Three Girls from School

Mrs Priestley was away for some time, quite half-an-hour. When she did return the expression on her face had slightly changed.

“We will come into our private sitting-room, miss,” she said.

She went first; Annie followed her. Mrs Priestley’s private room was very small and very much crowded. Nearly the whole of it was taken up by an enormous desk containing various pigeon-holes. There was, however, room for two chairs. Annie was asked to seat herself in one.

“We have been looking,” said Mrs Priestley, “into our accounts. You, we understand, miss, are acquainted with the contents of the letter of our much-esteemed client, Miss Lushington.”

“Yes,” said Annie; “I know all about it. As well as I remember, my great friend, Mabel Lushington, said that I could arrange the matter with you.”

“We are coming to that – if you have no objection, miss.”

Annie felt snubbed. It so happened that she had never before had any personal contact with the great Priestley. She had seen her beautiful gowns on several ladies at Hendon and on some of the best-dressed girls of the school, but not until now had she been face to face with this awful priestess of the art of dressmaking.

“We would not wish,” said Mrs Priestley, “to do anything to disoblige our clients and it is true that there have been times when it has been our pleasure to assist a lady in the manner indicated, but there has usually been a little sort of arrangement made in order to secure our money. You, we understand, come here to-day with such a proposal, do you not, miss?”

Annie felt more and more uncomfortable.

“I simply thought,” she said, “that you would oblige. You see, Mabel is very rich.”

“If we were not firmly convinced on that point,” interrupted Mrs Priestley, “we would not entertain the proposal for a quarter of a minute.”

“Mabel is very rich,” continued Annie. “I mean that her aunt, Lady Lushington, is enormously wealthy.”

“We have that distinguished lady’s patronage,” said Mrs Priestley. “We have made gowns for her as well as for the young lady, her niece.”

“You send Miss Lushington’s accounts to Lady Lushington?” said Annie. The high priestess of the art of dressmaking thought it only necessary to bow her stately head. “Then perhaps you will lend Mabel the money?” said Annie, who felt herself getting into greater and greater hot water.

“It can be done,” said Mrs Priestley, “but only in one way. We must treat our young customer as we do the other clients whom it has been our privilege to oblige on more than one occasion. We must either have the lady’s jewels to the value of the sum borrowed, or we must add the thirty pounds to Miss Lushington’s account in our books. At the present moment Miss Lushington’s bill amounts to close on forty pounds, and if we add thirty more it will make seventy. Are we to understand that Lady Lushington will pay so large a bill without comment for a young lady who is only a schoolgirl?”

“Oh, I am sure she will,” said Annie, whose one desire at that moment was to get the money and leave Mrs Priestley’s presence. “She is so enormously rich,” continued the girl, “she thinks nothing of spending a hundred pounds on one dress for herself. Why, seventy pounds,” said Annie, who would have rejoiced just then to possess three, “is a mere nothing to her – just a bagatelle. I know it.”

“Your statement, miss, is satisfactory, as far as it goes. We will therefore, being assured by our own experience that you are right, lend Miss Lushington the required sum, but on the distinct understanding that if Lady Lushington raises any question with regard to the account, we are at liberty to mention your name in the matter.”

“How so?” asked Annie, very much alarmed. “I am only a little schoolgirl,” she added, “with no money at all.”

“Nevertheless, miss, we must mention your name – Miss Annie Brooke, is it not?”

Annie nodded. Mrs Priestley made a note of it, adding the date of Annie’s visit and the fact that she was a resident at Lyttelton School. She then, without any further ado, produced gold and notes to the amount of thirty pounds, which she folded up into a little parcel and gave to Annie.

“You will give us a receipt for this, miss,” she said; and Annie did so in due form. “And now, miss,” continued the woman, “all is well, and you will never hear any more with regard to this matter if we are paid our account in full; but if there is difficulty – and even rich ladies sometimes grumble at a bill such as we shall be forced to produce – then you may get into hot water. We will now wish you good-afternoon, miss, for our time is not our own but our customers’.”

How flushed Annie was! When she got into the open air she panted slightly. She looked up the street and down the street. She had had an awful time with Mrs Priestley, and she had quite forgotten the dress which was to be made for Mabel. She could not remedy that omission now, however; for nothing would induce her to see the terrible Mrs Priestley again. Her companions were not yet in sight, and she paced up and down thinking her own thoughts.

After a time she felt calmer. The money was safe in her pocket. There would be no fuss for three months at least. Annie was a sort of girl who could not think of trouble three months ahead. In half-an-hour she felt quite happy. The memory of her depression vanished, and when the girls on their bicycles hove in sight she met them with a gay word.

“You have had a ride!” she said. “I have been out of Mrs Priestley’s for ages.”

“I thought,” said Agnes Moore, one of the girls, “that you would never be tired of an interview with a dressmaker, Annie. Is she quite as imposing as people describe her? I go to Mrs Arnold, you know.”

“She is withering,” said Annie, with a laugh. “She invariably speaks of herself as ‘we,’ and is a perfect mass of pomposity. I do wish, Agnes, you could have heard the withering tone in which she alluded to ‘Mrs Arnold’s ladies.’ Oh dear, oh dear! I nearly died with laughter.” During the rest of the ride home Annie amused herself in taking off Mrs Priestley, which she did to the life. That very same evening thirty pounds in gold and notes had been transferred, first from Annie’s pocket to that of Mabel Lushington, and then from Mabel Lushington to Priscilla Weir.

Priscilla turned very white when her hand touched the little packet.

“It hurts me,” she said aloud. Mabel and Annie were both present when she made this remark, but neither of them asked her to explain herself. On the contrary, Mabel took Annie’s arm and hurried her away.

“How did you manage with Mrs Priestley?” she asked.

“It is all right, love,” said Annie. “She has added thirty pounds to your account.”

But Mabel looked not at all satisfied. “I didn’t want it to be done in that way,” she said. “Aunt Henrietta will be wild. She is always quarrelling with me about my dresses, and says that I spend twice too much on them. Good gracious! I do trust that I sha’n’t get into trouble about this.”

“You must not,” said Annie; “for if, by any chance, such a thing were to happen, I should never hear the and of it. Oh Mabel! I have done a lot for you. I have in a way made myself responsible. I had to. Mabel – I must tell you, for I think you ought to know – if there is any difficulty in paying Mrs Priestley’s bill, she means to tell Mrs Lyttelton about me – about me! – how I visited her, and asked her for the money; and she has my receipt to show. She put a stamp on it, and made me write my name across the stamp. Oh Mabel! I have done wonderful things for you, and you know it. You can never, never be grateful enough.”

“I suppose I am grateful,” said Mabel. “It was plucky of you to do that for me, Annie, and I am not one to forget.”

“We will enjoy ourselves in Paris,” said Annie. “I know Mrs Priestley won’t send in the account for about three months, so we’ll have a good time first, whatever happens.”

“Oh, if the thing is three months off, I’m not going to fret about it in advance,” said Mabel, who instantly became very talkative and lively.

Chapter Seven

The Poet

The days which passed between the occurrences related in the last chapter and the great prize day went on wings. The girls were all exceedingly busy. If there were many prizes to be won, and there was hard work beforehand to win them, there was the thought, too, of the long and delightful summer holidays to gladden each young heart; the reunion with fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters; the pleasures of the seaside resort or the country house; the knowledge that lessons, however useful in themselves, might be put away for six long, delightful weeks.

The girls were in the best of humour; and, as though Nature herself were in sympathy with them, the sun rose day by day in a cloudless sky, the flowers bloomed in more and more profusion, and the whole world seemed preparing for a grand holiday. Lyttelton School was famed for its roses, and the profusion of roses that blossomed during this special summer was long remembered by every member of the school.

Mabel Lushington was not a girl especially remarkable for conscientiousness. She was now completely under Annie’s spell, who, having won her point, was determined that there should not be a single flaw in her grand scheme. Her whispers about Mabel had spread a rumour in the school that Mabel Lushington, who had long been remarkable for her fine figure, handsome face, and a certain haughtiness of bearing, was also exceedingly clever. It is no easy matter to convert a girl who has hitherto been renowned as a dunce into a genius. Nevertheless, clever Annie managed to effect this object.

“She writes such good verses, you know,” Annie said first to one girl, and then to another; and as Mabel had been forewarned on the subject, she was not taken by surprise when the girls used to crowd round her and beg to see some specimens of her art.

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t!” Mabel would say, blushing and even giggling a little. “Don’t, don’t ask me; I should die of shame.”

These were her invariable retorts, and, as a rule, she managed to excuse herself with a certain amount of success. But schoolgirls are tenacious. The subject of Mabel’s gift for poetry became the general talk of the school, and finally a whole bevy of girls waited on Miss Lushington with the request that she would allow them to sample her poems.

“The fact is,” said Constance Smedley, “seeing is believing. You most read us something, Mabel; you really must.”

Mabel found herself turning pale, and Constance, who was a remarkably keen observer of character, noted the fact. Annie was nowhere within reach. Mabel began to feel as though a torture-screw were put on.

“Come, Mabel,” said Constance, “it is but fair. We love poetry, and will not be hard on you.”

“What I think is this,” said another girl. “Mabel is a satirist; she has been laughing at us all in her sleeve. She writes about us, and doesn’t want us to know. – Come, May, I know that is the case, otherwise you would not be so red.”

“She was pale a minute ago,” said Constance. – “What are you changing colour about, you silly old May? We won’t mind whether you satirise us or not. Come, get your verses.”

“I – I – can’t; I – won’t,” said Mabel. She had not an idea what the girls meant when they spoke of her as a satirist. She wished herself far away. As she said afterwards, she could have sunk through the ground at that moment. Her tortures were at their height when Annie Brooke appeared. Annie and Priscilla were crossing the lawn arm-in-arm. Annie had been talking eagerly. Priscilla, very grave and quiet, was replying in monosyllables. Suddenly Priscilla looked up.

“What is the matter with Mabel?” she said.

“How queer she looks!”

“I had best go to her, I suppose,” said Annie. “She is such an old silly that unless I keep by her side she is sure to do some thing wrong.”

“Here you are, Annie,” cried Constance. “Now you will be on our side. You have assured us that Mabel is not the dunce of the school, but the genius.”

“So she is,” said Annie indignantly. “Who dares to deny it?”

“None of us,” said Constance; “only we want proof.”

“What do you mean?” said Annie, still quite calm in appearance, but feeling a little uncomfortable nevertheless.

“We want proof,” repeated Constance.

“Yes,” said Agnes – “proof.”

“Proof, proof!” echoed several other voices. “Mabel writes verses – very clever verses. We want to see them.”

“So you shall,” said Annie at once.

“Oh Annie, I won’t show them,” said poor Mabel.

“Nonsense, May! that is absurd. Girls, you can see them to-morrow afternoon. To-morrow is our half-holiday; Mabel will read her verses aloud herself to you at four o’clock to-morrow on this identical spot. She has no time now, for the gong has just sounded for tea.”

Mabel turned a flushed, surprised face towards Annie. Priscilla stood perfectly still in unbounded astonishment. The girls were not quite satisfied; still, there was nothing to complain of. They must go to tea now. Immediately after tea school-work would recommence; there would not be a moment of time to read the verses before the following day. Annie, leaving Mabel to her fate, marched into the house, her hand on Constance Smedley’s arm.

“I am glad I came out,” she said. “Poor May is quite abnormally sensitive on the subject of her verses.”

“Nonsense!” said Constance. “If she writes verses she won’t mind our seeing them.”

“She ought not to mind; and if she were an ordinary girl she would not,” said Annie. “But, you see, she is not ordinary. There is many a girl with a genius who, as regards other matters, is even a little silly. The fact is, Mabel is frightened of her own talent.”

“Well, we are glad you came up, for we are quite determined to get a specimen of our genius’s work,” said Constance.

“You shall know all about it; she will read them to you herself. Ta-ta for the present.”

Annie marched to her own place at the tea-table, and nothing more was said. But she was not comfortable. She had got herself and her unfortunate friend into a hornet’s nest. Verses of some sort must be produced; but how? Annie could not write the most abject doggerel. Clever enough with regard to her prose, she was hopeless as a rhymster. Perhaps Priscie could do it. Annie looked wildly at Priscie, but as she looked even this hope faded away. She had had a conversation with that young lady on that very afternoon, and Priscie, although she was to have her extra year at school – for everything was quite arranged now – did not seem to be happy about it. She had even gone to the length of telling Annie that she would prefer learning how to manage a farm-house or becoming a country dressmaker to staying on at Lyttelton School under the present conditions. Annie had assured her that if she failed them now, the mischief she would do would be so incalculable that it would practically never end, and Priscilla had been quieted for the time being. But Priscilla’s conscience must not be further tampered with; Annie was resolved on that point. What, oh! what was she to do?

During the rest of that evening, while apparently busy over her studies, the mind of Annie Brooke was in a whirl. In what sort of way was she to fulfil her promise made to all those odious girls that Mabel would read her verses aloud? She saw that the girls were already slightly suspicious. She knew it was all-important for Mabel’s success when she won the literary prize that the girls’ minds should be already prepared with regard to her genius. If they were really satisfied that she wrote even moderately good verse, they would accept without comment the fact that she had won the prize over Priscilla’s head. But how – oh! how – in what sort of fashion were these verses to be produced?

Annie was in the mood when she would have stopped short at very little. Could she have safely pilfered the verses of anybody else she would have done so; but there was no great store of poetry at the school. The few books out of which the girls learned their different pieces for recitation were too well-known to be tampered with, and yet Annie must do something. Her head ached with the enormity of the task which she had so unwittingly undertaken. Why, oh! why had she started that awful idea of Mabel’s poetical genius in the school? Far better would it have been even to have the girls’ suspicions slightly aroused by the excellence of her prize essay. Poor Annie had not only to think of this and to solve the riddle set her, but she had to appear before the eyes of her schoolfellows as utterly calm and cool. She was at her wits’-end, and certainly matters were not improved when Mabel that night tapped at her wall – the signal that the girls had arranged between them when it was necessary for one to speak to the other.

It was about eleven at night when Annie, feeling miserable beyond words, crept into Mabel’s room. Mabel was sitting up in bed with all her fine hair hanging about her shoulders.

“I have not had a minute to speak to you before,” said Mabel. “You know perfectly well, Annie, that I never wrote a line of poetry in my life. I can’t abide the stuff; I can’t even read it, far lees write it. And now what is to be done? You are going to produce a specimen of my verse which I am to read aloud before all those odious girls to-morrow!”

“Oh, I’ll manage it,” said Annie; “only don’t keep me now, May. I had to start that little rumour in order to make it all safe for you on prize day. You don’t suppose, darling did May, that I have brought you as far as this with such wonderful success in order to desert you now? You leave it to me, May Flower. I’ll manage it for you somehow.”

Mabel lay back on her pillow. “I did get an awful fright,” she said. “I can’t tell you how terrible it was when they all clustered round me, and Agnes remarked one thing about me, and Constance another. Agnes said I was a satirist. What on earth is a satirist, Annie?”

“Oh, not you, darling, at any rate,” said Annie, kissing her friend. “Poor May! that is the very last thing you could ever be.”

“I know you think me very stupid,” said Mabel in an offended tone. “It is too awful to give a girl the imputation of a genius, when you know all the time that she is an absolute fool.”

“A very pretty one, at any rate,” said Annie, kissing her friend again. “You’re not offended, silly May, because I said you were not a satirist? Why, a satirist is an awful creature, dreaded by everybody. A satirist is a person who makes fun of her best friends. Now, you would never make fun of your own Annie, would you?”

“No, indeed! I am glad I am not a satirist,” said May. “What a horror those girls must think me!”

“Go to by-by now, May, and leave me to settle things for you,” said Annie; and she crept back to her own bed.

Chapter Eight

A Touch of the Sun

Towards morning a thought came to Annie. She could not quite tell when it first darted through her brain. Perhaps it came in a dream. She was never quite certain, but it certainly caused her to jump, and it made her heart beat tumultuously.

“I wonder,” she said aloud; and then she added, “The very thing!” Then she said once more, “I will do it, or my name is not Annie Brooke.”

That morning the mistress and the girls missed the pleasant face of Annie Brooke from the breakfast-table. Mabel Lushington, as her greatest friend, was begged to go to her room to see if anything was the matter. She tapped at Annie’s door. A very faint reply came, and Mabel entered in much consternation. She found her friend lying in bed, a handkerchief wrung out of eau-de-Cologne and water on her brow, her hair dishevelled, her face pale.

“Oh Annie, you are ill!” said poor Mabel. “What is wrong?”

“My head, dear; it aches so badly.”

“Oh, I am sorry!” said Mabel. “Mrs Lyttelton sent me upstairs to know what is wrong.”

“Tell her she must not be at all alarmed,” said Annie. “It is just one of my very worst headaches, no more. I sha’n’t be able to do any lessons to-day. But I will creep out into the garden presently. I want air and perfect quiet. I’ll get into one of the hammocks in the garden and lie there. Tell them all not to be a bit anxious, for I know what I want is rest.”

“You do look bad,” said Mabel. “Dear Annie, I know I am the cause of it.”

“You are most truly,” thought Annie under her breath. But aloud she said, “No, dear, not at all; I am subject to headaches.”

“I never knew you with one before,” said Mabel.

“I have kept them to myself, darling; but Mrs Lyttelton knows, for I told her. This is just worse than the others, and I can’t keep it to myself. If Miss Phillips likes to come up, she might bring me a cup of tea and a little toast. I couldn’t eat anything else, indeed. Now, love, go down; don’t be distressed; your Annie will be all right in the afternoon.”

Mabel longed to say, “What are you going to do about the poem?” but in sight of that pale presence with its look of suffering, and the bondage on the head, she thought that such a remark would be quite too heartless. She stepped, therefore, very softly out of the room, and going downstairs, made a most effective announcement with regard to Annie.

“She says it is nothing,” remarked Mabel, who was almost in tears; “but she looks quite dreadful – so ghastly white.”

Little did Mabel know that Annie had smeared powder over her face to give it that death-like appearance. She had managed it with great skill, and trusted to its not being noticed.

“Miss Phillips,” said Mrs Lyttelton, “will you go and see what is wrong? If Annie is feverish we must get a doctor. She may have a little touch of the sun, my dears; it is always unwise to be out too much this hot weather.”

“She looked awfully flushed,” said one girl, “when we met her in the High Street yesterday. It was after she had been with Mrs Priestley.”

“It must be a touch of the sun,” said Mrs Lyttelton; “perhaps I had better go to her myself.”

“Let me go first, dear Mrs Lyttelton,” said Miss Phillips; “I can soon let you know if there is anything wrong.”

Accordingly, Miss Phillips went gently upstairs Annie had the curtains drawn at the windows, but the windows themselves had their sashes open. She was lying in such a position that the powder on her face could not be noticed. When Miss Phillips came in Annie uttered a groan.

“Oh, why do you trouble?” she said, opening half an eye and looking at the mistress.

Her dread was that Mrs Lyttelton herself might appear. It would be difficult to hide the powder from her. Old Phillips, however, as she termed her, was a person easily imposed upon. “Don’t fuss about me, please,” said Annie. “I have just a bad headache. I am sorry I can’t be in the schoolroom this morning; but I just can’t. I am not a bit hot – not a bit – but my head is dreadful. I want to go out and lie in one of the hammocks in the garden. Do you think Mrs Lyttelton will let me?”

“Indeed she will, poor dear!” said Miss Phillips. “She is ever so sorry for you. You do look bad, Annie. Wouldn’t you like me to draw back the curtain, dear? Your room is so dark.”

“Oh, please don’t!” said Annie. “I can’t bear the light.”

“Well, my dear – well, of course – how thoughtless of me! I have brought you some tea.”

“Thank you; I shall be glad of a cup.”

“Poor child! Then you wouldn’t like to see Mrs Lyttelton herself?”

“Not for the world,” said Annie with unnecessary vehemence. But then she added prettily, “It is so sweet of her to think of it, and for little me – as if I were of any consequence. It’s just a headache, and I’ll be all right in the garden, and at dinner-time you will see me looking just as usual.”

“I hope so, indeed,” said Miss Phillips, who went downstairs to report that Annie was singularly pale, but not in the least feverish, and that her great desire was to lie in a hammock during the entire morning in the shady garden.

“Go up at once and tell her that she has my permission,” said Mrs Lyttelton.

Miss Phillips opened the door very softly. Annie was still lying with her eyes shut, the bandage at once shading and concealing her face; but the cheeks, the tip of the little nose, and the chin were all dreadfully white; only the pretty lips were still rosy.

Annie just opened languid eyes.

“I am better, really,” she said in the faintest and most patient voice.

“You poor, sweet thing,” said Miss Phillips. “How I sympathise with you! I get those frantic headaches myself sometimes.”