The girls visited Hunt’s well-known shop in the Broad and gave their orders. Lettie’s were extensive. She must have pictures. Burne-Jones’ “Love among the Ruins,” “The Happy Warrior” by Watts, “St. Cecilia and a Choir of Angels” by Van Eyck, and other treasures were secured. Knick-knacks also were bought by the young lady, who had a keen eye to effect. She bought big jars of dark-blue china, a few cups and saucers, two or three plates, a fan or two, a couple of screens, a few æsthetic-looking tablecloths, and a piano-clothto cover the back of her chest of drawers. A pretty little tea-service, a brass kettle, and a tea-table which could fold up and be put out of the way when not needed for use, were also secured. Finally she treated herself to a great bunch of flowers and some flowering plants.
Her purchases took time, and in spite of themselves Eileen and Marjorie were interested. After a great deal of persuasion they were induced to buy a table and some very plain cups and saucers.
“We will not get any more; it is downright sinful waste,” said Marjorie, frowning as she spoke.
“All right,” said Lettie. “I am not going to influence you. You are at present under the awful eye of Belle Acheson. By and by you will see for yourselves that it is the height of nonsense not to live in comfort when you can. Now, look at Miss Gilroy; she has more sense than to make herself miserable when she need not.”
“I certainly do not intend to make myself miserable,” said Leslie. “There are several useful purchases that I must make. I have the misfortune,” she continued, glancing from one girl to the other, “to sleep in the room with a genius, and must provide accordingly.”
“It is such a pity you cannot have a room to yourself,” said Eileen. “I trust the annoyance won’t last long.”
“I hope not,” said Leslie. “Yes, I must have one of those pretty art table-cloths, and then I want to go to a grocer’s where I can buy cocoa and biscuits and tinned milk.”
After a good deal of time spent in making their various purchases, the girls returned to the college well laden. They met several of their companions, who nodded to them kindly.
“I consider that we are now settled in college and thatour real life begins to-morrow,” said Leslie. “I have arranged about my work, and mean to study hard after dinner to-night.”
“You won’t have much chance of that,” said a merry voice, and Jane Heriot came up.
“Why so?” asked Leslie.
“How do you do?” said Jane, nodding to the two Chetwynd girls. She then turned to Leslie.
“I will tell you why you won’t have any chance, Miss Gilroy. A whole party are coming to visit you in your rooms this evening; it is the custom, and you must submit. You will see half of us to-night and half of us to-morrow; but after that you will be left in peace. If you like our society you can have it; if you don’t—why, you can keep as lonely as you like. But this evening and to-morrow you must put up with us; it is the fate of all freshers.”
In less than a week’s time the four freshers were completely settled into the life at St. Wode’s. They had their work marked out for them, the lectures they were to attend were definitely arranged, the books they were to read were selected, some from the library, some from Green’s in the Broad. They joined the tennis, racquets, and boating clubs; Eileen and Marjorie, having submitted to the necessary test, were made full-blown members of the latter club immediately. Leslie had to take a few swimming lessons before she could do so.
Annie Colchester had begun to make friends with Leslie. She submitted to her roomfellow’s ministrations at night, gulping down the cup of hot cocoa which Leslie, evening after evening, presented to her, drinking it, it is true, as one in a dream, her red-brown eyes looking far ahead of her, her heavy brows contracted in an anxious frown. Nevertheless she got into bed in reasonable time, and Leslie saw that her feet were no longer cold nor her forehead burning.
Leslie determined to try for honors in English language and literature. Her tastes all lay in this direction, her idea being by and by to follow her mother’s profession of journalism, for which she already showed considerable aptitude. As she intended to aim at a first, or, at least, second class, her range of study was very wide; and German, French, and Italian literature had to be more or less understood in order to give her a thorough andcomplete grip of her subject. But Leslie was a healthy girl; she had been well trained, she had plenty of self-possession, and an abundance of strong common-sense. She had no idea of allowing herself to break down. In order to avoid such a catastrophe, she divided her hours carefully, allowing a certain amount for recreation and a certain amount also for the guiding of her wayward companion, to whom, as the days went on, she became really attached.
As to Annie herself, this was the first time she had ever permitted the advances of any student. This large room at St. Wode’s had been more or less of a worry to the governors, and it was finally settled, when Annie’s time to leave the college arrived, that it should be divided by a partition and let in future to two students. Up to the present no girl had ever stayed more than one term with Annie. Remembering this, Annie, one day toward the middle of the term, raised her eyes from her books and fixed them on Leslie.
“You will be glad when the term is over, won’t you?” she said abruptly.
“What do you mean?” replied Leslie.
“Why, you will be parting from me, you know. I won’t be the constant worry and plague of your life. If I take honors I shall be leaving St. Wode’s. In any case, you are quite certain to wish for another room, and to get it also next term. If I do remain, therefore, I shall be plagued with some terrible student of the Florrie Smart or Jane Heriot style. I nearly went mad over the last one; you can scarcely guess what a relief you are, by way of contrast.”
“Thank you very much indeed for saying anything so nice,” replied Leslie; “and perhaps now you will allow me in my turn to make a remark. It is this: If by anychance you don’t leave St. Wode’s, Annie, I hope you will allow me to be your roomfellow again next term.”
“Do you mean it?” said Annie, a flash of light coming into her eyes, and then leaving them. “But,” she added abruptly, “you speak of something which must not take place. I must pass in honors; if I don’t I shall die.”
“And you are certain to succeed,” said Leslie in a tone of sympathy. “I wish I could feel as sure of taking honors by and by in literature. I find these modern languages so very stiff.”
“What are you studying now?” asked Annie.
“I have to take German literature from 1500 to the death of Goethe,” said Leslie. “The course is enormous, and I am sometimes almost in despair.”
“But you have only just come; you can easily manage, and in any case, even if you fail——”
“I do not mean to fail any more than you do,” replied Leslie.
Annie did not smile. Her queer red-brown eyes with their distended pupils gazed straight before her.
“It can never mean the same to you,” she said at last in a solemn voice, and then she looked down again at her book, pushed her hands through her red locks, and resumed her contemplation of the problem which lay before her.
A few moments later there came a tap at the door. Annie did not hear it. Leslie opened the door.
Jane Heriot stood without.
“These letters have just come for you and Annie Colchester,” she said: “and, as I was coming upstairs, I thought I would leave them with you.”
Leslie thanked her and eagerly grasped the little parcel. There were two letters for herself—one from her mother and one from Llewellyn. Her eyes shone withpleasure at the anticipation of the delightful time she would have reveling in the home news; the other letter was directed to Annie Colchester.
Now Leslie had not failed to remark that Annie seldom or never got letters, that she had made no real friends in the college, and that, as far as she could tell, she seemed to have no special friend anywhere.
“Here is a letter for you, Annie,” cried Leslie. “I am so glad that you have got one at last——”
She took the letter as she spoke over to Annie, who started up, dropped her pen, and stood with both hands outstretched.
“It has come,” she cried: “at last I have news.”
Her face grew suddenly white as death.
“What is it, dear?” said Leslie with sympathy.
“At last I have news,” repeated Annie. “I have been starving, or, rather, I have been thirsting. You cannot tell what a thirst like mine means; and this, this is a cup of cold water.”
“Well, read it in peace,” said Leslie. “I won’t disturb you. I am truly glad it has come.”
Leslie seated herself with her back to her companion and opened her own letters. After a time she looked round. Annie was standing just where she was when she received the letter; both her hands were clutching it tightly, her eyes were fixed upon the written words, and her face was white.
“Have you had bad news?” said Leslie.
“Don’t notice me,” replied Annie. She crushed the letter up tight, thrust it into her pocket, and said abruptly, “What is the hour?”
“It is quite late—between ten and eleven.”
“I don’t care. I must go into the grounds; the air is stifling.”
“But they are just shutting up.”
“I shall go—I know a way. Don’t say a word. I’ll be back presently.”
She seized a small cloth cap which she was fond of wearing, and ran out of the room.
Leslie stood and thought about her for a moment or two; but then her own correspondence absorbed her, and she did not notice when eleven and even twelve struck.
Just after midnight she rose with a sigh to prepare for bed. She looked round the room. There was no sign of Annie Colchester.
“How stupid of me to have forgotten about her,” she thought with compunction. “She ought to have been in bed and to have taken her cocoa an hour ago. Oh! now I remember; she got a letter which upset her very much and went out. Dear, dear! where can she be?”
Leslie went to the window and flung it open; she put her head out, and tried to peer into the darkness; but the moon had already set, and she could not see more than a couple of yards in front of her. She ventured to call Annie’s name softly; there was no reply. She shut the window.
“There is nothing for it but for me to go and look for her,” she said to herself. “She is a very queer, erratic creature; and that letter—there was bad news in that letter. Poor girl, she spoke of it as cold water to the thirsty; she looked when I saw her last as if it had half killed her. What can she be doing out by herself? Yes, I must find her without delay.”
Leslie left the room; but she had scarcely gone a dozen paces down the corridor before she met Annie returning. Annie’s eyes were very bright, her cheeks were no longer pale, and there was a brilliant color in them. She did not take the least notice of Leslie; but, going into theroom, shut the door. Leslie opened it and followed her.
“Dear me, Annie!” she said, “I was quite frightened about you.”
“Don’t begin,” said Annie.
“Don’t begin! What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t want you to begin to ask questions. I am going to get into bed, and to remain perfectly quiet, and you are not to ask me one question about anything. I want to sleep. I walked up and down as fast as ever I could outside in order to make myself sleepy. Don’t talk to me, Leslie; don’t say a single word. I shall go off to sleep—that is all I care for.”
“But your letter, dear?”
“Don’t,” said Annie. “I am not going to confide in you; so don’t think it. I only want to get into bed and to sleep.”
Leslie did not venture to say any more. She lit the little spirit-lamp, put on the milk to boil, and prepared the cocoa as usual. When Annie’s cup was ready, brimful and frothy, and looking as tempting as it could, she brought it to her with a biscuit.
“Now, drink this at once,” she said in a voice of authority, “if you really wish to sleep.”
Annie stared vacantly at the cocoa, then she uttered a laugh.
“Drink that?” she said. “Do you want to kill me? Don’t talk any more. I am sleepy; I shall sleep.”
She got into bed as she spoke, and wrapped the clothes tightly round her.
“Oh, do turn off the electric light,” she said again. “Can’t you manage with a candle, just for once?”
“Certainly,” said Leslie.
She turned off the light, and lit a candle, which she put behind her screen, then prepared to get into bed.
Annie’s manner was very mysterious. There was no doubt that she had got a shock; but of what nature Leslie could not in the least make out. There was no help for it, however. Annie did not mean to confide in anyone that night, and the kindest thing was to leave her alone.
“By and by I must get her to tell me,” thought Leslie; “but there is no use in worrying her now.”
Tired out, Leslie herself dropped asleep. She was awakened in the middle of the night. What was the matter? She heard the sound of someone running swiftly. There was a sort of wind in the room. She sat up in bed.
“Annie, is that you?” she called out.
There was no reply, but the sound of hurrying steps came quicker and quicker—now and then they were interrupted by a groan.
Leslie lit her candle and peered into the darkness. She now saw that Annie was running backwards and forwards in her part of the room.
“Annie!” she said again.
There was no reply, the steps went a little faster, and the groans came oftener, then the following words fell upon Leslie’s ears:
“Oh, this will kill me; my heart will break. This will kill me!”
“What is the matter, Annie, dear?” said Leslie again. She hastily put on her dressing-gown, and with candle in hand advanced to where the other girl was pacing. Annie’s eyes were open; one glance showed Leslie that she was walking in her sleep.
Leslie knew that she must on no account awaken her. Approaching her softly, she took her hand. Annie immediately stopped in her wild pacings; she did not withdraw her hand from Leslie’s. Leslie led her toward the bed, taking care not to speak. Using a little force, she got Annie to sit down on the edge of the bed; then raising her feet gently she covered her with the bedclothes, and stood by her, still retaining her hand. After a time, Annie seemed to feel the comfort of that warm pressure; she ceased to moan, her eyes closed, the frown vanished from her brows, and she fell into a heavy sleep.
Leslie now knelt down and gazed into the face of the sleeper.
“What can be the matter with her?” she thought. “Can I find out? Is there any way in which I can comfort her? I wish mother were here. There is no doubt she is carrying a terrible heavy burden, and she won’t let anyone help her. What did that letter mean?”
The sleeper moaned heavily.
“This will kill me,” she muttered; “I can’t stand it.”
“God will give you strength, dear,” said Leslie aloud. She stooped and kissed Annie on her brow, then she went back to her own bed.
During the rest of the night Leslie hardly slept, but Annie never stirred. In the morning Annie got up, lookingmuch as usual, but having not the slightest remembrance of the little scene through which both she and her roomfellow had lived during the night.
The day’s work began and continued. Annie was if possible even more assiduous in her studies. She had only one lecture to attend that morning, and, the moment it was over, returned to her desk by the open window, and worked away without intermission at her mathematics.
Leslie had three lectures to go to, and was thankful for this, as she did not care to be alone in the room with Annie.
“She won’t let me comfort her, and it is dreadful to see that dull look of agony and suffering in her eyes,” thought Leslie.
Immediately after luncheon that day, just as the girls were preparing to leave the dining-hall, Miss Penrose, the principal of South Hall, who always sat at a little table with a few favored pupils, stood up and sounded a silver gong. The girls immediately stopped, turned, and faced her.
“I wish to mention,” she said, “that Miss Lauderdale expects you all to come to East Hall at half-past eight this evening; the entire college is to meet there on a special and important matter. Miss Lauderdale is sorry that the notice is so brief. She begs, however, that the students, without exception, will attend to it. Those, therefore, who contemplated going out must send word to their friends that they will have to postpone their visits.”
Miss Penrose then immediately left the hall, and the girls went into the central hall and stood about discussing the sudden summons.
Leslie was eagerly pounced upon by the Chetwynds, who asked her what she thought Miss Lauderdale couldwant with them all. Just then Annie Colchester darted past the little group, and ran quickly upstairs.
“Annie!” called out Leslie to her, “you will be sure to be ready to go with me to East Hall this evening?”
Annie made no reply.
“She heard what Miss Penrose said,” remarked Eileen. “I noticed that she was standing by the door when the principal sounded the gong.”
“All the same, she does not always hear what is said,” replied Leslie. “She lives in a wonderful and strange world of her own. I often doubt if she notices what goes on around her.”
“Well, then, you had better remind her. By the way, do you object to us also coming with you to East Hall this evening?”
“I shall be very glad,” replied Leslie. “I have not seen much of Miss Lauderdale yet, and am most anxious to hear her speak to-night. I wonder what she can want with us all?”
“Well, there is no good in guessing,” said Eileen; “and besides it only wastes time. What do you mean to do this afternoon, Miss Gilroy?”
“I have not made any special plans.”
“Well then, won’t you come out on the water with us. You have passed your swimming test, so it is all right. Belle Acheson will be with us; we should like you to know her.”
Leslie promised to come, and the next moment ran up to her own room. Annie was already seated at her desk, and bending over her endless problems.
“We ought to be ready to start for East Hall at 8.25,” said Leslie as she came in. “You will be quite ready then, won’t you, Annie dear? I’ll put out your dress, and leave everything quite nice and neat for you.”
Annie gazed full up into Leslie’s face. When Leslie paused, she said abruptly:
“I do wish, Leslie Gilroy, you would not worry me.”
Leslie started back, looking hurt and dismayed.
“I don’t mean to worry you,” she said in a low voice. “Of course if you really feel that I worry you, I had better leave you alone.”
“You do annoy me dreadfully. I liked you very much yesterday, but I feel now that you are watching me all the time, and I can’t stand it. Do let me alone. Aren’t you going out? I know it is not necessary for you to spend all your time in study; but I am different. Do go and leave me. I don’t wish to be ungrateful; but I wish you would let me have the room to myself for a little.”
“I shall go by and by,” said Leslie coldly. She was more hurt than she cared to own. She left Annie’s window, and, going to her own side of the room, took up a novel and tried to bury herself in its contents. The other girls had promised to sing out to her, from the gravel sweep below, when they were ready. Until then, she would remain in her own side of the room, notwithstanding Annie’s objection to her doing so.
Annie went on muttering to herself, rustling her papers, and turning the leaves of her books; once or twice she dropped her pen; once a moan as bitter and laden with sorrow as those she uttered in the night burst from her lips. Leslie heard the moan, and found it impossible to forget her. She felt restless and unlike herself. After a time she got up, put her book back in its place, and walked to the door.
“Ah! thank goodness you are going,” said Annie.
“Don’t you think, Annie, you are a little unkind to me?” replied Leslie.
“Oh, what does a little unkindness matter?” saidAnnie. “Do you mind, as you are leaving the room, shutting that window. I have been enduring the tortures of a draught for the last hour, and have lately been suffering from neuralgia.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” said Leslie, penitent at once, “why did you not tell me so, or,” she added, “why did you not shut your own window?”
“Because I require fresh air,” said Annie, with that utter selfishness which had characterized her before Leslie came, and which had been growing a little better lately.
Leslie went to her window and shut it, sighed as she thought how close her part of the room would be when she returned later on; and then, putting on her hat and gloves, she ran downstairs.
She was met in the hall by Lettie. Lettie was extremely popular in her own hall of residence, and had made several friends already in North Hall. She now ran eagerly up to Leslie.
“The Chetwynds say you are coming boating with us?”
“Yes,” replied Leslie.
“And Belle Acheson is to be one of the party,” continued Lettie. “I think it well to tell you; you must be prepared for a very peculiar person. But you look worried, Miss Gilroy; is anything wrong?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Leslie. “I am a little anxious about Annie Colchester.”
“That queer, red-haired girl? I saw her in chapel on Sunday.”
“There are many fine points about her,” said Leslie; “but I don’t think she is quite well, and I wish she would not work so hard. However, I won’t think of her now. I cannot do anything to help her just at present, and I mean to enjoy myself.”
“Then had not you better come down to the quay. I told the other girls I would bring you. The boat we are to have this afternoon is the Merry Alice. Did you pass your swimming test well?”
“I passed it last week, and was crowned with honors,” said Leslie with a merry smile. All her usual good spirits returned when she was out in the open air. The other girls came up, and Belle was duly presented to Leslie Gilroy. Belle was in a dark-brown zephyr dress, made in the simplest fashion, and a leather belt encircled her waist. On her head was a brown hat, mushroom-shaped, trimmed with a plain band of ribbon of the same color. She was drawing brown cotton gloves on her hands when the introduction to Leslie was made.
“This is our great friend, Miss Gilroy,” said Eileen in an affectionate tone.
Belle adjusted her spectacles, and looked full at Leslie out of her short-sighted eyes.
“How do you do?” she said abruptly. She then turned and spoke to Marjorie.
“Come on in front, please; I have something I specially wish to say to you on the subject of a life of absolute devotion. Those great truths which ought to agitate the souls of each man and woman worthy of the name have been specially borne in upon me during the last few hours. I have just been reading a passage which I should be glad to repeat to you.”
Marjorie went on a little unwillingly. Eileen stayed behind. Lettie looked at Leslie, and her eyes filled with laughter.
“There’s a slap in the face,” she said; “and to you, too, Miss Gilroy. Did I not tell you she was an oddity.”
“Now, Lettie,” said Eileen, in an imploring voice, “don’t laugh at poor Belle; don’t prejudice Miss Gilroyagainst her. If everybody else was quite as earnest and sincere, what a different world it would be!”
“What an appalling world it would be!” exclaimed Lettie; “it would not be endurable.”
They reached the boats. Eileen and Marjorie, who both rowed well, took the oars. Lettie sat in the stern and held the rudder ropes. Leslie and Belle thus found themselves facing each other. Lettie instantly guided their little craft into midstream.
“Yes,” began Belle, “I have submitted for one hour, under protest.”
As she spoke she looked full at Leslie.
“I don’t quite understand you,” said Leslie in some astonishment.
“I dare say you don’t, but my time is all marked out—I keep a time-table, and adhere to it rigidly. If you have not yet commenced such a valuable help to the spending of your time, let me recommend you to do so without delay. Now that I look at you more closely, I observe in your eyes a really serious light. Believe me, I am never mistaken in my judgment of anyone. Long, long ago I saw that those two dear girls behind us, who are using their muscular strength in propelling us downstream, had real intelligence, that fine brains filled their craniums. I regret to say that Miss Lettie Chetwynd, the young person who is steering us, is of different metal. I do not say that she has not her use in the world; but with her and hers I have nothing to do. Now you—what did you say your name was?”
“Leslie Gilroy.”
“You, Leslie Gilroy (what a very booky name!), have a meditative face; there is thought expressed in the firm curves of your lips. You may go far, you may fail; but, on the other hand, to you may be given a great success.Think what an awful responsibility is placed in your hands. You may use life in its fullness, or you may fritter your gifts and be a drone. May I ask you which life you mean to choose—the full or the empty?”
“I shall certainly aim for the full life,” replied Leslie in some astonishment. “Whether I succeed or not remains to be proved.”
“Your success depends on yourself—the single eye, remember, the untarnished soul——”
Belle’s words were interrupted by a burst of laughter from Lettie.
“I beg your pardon,” she said; “but really, Belle Acheson, you are too absurd for anything.”
Belle closed her eyes and slightly turned her back upon Lettie. She made no other reply of any sort.
“I know you mean kindly, Miss Acheson,” said Leslie, who could never bear to distress anyone; “but how can you know, as you have never seen me before, whether mine is an earnest character or not?”
“Ah, you little guess my capacity,” said Belle in a patronizing voice. “It is my habit to pass each girl, when I see her first, in mental review. Most, I must tell you frankly, require the merest glance to tell me what failures they are certain to be. By a flash of my eyes I can discern how petty and small are the qualities of their souls; but you, Miss Gilroy, have a well-developed soul. Up to the present you have never let it die. Think how awful it is to carry within your breast a dead soul!”
“Yes; it would be very bad,” said Leslie.
“Bad? Awful is the word to use. Strong language is required for such a terrible possession; but it is a fact that many people do. I may almost say that most do. A dead soul. Let us ponder the words; let the thought sink deep. You observe the fact of its existence in thedull and frivolous expression which looks out of so many eyes, in the poor aims which animate so many people, in the ignoble lives they lead. Ah! how great might man be if he could only soar!”
Here Belle raised her eyes to the sky.
“What a mercy she is not steering,” thought Leslie to herself. “We should all be in that bindweed at the other side of the river by now.”
“Belle, dear,” said Eileen, pushing out her foot and giving her friend a kick, “do, please, come down from the clouds. We were so anxious to introduce you to Miss Gilroy, and I am afraid you are frightening her. Don’t be quite so—so outré during your first interview.”
“Do I frighten you?” said Belle. “Am I outré?”
She almost glared into Leslie’s face.
“Miss Gilroy, whatever happens, I cannot but be myself.” As she spoke she started forward, and laid one of her very thin large angular hands on Leslie’s arm. The hand clutched the slight round arm so firmly that it was with difficulty poor Leslie could suppress a scream.
“Yes,” continued Belle; “I can stand things as they are no longer. Even my own familiar friends turn from me. Do you think I want to deceive you? Do you think for one single instant I want you to suppose that I am other than what I am—a girl, nay, a woman, whose aim in life is to dig deep into the vast mines of the mighty past, those great mines which have been left to us by the dead and gone. I want to acquire—why, do you suppose? In order to help my fellow-creatures, in order to impress upon them the greatness of eternity and the frivolity of time, in order, when I really pass away, that I may leave footprints behind me on the sands of time.”
“Hear, hear!” said Marjorie.
“Let us quote from Longfellow now; it would be most appropriate,” said Lettie from the stern.
“Marjorie,” said Belle, “I am sorry that you have interrupted me with that very silly remark. As to the young person in the stern, I refuse to acknowledge her existence; but you, Marjorie, are laughing at me.”
“Indeed, I am not,” said Marjorie.
“Nor do I laugh at you,” said Leslie. “I am sure you mean very well, indeed, and in some ways I agree with you. I also want to lead the earnest life.”
“Do you? Is that a fact? Tell me how you furnish your room?”
“But I cannot imagine what that has to do with it,” said Leslie.
“A vast deal, for it shows the real inclination of the soul. Is the soul going to steep itself in luxury, or is it going to cast away all hindrances, and run its race in fullness, in power? Is it to be clogged and hindered? Speak; don’t keep me in suspense. How have you furnished your room?”
“My half-room—I only possess half a room—was furnished for me by the governors of the college,” said Leslie. “It is true that I have added a few things, for I like pretty rooms. I like to look nice myself. My mother has always taught me to pay a great deal of attention to personal appearance.”
Belle heaved a deep sigh, and became instantly silent.
“Have you nothing more to say, Belle?” cried Marjorie.
“Nothing,” replied Belle. Her eyes were now shut. “I am disappointed.” She sat back in her seat, and did not trouble herself to glance at Leslie for some time.
“What a blessing for you,” whispered Lettie, bending forward from her place in the stern.
“But I am really sorry for her,” was Leslie’s gentle response. “She is full of earnestness; but she goes too far.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t let her hear you. Her eyes are closed for the present, and she is only muttering to herself. What a comfort if she remains in that state for the rest of our row!”
“Belle,” said Marjorie, “what are you doing now? You are saying something; what is it?”
“When my nerves are ruffled, I always find that recitation is the greatest help to me,” said Belle. “I am reciting at the present moment a poem from one of our great writers. The frivolous fact that I am out on the water, being rowed by you and Eileen, that I am wasting some of the precious hours of a golden day, must be counteracted as far as possible. But stay; would you two girls,” here she glanced at Marjorie and Eileen, purposely avoiding both Leslie and Lettie, “would you two like me to recite aloud the poem in question?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, no!” cried Lettie; “that would be quite the last straw.”
“I don’t think,” said Belle glancing in Lettie’s direction, “that the remark of the young person who holds the tiller-ropes ought to be considered. What do you two say?”
“Of course Eileen and I would like it very much,” said Marjorie; “but Leslie is our guest, and we must consult her.”
“She would not appreciate,” said Belle; “but perhaps, as you say, she is your guest. Well, I submit. My disappointment has been deep with regard to Miss Gilroy.”
“Whether you are disappointed in me or not, please try to enlighten me by your recitation,” said Leslie, “for I should enjoy it of all things.”
“I don’t suppose for a single instant you will care for it; but I will do my duty. A word may sink in, a tone may have an effect; there is never any saying. A suitable stanza occurs to me. I am about to quote from the great work of Samuel Daniel, who was born at Taunton, in Somersetshire, in 1562, and died in 1619. His ‘History of the Civil Wars between York and Lancaster,’ in eight books, was first published in 1595. The highest quality of his verse is a quiet, pensive reflection. Now, pray, listen. The poem, a stanza of which I will recite, is called ‘Musophilus.’ It is addressed to ‘Philocoslus,’ a lover of the world. Musophilus is a lover of the Muse. It commences thus——”
“We had better stop rowing,” said Eileen. The girls shipped their oars and bent forward. Belle, with a theatrical gesture, and a flinging up of her right hand, commenced:
“‘Either Truth, Goodness, Virtue are not stillThe self-same which they are, and always one,But alter to the project of our will;Or we our actions make them wait upon,Putting them in the livery of our skill,And cast them off again when we have done.’”
Here Belle raised herself in the boat.
“For goodness’ sake, sit still, or we’ll be upset,” said Lettie. “In addition to poetry of the Middle Ages, a ducking is more than I am prepared for.”
Belle reseated herself, made an impatient gesture, pushed back her mushroom hat, and resumed:
“‘And for the few that only lend their ear,That few is all the world; which with a fewDo ever live, and move, and work, and stir.This is the heart doth feel, and only know;The rest of all that only bodies bear,Roll up and down, and fill up but the row.’”
“Very fine, indeed,” said Lettie; “and I quite see the allusion to myself. I am one of those who but a body bear, roll up and down, and fill up but the row.”
To this remark Belle did not deign any reply. She now turned again to Leslie.
“Notwithstanding the disappointment you gave me with regard to your room,” she said, “I have not the slightest doubt that you understand what Musophilus alludes to?”
“To a certain extent, yes,” replied Leslie.
Belle stretched out her hand.
“I believe I shall win you,” she cried. “Come to my room to-morrow; I shall see you alone. Don’t fail to be with me between half-past two and three.”
Leslie promised.
“Oh, how could you?” whispered Lettie. “I pity you from my soul; you have done for yourself now.”
“I don’t pity myself,” answered Leslie. “I am certain Miss Acheson has some fine ideas; and that I shall derive benefit from a conversation with her.”
Immediately after dinner that evening, Leslie ran up to her room to make preparations for her visit to East Hall.
“Come, Annie,” she said to Miss Colchester, who was standing with her face to the window and her back to Leslie, “had you not better wrap a shawl about you; it is time to be off.”
“I’m not coming,” said Annie.
“Not coming? But you must. You know it is not only a request; it is an order from Miss Lauderdale. Every student is to be in East Hall at half-past eight.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Annie, “whether it is an order or not; I’m not coming. Say nothing about me, please. I shall stay at home to-night.”
“But why? You will only get yourself into trouble, and there is surely no use in that. Oh, Annie, I know you are dreadfully unhappy about something, and I wish I could comfort you. Do—do let me.”
Annie Colchester now turned slowly round; she looked fixedly at Leslie. There was a strained expression in her eyes, as if she did not quite know what she was looking at. Leslie approached her, and touched her hand. It burned as if with fever.
“You are ill,” said Leslie. “I ought not to leave you. You ought to lie down and see a doctor. Do let me go and tell Miss Frere. I know your being ill will make all the difference.”
Leslie had scarcely finished her sentence before Annie pushed her away.
“How dare you interfere?” she said, her eyes flashing. “You are to go, and say nothing about me. Because you happen to be my roomfellow, are you to control my actions? I am longing for you to leave the room. You don’t know what a trial it is for me to have you here. Why will you keep on prying, and fussing, and interfering. I want to be alone—go!”
“I know you don’t quite mean what you say,” said Leslie; “but of course if you really wish me——”
“Before you came I had liberty,” interrupted Annie. “You fret me beyond endurance. Since you came I feel myself tied and bound. Yes; you annoy me more than words can tell.”
Leslie walked to her own side of the room. She had taken a deep interest in Annie; and Annie’s words cut her to the heart.
“I am quite sure it is because she is so unhappy,” she thought. “She does not know what she is saying. I ought not to mind her—I mean I ought not to be really hurt; but there is nothing for it but to leave her for the present.”
Wrapping a pretty blue shawl round her head and shoulders, she turned to Annie. “Good-by,” she said; “is there not any message you would like me to take, Annie?”
“None; only go!”
Annie stamped with her foot.
Leslie was just closing the door behind her, when Annie called after her.
“By the way,” she said; “there is no key in this lock; do you know where it is?”
“I took it out,” said Leslie.
“Took it out! And why, may I ask? Have the goodness to find it and put it back.”
“But don’t lock me out, please, Annie. You know on occasions you are absent-minded, and one-half of this room is mine when all’s said and done. I pay for it, and I have a right to it.”
The unexpected words of spirit caused Annie to become a little less rude.
“Oh, I won’t lock you out,” she said; “but I must have the key. Please find it before you go.”
Jane Heriot’s voice was heard in the passage.
“If you two are ready,” she called out, “we may as well start.”
“Coming in a moment, Jane,” answered Leslie. She found the key, which she had put in the top drawer of her wardrobe, and gave it to Annie. As she walked down the corridor she heard it being turned in the lock.
“What can this mean?” she said to herself.
Jane came up.
“What is it, Leslie?” she said; “you look as if something was worrying you.”
“Something is,” replied Leslie, “but I don’t know that I ought to tell tales out of school.”
“Oh, I won’t press you,” replied Jane.
“After all, perhaps you ought to know, Jane. I am unhappy about Annie Colchester.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Jane, “if you begin to fret about the oddities of the college you will never know a moment’s peace. I am told that that extraordinary and most unpleasant girl, Belle Acheson, has begun to take to you. Now don’t, I beg of you, get into her set.”
“Oh, I shall never do that,” replied Leslie. “I don’t want,” she added, “to get into any set: but I do wish to be kind to Belle, for I think she has good points in her.You see, all the girls except Eileen and Marjorie laugh at her, and that seems to me to make her worse.”
“I don’t quite go the length of laughing at her,” said Jane in a thoughtful voice. “But there, you are one of the ‘unco good,’ I am afraid.”
“Please don’t call me that,” said Leslie, tears now visiting her pretty eyes.
“Oh, I would not say a word to hurt you,” replied Jane, penitent on the spot. “You are quite the sweetest girl in the college, and so we all say. Now, listen; I am going to make a confession. There are times when I am a little jealous of you, for, you know, you are so wonderfully pretty, and you are so kind to everyone. They say too that you are exceedingly clever, and yet you have no jealousies and no smallnesses in you. You are a universal favorite; I envy you your popularity.”
“I don’t know that I am at all what you say; but any girl ought to be popular and good who was brought up by a mother like mine,” said Leslie with enthusiasm. “Some day, Jane, you must see her. If you are in London during the summer, you must come and pay us a visit, will you?”
“I shall be only too delighted,” cried Jane. “But now, Leslie, what is the trouble? that is, if you care to confide in me.”
“I believe poor Annie is dreadfully unhappy.”
“Poor dear, perhaps she is; but she ought to be on her way to East Hall by now. Miss Lauderdale will be very angry with anyone who does not attend.”
“That’s just it, Jane; that is what frightens me. She refuses to come.”
Jane stood still and faced Leslie.
“Refuses to come?” she cried. “She will get into an awful scrape.”
“I believe she is ill, and does not quite know what she is saying,” continued Leslie. “She was very queer when I left her just now; that was why I was a little late. I felt her hand too, and it was very hot. I am sure she is ill. She works too hard, and she—— But there, I don’t know that I ought to say any more.”
“Don’t say any more,” cried Jane. “I’ll go back and speak to her. It is my duty to save her from getting into hopeless disgrace.”
“I’ll wait for you here,” said Leslie. “I have had the misfortune to irritate her a good deal during the last day or two, and you probably would have better success than I.”
“I won’t keep you a moment,” answered Jane. She turned back, ran down the corridor, and knocked at Annie’s door.
“Let me come in, Annie,” she called out. “I am Jane Heriot; I want to speak to you at once. Let me in.”
There was no reply.
Jane rattled the handle impatiently. It wanted but two minutes to the half-hour; already she and Leslie would be late.
“Aren’t you coming, Annie?” she called out; “aren’t you coming to East Hall in response to Miss Lauderdale’s orders? You will get into a most awful scrape if you don’t. Do come, Annie; don’t be such a goose. Why, they may rusticate you. Do come, Annie, do!”
Still there was no response. Jane stooped, and applied her eye to the keyhole, but she could see nothing within. In despair she came back and joined Leslie.
“She seems to have turned both deaf and dumb, and I can do nothing with her,” she answered. “It is just possible that she may have gone down the back-stairs, and be already in the hall.”
“Scarcely likely,” replied Leslie; “she told me she was determined not to come to the meeting. By the way, we ought to meet Marjorie and Eileen in the center hall.”
But Marjorie and Eileen had already departed, and Leslie and Jane found themselves among the last students to arrive at the great East Hall.
Miss Lauderdale was standing with the other tutors and principals of the different halls on a raised platform. One by one the many students filed in and took their places. Then a roll-call was gone through by one of the tutors; the only absentee was Annie Colchester. No notice was taken of this at the time, and the proceedings of the evening were immediately begun. Miss Lauderdale stepped forward, and began to address the students. She said that the object of this gathering was to propose the beginning of a new departure in their lives and work. They were all, she was glad to know, acquiring knowledge; they were also becoming strong in body.
“The physical part of your training, and also the mental part, are abundantly supplied in this great house of learning,” she continued; “but the spiritual part, it seems to me, ought now to be strengthened. I want your whole threefold nature to get the best possible training while you are under my care, and I think that you girls of St. Wode’s ought to take steps to keep the souls which God has given you, the undying souls, strong and in health.”
“Hear, hear! and once again, hear!” suddenly said the sharp voice of Belle Acheson. She uttered her strange remark standing up. Marjorie and Eileen were close to her.
“Hear, hear!” she repeated, continuing rapidly: “it was but to-day, Miss Lauderdale, I was speaking of the miserable dead souls which most of the students of St. Wode’s carry within their breasts.”
“Hush! no more speaking in hall,” said the voice of the indignant chairwoman. Miss Lauderdale, after a pause, during which her kind eyes were fixed on Belle’s excited face, spoke:
“I will talk with you, Belle Acheson, presently,” she said. “Now, please, don’t interrupt again while I continue my short address.—I propose that the girls of St. Wode’s—that is, those who choose to do so—should take up an extensive district of the poor in this large town of Wingfield. I have spoken to our rector on the subject, and he thinks that they could carry on a thorough work of supervision and of interest in the poor without endangering their own health in the very least. All those who choose to become members of our new league, which is to be called the Guild of St. Elizabeth, can do so. The names of proposed members are to be submitted to me before this day week. I will then more fully declare my plans, and show the girls who wish to join our league a programme which I hope they will approve of.”
Miss Lauderdale said a great deal more. All her words were uttered with great eloquence and much feeling. She explained to the girls that God held each of them, with their vast opportunities, their great means of culture, their abundance of money (for most of them were wealthy), responsible for their brothers and sisters.
“‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ you ask,” she continued. “God answers to each of you, ‘You are.’ The world says, ‘No, I am not,’ but God says, ‘Yes, you are.’ All men are your brothers. For all who sin, all who suffer, you are to a certain extent responsible. To each of you, in your strength, is given by God a weak brother to look after, one who has not got your opportunities, who has not got your wealth, who has not got your comforts and luxuries in life. You are responsible for him, and some day youwill be asked what you have done with your responsibility. If you leave the world without having fulfilled that terrible and yet grand obligation, you will through all eternity feel the loss of what you might have gained.”
Finally the principal sat down amid loud cheering. Most of the girls were enthusiastic over the new scheme; and Marjorie and Eileen in particular felt their hearts glowing and their eyes sparkling.
After the address the girls themselves were encouraged to speak, and a very animated discussion followed. When it was over, folding-doors were thrown back, and all the students were invited into the large saloon which Miss Lauderdale reserved for very rare and special occasions. Here they were supplied with light refreshments, and presently Miss Lauderdale herself went to the organ at the end of the room, and played some splendid music. She was a musician of rare power, and Leslie listened with her heart in her eyes.
It was past ten o’clock when she left the hall. Just as she was doing so Miss Frere came up.
“Annie Colchester is your roomfellow, is she not?” she said. “Can you give me any idea why she has been absent to-night?”
“I don’t think she is quite well,” replied Leslie.
“I see by your face, Miss Gilroy, that you are distressed about something. Are you keeping anything back?”
“I am afraid I am,” replied Leslie, distress now in her tone.
“Unless Miss Colchester’s illness is really very serious and needs a doctor, she will be very severely reprimanded for this willful disobedience to the command of her principal,” continued Miss Frere. “I must see her myself early in the morning, and I am quite sure that nothing willsatisfy Miss Lauderdale except a very ample apology and a full explanation of the reason why she absented herself. She has committed a very grave act of disobedience. You know, of course, that the few rules that are imposed upon the students are expected to be kept most rigorously. Excuses make no difference. The girl who breaks the rules has to be punished. Annie Colchester’s only chance is to apologize to Miss Lauderdale.”
“I will tell her. I will do my very best,” said Leslie. “I am glad you have spoken to me. I will go back now, and see her without delay.”
Leslie reached her own door; she eagerly turned the handle. The door was locked. She called Annie’s name; there was no answer of any sort. She then knelt down and endeavored to peer through the keyhole. The room was in darkness. Had Annie gone to bed and really forgotten her? For a moment Leslie felt quite alarmed. Her own special friends had already retired to their rooms. She could not well stay in the corridor all night; but she was not really thinking of herself nor her own inconvenience. She was terribly anxious about Annie. Suppose she had gone out! Suppose she was not in her room at all! Again Leslie rattled the handle of the door. There was no reply. At that moment the door of the room next to the one at which she was knocking was opened, and Susan Merriman looked out.
“Oh, is that you, Miss Gilroy?” she exclaimed. “Can I do anything for you?”
“No, thank you,” replied Leslie; “this door is locked, and I am afraid Miss Colchester has gone to bed and forgotten all about me. If so, I will ask Jane Heriot to take me in until the morning.”
“I am sure Annie Colchester has not gone to bed,” replied Susan. “I saw you leave your room on the way to East Hall this evening, and a moment afterwards she came out and ran down the back-stairs. I thought, of course, she had gone across to the hall. Was she not there?”
“No,” replied Leslie; “she did not come to the meeting;did you not observe when the roll was gone through that her name was missing?”
“I did not notice it,” answered Susan; “but what a scrape she will get into! How silly of her!”
“Well, please don’t tell anyone that I found the door locked when I returned,” said Leslie.
“Certainly not. Why should I? Can I do anything for you? Would you like to wait in my room until she comes back?”
“No, thank you. I must go and look for her; I am a little anxious about her.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t fret if I were you,” said Susan. “I shall be up for the next hour, and if you wish to take refuge in my room you are heartily welcome.”
Leslie thanked her and ran down the corridor. Trusting that no one would see her, she went downstairs. The house was already locked up, and the lower part in darkness, but she knew a side-door by which she could get out. She went to it, found it still on the latch, opened it, and the next moment found herself in the quadrangle. She stood there, with the soft night-breeze blowing upon her hot face; her heart was beating quickly: she felt full of the strangest apprehension. Where was she to go? What was she to do? Without doubt, Annie was in serious trouble. If Miss Merriman’s account was true, she must have been out for hours. She would be sure presently to return to this side-door. Leslie thought she would wait there in order to meet her. She paced up and down, her restlessness and the queer dread which assailed her increasing each moment. When the great clock over East Hall sounded the hour of eleven, she felt that she could not stay inactive any longer. If Annie did not soon return, the little side-door would be locked, and it would then be impossible to get back to the college for the night.Should she go and confide her fears to Miss Frere? When this thought came to her she put it away at once. No; whatever happened, it would never do to tell about Annie. Annie had got into a scrape already in not attending the meeting at East Hall; she would get into a worse scrape, in all probability be rusticated, if this latter offense were known.
Scarcely realizing what she was doing, Leslie now walked down a side-path which led to the river. Presently she stood on the little quay just outside the boat-house. Here she herself was in complete shadow, but the moon riding high in the heavens made a silver band of light across the river. In the middle of this light, seated in a boat, was a girl; a man was with her; he was bending forward and talking in an eager voice. Presently the words uttered by the girl reached Leslie’s ears.
“Is it not possible for you to do with less than sixty pounds?”
“No, not a penny less,” came the quick reply. “I shall be ruined if I don’t get it.”
“But won’t you consider me at all? I am working hard, terribly hard. If I pass with honors in my June exam., I shall get a good situation and——”
“What do I care about your passing your exam., or not, Annie? Don’t you know that all that kind of thing is humbug,” said the man’s voice. “I have no intention of your killing yourself for me. I want sixty pounds; if I don’t get that sum I shall be ruined. Can’t you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, yes; and I’ll do my best for you,” was the reply. “You must leave me now, Rupert. As it is, I shall in all probability be locked out of the college.”
“You are always thinking of yourself and your own miserable safety,” replied the man.
He took up a pair of light sculls, and rowed swiftly in the direction of the boat-house.
Leslie, who had heard each word of this conversation, shrank up against the house; she was in complete shadow, and trusted no one would see her. The boat touched the boards of the little quay, and Annie sprang lightly on shore.
“You must help me put the boat back into the house,” she said.
The man did so without uttering a word. The key was then turned in the lock, and Annie slipped it into her pocket. She stood at the edge of the quay, the man standing near her.
“Good-by,” she said, raising her face to his.
“Good-by, old girl. You mean the best, but it is all humbug about your getting that scholarship, and my——” He broke off suddenly.
“Annie,” he continued, “I could not do it; you may as well know now for certain that I have made up my mind to cut the old life. With that sixty pounds, or without, I leave England in a day or two. You will be better off without me than with me, but you know what it means if I go without the money.”
“What?” said Annie in a low, terrified voice.
“That I am followed and arrested. Think of that! Think what the disgrace will mean to you!”
“Oh, Rupert, Rupert, it would kill me!” moaned the poor girl.
“Well, then, get me the sixty pounds, and you have nothing to fear.”
“I will do my best; but this terrible, awful blow has nearly killed me.”
“Humbug. I say—humbug! Girls don’t die as quickly as all that. Listen, I must have that sixtypounds by hook or by crook; you must get it for me. This is Tuesday evening. I will be here about ten o’clock on Thursday; if you don’t have the money then, well, you know what will happen.”
“Good-by, Rupert, good-by. I will do my best, my very best.”
The man walked away, and Annie, standing for a moment where he had left her, with her hands hanging helplessly to her sides, turned slowly in the direction of the college.
Leslie waited behind until her companion was well out of sight, then she followed her; the side-door was not yet latched, and Annie let herself in. In trembling and sick fear Leslie followed, dreading each moment to hear the key turned in the lock, and yet anxious to give Annie time to escape to her room before she entered the house.
In a moment or two she approached the little door, found that it was still on the latch, entered, and uttered a long sigh of relief. When she reached her room the door was unlocked, the electric light was on, and Annie was standing near her window. Leslie came in and softly shut the door behind her. Annie turned and looked at her.
“What a long time you have been,” she said.
Leslie made no reply. She seated herself on the edge of her bed, her head ached, she felt a new sense of fear. Should she tell Annie that she had listened to her, that she had overheard her conversation, that she knew a part at least of the terrible secret which was weighing her down?
Before she could make up her mind whether to speak or not, Annie herself came forward, drew a chair opposite to Leslie, and sat down.
“What did they say about my being absent at the meeting to-night?” she began.
“Miss Lauderdale was very much displeased,” replied Leslie in a monotonous sort of voice, “and so was Miss Frere. Miss Frere intends to speak to you in the morning. I did what I could for you. I said you were ill, and——”
“Humbug!” interrupted Annie. “I wasn’t ill.” Then she laughed in a queer, strained way. “After all, that may be as good an excuse as anything else; but I don’t mind your knowing that I wasn’t really ill. I was obliged to go out. Leslie, I am in a great, a terrible strait, and it has occurred to me that perhaps you can help me.”
“In what way?” asked Leslie.
“Leslie Gilroy, let me ask you a question. Did you ever want money so badly, so dreadfully badly, that you would even commit a crime to get it?”
“Never,” answered Leslie.
“Then you are one of the rich and lucky ones: I am one of the poor and unlucky. What a wide, wide gulf lies between us!”
“You are quite mistaken when you say that I am one of the rich ones,” said Leslie; “we are none of us rich. On the contrary, we are poor. My mother has to work very hard to support us; and I should not be here at this moment were it not for the great kindness of a friend of my dear father’s, a Mr. Parker.”
“Parker?” said Annie, starting; “did you say Parker?” She roused herself and looked attentively at Leslie.
“I did,” replied Leslie. “Mr. Parker—he was my father’s great friend. Do you happen to know anyone of the name?”
“My brother has been in the office of a man of thatname, and I happen to know him slightly myself. He is a very rich city merchant. I wonder if it could possibly be the same.”
“Very likely,” answered Leslie. “Our friend’s name is Charles Parker, and he lived for a great many years in Sydney.”
“The same; it must be the same,” said Annie. She clasped her hands and looked excited. “And you know this Mr. Charles Parker well?” she said, turning to Leslie. “He is good to you?”
“I do not know him well,” replied Leslie; “but he is very good to me—more than good. The fact is, it is he who has sent me here. He is paying all my fees. He was a great friend of my dear father’s, and mother could not help accepting his generous offer. You see by that fact, Annie, that I am not a rich girl, and that I know about poverty. Now, what is troubling you? Do tell me.”
“I cannot,” replied Annie abruptly. “I have changed my mind. It is much better for you not to know.”
She moved away, looking sulky and wretched.
“Don’t you want to go to bed?” she said presently.
“Yes, I am tired,” answered Leslie; “but I don’t mind how long I wait up if I can really help you.”
“You cannot help me. I have quite changed my mind. It is better for you to know nothing whatever about me.”
Annie moved to the other end of the room and began to take off her things. She tossed her hat on the nearest chair; her jacket had already tumbled on to the floor, but she had not observed it. She then began to unfasten her dress, and, taking down her untidy red hair, twisted it up into a knot at the back of her head.
“I wonder if it is quite certain,” she said presently, “ifthe Mr. Charles Parker you know is the one in whose office my brother has been?”
“It is impossible for me to tell you that,” replied Leslie. “I only know that our friend’s name is Charles Parker, that he made his fortune in Sydney, and that he is now in the city.”
Annie heaved a great sigh of mingled relief and perplexity.
“It must be the same,” she said. “Leslie, you are a very good girl, and I am sorry I was rude to you to-day.”
“It does not matter about that in the least,” replied Leslie. “I wish you would think more of how you are to get out of your scrape. Miss Lauderdale was considerably annoyed at your not attending the meeting. Are you prepared to apologize to-morrow?”
“Of course I am. Oh, by the way, what did you say about me?”
“The truth. I said you were ill.”
“If they ask you again, you will tell them again that I was really ill?”
“Of course I shall; you were very ill. You were not putting it on, were you, Annie?”
“Of course not,” answered Annie. “Now, do go to bed, and don’t ask any more questions. I was ill, and I am ill still, but my illness is not of the body. All the same, I have got such a headache that I can scarcely stand up.”
“Well, I am glad you are not going to do any more work to-night.”
“Work!” said Annie. “The mere thought makes me feel sick. Good-night, Leslie. Don’t let us talk any more until the morning.”
Annie lay down on her bed, taking the clothes and wrapping them tightly round her.
“Don’t speak to me again,” she muttered; and Leslie, kneeling by her little bed, tried to pray. But all her thoughts were in a whirl. She hated herself for not telling Annie that she had overheard her conversation. Finally, she made up her mind to do so in the morning.
Being dead tired, she soon dropped asleep; but she was awakened just when the dawn was breaking by a noise in the room. She opened her eyes. To her astonishment, she saw that Annie Colchester was up; that she was standing by her desk turning over her (Leslie’s) papers just as if she were looking for something.
“What is it, Annie?” called Leslie, raising herself on her elbow, and staring in astonishment at her room-fellow.
Annie started and flushed guiltily.
“I was looking for a paper of mine,” she said, “which I thought might have got amongst yours. I cannot think where I put it; but I see it is not here, and I must only do it over again. It is too bad.”
She sighed heavily as she spoke, dragged herself across the room, and once more got into bed.
Leslie lay down without making any remark.
“Another time I will lock my desk,” she thought. “I hate to have my papers and letters looked over. Somehow, I don’t believe what she said about her own paper having got mixed up with mine. She knows that if she is untidy I am absolutely the reverse.”
Soon afterwards she fell asleep again, and when she did awake saw to her astonishment that the sun was pouring into the room, and that Annie Colchester was already up and neatly dressed; her hair was put up tidily, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes wore a bright and yet curious expression.
“How early you are!” said Leslie. “You don’t lookwell,” she continued, “and yet in some ways I have never seen you look better.”
“I have a headache, but that does not matter in the least,” replied Annie. “I am off now to see Miss Lauderdale, and to apologize for my rudeness in not coming to the meeting last night. I shall tell her that I had such a terrible headache I could not hold my head up; but be sure, Leslie, you don’t mention that I was out part of the time.”
“I shall not volunteer the information,” answered Leslie; “but if I am asked, of course I must mention it. I don’t suppose I shall be.”
“If you are asked!” said Annie, frowning. “You don’t mean to say that you will betray me?”
“I am not likely to be asked,” said Annie. “I said last night that you were very ill. Will you never understand, Annie, that I really wish to help you?”
“You can help me by holding your tongue,” said Annie. She went up to Leslie, half-bent forward as if she meant to kiss her, then changed her mind, and a moment afterwards left the room.
“What can be up?” said Leslie to herself. “How is she going to get that money? Poor girl, I wish she would confide in me; not that I know any way of really helping her. But stay—I wonder if Mr. Parker—— No, no, I could not—I could not ask him.”