indeed,” said Lady Lushington – “very awkward. The fact is, I can’t very well spare you; you are of great use to me.”

Priscilla rose from the table. She had scarcely touched anything during the meal.

“I think I know what Annie Brooke means,” she said. “She means that one of us two girls is to offer to go back, and she naturally does not intend to go herself.”

“But I offered to go. How cruel you are!” said Annie. “I will go, too,” she added, pouting and looking at once pretty and petulant. “Yes, Lady Lushington, I will go. – Mabel, I can’t help it. You are my very dearest ownest friend; but I won’t crowd you up. You will have Priscie.”

“No,” said Priscilla mournfully; “I am no use. I don’t think at present I love people, and I can’t talk much, and I can’t wear” – she hesitated – “the dresses that other people wear. I will go. I have had a beautiful time, and I have seen the mountains. It is something to have had even a glimpse of the higher Alps; they are like nothing else. A little disappointment is nothing when one has had such great joy. I will go to-night if Mr Manchuri will let me accompany him.”

“It does seem reasonable, Miss Weir,” said Lady Lushington. “We can’t stay on here, for our rooms are let, and I won’t go anywhere at Zermatt except to the ‘Beau Séjour.’ As to one of you girls sleeping out it cannot be thought of, although I did propose that two of you might – that is, together; but there seem to be difficulties. You have not been very happy with us, have you, Miss Weir?”

“You have been the cause of great happiness to me, and I thank you from my heart,” said Priscilla.

“Well, my dear, I will of course pay your fare back. I hope we may meet again some day. Then that is settled. – Annie, please go at once and wire that we will engage the four rooms, and – who will see Mr Manchuri and arrange with him to let Priscilla accompany him to England?”

“I will do both,” said Annie.

She hastily left the salle-à-manger and ran through the great lounge with a sort of skipping movement, so light were her steps, and so light and jubilant her heart. The old Jew did not make any demur when he was told that the tall, slender young lady was to accompany him home.

“I will look after her,” he said. “Don’t thank me, please, Miss Brooke; I don’t suppose that she will be the slightest trouble.”

Priscilla went up to her room, flung herself on her bed, and wept.

Chapter Twenty

A Confession and a Friend

It is quite true that very clever people are sometimes apt to overstep the bounds of reason and prudence; and whether all that befell Annie Brooke and all that retribution which she so richly merited would have fallen so quickly and so decisively on her devoted head had she not been anxious to get rid of poor Priscilla must remain an unsolved question. But certain it is that Priscilla Weir’s departure in the company of Mr Manchuri was the first step in her downfall. Annie, with eighty pounds in her pocket and with all fear of Mrs Priestley laid at rest, felt that she had not a care in the world.

But Priscilla, when she stepped into the first-class carriage which was to convey her en route for England, was one of the most perplexed and troubled girls who could be found anywhere. Mr Manchuri, with all his faults, his love of securing a bargain, his sharpness, had a kindly heart. He saw that the girl was in trouble, and took no notice at all of her for more than an hour of the journey.

It so happened, however, that very few people were returning to England so early in the season, and the pair had the railway carriage for a long time to themselves. When Priscilla had sat quite silent for a considerable time, her eyes gazing straight out into the ever-gathering darkness, Mr Manchuri could contain himself no longer.

He had scarcely ever glanced at Priscilla Weir when she was at the hotel. She was not pretty; she was not showily dressed; she was a queer girl. He knew that she belonged to Lady Lushington’s party, but beyond that he was scarcely aware of her existence. Now, however, he began to study her, and as he did so he began to see marks of what he considered interest in her face. What was more, he began to trace a likeness in her to some one else.

Once, long ago, this queer, dried-up old man had a young daughter, a daughter whom he loved very passionately, but who died just when she was grown up. The girl had been tall and slender, like Priscilla, and strangely unworldly and fond of books, and, as the old man described it, good at star-gazing. He did not know why the memory of Esther, who had been in her grave for so many years, returned to him now. But, be that as it may, Priscilla, without being exactly like Esther, gave him back thoughts of his daughter, and because of that he felt inclined to be kind to the lonely girl. So, changing his seat which he had taken at the farther end of the carriage, he placed himself opposite to her and said in a voice which she scarcely recognised:

“Cheer up now, won’t you? There is no good in fretting.”

Priscilla was startled at the kindness of the tone. It shook her out of a dream. She turned her intensely sorrowful eyes full upon Mr Manchuri and said:

“I shall get over my disappointment, I am sure; please don’t take any notice of me.”

“But, come now,” said Mr Manchuri, “what are you fretting about? You are going home, I understand.”

“Oh no, I am not,” said Priscilla; “I am going back to school.”