Three Girls from School

“Yes,” said Priscilla.

“I remember quite well now,” considered the old man, “that I noticed you from where I myself was sitting on the terrace. I saw Miss Brooke go up to you, and presently you went away. Then I joined Miss Brooke.”

“Yes,” said Priscilla.

“You have not the least idea what occurred, have you, Priscilla, when Miss Brooke and I were alone?”

“I have not the faintest idea,” said Priscilla.

“Well, I will tell you,” said the old man.

He crossed the room as he spoke, opened the door, and went out, but presently returned with something in his hand. This something he laid on the table before Priscilla.

“Have you ever seen that before?”

“Never,” said Priscilla. “It is rather pretty.”

“It is a valuable old ornament,” said Mr Manchuri. “It was bought at Zick’s shop in the High Street at Interlaken. I gave Annie Brooke one hundred pounds for it.”

“Mr Manchuri!”

“She told me it was her own, and asked if I would buy it. I knew it was worth a good deal more than the sum I paid her; now it seems that she took me in, I have purchased Lady Lushington’s necklace; it never belonged to Annie Brooke. What is to be done?”

Priscilla sat, white as death, with her hands clasped before her.

“Did you ever,” she said at last after a very long pause, “notice in all your knowledge of mankind how from the beginning of a little act of deceit great and awful things take place? If I had not yielded to a temptation which was put before me at Mrs Lyttelton’s school, Annie would never have been a thief; there would have been no need – no need! Mr Manchuri, I feel that I am responsible for this.”

“Nothing of the kind, child. Please don’t take on in that way! It is too dreadful to hear you.”

Priscilla’s lips trembled.

“We must, we must save Annie Brooke,” she said. “She is in trouble. Her uncle is dead; she has no home any longer. Oh, Mr Manchuri, for the sake of your Esther, don’t be too hard on her!”

“I am just mad with rage,” said the old jeweller. “There are some things I can stand, but not deceit.”

“You can stand me,” said Priscilla very gently, “and yet I was deceitful.”

“You have repented, child; and you are going to do all in your power to show that your repentance is real. I will not have you and Annie Brooke spoken of on the same footing. I cannot bear it, Priscilla.”

“You will be kind to her,” repeated Priscilla.

“I must answer this good woman’s letter. I have got the necklace. I don’t choose to be at the loss of one hundred pounds. There are things I will not bear – I cannot and will not stand – even for you, Priscilla. I have been cheated by that girl, and have lost one hundred pounds on a trinket which I now cannot possibly sell. If Lady Lushington will send me that sum, she can have the necklace back; otherwise Miss Brooke herself must return the money.”

Priscilla was surprised and most distressed at the obduracy of the old man. In the and she could only persuade him to write to John Saxon, whose name she knew well. It would be better for him to be acquainted with this ghastly fact than for Lady Lushington’s just indignation to be turned on Annie’s devoted head.

Accordingly John Saxon was written to, and thus the explanation of his sudden visit to London was arrived at Mr Manchuri had asked the young man to meet him at his house of business, and Saxon, much as he dreaded what might lie before him, little guessed the ghastly news which he was to hear. Mr Manchuri, affectionate as he was to Priscilla, nursed his wrath more and more against Annie during the hours which intervened between his receiving Lady Lushington’s letter and the arrival of John Saxon on the scene.

“I am glad you have come, Mr Saxon,” he said when the young man entered the old jeweller’s private sitting-room, which was situated at the back of the business premises.

“Yes; I came at once,” replied Saxon. “What is it you want with me, Mr Manchuri? You said you had something important to tell me with regard to my cousin, Miss Brooke.”

“Something very ugly to tell you, sir. Now listen. What do you make of this story?”

Saxon did listen while Mr Manchuri enlarged on Annie’s apparently innocent, wheedling ways, on her story with regard to the necklace, and on the fact that he had given her in exchange for it ten notes, each of the value of ten pounds.

“A hundred pounds in all,” said the old jeweller; “and, to tell you the truth, Mr Saxon, cheap at the price, for I could sell that necklace to-morrow for two hundred and fifty pounds, or even three hundred. Mark you, my dear young sir, I could do it, but you could not, nor could she, sharp as she is; for I know the trade and you don’t, and she doesn’t, and Lady Lushington doesn’t. Therefore a hundred pounds is a very fair sum to pay for what only cost her ladyship forty. Now, will you read that?” he added, handing him Lady Lushington’s letter.

John Saxon did so. He returned it and looked full into the face of Mr Manchuri.

“Well, sir,” said the merchant, “what do you mean to do?”

“What do you mean to do, Mr Manchuri?”

Mr Manchuri spread out his hands.

“I,” he said – “I mean to take the law in this matter. I mean to write the simple and exact truth to Lady Lushington, and I mean to confront that precious Miss Brooke with the truth. That is what I mean to do. That sort of wickedness ought not to be permitted, sir. It ought to be nipped in the bud.”

“I agree with you,” said Saxon. He spoke very slowly, and with pain. “It ought to be nipped in the bad, and I am,” – a lamp came to to his throat – “almost glad that you have made this discovery. There would be nothing quite so dreadful for my poor little cousin as that this thing should be hidden. Now it is known, soon a great deal more will be known – of that I am persuaded. But, sir, I want to plead with you on behalf of the guilty party. In the first place, the girl in question is only seventeen. Her exceeding youth, which ought to be the shield of innocence, has not proved sufficient to keep her from acting in the most crafty and guilty manner. But she was the beloved child of one of the beet of men, and for his sake I will not have her name dragged in the dust; if I can save her from the world’s knowledge of such a grave crime as this, I will. Mr Manchuri, you have lost one hundred pounds. Here is my cheque for the amount.”

Here John Saxon took a cheque-book from his pocket.

“Give me a pen and ink,” he said, “and I will fill it in for you. Having received this, will you return the necklace to Lady Lushington, telling her any story you please, but as far as possible shielding Annie Brooke from the worst consequences of her sin?”

“This makes all the difference, sir,” said Mr Manchuri. “I am not appointed in any sense to be the guardian of Miss Annie Brooke. I wish never to see the young lady again. She has acted abominably. I will take your cheque, sir, and return the necklace to Lady Lushington.”

“So far, so good. Then perhaps this ends our business,” said John Saxon.

He took up his hat as he spoke.

“Not quite sure there are not other things I wish to say. Will you sit down?”

Saxon very unwillingly complied.

“You have, perhaps,” continued Mr Manchuri, “heard Miss Brooke speak of a schoolfellow of the name of Priscilla Weir?”

“I have. I believe the young lady was with her and Miss Lushington in Switzerland.”

“That is true,” said Mr Manchuri; “and I had the privilege – I was, in short, the fortunate man to be allowed to escort Miss Weir back to England.”

“Indeed?” said Saxon, who, terribly shocked at this story about poor Annie, could with difficulty bring himself to take the slightest interest in Priscilla.

“You have told me, sir, that Miss Brooke’s uncle is dead?”

Saxon bowed his head. Mr Manchuri gazed hard at the young man.

“Your father was my good friend,” he said, a softer note coming into his voice, “and I have always thoroughly respected you. Your father and I have transacted business, and you yourself have shown me hospitality in a distant part of the world I would not be unkind to you, Mr Saxon, and I pity you very much indeed because of your relationship to Miss Brooke.”

“Pray do not pity me,” said Saxon. “If a man of my age – I am eight-and-twenty – cannot do has beet for a lonely girl, almost a child, he must be a poor sort. I am Annie’s guardian, and will do my utmost as long as she lives to befriend her.”