Three Girls from School

“She is walking up and down in the shrubbery. I tell you what it is, Vi. You have great influence with her. You and Flora both go to her now, and put your arms about her, and pet her a lot, and tell her that she simply must not go – that she must stay with you whatever happens.”

“Come, Flora,” said Violet – “Thank you, Annie, for telling us. We’ll certainly go and make dear Priscie stay.”

“Yes,” said Flora. “I wouldn’t stay at school myself if Priscie were to leave. I should be a very naughty girl; I would run away.”

“And so would I,” said Violet. Annie stood still for a minute or two after the little girls had left her; then she went into the house. She felt troubled. Annie was by no means the best of girls. She had naturally a turn for crooked and underhand ways. She was ambitious and discontented with her own lot. When she left school she would go to stay with her uncle, the Rev. Maurice Butler. She would live in a musty old rectory in a very dull part of England, and see hardly any people, and try to devote her time to mothers’ meetings and school feasts, and all the thousand and one things which occupy a young girl’s time when she happens to be the niece or daughter of the rector. Now, Annie had no taste for these occupations. She hated the holidays, which she had invariably to spend at Burfield Rectory. She had no appreciation for Uncle Maurice, although he was the best and kindest of men. She wanted to get into the world. She pined to enjoy herself. She was neither very pretty nor very clever. She was, as far as appearance went, an everyday sort of girl. It is true, she had lovely golden hair, but that was about all. At school she was the sort of girl who, apparently good-natured, makes many friends. Her object was to make friends. Her one desire in life was to secure the goodwill of her school companions, so that by-and-by they might invite her to their houses and give her the sort of good time she had always pined for. She knew in a vague sort of way that if she could get one of these girls more or less into her power, she might dictate her own terms. And now her chance had come. No prickings of conscience held her back; it did not even occur to her that she was acting badly. If she thought at all, it was but to pronounce Priscilla’s ideas of honour obsolete and impossible. She had little doubt that she could get Priscilla to yield to the plan which was forming itself in her own brain; and she was also pretty sure that Mabel would be even a more easy victim. Many of her school friends were fond of asking small services of Annie; for she was invariably good-natured, and had a sunny, pleasant temper. She was rather amusing, too, and to all appearance never thought of herself.

Now she ran up to the elder girls’ sitting-room, threw the door open wide, and entered. A tall, pale girl, with an aristocratic face was seated by an open desk busily writing. She looked annoyed when Annie entered.

“Am I in your way, Constance?” asked Annie.

“No, Annie. Of course you have a right to sit here, but I do hope you will keep quiet. I am busy writing my prize essay – not that I have a chance of the prize, but of course I want to do my very best. The subject interests me.”

Annie said nothing. She flung herself into a chair, and taking up a story-book, tried to read. But her thoughts were too busy with the scheme which was forming itself in her brain. She threw down the book, and drawing her chair to the opposite window, looked out.

Constance Hadley seemed to feel her presence, for after a time she sank back in her chair with a sigh.

“Finished, Constance?” cried Annie.

“No; I can’t manage the end. I want to do something really good, but the something won’t come.”

“I wonder you bother,” said Annie; “that is, of course, unless you are sure of the prize.”

“I sure of the prize!” laughed Constance. “Why, there are at least four girls in the school who will do better work than I. You, for instance, Annie; you have an audacious, smart little way of writing which very often takes.”

“But I can do nothing with such a subject as ‘Idealism,’” replied Annie, “except to laugh at it and thank my stars that I have not got it.”

Constance looked at her gravely.

“I wonder who will get the prize,” she said.

Annie did not reply. Constance rose, stretched herself slightly, and putting her papers together, laid them in orderly fashion in her desk.

“I shall get up early to-morrow,” she said, “and come down here and finish my paper. There is no time so good as before breakfast for brain-work.”

“Well, thank goodness, my attempt is quite finished,” said Annie.

“I suppose,” remarked Constance, “that Priscilla will get the prize. She is the cleverest of us all.”

“Oh, I’m not at all sure of that,” said Annie. “Priscie is clever, no doubt; but Mabel is clever too – very clever.”

“Mabel Lushington! What do you mean?”

“What I say. She is awfully clever when she takes pains.”

“I must say I have never found it out.”

“Well, I have,” said Annie, her cheeks brightening and her eyes growing deeper in hue, “and I will just tell you how. She is always scribbling poetry. I found her at her desk one day, and taxed her with it. She was frightfully annoyed, and begged and implored of me not to mention it, for she said she would be ragged by every one if it were discovered. Then she confessed that her one ambition was to be a poet. Isn’t it absurd? Just think of her, with her pretty, round, dimpled sort of face, a poet, forsooth! But, nevertheless, appearances deceive, and Mabel is a poet already. I should not be a scrap surprised if she did very well with such a subject as Idealism.”

“You astonish me!” said Constance. “She must be far cleverer than I gave her credit for; and her very genius in hiding all trace of her talent is much to be commended.”

“Oh, now you are nasty and satirical,” said Annie, “and you don’t believe a word I say. Nevertheless, it is all true; our Mabel is a poet.”

“Well, poet or not,” remarked Constance, “she is a very jolly girl; I like her just awfully.”

“You would not want her to leave the school, would you?”

“Leave the school! Why, there isn’t a chance of it, is there?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. But I must go to her now, poor old darling! She is worrying over her prize essay, doubting her own ability, and all that sort of thing, whereas I know she could do capital work if she pleased.”

“And beat Priscilla?”

“Oh, Priscilla would not be in it if Mabel chose to exercise her powers. But the fact is, she is terribly afraid of your all finding her out. You won’t breathe what I have told you to a living soul, will you, Connie?”

“Not I. I am glad you confided in me. I shall listen to her essay with special pleasure this day fortnight, now that you have really enlightened me with regard to the order of her mind.”

Annie left the room and ran up to Mabel’s bedroom.

Mabel’s room and Annie’s adjoined; but one of the strictest rules of the house was that after bed-time each girl should be unmolested by her schoolfellows. One of the worst offences at Lyttelton School was for a girl, after bed-time had arrived, to infringe the rules by going into the room of her schoolfellow. Before bed-time full liberty was, however, given, and Annie tapped now with confidence at Mabel’s door.

Mabel said, “Come in,” and Annie entered.

“Well, May,” she cried, “has any light dawned on you?”

“Light dawned on me?” replied Mabel in a tone almost of passion. “None whatsoever. I am just in pitch darkness. I can’t write a word that any one will care to listen to. I never could, as you very well know, and certainly am less capable than ever now of doing so. The very thought of all that hangs on my efforts quite unnerves me. I shall write twaddle, my dear Annie; in fact, I don’t think I’ll write at all.”

“Oh, but you must; that would seem very bad, and make your aunt so angry. She might think that you had refused to do so out of temper, and might keep you two years at school instead of one.”

“Do you think so, really? That would be too appalling.”

“I am not at all sure; from what you tell me of her character, I think it would be extremely likely.”

“Well, I will do something. For that matter, I have done something. Can’t I send it in?”

“No, no!” said Annie. “You showed it to me, and I never read such rubbish in all my life. Now, look here, Mabel. You shall write a paper, and it must be the very best paper you can put together; and I will help you all I can.”

“But there is no time.”

“Yes, there is. We can do it to-night.”

“To-night? You know we can’t.”

“I know we can. Miss Phillips goes round to see that all the girls are tucked up properly at ten o’clock. Soon afterwards she goes to bed, poor old dear! When the cat’s away the mice will play. I will tap three times on my wall, and you must tap three times on yours. Not another soul will hear us. Then we’ll both get up and slip stockings over our shoes, and we’ll go down, hand-in-hand, through the silent house until we find ourselves on the ground-floor. I know a window where the hasp is broken. We’ll raise the sash and go out. We will go to the summer-house at the far end of the grounds. I will have candles and manuscript paper and ink there all ready. You will write your essay there, in the summer-house, and I will help you.”

“It is a very dangerous thing to do, Annie, and it strikes me we risk a great deal for very little. For if I were to steal out every night between now and prize day, and write an essay every night in the summer-house, I should not get a prize.”

“You certainly wouldn’t get a prize in that way; but what you do to-night will lead you to the prize.”