Violet answered, trying to speak quietly, but failing in the attempt; her voice sounded hoarse and unnatural.
"Did someone lose a purse then, really?" Mrs. Medland asked, glancing from one to the other of the girls, a piteous look on her startled face.
"Yes, a school-fellow of ours did," replied Ann.
"Was it a tortoise-shell purse, miss, with a golden clasp?" Mrs. Medland interrogated, her lips quivering as she put the question.
"It was," Violet answered eagerly, "do you think—"
She stopped abruptly, for the poor mother had quite broken down, and was weeping in a heart-broken fashion most painful to witness. A long silence followed, and, before Mrs. Medland had regained her composure, Grace Jones appeared upon the threshold of the room and addressed herself to Ann.
"Lottie wanted to know who was downstairs," she said, "and I told her you had come on purpose to inquire for her, miss; she wishes to see you if you'll be so kind as to come upstairs to her. She seems all right in her head now."
Mrs. Medland glanced doubtfully at Ann, who, however, rose directly, and declared her willingness to comply with Lottie's request; accordingly Mrs. Medland preceded her upstairs to Lottie's room.
The injured girl lay with her face turned towards the door, and, at the sight of Ann, a feverish light leaped into her blue eyes, and she cried excitedly:—
"I'm dying, Miss Ann, I know I'm dying!"
"Oh, I trust not, and indeed I don't think so," answered Ann, speaking calmly though her heart was beating unevenly and she was conscious of a sensation of alarm, for Lottie's countenance was ghastly in its pallor; "Dr. Elizabeth says you must keep quiet—"
"I can't keep quiet," Lottie interrupted; "my brain feels on fire! Miss Ann, there's something I must tell you before I die, something I haven't dared speak of to a soul! Mother, you listen, too!
"Do you remember, one evening last March, when I called at your house, Miss Ann, with some work Malvina had done for Mrs. Reed, and I waited in the hall? Well," she continued as Ann nodded assent, "it was then it happened—what I am going to tell. You had a visitor, a stylishly dressed young lady, and whilst I was waiting, a lady, one of the governesses at Helmsford College—I know because I've seen her walking with some of the pupils—arrived to fetch her home. The young lady came downstairs with her muff under her arm. She was putting on her gloves, and, as she reached the mat at the bottom of the stairs, I saw something fall out of her muff—it was a purse. No one noticed it but me, for it fell on the mat—a sheep's wool mat very thick and soft—and made no sound. I—I—when no one was looking—I picked it up and put it in my pocket, and—and I kept it. Yes, I kept it, although I saw the notices about it posted all over the town. I-I wanted money so much—oh, you don't know how much!"
"Oh, Lottie, Lottie!" wailed Mrs. Medland. She was confident that her daughter was telling the truth; there was no appearance of delirium about her now. "Oh, what could have possessed you to do it? Oh, how could you have been such a wicked, wicked girl? What have you done with the purse? Was there much money in it?" She was wringing her hands distractedly.
"I spent the money in betting," Lottie admitted, still addressing Ann, "it was more than a pound, but I didn't win anything by it. I didn't know what to do with the purse, but one day I showed it to a friend of mine and told her I'd found it, and she suggested that, as I was short of money, I might pawn it. I was afraid the pawnbroker would ask me where I had got it, but he didn't. I said I would rather sell it than pawn it, so he bought it from me for half-a-crown."
There was a brief silence. Ann's face had become almost as pale as the one which rested on the pillow; she was so shocked that she could find no words to say.
"Now you know the sort of girl you offered your friendship to," Lottie proceeded presently, her voice sounding weaker; "it's no good my saying I'm sorry, but, oh, I've suffered terrible! I wanted money so badly, but I've never had a happy moment since I stole the purse. I never dared speak of it till now; if Malvina had known what I'd done 'twould have nigh broken her heart! But I couldn't die with it on my conscience, and I believe I shall die! Oh, Miss Ann, do you think God will forgive a bad girl like me?"
"Oh, yes, indeed He will," Ann rejoined earnestly; "if you are truly sorry for what you have done. God wants to forgive our sins. He sent His own Son to bear the punishment of them, that we might be forgiven if we repent. Tell God that you are truly sorry, Lottie, and ask Him to forgive you for Jesus' sake. If we confess our sins, you know, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins. Oh, poor Lottie, what you must have suffered!"
"You can speak to me like that—so gently and kindly—and me a thief? Why, I thought for certain you'd turn from me when you knew!" Lottie raised herself in bed in her excitement, then sank back again with a groan. "Oh, my head!" she moaned, "how it does ache! And I can scarcely breathe!"
"You must lie still and try not to worry," Ann said soothingly; "you have done very wrongly, but I am sure that you would act very differently now. I am glad you have told me about the purse; but you need not fear that you will be sent to jail for having stolen it; several people will have to be told that you took it, however. When you are better I will come to see you again, you are not fit to talk more at present. Try to keep quiet."
"Are you sure I shall not be arrested and sent to jail?" Lottie asked, feverishly, "I don't mind so much for myself, I feel I don't care what happens to me now, but mother—" She broke off and turned her gaze upon the grief-stricken figure of poor Mrs. Medland.
"No one will wish you to be punished more than you have been," said Ann; "I think your remorse must have been a heavy punishment, indeed."
"Yes," admitted Lottie, and she burst into tears. The next instant her mother's arms were round her, and she was sobbing forth her grief and repentance upon her mother's breast.
Ann left her, still weeping, to Mrs. Medland's care, and went downstairs. She was feeling unnerved herself, and was longing to get home to tell her mother all that had occurred; so, after bidding good-bye to the little charwoman, she and Violet took their departure. They had left the poorer part of the town behind them before Ann was sufficiently composed to give her companion an account of her interview with Lottie, and when at last she did so, it brought an indignant flow of words in return.
It was but natural that Violet should experience a keen sense of resentment against the girl whose act of dishonesty had caused so much pain and humiliation to herself; but, before Laureston Square was reached, her just anger began to cool, and by-and-by she said:—
"I'm sorry if I've spoken too harshly about Lottie, Ann. I daresay, as you say, she was greatly tempted, and—and although I've never done anything actually dishonest, I've done many things I'm ashamed to remember—mean things which haven't been right or straight. Poor Lottie, she must have been in a terrible state of fear all these past weeks since she stole the purse; I daresay she'll be happier in her mind now she's confessed the truth. I do hope she'll get over her accident all right."
"If she does I believe she'll be a different sort of girl," Ann replied. "Your character must be cleared, Violet," she continued, "there will be no difficulty about doing that now; but I wish it could be done without Lottie's being branded as a thief," she added, and with this sentiment Violet cordially acquiesced.
Mrs. Reed was greatly amazed at the news the girls brought her; and, when the doctor returned from his morning round of visits, he was immediately informed of the real facts in connection with the loss of the purse. He listened attentively to all there was to tell, then put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and drew forth the identical article in question, which he handed to Violet who examined it in silence before she passed it to Ann.
"Yes," said Ann, "I believe it is Agnes' purse, don't you, Violet?"
"Oh, Ann, I feel certain it is!" declared Violet, decidedly.
"I feel certain it is, too," agreed Dr. Reed, "for the pawnbroker was able to give me the name of the girl from whom he purchased it. It seems he asked her what she was called and she told him 'Charlotte Medland,' so you see if she had not confessed her sin it would have been brought home to her. The pawnbroker was very glad to let me have the purse for a few shillings; my opinion is that he suspected it had been stolen—he may very probably have seen the bills announcing its loss after having bought it—and was grateful to me for having refrained from seeking police assistance."
"The matter shall be put straight now. I shall give the purse to Miss Orchardson, explain everything to her, and leave her to deal with Miss Agnes Hosking, who doubtless will be satisfied, if she obtains her purse again, to let the thief go Scot free, especially if she gets her money back, too. Yes, I shall certainly make good the money," he said, as his companions glanced at him inquiringly, "for the purse was lost in my house, and—well, I shall feel more satisfied to do so."
It proved that the doctor's surmise was right, for when, on the night of her return to Helmsford College, Miss Orchardson called Agnes Hosking into her private sitting-room, and explained to her that her purse had been found, and put it into her hand, she paid little heed to the headmistress' explanation that she had dropped it at the foot of the stairs at Dr. Reed's, and that it had been picked up by a poor factory girl who had been sent on an errand to the doctor's house, and she did not even inquire the thief's name.
"Why, here is the money too!" she exclaimed, in astonishment and delight, as she opened the purse and saw its contents.
"Yes," assented Miss Orchardson coldly, "so you have actually lost nothing. I trust now that you recognise how cruel and unjustifiable your suspicion of Violet Wyndham has been."
"I—I knew she was poor," stammered Agnes, "and I thought she might have been tempted to take it, and—and—" She paused, quailing beneath the severity of the headmistress' gaze for a minute, then she admitted in an abashed tone: "I have been wrong."
"Very wrong," agreed Miss Orchardson; and, forthwith, she gave Agnes such a talking to as that young person had never listened to in her life before, so that when the girl left her presence, it was as though a veil had been torn from her eyes, and, for the first time, she saw in its true light her past conduct towards the school-fellow she had maligned, and very ugly and mean-spirited it looked.
LOTTIE MEDLAND'S recovery from the serious illness which followed her accident was a slow one, and it was fully a month before she was able to come downstairs again, so that it was well on in November when she at last returned to her work at the factory, looking a pale, fragile girl, whose blue eyes had lost their old furtive, restless expression, and were grave and sad. Her former acquaintances declared she had altered wonderfully, and they soon discovered that the alteration was not only in her outward appearance.
"Bless me, child, how like you are growing to Malvina," Mrs. Medland observed, as she glanced at Lottie across the tea-table one evening, at the conclusion of what had been for both a hard day's work. "I'm glad to see it," she proceeded, as a flush of gratification rose to her daughter's wan cheeks, "and I'm not the only one who's noticed it, for Miss Ann remarked it to me the last time I saw her. I don't think it's so much that you're pale and thin, though may be that has something to do with it, for of course poor Malvina always looked more or less ill; no, I think, as Miss Ann said, that the likeness lies in the expression of your face—a certain look which one catches now and again."
"I am glad Miss Ann can see a likeness in me to Malvina," Lottie said softly. "Oh, mother, how good and considerate Miss Ann has been to me! I quite thought she'd turn from me in horror when she knew what a wicked girl I'd been, and, instead of doing that, she's been kinder than ever. And you, too, mother, you've never reproached me, never even scolded me—"
"Because I saw you were really repentant, Lottie," her mother interposed, "and you were so ill that I feared at one time I was to lose both my daughters. I thank God for sparing you to me, my dear child!"
"Oh, mother! And I have been such a trouble to you and such a disgrace! But I'll try to make amends, indeed I will! Please God I'll be a better daughter to you in the future, and I'll try to show people their goodness to me hasn't been thrown away. Bad girl as I've been, I've had the best friends in the world—Dr. Elizabeth, and Mrs. Reed and Miss Ann, and that pretty Miss Violet who has always a pleasant word for me whenever we meet. I told Dr. Elizabeth once that I'd never bet again; I meant to keep my word, but—I soon broke it. I'm not going to make any promise now, but I shall pray—oh, so earnestly—that I may be helped to turn away from temptation."
There was silence between mother and daughter for a few minutes. At length Mrs. Medland wiped away the glad tears which had risen to her eyes, and said in a voice which faltered with emotion:—
"Oh, Lottie, how I wish Malvina had lived to see you turn over a new leaf! She used to worry about you so much, my dear!"
"I know, I know!" cried Lottie distressfully. "When I was upstairs ill, I was always thinking of Malvina," she continued in a tremulous tone, "how she used to lie there suffering—oh, much worse than I ever suffered—so patient and uncomplaining, and I used to feel I never could be happy again; but one day I thought, maybe, where she has gone she may be able to look down on us here, and if so she knows that I have really and truly repented of my wickedness, and she will be glad. As Miss Ann says, we can't tell how much the dead know. I mean to try to be more like Malvina in future, and I hope I'll never willingly give you trouble again." The girl's voice was intensely sincere.
It was a hard task for Lottie to walk the straight path, for it was most difficult for her to turn her back on her former companions, who could not understand why her illness should have sobered her to such a marked extent, and the vice of gambling had taken such strong hold of her that it offered many temptations still; but she stood firm in her determination to lead a better life. She had had plenty of time for serious thought during her recent illness, and in that little room upstairs, where she had been obliged to spend long days alone whilst her mother had been at work, she had truly been brought to repentance, and had sought forgiveness of the Saviour in whom her sister had so completely trusted. It had therefore not been resting entirely on her own strength that she had taken up her daily life again. In Malvina's Bible she had found a verse marked with a pencil line, and, during her sickness it had been continually in her mind:—
"Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings and not one of them is forgotten before God?"
"And if He watches over and cares for the sparrows," Lottie had thought, "then surely He will not fail to help me," and she had understood why her dead sister had loved the little brown birds, and a sense of sweet comfort had crept into her aching heart.
Ann Reed had paid Lottie several visits during her illness. She had told her that Dr. Reed had purchased the tortoise-shell purse from the pawnbroker and caused it to be returned to its rightful owner, and that he had made good the stolen money. Lottie had said very little on hearing this, though she had wept many tears and sobbed bitterly; in her heart of hearts she had been intensely grateful, but she had been quite incapable of putting her feelings into words.
By Violet's desire, Ann had not mentioned to either Lottie or Mrs. Medland that an innocent person had been suspected of the theft of the purse.
"I don't wish either of them to know I've had to suffer for Lottie's dishonesty," Violet had said decidedly; "they would feel so dreadful about meeting me again if they knew." And Ann had gladly held her peace on the point.
The news that Agnes Hosking's purse had been found had been received with much thankfulness by the Wyndham family; and when, towards the end of November, Dr. Reed and his wife stopped a few days in London on their way home from their holiday in Devonshire and spent an afternoon with the Wyndhams at Streatham, they were able to give the assurance, when questioned, that Violet was now quite happy at Helmsford College, and on the best of terms with most of her school-fellows.
"I hope you will let her remain with us until her education is completed, at any rate," Mrs. Reed said earnestly to Mrs. Wyndham; "for I do not know what Ann would do without her now. The two girls are wonderfully good friends. One of these days you must let Ruth come and stay with us, will you?"
"Oh, what a treat that would be, and how I should enjoy it!" cried Ruth, before her mother had time to reply, her sensitive face flushing brightly at the anticipation of such an unlooked for pleasure. Then she remembered how, a year before, Dr. Reed had spoken of her visiting Barford and nothing had come of it. That, however, had not been the kind doctor's fault.
"I am sure we should be delighted for Ruth to have such a nice change," Mrs. Wyndham said with a smile. "But you must not keep her too long," she went on somewhat plaintively, "for things will be sure to go wrong if she is not here to look after them. My husband relies upon her as much as I do. She is our right hand, Mrs. Reed."
"So I have heard," rejoined Mrs. Reed. "I think it is very nice to know that one is of importance, especially in one's own home," she added, with a kind look at Ruth who blushed more rosily than ever.
Thus it came about that when Dr. and Mrs. Reed returned to Barford, they brought Violet the news that, if all went well, during the Christmas holidays she was to have a visit from her elder sister. Violet's delight was boundless on hearing this, as also was Ann's, and various were the plans the two girls discussed, during the following weeks, as to the way in which Ruth was to be entertained.
More than two-thirds of the winter term had now slipped by without either Ann or Violet having exchanged half a dozen words with Agnes Hosking; they avoided her all they possibly could, nevertheless they were brought more or less in contact with her every day from the fact of her being in the same class at school as themselves. Agnes was not a favourite with the teachers, for she was an indolent girl; she saw no reason why she should work hard as most of the other pupils were doing, for, as she had given everyone at Helmsford College to understand, there never would be any need for her to earn her living. So she idled away the precious hours until those in authority lost patience with her, and, as is generally the way in big schools, the governesses gave their best attention to those more likely to benefit by their instructions.
"Really, Agnes Hosking shows quite a genius for idling," Clara Garret remarked to Violet Wyndham one afternoon subsequent to school hours.
The two girls were alone in one of the class rooms, Violet waiting for Ann Reed who was receiving a music lesson from a visiting master.
"Yes, hasn't she?" said Violet. "I wonder what sort of report she will have sent home at the end of the term; I should like to see it."
"You never speak to her, Violet, do you?"
Violet shook her head. "No," she replied; "once, at the beginning of the term, a day or so after she had regained her purse, she tried to enter into conversation with me, but I wouldn't have it. She began to mumble something about being sorry if she'd hurt my feelings in any way, but I simply turned my back on her, and she hasn't attempted to speak to me since."
"Ann Reed doesn't have anything to do with her either, does she?"
"No. Clara, you can't think how bitter I feel against Agnes still, even now my character has been fully cleared."
"It's only natural you should be resentful, I know I should be. I don't think Agnes has had a very happy time this term, she's had the cold shoulder shown her by several girls whose good opinion she valued."
"Serve her right!" cried Violet vindictively.
"Still the fact of her having money gives her a hold over some who would otherwise taboo her." Clara paused, and looked thoughtful; then, with some hesitation, proceeded to ask: "Violet, do you consider it very wrong to play cards for money?"
"Why, of course I do, don't you? It's gambling!" was the decisive answer.
Clara nodded. "I agree with you," she said; "if I tell you something will you promise to keep it to yourself—it's something I haven't told even to Cicely."
"Then why are you going to tell me?" Violet asked, rather surprised.
"Because I feel I must get the advice of someone, and I know you are to be trusted—so is Cicely, of course, but she isn't strong and she'd be worried and say I ought to confide in Miss Orchardson. The fact is I've found out—but you'll promise to keep this secret, won't you?"
"Yes," assented Violet, her curiosity now thoroughly aroused.
"Well," said Clara, "I've very good reason to believe that gambling goes on at Helmsford College."
"Clara!" Violet's voice was shrill with astonishment.
"Hush! Don't speak so loud as that. Listen, and I'll tell you what I've discovered. You know Cicely and I have a small room to ourselves? Well, Agnes Hosking sleeps in a big room next to ours with three other girls—the two Pelhams and Kitty Majendie—and they sit up late at night playing cards—for money. Oh, no wonder you look incredulous, but it's true!"
"But I thought—surely I've heard you say that one of the governesses always makes a round of the bedrooms every night at ten o'clock in order to see that the girls are in bed and the lights out?"
"Oh, yes! Miss Wilcocks has charge of the rooms on our landing; some of the governesses occasionally pay surprise visits, but she never does. The other night, after she'd been round as usual, I had a most violent attack of toothache; it came on suddenly just as I was dropping off to sleep, and, as you may imagine, it made me wide awake in a minute. I lay still for some time hoping it would pass, but it didn't, and by-and-by I could stand it no longer and determined to go to Miss Wilcocks' room and ask her to give me something to ease the pain—I remembered having heard her say she had some toothache tincture which she had never known fail to effect a cure. Cicely was asleep, so I got up very quietly, put on my dressing-gown, and slipped out into the passage which was all in darkness."
"Well, as I was passing the door of the next room I thought I heard voices, and it occurred to me that one of the girls might have something for toothache, and that if so I need not disturb Miss Wilcocks, so I put my hand on the door handle and turned it, but the door wouldn't open. That surprised me, because there are no keys allowed in the bedroom doors here. I listened and still heard voices, then I gave a gentle knock with my knuckles, and suddenly the voices ceased."
"I waited to see what would happen, and presently I heard something—a box it sounded like—dragged from before the door, and the next minute Agnes Hosking, wrapped in a dressing-gown and shawl, opened the door to me. She was pale and trembling and looked very frightened, but as soon as she recognised me her expression changed; she seemed tremendously relieved and began to laugh in a silly, giggling fashion, and pulled me into the room and shut the door."
"Yes?" said Violet eagerly, as her companion paused to take breath—she had been speaking quickly and excitedly.
"Agnes asked me what I wanted, but I didn't answer at once for I was looking about the room. The three other girls were in bed, but when they saw who it was that had disturbed them they got out, and they were all in their dressing-gowns, too; and Kitty Majendie, who had a pack of cards in her hands, explained that they'd been having a game of Bridge and said that of course I wouldn't tell on them and they would trust to my sense of honour to hold my tongue. Then I inquired if they had any toothache tincture, but they hadn't, so I said good-night and went back to my own room; and, do you know, my toothache had actually gone—I believe the shock I had experienced had driven it away, for it really had been a shock to me to discover what was going on. The next day I asked Kitty Majendie if they played for money, and she admitted that they did, though not for high stakes."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Violet, "but whether they play for little or much the principle is the same—it is gambling. Oh, how dreadful it seems! The idea of gambling going on in a school like this! I wonder what would happen if Miss Orchardson found it out?"
Clara shook her head, she could not tell. "It seems that the Pelhams started this card playing," she said, "their people are rich, and they play cards for money at home, and they have a lot of pocket-money, they have won a good bit from Kitty Majendie and Agnes Hosking. Kitty is a silly, good-natured little creature, you know, who doesn't like to decline to play, and Agnes thinks it's rather a fine thing to do, she says all fashionable people play Bridge."
Violet smiled sarcastically. "Then you have spoken to her about it?" she said inquiringly.
"Yes. I thought I ought to remonstrate with all four of them, but I fear I did no good. The Pelhams and Agnes only laughed at me; Kitty, however, admitted that she couldn't play cards any longer because she had no money to stake. The question is, what ought I to do? If I tell Miss Orchardson I shall most probably get all four girls expelled."
"The Pelhams are leaving at Christmas, anyway," said Violet thoughtfully; "really I hardly know what to advise. I know! Threaten to tell Miss Orchardson unless they promise you not to touch cards again whilst they are at school."
"Yes; I might do that certainly, and I will. I am glad I have taken you into my confidence, Violet; this business has been a real worry to me. Not a word about it to anyone, mind!"
"Not even to Ann?"
"Well, you may tell Ann if you like, but it must go no further. Hush, someone's coming!"
It was Agnes Hosking. She entered the room and began to turn over the books on the table, Clara watching her whilst Violet studiously looked another way.
"What are you searching for?" Clara inquired presently.
"Only my French exercise book," Agnes answered, "I've missed it. I have to rewrite an exercise for Mademoiselle. I wish you'd help me with it, Clara. Do! You understand all about irregular verbs, and I don't."
"Mademoiselle said no one was to help you," Clara reminded her.
"But she won't know!"
An indignant flush rose to Clara's pale cheeks, and she made no answer. Agnes glanced from her to Violet, and laughed uneasily; she had found her exercise book now, and stood with it in her hand, fluttering its pages.
As neither of her companions spoke, after a minute or so she turned to leave the room; on reaching the door she overheard Violet say: "She has no sense of honour whatever."
The remark had not been meant for her ears, so she took no notice of it, but it had made her wince.
"WHAT is amiss with Agnes Hosking, I wonder?"
It was Ann Reed who spoke, one afternoon in mid December, as she and Violet Wyndham were on their way home from school. The girls were walking fast for the air was keen and frosty, and it was as much as they could do to keep warm in the face of the easterly wind. Violet, who had been absorbed in her own thoughts—very pleasant ones for they had been of Ruth's approaching visit—turned a surprised glance upon her companion as she said:—
"Is there anything amiss with her? I haven't noticed. What do you mean?"
"I mean that she's looking thin, and ill, and very unhappy. I've remarked it to myself for days past, and this morning she appeared so miserable that I asked her if she was not well—I had not spoken to her before this term. She replied that she was quite well and appeared decidedly annoyed at my question, in fact she was rather rude to me, and said she hated to be watched. As though I had been watching her!" Ann concluded with a heightened colour.
"What an ill-mannered girl she is!" Violet cried contemptuously, "I wish you had not spoken to her, Ann," she continued, looking vexed, "why did you? It was too bad of her to snub you when I am sure you only meant to be kind."
"Yes, I only meant to be kind. I think my speaking to her took her by surprise and she answered as she did to prevent my questioning her further. I believe she is very unhappy about something; I should like to know what it is—not from curiosity, but because if I did I might be able to help her."
"But, Ann, I thought you had decided never to have anything more to do with her!" exclaimed Violet, in great astonishment.
"Yes, I had, but I've been thinking, with Christmas coming, Violet, the time of peace and good-will—" Ann broke off with an appealing glance. Violet frowned. She considered Ann absurdly soft-hearted. Was it really a fact that Agnes was unhappy? she wondered. Well, it served her quite right if she was.
"I have been thinking a great deal of Agnes lately," Ann continued, after a long pause, "especially since you told me about her card playing. I suppose she has really given it up?"
"Oh, yes!" Violet answered, "Clara Garret insisted upon that. She took my advice and threatened to report her and the Pelhams and Kitty Majendie to Miss Orchardson if they did not solemnly promise never again to touch cards whilst they were at school. They all gave the promise, and even went so far as to burn the packs of cards, so I think that's all right. Clara tells me that she finds out the Pelhams have won all Kitty Majendie's money from her."
"What a shame!" cried Ann indignantly; "I believe Kitty's people are by no means rich."
"No, they are not, so she won't have any pocket-money for the rest of the term. It's a good thing she lost instead of winning, for she says she's had enough of Bridge and she never means to gamble again; she was quite horrified when Clara told her playing cards for money was gambling, she hadn't looked upon it in that light, strange though it seems. She's a silly, frivolous, little butterfly who doesn't think deeply about anything, I really don't believe she meant to do wrong. It's fortunate for her that the Pelhams are leaving at the end of the term, for, without meaning it, they do her a great deal of harm," Violet concluded shrewdly.
"I know very little of the Pelhams," said Ann, rather surprised, "I always liked them very well, but, as they are older than I am, we have not clashed much."
"Clara says their mother is a very gay, fashionable woman whose doings are all reported in the ladies' papers, and she is considered a great beauty; but her girls scarcely know anything of her, and when they were little children they only saw her two or three times a week."
"Poor girls! I suppose, though, they will see more of her when they leave school?"
"Oh, yes! They will be presented at court by-and-by, and properly introduced into society, and their mother will not be satisfied till she finds them rich husbands—this is what they tell Clara Garret."
"What a way to talk! Do they really mean it?"
"Oh, I expect so. Agnes Hosking envies them, I believe; I heard her say once that she would like nothing better than to be in a high position and have nothing to do but to enjoy herself."
"But many people in high positions lead unselfish, hard-working lives, Violet. Mother has a friend, with whom she went to school, who married a rich man, a member of Parliament who is now a cabinet minister, of course she and her husband have to entertain a great deal and are regularly in society, but she doesn't give up her life to enjoyment, she is always busying herself for the welfare of others, and I am quite sure she doesn't neglect her children."
"Then she must be very different from Mrs. Pelham. I suppose some people would be unselfish and care for their fellow creatures whatever their position. No, I don't think it's a question of position. But to revert to Agnes Hosking, Ann; what can there possibly be to trouble her? I thought she had everything heart could desire."
"Well, you take notice of her to-morrow, and, afterwards, tell me if you see any alteration in her appearance."
This Violet agreed to do. Accordingly, the following morning during school hours, she observed Agnes more closely than she had done for weeks past. Yes, Ann was right, Agnes was not looking well; she had become much thinner and there were dark rims beneath her eyes as though she had had sleepless nights, whilst her whole appearance was one of listlessness and dejection. Once she caught Violet's gaze fixed upon her and turned her head aside quickly, whilst a deep flush rose to her cheeks. Violet refrained from looking at her after that, remembering her remark to Ann that she hated to be watched.
"Well, did you take notice of Agnes Hosking as you said you would?" Ann asked Violet, later. "Was I not right in thinking her changed?"
"Quite right," Violet agreed; "she is looking very miserable, but it's nothing to do with us if she is—I'm certainly not going to trouble about her."
But Violet thought about Agnes a great deal during the next few days, and one afternoon she was surprised into speaking to her.
It happened thus. She was waiting for Ann, who was having her music lesson, when Agnes appeared in the class-room, where Violet was alone looking over one of her lessons for the next day, and took a chair exactly opposite to her at the table where she was seated. At first Violet did not look up from her book, but by-and-by she stole a furtive peep at her companion and saw that she had opened an exercise book over which she was poring, but not writing, though she held a pen in her hand. Violet turned her attention to her own work after that one momentary glance; but presently she looked at Agnes again, and this time her gaze became rivetted on the other's downcast face which struck her as a picture of misery, so full was it of unhappy thought; then, obeying a sudden impulse, born of curiosity, she asked:—
"Agnes, what is it? Are you in trouble?"
Agnes glanced up quickly, but she did not answer. Her eyes were full of tears, and one rolled down her cheek unheeded. Violet's face softened involuntarily, and she exclaimed:—
"Yes, I see you are! Can I help you? Oh, what is amiss?"
Still Agnes made no response; she simply covered her face with her hands and burst into a passion of sobs and tears. Violet watched her with a sensation of mingled astonishment and dismay till she had somewhat regained her composure, then continued:—
"I don't know the cause of your unhappiness, but I am really sorry—"
"Sorry?" interrupted Agnes, "do you mean it?" She uncovered her crimson, tear-stained countenance, and looked doubtfully at Violet. "Are you indeed really sorry?" she asked.
"Yes, of course I am or I should not say so."
"I should have thought you would have been glad!"
Violet flushed and was silent for a minute, then she said candidly: "I am rather surprised myself that I am not. I have thought very hard things of you, Agnes."
"Not harder than I have deserved."
"Perhaps not; nevertheless, I am sorry for you now, for I see you are very unhappy, and if I can do anything to help you I will, gladly."
"You can't do anything, thank you, but I—I should like to tell you—I wonder you haven't heard—I should have thought Ruth would have written—hasn't she told you about my father?"
"No," Violet replied, shaking her head and wondering at the other's incoherent utterance. "Is he ill, Agnes?" she inquired.
"Oh, no! He's failed."
"Failed?" Violet echoed, not understanding.
"Yes. He's lost all his money, and everything he has will be sold—even our house and furniture."
"Oh, dear! How dreadful for him!"
"Yes, and dreadful for me, too! Oh, I hate the thought of being poor, I hate it! Think what it means for me, Violet! I didn't realise all it meant at first when father wrote and said he'd met with heavy financial losses and that he'd arranged with Miss Orchardson for me to leave here for good at the end of the term—I'm not coming back to Helmsford College again. But, since, I've heard from my grandmother, and she says father will have to begin the world afresh, and she cannot help him because he's borrowed a lot of money from her and lost it, but she is going to make a home for me. Oh, Violet, she's such a cross old thing! Think what a life I shall lead with her! And—and she says that after my education is finished—she's going to send me to a school at Bath—I shall have to earn my own living. Oh, dear!"
"Oh, I would not trouble about that if I were you," Violet said in a consolatory tone, "a great many girls have to earn their own livings; I, for one, shall have to do so, I expect."
"Yes, but it's different for you! You've always known it, and you haven't wasted your time at school as I have."
This was very true. Violet sat silently thinking, her heart full of pity as she looked at the dejected figure opposite her at the table.
"Oh, I am sorry for you!" she cried at length; "and for poor Mr. Hosking, too! I suppose you are very fond of your father, are you not?"
"Yes." Agnes' face quivered, and her tears flowed again. There was a soft spot in her heart for the father who had showed his affection for her by an over-indulgence which had done much to make her the selfish girl she was. "It must be very hard lines for him," she went on; "he said in his last letter that he was glad my mother had not lived to see him a ruined man—you know mother died when I was quite a little girl, I hardly remember her at all. Poor father! I wish he wouldn't send me to grandmother; I'd so much rather be with him, but he says that's impossible now. I am afraid he's very, very poor! Fancy my father poor!"
"Yes, fancy!" Violet said dreamily. It was difficult to realise it indeed. How strange it was that she should be made Agnes' confidante, she who had suffered so much at her hands!
Perhaps Agnes guessed something of what was passing through her companion's mind, for by-and-by she said in a voice, the faltering accents of which expressed real regret:—
"I don't suppose that after school breaks up at Christmas you and I will ever meet again. Before we part I want to ask you to try to forgive me for—for having suspected that you took my purse; I want you to understand that I really am sorry—I tried to tell you so at the beginning of the term, but you would not listen. And I am sorry, too, for all the rude, unkind remarks I used to make to you and your sisters when we were at Miss Minter's, and for the way I spoke to Ann Reed that day at Streatham. Do—do believe me."
The girl's tone was earnest and sincere, but Violet was too surprised to make an immediate reply.
"I have behaved abominably to you all along," Agnes continued, "I took a delight in making you feel your position, and now it is I who am poor, and I haven't a friend in the world—not one I can rely on. I've seen as much of the Pelhams and Kitty Majendie as I have of anyone, but they'll never give me a second thought, especially when they hear, as they are sure to do, that my father has lost his money. I was sent to Helmsford College to make friends and I haven't made one; I've been all wrong somehow—"
"I should have been all wrong, too, if it hadn't been for my coming to live with the Reeds," Violet interposed eagerly; "I came to Barford envious of those better off than myself, and, oh, so selfish, and—and, as you know, I was ashamed of my poor little home at Streatham. Then, as I grew to know Ann Reed and to understand her simple, noble character, I began to see things in a different light, and—but, hush, she's coming! Yes, yes, I forgive you!" she added hastily, in response to Agnes' imploring look.
A minute later Ann entered the room. Her eyes rested first on Agnes' tear-stained countenance, then turned questioningly to Violet.
"What is wrong?" she inquired in a voice of concern.
"Shall I tell her, Agnes?" asked Violet, and, receiving a nod for assent, she proceeded to explain: "Agnes is in very great trouble, Ann, because her father has lost all his money."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Ann sympathetically. She laid a kindly hand on Agnes' arm. "I'm so sorry to hear this bad news, so very, very sorry," she said earnestly; "has he really lost all his money?"
"Yes," sighed Agnes, "but please don't mention it to the other girls."
"Most certainly not. This is indeed a great trouble for you."
"I could not well have a greater," was the despondent response.
"Oh, yes, you could. There are many greater troubles than the loss of money. You still have your father, remember."
Further talk of a private nature was impossible after that, for several of the boarders came into the room, and Agnes bent her head over her exercise book to hide her tear-blurred countenance from their view. Ten minutes later Violet and Ann were on their way home, conversing confidentially. Violet repeated, nearly word for word, all Agnes had said to her, whilst her companion listened with the deepest interest.
"I cannot help feeling sympathy for her," Violet remarked, at the conclusion of her tale, "no, I really cannot help it."
"But you do not want to help it, do you?" inquired Ann, with a smile.
"Well—no. Still it's astonishing that I should be sorry for Agnes Hosking; even this morning I should have said it was impossible, for there's no doubt about it I have borne malice against her. If anyone had told me of her father's misfortunes I should have been sorry for Mr. Hosking, but I know I should have been glad to think Agnes would have to experience what poverty means; but when I saw how miserable she was, my one thought was what to say to console her."
"Oh, Violet, I am so glad—glad that you felt like that, I mean!" cried Ann.
"Yes, so am I," Violet admitted; "I might have taken my revenge on Agnes by reminding her that she didn't deserve my sympathy or forgiveness, but I simply couldn't. Well I've forgiven her now, and I must try not to think bitterly of her again."
"OH, Ann, I do feel so excited!" The speaker was Violet Wyndham, and her pretty face, with its bright colour, smiling lips, and sparkling eyes, was witness to the truth of her statement. It was within a few days of Christmas, the school term having ended on the previous afternoon, and she and Ann had been putting the finishing touches to the room which had been prepared for the visitor who was expected to arrive on the morrow.
"Oh, how delightful it will be to see dear old Ruthie," she continued; "I expect her box is packed by this time. I wonder how they will manage without her at home!"
"It is very good of your mother to spare her to us," said Mrs. Reed, entering the room at that instant; "we must try to make her visit a happy one."
"Oh, I am sure it will be that!" Violet cried sanguinely, her brown eyes softening with gratitude as she turned them upon Mrs. Reed who was glancing around to see that everything was as it should be. "You are so very, very kind," she proceeded, "it was so like you to give this invitation to Ruthie, and I can't express how glad I am that she could accept it. It seems so wonderful that we should have such friends! As for me—I shall never be able to repay you for your goodness to me as long as I live! I know I must have worried you a great deal at first, I was so untidy and careless, but I've really improved in that way of late, haven't I?" she questioned anxiously.
"Yes," assented Mrs. Reed, with a smile; "you most certainly have. The room looks very nice, girls, I don't think there is anything more to be done to it."
"We must be in good time to meet Ruth at the station to-morrow," remarked Ann; "I hope her train will not be overcrowded. She has never travelled alone before, has she, Violet?"
"Never," Violet answered. "I wonder how Agnes Hosking is feeling," she observed reflectively, a moment later, a sudden gravity overshadowing her countenance; "she must be a good way on her journey by this time—she will have a very long journey, as she has to go right through London and on to Bath."
"I am afraid she will have a miserable Christmas," said Ann; "I think I never saw anyone more depressed and unhappy than she was when we said good-bye to her yesterday. 'I shall never see you again,' she said, 'and you will have only unpleasant memories of me.' We did not know what to say to her, as you may imagine, mother, for of course we could not contradict her."
"I have the greatest difficulty in realising that she is poor, it seems incredible," said Violet; "I used to think she was to be envied because she always had plenty of money to spend and we had so little, and Ruthie used to get so vexed with me. Well, I certainly have no cause to be envious of Agnes now, for she is more wretched than anyone I ever knew."
"She is intensely selfish and pities herself extremely," said Ann; "I believe she is rather inclined to blame her father for losing his money; she said she thought he must have been foolish and reckless, and yet I am positive she loves him."
"Poor girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Reed. "Perhaps poverty will teach her a great deal she has never learnt yet," she proceeded thoughtfully, "and to be kinder and more considerate to other people; she will be called upon to make sacrifices now, and that may be the very discipline she wants."
"I hope she will never gamble again," said Ann gravely, "I spoke to her about it and remarked what dreadful things it often led people to do, but she did not seem in the least impressed until I told her all about Lottie Medland—of course I did not mention Lottie by name, only as the girl who stole her purse."
"And you say she was impressed then?" Mrs. Reed inquired.
"Yes. She tried, at first, to argue that betting and gambling were different matters altogether, but by-and-by she admitted that the principle of each was the same—the desire to gain money at another's expense. Then she reminded me that people in good society gambled, and I said that I didn't think any society could be truthfully called 'good' in which such a wicked practice was tolerated, and that if people in high positions would only taboo it those in the lower classes of society would follow their example—I heard father say that the other day. Oh, we had quite a warm argument, I can tell you."
"Yes, indeed," nodded Violet, "and in the end she was obliged to allow there was a great deal in all Ann had said, and she promised to bear it in mind."
"I hope she will," Mrs. Reed said gravely; "I trust there will be no playing cards for money at Helmsford College next term, if so it ought certainly to be brought to the knowledge of Miss Orchardson. It is a good thing those Pelhams have left, girls like those do a great deal of harm in a school and always exercise a bad influence over their companions."
"Now, my dears," she continued in a brisker tone, "I'm going to tell you something which I know will give you pleasure—it is about Lottie Medland. I met Dr. Elizabeth when I was in the town doing my shopping this morning, and she spoke of Lottie to me, said how greatly the girl had changed for the better in every way since her illness, and that she believed she would keep steady now and live to be a real comfort to her mother. Of course I was very, very glad to hear this, especially as it came from Dr. Elizabeth; for she has so many acquaintances among the factory hands that she would be sure to find out the truth about Lottie. Then she went on to tell me that Lottie is beginning to save money and is putting by something every week, sometimes only a few coppers, sometimes more; and why do you think she is doing this?"
"I don't know," Violet replied, "to buy something she fancies, I suppose?"
"To have a nest egg against a rainy day?" suggested Ann.
"No," smiled Mrs. Reed, "she is doing it in hope of being able to repay the money she stole—"
"But, mother, she knows that Agnes has had the money repaid to her," broke in Ann, "I told her that father had made it good."
"She intends to return the money to your father, Ann; she has talked the matter over with Dr. Elizabeth, who has consented to keep her savings for her till she has the full amount. I was very glad to hear this of Lottie, for it shows that she is grateful to your father and feels her indebtedness to him. I shall certainly advise him to accept the money; it will take her some time to save it, though, poor girl!"
"Yes, indeed it will," agreed Violet.
"I can realise how she feels," said Ann; "I am sure she will be happier in her mind if she can make the money good. I know father hasn't given a second thought to the money itself and never expects it to be repaid. How surprised he will be when he gets it back! We must go and see the Medlands before Christmas, Violet."
"You shall take a Christmas pudding with you as a gift from me to Mrs. Medland," said Mrs. Reed.
"Let us wait till after to-morrow, then Ruthie will be able to go with us!" cried Violet; "I want her to see the old part of the town."
"We must show her all we can whilst she is with us," Ann replied; "it shall not be our fault if she does not have a thoroughly good time."
And it was a thoroughly good time Ruth enjoyed during those Christmas holidays, a time to be subsequently remembered with keenest gratitude and pleasure; for, as she remarked to her sister on the evening of her arrival at Barford, there was nothing in the background to worry her, and she had left those at home well, and in the best of spirits.
It was a new experience for Ruth to be made the first consideration, and she thoroughly appreciated the novelty of the situation. The weather, though cold, was remarkably fine for the season, and thus there were favourable opportunities for taking her to various places in the neighbourhood. She had some delightful drives with the doctor in his gig; and old Mrs. Garret, hearing that a sister of Violet's was visiting at the Reeds', wrote and gave the three girls an invitation to spend a long day with her grand-daughters, an invitation which was promptly accepted. Ruth had never before seen such a picturesque home as Mrs. Garret's fine old country house standing, as it did, in the midst of scenery which, in spite of the season being winter, impressed her with its beauty; and she was charmed with the sweet-faced, white-haired old lady, who welcomed her so cordially, and the two gentle-mannered girls, upon whom she looked with especial favour because she knew they had been kind and loyal to the sister she loved so well.
"I think I never enjoyed Christmas holidays so much before," remarked Ann in a tone of satisfaction, one evening early in January, when Dr. and Mrs. Reed had gone out to dine with friends, and she and the sisters were passing the time in chatting whilst they sat by the drawing-room fire; "as a rule they have rather dragged—when mother's been out of the way, you know, and I've had no one to talk to. It's so nice to have companions of one's own age. I hope you don't begrudge Violet to me now, Ruth; I had rather an idea in the summer, at Teymouth, that you did."
"I don't know that I ever actually begrudged her to you," Ruth answered, colouring as she spoke; "but I was rather afraid that you might wean her from us—not intentionally, though."
"Oh, Ruthie!" cried Violet, whilst Ann looked her surprise; "certainly Ann and I have become great friends, but I love you and all of them at home as much as I ever did—more, I believe."
"Yes, but it might have been otherwise," Ruth reminded her; "I thought you might learn to despise your home. You see I didn't know Mrs. Reed and Ann when you left home, Vi. You are so different from what I had pictured you, Ann."
"Now I do wonder what you and Violet thought I should be like," said Ann, looking puzzled; "I wish you would tell me, for I have so often been curious upon the point and wanted to know. Both of you have told me the same, that I am different from what you had pictured me."
"Shall I tell her, Ruth?" asked Violet, laughing mischievously. Then, as her sister nodded assent, she continued: "Well, one day, after Dr. Reed had been to see us at Streatham, we were speaking of you, and mother called you Prosperity's child—"
"Prosperity's child!" broke in Ann, opening her grey eyes very wide in her surprise. "Prosperity's child?" she echoed, inquiringly.
"Yes," nodded Violet, "I'd been wondering what you were like, and I said, I remember, that I expected you had everything heart could desire. Oh, I was in a horrid, grumbling mood! and mother said that doubtless you had all that father and she would give me if they could, and she reminded me that I was a poor man's daughter and that you were—Prosperity's child. You see we knew that your father had got on well in the world, and we thought—I'm speaking of Ruth and myself now, I don't know what mother's ideas were—that you wouldn't understand anything about the pinches and privations some people get. That's why I was shy about talking of our home to you at first; you see I'd often heard father say that prosperity spoilt people—"
"Some people," corrected Ruth hastily, "he said prosperity had not spoilt Dr. Reed."
"But we didn't know the effect it might have had on you, you know, Ann," Violet went on; "I thought you would be proud and—and selfish very likely, and want to have everything all your own way, and I believe I half feared you might look down on me—Oh, I know you never did! You have all along showed me more consideration than I deserved." She paused a moment, then continued:—
"When I came here first I was surprised at a great many things; I saw that Mrs. Reed managed the house carefully that she might have more to give away, and—and it astonished me that you should take so much interest in people I should never have thought of having anything to do with myself—people like the Medlands, for instance. And I had actually been afraid that you might be a girl like Agnes Hosking, Ann!"
"Poor Agnes!" exclaimed Ann. Her face was growing less puzzled. She had been looking grave and a little hurt, but now a faint, amused smile hovered around her lips. "Poor Agnes," she repeated in pitying accents, "I wonder if we shall ever hear of her again?"
"Not very likely," replied Violet; "Ruth says all Mr. Hosking's belongings at Streatham were sold, and no one seems to know what has become of him."
"People do not interest themselves much about their neighbours in London," said Ruth; "I believe Mr. Hosking used to entertain a good bit, but I expect his friends have turned cold shoulders on him now."
"Then they could not have been real friends," declared Ann. "Oh, I do feel sorry for him and for Agnes too—she has no real friends either, poor girl! I am sure she is heartily ashamed now of the way she treated you over the loss of her purse, Violet."
"So she ought to be," asserted Violet; "there is only one thing to be said for her, that she really did believe I had taken her purse. Well, it's an old story now, and I've forgiven her, so we'll talk of something pleasanter."
"Have you really forgiven her, Vi?" Ruth asked eagerly.
"Yes," nodded Violet, "I thought I never could, but I have. I've often wondered of late whether, if I'd been brought up in the same way as Agnes, I might not have been rather like her; for when I came to Barford a year ago I set great store on wealth and social position, but I've grown to see since then that it's a good thing to be rich only if you help others with your money and don't spend it all on yourself, otherwise you're better without it. So many rich folks are selfish and do nothing but please themselves, they are not like Dr. Elizabeth—I'm so glad you know Dr. Elizabeth, Ruth."
"So am I," Ruth answered. She had spent an evening with her sister and Ann at the lady doctor's house, on an occasion when the latter had entertained a party of factory girls, and had enjoyed herself very much.
"She is the most unselfish person I know," said Ann; "for if she had liked she might have lived at ease all her days; instead, see what a busy, hard-working life hers has been and always will be, I expect. She said to me once that God had given her great opportunities of working for Him and that she must try to make the most of them."
"God gives very few people great opportunities," Ruth remarked. "But we can all do our best with those we have," she added thoughtfully.
"Yes," agreed Ann; "we must believe God gives us just what is best for us, and do all the good we can."
"It sounds very simple," commented Violet, "but it's not very easy to carry it out. I suppose to do good one must be good. Ann, do you remember that verse Dr. Elizabeth quoted to us? I've so often thought of it since:—"
"'Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever,
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life, Death, and that vast "For-ever"
One grand sweet song.'"
"I like that," declared Ruth heartily, "Of course goodness ought to come first. It is not given to us all to be clever, I am not in the least clever myself—"
"Why I am sure you have a great talent for painting," interrupted Ann, "you cannot think how much that sketch you did of Granny's cottage has been admired! So many people have noticed it, haven't they, Violet?"
Violet assented, and Ruth naturally looked very pleased. The conversation then turned to Teymouth and the probability of the families of Reed and Wyndham meeting there in August, and, by-and-by, as it was growing late and they were not to sit up till the return of Dr. and Mrs. Reed, the trio went to bed.
On the following morning Ann received a letter with the Bath postmark, which proved to be a few lines from Agnes Hosking saying that her father had decided to emigrate to New Zealand, to join a brother of his who was settled there as a sheep farmer and had offered to give him a helping hand, and that she was to accompany him.
"I could remain with my grandmother if I liked," she wrote; "but I prefer to go with father. You seemed to care about what was to become of me, so that is why I am letting you know. Perhaps, some day, I may write again, and if I do I will give you my address. You and Violet Wyndham have no cause to think of me kindly, yet I know you both wish me well, and I am grateful for that. If you think I'm worth a second thought you might pray for me—I know you believe in prayer, and I don't think anyone ever prayed for me yet."
"Poor girl," said Mrs. Reed, when her daughter read this letter aloud to her and the two Wyndham girls; "it may be this is the turning point in her career. I am glad she is going with her father. We must all of us remember her in our prayers."
"Fancy her saying no one ever prayed for her yet!" exclaimed Violet; "how sad that seems!" And her bright eyes grew dim with sympathetic tears, whilst the last lingering trace of resentment in her heart against her erstwhile enemy died out altogether.
At the end of another week Ruth's visit came to an end. She parted from her sister very cheerfully, content in the knowledge that, strange though it seemed, Violet had actually drawn nearer to her in heart and soul during their separation. That this was owing to Ann's influence Ruth knew very well, and her heart was full to overflowing with love and gratitude towards this true friend—Prosperity's Child.
PRINTED BY
TURNBULL AND SPEARS.
EDINBURGH