She held out her hand to her friend. Leslie grasped it.
“I am delighted to see you,” said Leslie. “I am all alone, for mother and all the children are on the river.”
“And you, you dear, faithful soul, have stayed at home to go on with your literary studies?” exclaimed Belle, her eyes gleaming.
“Not a bit of it, Belle; you must not think me better than I deserve. I stayed at home to mope.”
“To mope? Surely you are not regretting? Having put your hand to the plow, you are not looking back? Leslie, I could never have thought it of you!”
“I am not looking back, Belle. I am still as fond as ever of my studies; but at the present moment I am not thinking of literature nor of college life at all. Sit down; how hot you look! The day is such a sultry one.”
“Hot,” said Belle, “is it? Perhaps I am hot; I don’t know. Does heat matter? that is the question.”
She flung off her hat, and let it tumble on the floor. Her brow was wet with perspiration.
“No physical discomforts seem to matter as far as you are concerned,” said Leslie with a smile.
“I do not feel physical suffering,” said Belle: “that is the truth. My mind is wrapped in meditation and thoughts of the future. I long for this tiresome holiday to be at an end. I have one comfort, however; my money is continuing to heap up. When I finish my collegiate career, I shall have quite enough to open my hostel. I shall call it a hostel for the lovers of pure literature.I am sure it will do well; it will supply a long-felt need.”
But Leslie was not in the humor to talk about the hostel just then.
“I have a great deal to worry me just now,” continued Belle. “Mother has so little sympathy; I have no consolation but one or two books—the best of friends. By the way, Leslie, you don’t look too bright yourself; your brow has quite a haggard look. I am certain, although you will not acknowledge it, that you are missing St. Wode’s.”
“In many ways I am, dear.”
“Oh, this is delicious,” said Belle. She hopped up from her seat, and drew a chair close to Leslie.
“Does your mother object to your studies?” she said. “Does she——”
“No, Belle; you don’t understand my mother. I only wish you could meet her. My trouble has nothing to do with my studies. I have a care that I cannot confide to anyone.”
“Pray, don’t; at least never confide in me. It is the last thing I wish to be—the recipient of another person’s secrets. I either forget what I am told, or I blurt it out to the next person I come across. You had better let your worry go; that’s my advice.”
“Let it go? I wish I could.”
“You can if you will do what I ask. Absorb yourself in work; cease to fret about mere externals. What do they matter? Heat, cold, worry, pain even, nothing matters if one can but grasp the riches of the past.”
“But what about the riches of the future, Belle? You are so fond of looking back: do you never look forward?”
“Forward,” said Belle; “yes, I sometimes do. I look forward to the time when frivols will be exterminatedforever, when the drones in the ordinary course of things must die out. Leslie, dear, would you feel inclined to hear me recite some verses of my own this morning? I have been in the poetic mood for the last few days, and last night the poet’s frenzy really seized me. My lines begin with ‘Delve, delve, deeply delve.’”
“I don’t think I quite follow,” said Leslie.
“Quite follow! but it is so simple. The metaphor refers to a miner, the gold is beneath. He delves, he obtains, his joy is unutterable.”
“But I am not in the humor for poetry to-day. The fact is, I am not in the humor to be anything but disobliging.”
“Now, that I do not believe; but I will keep my verses until they are quite finished, each stanza correct, the swing, the meter perfect. By the way, have you seen the Chetwynds since they came down?”
“No.”
“I hear that Eileen has taken some dreadful disease exploring in back slums. Her mother is in a terrible state.”
“But is Eileen really ill?” asked Leslie, starting up.
“So I have heard; they say she is rather bad. Oh, my dear, it is only the body; pray don’t worry!”
“But, Belle, this is intolerable. We cannot do without our bodies while we live. Poor Eileen ill! What did you say? Fever?”
“I do not know that I did; but it is fever—typhoid or typhus, or something of that sort. I didn’t quite catch the name. It may be smallpox, but I don’t think so.”
“Belle, you are intolerable; you have no sympathy.”
“Intolerable?” said Belle. “Now, my dear Leslie, for goodness’ sake, don’t get commonplace. You may be quite certain that Eileen has the best doctors and thebest nurses which London can afford. Does it help her that you should have that flush on your cheeks and that frown between your brows? Does it help her that you should abuse me? All this emotion is waste—waste of sympathy.”
“I am sorry, but I must give it,” said Leslie. “Dear Marjorie, how she will feel it. I must go and inquire after Eileen immediately.”
“I thought you were not well yourself.”
“I have a headache, but what does that matter? I must go to see Marjorie immediately, and to hear about Eileen.”
“If you want to make your inquiries properly,” said Belle, “go by the underground. It is so hot that you will feel yourself a real martyr. Put on your thickest coat and your heaviest hat, and then you will really enjoy yourself. Good-by: I am going away, as I see it is your wish. I will come another day when you feel more like the Leslie Gilroy whom I used to admire at St. Wode’s.”
“I will never be the Leslie that you admired if you wish me not to give sympathy to those in trouble,” replied Leslie.
She ran upstairs, put on her hat, took up her gloves, and went out.
Leslie arrived at the Chetwynds’ house to see the street outside covered with straw. The knocker to the door was muffled. She rang the bell. The footman replied to her summons, said that Miss Eileen was very ill indeed, and that he did not believe the young lady could be admitted, but if she particularly wished it, he would go and inquire.
He was just stepping on tiptoe across the hall when a face was pushed outside a sitting-room door, and the next moment Lettie rushed up to Leslie.
“Oh, do come in, Leslie,” she cried. “I am so lonely and miserable, and it would be an immense comfort to see anyone. Yes, Eileen is very ill, very ill indeed. The doctor says that the typhoid is running a most severe course, and there are complications, a chance of pneumonia, if you know what that means. Come in, do. I know Aunt Helen won’t mind my asking you in, and as to Marjorie——”
“Oh! it is poor Marjorie I am so terribly anxious about,” said Leslie. “How is she bearing up? They are so devoted to each other.”
“Well, really, Leslie, to be plain with you, Marjorie is in a very extraordinary state. She simply won’t be reasonable. None of us can make her out, and the doctors are terribly annoyed with her. She cannot be got to leave Eileen’s room; we cannot drag her away. Poor Aunt Helen is in a perfectly terrible state about her. Her face is completely changed; she won’t eat anything,and only drops off to sleep when she is too tired to stay awake for a moment. Leslie, if anything happens to Eileen, Marjorie will die.”
“But surely, Lettie, Eileen cannot be so bad as all that?”
“She is very bad indeed, I can tell you; I don’t think she can be much worse. There were two doctors here this morning, and there are two nurses, a day and a night nurse, on duty; and now Dr. Ericson wants to call in a third. Eileen took that horrible fever in the buildings where the coachman lives, not a doubt of it.”
“But I didn’t know that typhoid fever was really infectious,” said Leslie.
“In the ordinary sense it is not; but a whole family were down with it in A Block, and Eileen would go to the house, and she was very hot and thirsty, and they gave her some water to drink, and now it seems that all that water was terribly contaminated. It had some of those queer little things they call bacilli in it, and Dr. Ericson said they were the bacilli of typhoid fever. How puzzling these modern scientific names are!”
Lettie sank into an easy chair, and invited Leslie to one by her side.
“The fever is not infectious to us, you know,” she continued, “and that in a kind of way is a comfort. Eileen began to be poorly and not herself a week ago. Now she is very ill and quite unconscious, and yet the very worst stage of the fever is yet to come. You cannot imagine the state poor Aunt Helen is in.”
“I earnestly wish I could help,” said Leslie.
“Well, you are helping when you come to see me, for I do want cheering up dreadfully. Belle Acheson was here for a moment or two this morning. What a terrible girl she is!”
“I like her,” replied Leslie. “I think she has a great deal in her. She at least is thoroughly out of the common.”
“I grant you that,” answered Lettie; “but preserve me from such uncommon people. Give me the everyday sort of character. Not,” she added, “that I feel unkindly towards her, and I really did try to take compassion on her unfortunate wardrobe; but that, perhaps, was because I did not like the respectability of our dear old hall to be damaged by her thoroughly disreputable appearance. Dear, dear!” added Lettie, sighing gently, “how far away all that time seems now. We looked forward so much to the long vacation; and see what has happened—Eileen so terribly ill.”
Just at that moment the room door was opened, and Mrs. Chetwynd entered. She had never seen Leslie before, and rather resented her intrusion on the scene.
“My dear Lettie,” she said, “I wish you would go up to Marjorie, for I cannot quiet her. She has left the sick-room for a wonder, and gone into her own, and there she has broken down in the most extraordinary manner. I tremble lest her cries and groans should reach Eileen’s ears. Perhaps this young lady—I did not catch her name—oh, Miss Gilroy—perhaps Miss Gilroy, under the circumstances, you will excuse us.”
“Yes, Aunt Helen, I will go up,” said Lettie; “but I don’t think I shall be of the least use. I seem to have lost all power of soothing or helping either of the girls. When I was with them at school they rather deferred to my opinion on certain matters, but now all things are changed.”
“Don’t stand talking there, dear; do go,” said Mrs. Chetwynd.
“I will go, of course, but I warn you I shan’t be theleast scrap of use. Good-by, Leslie; it was kind of you to call. Miss Gilroy is one of our special chums at college, Aunt Helen, and a great friend both of Eileen’s and Marjorie’s.”
“In that case, sit down for a minute or two, Miss Gilroy. Now run, Lettie; please don’t wait another moment.”
Lettie left the room, and Mrs. Chetwynd stared at Leslie. Leslie returned her gaze with one frank and sympathetic.
“I am so truly sorry for you,” she said in her soft voice. Her brown eyes gazed full into Mrs. Chetwynd’s agitated face. “And I know what illness means,” continued Leslie very softly, “for Llewellyn—I beg your pardon, I mean my dear brother—he was terribly ill once, almost at death’s door. Oh, yes, I know what my mother suffered, and what we all felt; but he got quite well again, as strong as ever. We had a bad time, but it was over soon. It will be just the same with Eileen, I feel convinced.”
“Oh, my dear child, if I could but believe it. I never felt in such a terrible state in my life, and I know the doctors are most anxious. I must go back; I cannot add another word. Good-by; thank you for coming. Your name is——”
“Gilroy,” said Leslie.
“Thank you, Miss Gilroy, for coming. Lettie will let you know how Eileen gets on.”
“I will call again to-morrow morning to inquire, if you will allow me,” said Leslie.
“Certainly, if you wish.”
The widow spoke in an indifferent tone. She opened the door, and Leslie was just going into the hall when Lettie rushed downstairs.
“Marjorie wants you, Leslie; you are to go straight up to her this minute.”
“Marjorie wishes to see Miss Gilroy?” interrupted Mrs. Chetwynd.
“Yes, Aunt Helen; and a very good thing too. I just happened to mention that Leslie had called, and Marjorie said at once she must see her, that no one in all the world could do her so much good. Go up to her, Leslie; don’t waste time talking.”
“May I?” said Leslie, looking anxiously at Mrs. Chetwynd.
“Oh, certainly, dear, if she wishes it; but I must own——”
“Come, come, Leslie, there is not a minute to lose,” said Lettie.
They flew upstairs together, and a moment later had entered Marjorie’s room.
Marjorie had flung herself face downwards on the bed. She was wearing an untidy serge skirt, and a loose, ill-fitting washing blouse. Her tangled short hair was waved like a mop over her head. She did not look up when she heard the two girls enter the room; and when Leslie’s soft voice said, “I am very sorry for you, Marjorie.” her only reply was to clutch the pillow, round which she had clasped her arms, more convulsively than ever, and to say in a choking voice, “I wish Lettie would go away. I know she is in the room too. I want to be alone with you, Leslie.”
Lettie raised her brows, made a pantomimic sign to Leslie to show how badly she was appreciated, and stole on tiptoe out of the room.
“Has she gone?” asked Marjorie, still keeping her face hidden.
“Yes.”
“Well, shut the door, won’t you?”
Leslie did so.
“Turn the key in the lock, please.”
“Oh, Marjorie! is that right to your mother?”
“I won’t see mother, and I won’t see Lettie. Lock the door, will you, at once?”
Leslie instantly turned the well-oiled key in the lock. When she had done so, Marjorie sat up, pushed the hair from her forehead, and looked at Leslie from between her swollen eyelids.
“I feel so dazed,” she said.
Her face was red and inflamed in parts, and deadly white in other parts, her eyes had sunk into her head, and their color was almost washed away with violent weeping.
“Oh, come close, Leslie,” she said, suddenly stretching out her arms; “let me lean against you.”
Leslie went up to her; she clasped her own strong arms round her, laid the tired, flushed face against her breast, pushed back the hair with one of her hands, and began gently to stroke the hot cheek.
“There, darling, there,” said Leslie. She did not say anything more, not even “I am sorry for you,” but she kept on repeating the “there, darling, there,” until Marjorie, like a tired baby, closed her eyes, and actually dropped off to sleep.
Leslie sat motionless, bearing the weight of the tired girl’s head on her shoulder. Marjorie slept for about ten minutes, then with a violent start she looked up, saw Leslie, and clutched hold of her with a fierce strain.
“Oh, I have had such an awful dream,” she said. “I thought you were here, but that you would not stay, and that Eileen was lying on the bed dead, and that you would not let me touch her. Oh, I am glad it was adream, and that you are here. You will stay now, won’t you? I can just bear to be away from Eileen when you are here, for you are not like others; you seem to understand. Will you go and find mother, and ask her to let you stay with me?”
“Could we not ring the bell and tell the servant, and perhaps your mother would come here?”
“But I won’t have her in the room; she does worry me so dreadfully.”
“She is in great trouble, too,” said Leslie. “You ought to be kind to her, Marjorie.”
“Oh, don’t begin to lecture me; I can’t stand it. You must let me have my own way now, whatever happens in the future. You have come here of your own will, and go you shan’t.”
“I will stay with you if it will really comfort you,” said Leslie. “What you want more than anything else is a long, quiet sleep, and you must have it. Lie down; I will go and find your mother.”
Marjorie flopped down again on the bed, seized the pillow, clasped it in her arms, and buried her head in it.
Leslie unlocked the door and went out. On the landing a faint smell of carbolic and eau-de-Cologne greeted her. She stood for a moment hesitating. As she did so, a nurse came out of the sick-room.
“I saw you standing there, and thought perhaps you wanted something,” she said.
“Yes, I want to find Mrs. Chetwynd,” replied Leslie, in a low voice.
“She is in her room, and, I hope, asleep. Perhaps I can do something for you?”
“I wished to see her. I have a message from Marjorie.”
“Poor child, I trust she is becoming more reasonable. What does she want, may I ask?”
“She wishes me very much indeed to stay with her. She thinks she can bear to be away from Eileen if I am here.”
“Then, for Heaven’s sake, do grant her request. It is quite unnecessary to awaken poor Mrs. Chetwynd to tell her this. In the interest of my patient, I take upon myself the responsibility of giving you permission to stay. Do you need any clothes? We can send a messenger presently.”
“I must write to my mother, who will send me what I require,” replied Leslie. “Very well, I will go back to Marjorie now. You are quite certain that Mrs. Chetwynd won’t mind?”
“Mind! She will bless you.”
“Please, please, nurse, tell me before I go, how Eileen really is?”
The nurse shook her head.
“She is very ill indeed,” she answered.
“Do you mean,” said Leslie, turning pale, “that there is danger?”
“Don’t ask me,” said the nurse. “We are doing what we can for her; but in God’s hand alone are the issues of life.”
She stole back to the sick-room, and Leslie returned to Marjorie.
Marjorie was now sitting up on the bed. Her chin rested on her hands; her eyes, with a startled, strained look in them, turned slowly to Leslie when she entered the room.
“I heard you talking to nurse,” she said. “Did she—did she—tell you—anything?”
“Nothing special, dear, except that she was sure Imight stay here. I could not find your mother, and nurse took the responsibility of giving me leave.”
“Oh, of course you may stay. It is not that I mean; but did she tell you anything—anything about Eileen?”
“I asked her if Eileen were in danger,” said Leslie, “and she said, ‘We are doing all we can for her; but in God’s hands are the issues of life.’”
“Oh, then it is hopeless,” said Marjorie. “I—I always thought it was.” She got off the bed as she spoke. She was trembling so excessively that she nearly fell. Leslie went up and tried to put her arm round her waist.
“Don’t touch me,” said Marjorie. “I can’t bear anyone to touch me now. It is all too true. They have been trying to keep the truth from me. Did I not read it in their faces? Even the doctors have deceived me. Leslie, oh Leslie, if you saw her now you would not know her.”
Marjorie came up close to Leslie as she spoke.
“Her face is so sunken, and, oh, so white, and her eyes so very big. You know what lovely eyes Eileen always had—so soft in expression, so full of the soul which animated all she ever did, or thought, or said; but now, Leslie, now if you could see them—they have a sort of spirit-look. She was always unearthly, and now she is going away. She is going to the better and the spiritual world; and I, oh Leslie, I can’t bear it.”
Marjorie turned away, walked to the window, rested her elbow on the sill, and looked out.
“I cannot, cannot bear it,” she repeated at intervals.
Leslie remained motionless for a few minutes; she was thinking hard.
“Of course,” she said, after a long pause, “there is only one thing to be done.”
“Only one thing—yes, I know what you mean. I amto quiet myself, to crush back my misery, my despair. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll wash my face and hands, and make my hair tidy and go back to her again. She never loved anyone in all the world as she loved me. I am her twin, you know, and twins are so close to each other, fifty times closer than the ordinary brother and sister. I’ll go back to her, and I’ll stay so quiet that even the nurses won’t have anything to complain of. You need not remain in this house after all, Leslie, for I cannot be with you. I must return to my darling.”
“And by so doing be dreadfully selfish and injure her,” said Leslie.
“Selfish, and injure her!” repeated Marjorie.
“Yes, injure her, and take away the faint chance there may be of her life.”
“But you cannot mean that, Leslie. What possible harm can I do her? How perfectly ridiculous you are! I injure my own Eileen? Why do you speak in that way? It is impossible that I could injure her.”
“I know you will injure her if you go back. You don’t look natural, Marjorie. You must try to subdue your emotion. You are much too flushed, your eyes are too full of anxiety. The very tone of your voice is all strain. Now, Eileen ought to have no anxious person in her room. So much depends on all that sort of thing being kept out of the sickroom; and, dear,”—Leslie’s voice shook,—“I don’t know that I ought to say it, and yet I will—there is one thing to be done.”
“Speak. How mysterious you are!”
“Let us pray for her, Marjorie; let us ask God to save her. It is all in His hands. Let us ask Him to spare her life.”
Marjorie stared at Leslie, then she clutched hold of her hand, squeezed it, and said eagerly:
“Do you—do you think He will?”
“I cannot say; but we might try. He will, if it is right.”
“Then let us go straight off to a church and ask Him. I always feel as if I could pray better in a church.”
“Yes; we will go at once,” said Leslie.
In her shabby serge dress, the marks of tears still round her eyes, her cheeks flushed, her short hair tossed, Marjorie Chetwynd ran downstairs, accompanied by Leslie. Mrs. Chetwynd was still lying in her room trying to have a little rest; Lettie was writing letters to anxious friends. The girls had just opened the door when they saw Belle Acheson coming up the steps.
“How is she now?” said Belle. “Why, dear me, Leslie, how very quickly you got here, and you look as if you were quite at home. How is Eileen, Marjorie? By the way, you look rather bad yourself.”
“Please don’t speak about me; it doesn’t matter whether I am ill or well,” replied Marjorie. “Don’t keep me now, Belle. Eileen is as ill as she can be, and I am going to pray for her. Leslie says that is the only thing to do, and we are both going to church. Will you come with us? Surely the more who pray to God the better.”
“I will certainly come,” replied Belle quietly.
She turned at once, and the girls walked down the street side by side. There was a church at the farther end of the square, a church which was open all day to those who needed it.
The three girls entered. It was hot outside, but here it was still and cool. They walked up the aisle, and turned into one of the pews and knelt down. Marjorieknelt in the middle; her head was pressed upon her hands.
Leslie had always found prayer easy; in her short life she had prayed a good deal, finding prayer the greatest support in each hour of trial; but of late, since her own great trouble had come, she had almost forgotten to pray, and now it seemed difficult. It was not until she ceased to remember herself, and thought only of her friend, that her words went up to God, at first in broken utterances, then more earnestly and more full of faith. A low sob came from Marjorie’s lips. This sob was echoed by Leslie. Belle had taken up a prayer-book, had opened it, and was reading in a semi-whisper some of the prayers for the sick. After a very few moments Marjorie rose to her feet.
“I have prayed,” she said; “I have told God exactly what I want. He will hear. He must. It would be wrong, cruel, monstrous for Eileen, beautiful Eileen, to die. Come home now, Leslie,” she continued.
The three left the church as silently as they had entered. It was not until they reached Marjorie’s door that Belle spoke.
“Good-by, Marjorie,” she said, holding out her hand; “good-by. I will call again. But before I go, tell me—do tell me—if you seriously believe in all this?”
“I——” said Marjorie—she hesitated; the look of peace which had dawned upon her worn and anxious face left it. Before she could reply, Leslie answered with flashing eyes:
“Marjorie believes, or she could not have prayed as she did; and of course I believe,” she continued. “I believe in a God, and that He answers prayer.”
“I wonder if he will,” said Belle, with a queer, new sort of expression on her face. “It will be very strange.I shall be most curious to know. Good-by, Marjorie—good-by, Leslie.”
She turned and walked down the street. When she had gone a couple of hundred yards she turned back, and called out to the other girls, who were still standing on the steps of the house:
“I will come to-morrow to find out. It will be very curious if it is true. It will make an immense difference to me.”
Then she walked on, swaying slightly from side to side.
Marjorie put her hand quickly to her forehead.
“I never felt less in sympathy with Belle than I do at this moment,” she said. “Now, you, Leslie, really soothe me; it was nice to feel you kneeling by my side. It seemed to me that some of your faith came to me. I do not feel nearly so unhappy now; not so restless, nor so uncertain.”
Leslie kissed her.
“I can understand that,” she said; “you have put the matter into God’s hands—you are resting on God; that is the reason why you do not feel so miserable.”
The girls entered the little boudoir which Mrs. Chetwynd had so carefully prepared for her darlings. Lettie was seated by the window.
“Where have you both been?” she cried. “I have been looking for you everywhere. Aunt Helen is in a painful state of excitement.”
“What about?”
“Well, nurse did not much like Eileen’s state, and Dr. Ericson came in a hurry, and he says he wishes another doctor to be called in, one of the very great specialists. The doctor is coming almost immediately. Aunt Helen says we are none of us to go upstairs. There is to bethe most absolute quiet, and fresh straw has been ordered to be put down in the street. Leslie, are you really going to stay here?”
“She certainly is,” said Marjorie. “I wouldn’t part with her on any account.”
“I will write a line to mother if you will allow me,” said Leslie. “Of course, if I can be of the least use to Marjorie, I shall be glad to stay.”
“Here is paper, if you want it,” said Lettie. “I am very glad you are staying, for my part.”
Leslie wrote a short note. When it was finished, Lettie took it from the room.
“I cannot sympathize with Lettie either,” said Marjorie when Lettie had gone. Then she sat down by the window, and did not speak any more. Sometimes she closed her eyes, and sometimes Leslie, who had taken up a book, and was trying to read, fancied she saw her lips moving. Was she once again praying to God? Was faith, the first real faith she had ever known, truly visiting her heart, and helping her through this dark hour of tribulation?
Mrs. Chetwynd did not come downstairs again; and presently the footman appeared, and told the girls that dinner was ready.
“I cannot eat,” said Marjorie. “Eat, when all that makes life valuable hangs in the balance?”
“But you must eat, dear,” said Leslie; “you will feel much worse if you do not. Come with me.”
“Do, Marjorie, try not to be such a humbug,” said Lettie in an almost cross voice. “You don’t know how you add to the trouble of everybody when you go on in that silly way. First of all, Leslie, she absolutely immured herself in Eileen’s room, refused to leave it day or night, and distracted poor Aunt Helen and the nurse, andnow that she has come out of the room, she is doing her utmost to make herself ill.”
“Don’t say any more!” cried Marjorie. “I will come downstairs.” Her face was white as death.
The three girls entered the dining room. Leslie’s persuasions, joined, perhaps, to some of Lettie’s tarter remarks, induced Marjorie to take a little food; but the oppression and solemnity of the scene seemed to have got into the air.
Presently the sound of wheels, muffled as they drove over the straw, was distinctly heard, and then two doctors’ broughams drew up at the door. Dr. Ericson got out of his and an elderly, benevolent-looking man out of the other. They both entered the house.
“What shall I do?” cried Marjorie. “I cannot stand this.”
“Oh, I feel somehow it will be all right; and remember we have prayed about it,” said Leslie.
She went up to Marjorie.
“Come back to the boudoir,” she said. “You are nearer to her there.”
“Well, I shall stay here,” said Lettie. “I don’t know what there is about you, Leslie, and about Marjorie; but the pair of you make me feel quite nervous. We are doing all we can—that is, Aunt Helen is; and really I do think that one ought to try to retain a little strength of mind. If the very worst of all had happened, you could not be going on more terribly than you are at present, Marjorie.”
“I cannot help feeling, if that is what you mean,” said Marjorie. She went upstairs, and Leslie followed her. The noise of people walking overhead was heard.
“They are in her room now,” said Marjorie. She clutched hold of Leslie still tighter.
“Oh, Leslie, what should I do if you were not with me? You know she is my twin; no one was ever quite so near to me. We think the same, we do everything the same. All our pursuits, all our desires, are the same. I cannot live without her. If she dies I shall die.”
“But she shall not die, dear!”
“Oh, I know, but she is in such terrible danger now. You said, Leslie, that if it were good for her, God would spare her.”
“And He will, Marjorie; cannot you try to understand? If it is best for her to go to God, He will not leave her in the world just because you selfishly wish it. But it may be best for her to stay here; she may have much to do yet in her life on earth.”
“If she is spared I shall become religious at once,” said Marjorie.
Leslie could not help smiling.
“Were you not religious before?” she asked.
“Oh, after a fashion, but never the real thing. Eileen and I both professed a little, and Eileen, the darling, was, I believe, in earnest; but I don’t think I ever was. I wanted, of course, to lead a useful life, and I thought myself very much better than mother or Mrs. Acheson. I believe now that I was selfish about mother; perhaps we both were, even darling Eileen; but, you know, she always did what I did. I was the first to suggest a thing, and then Eileen followed suit. If we were selfish she was not to blame. Leslie, Leslie, the doctors are coming downstairs. I wonder if they will tell us anything? I know mother won’t for a long, long time.”
“I’ll go and ask, then,” said Leslie, jumping up. She went to the door, opened it, and stepped on to the landing.
The two doctors came downstairs.
“And what young lady is this?” said Dr. Howard, pausing for a moment and looking at her. He was a tall and very benevolent-looking man, with white hair and dark eyes.
“I want to know,” said Leslie—she paused. Marjorie had not dared to come out of the boudoir. “I want to know the truth—if there is—any hope?”
“Are you the sister of the young lady?” asked the medical man.
“No, only a great friend; but her sister, her twin sister, is in the other room, and she wants to know, and cannot find out.”
“I understand; too upset to ask, poor girl,” said the doctor. “Ericson, if you will permit me, I’ll go in and see that young lady.”
“Oh, how kind of you!” said Leslie. She opened the door, and both doctors went in.
Marjorie had flung herself down in a chair, and covered her face with her hands.
“Now, my dear girl, what is this?” said Dr. Howard. “We shall be having two patients instead of one if this sort of thing goes on. Give me your hand. I assure you, Ericson, this young lady’s pulse is bounding at such a rate that we shall have her in a fever if we don’t look out. This will never do. As to your sister, Miss Chetwynd——”
“Oh, what about her?” cried Marjorie. She flung down her hands, and looked up at the doctor with eyes full of agony.
“Good gracious! what a likeness between the two,” said Dr. Howard. “Well, my dear, I will tell you the simple truth. I know you will be a brave girl. Your sister is in danger—a bad case of typhoid fever always means that, you understand; but I have hope, and sohas my friend Ericson, that we shall pull her through. There is no cause for immediate anxiety; but much depends on the next twenty-four hours. Ericson is going to stay up to-night with your sister; and as for you, Miss Marjorie, you must go to bed and have a rest.”
“I am sorry to tell you, Dr. Howard,” said Dr. Ericson, “that Miss Marjorie has been behaving in a very natural but also a very reprehensible manner. She has insisted on living in her sister’s room, has done herself no good, and——”
“Oh, well, as you say, that is natural,” said Dr. Howard, who could read character like a book. “Poor child, she feels this terribly. Give her a sleeping draught, Ericson, won’t you? And now, my dear, go to bed as soon as possible, and leave your sister’s case in our hands, and,” he added, dropping his voice to a whisper, “in the hands of a better Physician.”
He left the room. When he had done so, Marjorie burst into tears.
“Oh, now I can breathe, now I can sleep,” she said. “The hard and terrible strain has left my heart. Yes, Leslie, I shall sleep to-night; I am dead tired.”
The next day Marjorie awoke from her long sleep with a stunned feeling at her heart, but no longer quite such a keen sense of despair. She clung to Leslie, and would scarcely let her out of her sight. The doctors were rather anxious about her. She was scarcely likely to take the fever; but, if she exhausted herself in the way she was doing, she might be laid up with a severe nervous attack. Accordingly, Mrs. Chetwynd implored Leslie to remain with them; and Leslie, having received a note from her mother to say that she was only too glad she was making herself useful, agreed to do so.
On the afternoon of that same day Marjorie went to lie down. There was absolute stillness in the house, for Lettie had gone out to spend the afternoon with a friend. The sick girl was fighting death in the room overhead, and Leslie found herself alone in the pretty boudoir. It was a charming room, furnished with every taste and luxury; but Leslie, as she lay back in a deep chair, had a strange feeling of inertia and lassitude all over her. She was glad to be with Marjorie; but the depression which had so often visited her of late was on this afternoon worse than ever. Mr. Parker’s attitude to her yesterday kept recurring again and again to her memory. The cold, almost disdainful look he had given her, the effort to appear as usual before her mother and brother and sisters, the signal failure of that effort, kept coming back to her. He had done much for her; she had takenan enormous favor from his hands. Now what a terrible position she found herself in. Oh, Llewellyn was right after all! He would not take a money-favor from anyone. How she wished she had been equally determined.
In the midst of these meditations she heard a ring at the front door. The next moment the footman came up, opened the door of the boudoir, and ushered in a visitor. Leslie started to her feet, a vexed exclamation came to her lips, and with difficulty remained unspoken, for Annie Colchester stood before her.
“I followed you here, Leslie,” said Annie. “Can I see you at once, and by yourself?”
“Certainly,” said Leslie. Her tone was cold. “Sit down, Annie.”
Annie did not sit; she came quickly across the room, and looked full at Leslie.
“You know, of course,” she said abruptly, “that I have come down from St. Wode’s?”
“Yes; and how did you pass your final?”
“I took an ordinary—no more; and now I want some work to do.”
“Of course.”
“How cold you look, Leslie; so different from what you were when first I met you at St. Wode’s.”
“Never mind about me,” answered Leslie. “Do you want me to help you? Have you come on that account?”
“Yes. I have come to you on that account, for you can help me. I went to your house this morning and heard you were out. It was of the most vital importance that I should see you, so I got your address from your mother. She was unwilling to give it to me at first, for she said you were staying in a house of illness; but I begged so hard that at last she gave way, and here I am.”
“Well. What is it?” asked Leslie. Her tone was still icy-cold, and the want of sympathy in her eyes caused Annie’s dark red-brown ones to flash angrily.
“Oh, you are one of those dreadfully Puritan, goody-goody people,” she said, “who always hate an unfortunate sinner. I would not like you to be my judge at the Great Assize.”
“You must not talk to me in that tone,” said Leslie, stung in her turn. “You know what you have done. You have changed all my life.”
“You don’t mean to say you are still fretting over that matter. What can it signify to you whether Mr. Parker thinks badly of you or not. Just consider for a moment what would have happened if you had betrayed me that time.”
“It might have been the better for me and for you too if I had spoken the truth,” said Leslie. “I am sometimes inclined to believe that I did wrong to shield you.”
“Wrong to shield me! Why, I should have been expelled, ruined; absolutely ruined for life.”
“But I should not be feeling as bitter as I now do.”
“You would have been so miserable you would not have cared to live,” said Annie, with conviction. “But, now, don’t let us hark back on that affair. I want you to do something for me, and at once. Can you possibly come out with me? I want you to come with me to Mr. Parker.”
“To Mr. Parker, and with you? No, Annie; that I cannot do.”
“But you must. Listen to me, Leslie.”
Annie suddenly fell on her knees and took one of Leslie’s hands in hers.
“How luxurious this room is,” she said. She looked around it as she spoke, glancing at the curtainedwindows, the pictured walls, the comfortable chair in which Leslie was seated.
“Your friends are rich,” she continued. “And although your home is plain enough, yet you have never wanted. I wonder, Leslie, if you were ever hungry, hungry to the point of starvation.”
“What do you mean?” asked Leslie.
“Oh, you’d know very well if you had suffered. Now, I have. Let me show you the money I have in my pocket.”
She slipped her hand into her pocket, took out her purse, and tumbled its contents into Leslie’s lap.
“I don’t want to see,” said Leslie.
“But you must look. See, here is a ten-shilling piece, and here are four shillings. Ten and four make fourteen. That is all I possess, absolutely all, and I have not a friend in the world. My brother——”
“Your brother is in Australia?”
“Never mind where he is. If he keeps his promise to you I must never see him again; he must never come back to England. But listen; this has nothing to do with my brother—it has to do with me. I could scarcely live on less than two shillings a day, which means that I have exactly a week in which to spend my money. At the end of that time where am I?”
She stood up and held out her empty palms.
“Now listen, Leslie. I know Mr. Parker does not like me, and he never liked Rupert. It is true he was kind to me, for he helped to pay for my education at St. Wode’s. If I had taken a first-class at my final I could have got a good situation as a teacher, although I hate teaching, for I am too impatient and too dreamy; but as I have only barely taken an ordinary, all that sort of thing is hopeless. Besides, even if it were not hopeless, thereis nothing vacant. I must live while I am waiting for a situation. Now, Mr. Parker wants a secretary. He wants a girl to come to his office every day to write his letters and to attend generally to his correspondence, and I intend to secure that post. I am told that he offers his secretary two guineas a week. I mean to be that secretary: I mean to earn that money. He won’t give me the post, though, because he does not like me well enough; but if you come with me and plead for me, just because he likes you, because he loves you, he will give the post to me. Can you come now, at once? I was at his office this morning. I did not say who I was; and, do you know, there were twenty girls waiting to see him for this one situation. They all looked capable and clever, the sort who would write his letters and attend to his correspondence, and keep things going for him. But every one of those twenty girls are to be disappointed, for I am to be the successful one. I shall be, if you will speak a good word for me. Come, Leslie, will you do this for me?”
“But do you quite realize what you are asking?” said Leslie; “to demand a favor of Mr. Parker? Annie, you cannot know what this means. I will speak to you frankly. My heart has been cold as a stone to you. You have made my life all gall and bitterness.”
“Oh, folly!” said Annie. “Remember, I shall starve. Only fourteen shillings between me and the world!”
“But Mr. Parker will not give you the situation if I ask him,” continued Leslie. “He scarcely speaks to me now if we meet. How can I ask him to do me a favor? Annie, you expect too much.”
Annie stared very hard at Leslie; then she rose to her feet. There was a look of despair in her eyes; her cheeks were ghastly white.
“Fourteen shillings,” she said in a whisper.
She returned her purse to her pocket, and looked again at Leslie.
“Are you sure you won’t yield?” she said. “Remember, whatever you do must be done to-day; he is going to decide to-day.”
Leslie struggled with herself.
Just at that moment the door was quickly opened, and Marjorie rushed in. There was a queer look on Marjorie’s face, traces of recent tears in her eyes, and a softness about her mouth. She went up to Leslie and kissed her. She did not see Annie at all.
“Eileen is better,” she cried; “she has had a long, quiet sleep, and the nurse says she is certainly better. The doctors have just gone, too, and they believe that she is on the mend. They think that the worst is over. Leslie, God did hear our prayers. I shall believe in God now as long as ever I live. I wish Belle Acheson would come, in order that I might tell her how God heard our prayers. Yes. I shall believe in Him as long as I live. It was your thought, Leslie; your splendid thought, and it has succeeded. Oh, I am so happy!”
She kissed Leslie again, and ran out of the room as quickly as she had entered. She did not even notice Annie Colchester, who stood near the window.
When Marjorie closed the door behind her. Leslie looked full at Annie.
“What can it all mean?” said Annie. “How queer Marjorie Chetwynd looked!”
“No wonder,” said Leslie. “Her sister Eileen was at death’s door; but she is a little better to-day.”
“Only Marjorie talked some humbug about prayer. Did she imagine that you—you prayed? I thought you were too hard.”
“No, no,” said Leslie, with a catch in her voice, and a suppressed sob. “I am a miserable girl; but I—it does not matter. Annie, I will do what you wish.”
“Then you are an angel after all. I thought you one once, and so did Rupert; but you yourself choked us off. Well, come with me now. You are an angel after all.”
The words were scarcely out of Annie’s lips, her hand, hot and trembling with excitement, had scarcely touched Leslie’s sleeve, before the door was thrown open and Belle Acheson was announced.
Belle came in with a queer, eager look on her face, a kind of hungry, half-starved look. She went straight up to Leslie.
“I did not ask the man at the door,” she said. “I didn’t wish to; I felt I would rather get the news, good or bad, from you. Do you know what a queer thing happened? I was so impressed by what you told me yesterday that I, actually I, Belle Acheson, began to pray in real earnest. All night long I kept asking God to spare Eileen; and now the question is, has He done so? Leslie, how is Eileen? Is she better?”
“She is, Belle; oh, she is,” cried Leslie. “It is too wonderful; but it is true. God has heard all our prayers. It is only a moment back that dear Marjorie ran into the room and told me that Eileen was better.”
“Thank you,” replied Belle; “you need not say any more.” She turned her back on Leslie, and walked to the window. She stood there, behind the shelter of the curtains, and looked out. No one knew what she saw or what she felt. After a time she looked round.
“Then it is all right,” she said. “There is a God who answers prayers; Eileen will get well again. It is a great thing for a girl to discover the truth of that; it makes a great difference in her life. It is quite too interesting,and too—too wonderful. It makes everything worth while, somehow. Oh, there! I cannot speak about it.”
She stopped abruptly. Leslie did not reply; but Annie now ran up to Belle.
“Don’t you know me?” she said. “Or are you too absorbed with this—this wonderful discovery, to notice that I am one of the St. Wode’s girls.”
“Of course I know you; you are Annie Colchester, the queer, extraordinary girl who was almost as enthusiastic as I am to win distinction, to solve problems, to acquire the great, the glorious possession of knowledge.”
“I am the same,” answered Annie; “although in some ways my views have changed.”
“Don’t tell me so. If you are one of those who put their hand to the plough and then look back I will have nothing to do with you. By the way, you have passed your exam before now; how have you succeeded?”
“I have not succeeded at all—that is, I have only just taken an ordinary.”
“And you meant to take a first-class in honors?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have done poorly.”
“I know I have,” replied Annie, hanging her head.
“Let me look at you,” said Belle. She went straight up to her, put her hand under Annie’s chin, and lifted up the blushing face.
“And yet you have a fine, well-developed brow,” she said; “plenty of brains there, and your eyes are clear and dancing with intelligence. Stay though, let me feel your pulse.”
She caught Annie’s wrist between her finger and thumb. Belle herself was all eagerness now; her attitude was that of one who stood at attention.
“Come,” she said. “H’m! I’m not a doctor, but Idon’t like that pulse. One moment it seems to be running away, the next it stops dead—then it is wabbly, quite uncertain. Annie Colchester, do you eat enough?”
“Don’t question me,” answered Annie.
Belle’s gray eyes traveled to Leslie’s face. Leslie’s lips formed a voiceless “No.” Belle understood her.
“By the way, where are you staying?” she asked, turning again to Annie; “have you any friends in town?”
“I have no special friends. I am in lodgings.”
“What address?”
“I cannot give you an address, because I am leaving to-day.”
“Then that is delightful; you shall come home with me.”
“With you? Do you mean it?”
“Of course I mean it. I am not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean. I should consider such conduct a breach of truth. Do you imagine for a moment that I am a liar; I, who wish to cultivate all the sacred virtues, to stoop to a lie. When I ask you to come home with me, I wish to have you. I want a friend to keep me company, an intelligent friend. You shall stay with me for a week at least. I don’t believe in that failure of yours. If you did not take honors, you ought to have taken them. That brow and those eyes were not given you for nothing. By the way, did I ever mention to you—no, I don’t think I did—that I am starting a little hostel of my own, that I am saving money for it. I do not know the exact sum that I have saved, but it is not very far from a hundred pounds. You are one of the girls I should like to live with me there. You are just the sort to fling aside every weight, and devote yourself heart and soul to the acquiring of glorious knowledge.”
“I have felt like that now and then,” said Annie; “but somehow the motive has gone. It is unfair, absolutely unfair, for me to come to you on false pretenses.”
“Oh, whether you are clever or not, you look as if you wanted a week’s rest. I am very happy to-day—what occurred has given me—I cannot exactly tell you what, but a wonderful feeling. I am in the humor to do a good deed, and you are the person who wants it done to. You want rest and good nourishment and peace. You have been tossed about in a sore battle. I do not know where, and I do not know how; but the proof lies in the queer, desolate expression of your face. My home is comfortable, and mother always does exactly what I like; so come at once.”
“I thank you from my heart, and I will come,” said Annie. “It is a great boon to me; but I must first go out with Leslie Gilroy.”
“Off with you then at once. I don’t want to pry into any secrets; but, Leslie, when you have done with her, bring her or send her back to me. You know the old address in Maida Vale. Good-by for the present.”
“This is a wonderful thing for me,” said Annie as she stood up. Leslie turned and looked at her without replying. “I mean that my fourteen shillings can now last me nearly another week. By that time, if I get this situation, I shall have saved money and be quite independent. Leslie, you cannot imagine what a load will be lifted from my mind, and you will have done it. I shall thank you to the longest day I live.”
“But I don’t want to do it,” said Leslie; “you don’t know how dreadful I feel. Pray, don’t say any more to me. I am not good now, not at all. I want to be away by myself, to fight this thing out to the bitter end. But here we are. I’ll do my best for you, Annie, only for Heaven’s sake don’t thank me.”
The girls found themselves now in Queen Victoria Street. They reached the house where Mr. Parker’s offices were, went upstairs to the second floor, and presently entered a room where several clerks were busy.
“You must take the initiative now,” said Annie, touching Leslie on the arm. “They know me, for I have been here often; but they do not know you. Go up to one of the clerks and say that you wish to see Mr. Parker.”
Again Leslie found herself hesitating, but then she quickly made up her mind. She must go on with what she meant to do at any cost.
She crossed the room, therefore, quickly, and stood before a desk where an elderly man with gray hair was writing.
“I have come to see Mr. Parker,” said Leslie; “is he in?”
“Mr. Parker is in, miss,” was the reply; “but he is specially engaged.”
“Is he likely to be disengaged soon?” asked Leslie.
“Within half an hour perhaps. He is interviewing some young ladies for a——”
“Oh, I know,” said Annie, who had followed Leslie across the room. “Be quick, Leslie, quick.”
“I want to see Mr. Parker on that very subject,” replied Leslie.
“What, miss,” said the clerk, “are you one of the candidates?”
“No, not exactly; but, all the same, I have come on that very business. If you will give me a sheet of paper I will write a note.”
The man handed her one, and she scribbled a few words:
“Leslie Gilroy wants to see you at once. Please don’t engage a secretary finally until you have heard what I want to say.”
She folded up the paper and handed it to the clerk.
“Will you take that to Mr. Parker now?” she said. “He will look at it even while he is talking with another person.”
“Oh, how good you are!” whispered Annie in her ear.
Another clerk motioned to the girls to seat themselves on a bench not far from the door. The elderly clerk with the gray hair went into a room at the opposite side. He was absent for a couple of minutes. When he returned he went straight up to Leslie.
“Mr. Parker will see you in five minutes,” he said. “Will you come this way?”
“May I come too?” asked Annie.
Leslie looked at the clerk.
“Certainly, miss, bring your friend.” He spoke in a respectful tone, and ushered the girls into a small and comfortably furnished apartment. Having supplied them with a newspaper each, he left them.
“This suspense is almost intolerable,” said Annie. “You promise, Leslie, that you will plead very, very hard.”
“I will do my best,” answered Leslie.
“But I know you are hating it,” said poor Annie. “I see it in your face.”
“Don’t talk to me about that, Annie. I have made up my mind; but I cannot, cannot talk it over with you.”
Just then the door was opened, and Mr. Parker himself came in. He glanced at Annie in some annoyance and surprise, and gave Leslie that cold, level glance which had almost broken her heart on the day of the picnic.
“I understand that you want to speak to me?” he said.
Leslie rose.
“I do,” she said. “Can I see you by yourself?”
“You can, if you have come on a very urgent matter; but, as a rule, I never see anyone here except on business.”
“This is truly a matter of business.”
“Has Miss Colchester anything to do with it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I had better see you alone. Come this way.”
He took no further notice of Annie, but ushered Leslieinto the next room. Closing the door, he asked her to seat herself.
“Now, what is it?” he said.
“I can scarcely tell you how painful it is to me to come to you to-day,” began Leslie.
“Then why do you do it?” said Mr. Parker.
“Because I want to ask you for a favor.”
“Ah, to lend you another sixty pounds?”
Leslie’s face turned very white.
“Do you know that you, my father’s old friend, are cruel,” she said.
“I don’t think so. On the contrary, I consider that I am most forbearing. A girl who can go into debt once, and conceal it from her friends, and send another girl——”
“Mr. Parker, you break my heart.”
“Again I repeat I am sorry, but I must have my say. I cannot grant your request, whatever it is, except in my own fashion. Now, speak up, and be quick. Being Leslie Gilroy, of course I cannot refuse you anything in reason.”
“You are doing much for me. I know it is for my mother’s sake and my father’s sake.”
“That’s about it.”
“And never, never more for my sake?”
“My feelings have changed toward you. The more I think over that black business the less I like it. I cannot pretend to be other than I am.”
“Well, I have not come here to plead for myself to-day,” replied Leslie. “I want to help Annie Colchester. She is very poor, nearly starving; she has heard that you want a secretary.”
Mr. Parker raised his brows, and an ominous exclamation dropped from his lips.
“You must hear me out,” continued Leslie. “She knows also that you do not like her brother.”
“Scoundrel!” muttered the merchant between his teeth.
“But she is not to be held accountable for her brother’s sins.”
“Did I ever say she was?”
“No; but you act somehow as if you did. Oh, I am not going to be afraid of you, Mr. Parker. I will speak out. A brother may be wicked and a sister good and virtuous——”
“You think her good and virtuous?” interrupted the merchant.
Leslie hastily proceeded, as if she had not heard this remark.
“I want you to make Annie your secretary,” she said. “She feels sure that you would refuse her own request, and she has asked me to plead with you. I do plead most earnestly. I plead because I am my father’s daughter, and because once you were fond of me and good to me. Annie is a very clever girl; she knows many foreign languages, she has a great deal of shrewdness in her character, and would do your work admirably. I want you to let her do it.”
“And you intend to be responsible for her character?”
“Her character? Oh!” said Leslie. She trembled and colored.
Mr. Parker fixed her with his keen twinkling eyes. He seemed to be dragging the truth out of her soul. If he knew even for one moment how Annie had got that money, if he knew about the forged letter, would he give her the post?
“And you are, personally, very desirous about this?” said Mr. Parker.
“I am indeed. Under the circumstances, it is bitterly hard for me to have to plead with you; for my whole heart aches, yes—whether you will believe it or not—at the cruel change in our positions. You, to whom I owe so much, think badly of me. But I have risen to this great effort on Annie’s behalf. Don’t let me have to humble myself in vain.”
“Would there have been anything so humiliating in your asking a favor of your father’s greatest friend?” said Mr. Parker, a kinder note coming into his voice.
“It would not have been humiliating at all; but, under the changed circumstances, it is.”
“Aye; they have changed, truly. But because of your father and our old friendship, I will do what you wish, Leslie Gilroy; but on a condition.”
“Oh, I will promise anything, I am so grateful to you.”
“Stop a moment, young lady; wait until you have heard what my condition is. I will do what you wish—I will give your friend that post—if you will tell me the truth with regard to that sixty pounds.”
Leslie turned from white to red.
“I thought——” she began.
“No, young lady; no,” said Mr. Parker. “I can read character well enough, and you have never told me the truth with regard to that money. There is something concealed at the back of it. The more I think the more assured I am, and your face tells me so plainly at the present moment. When I know the simple truth, Leslie Gilroy, I will restore you into my full favor again, and your friend shall be my private secretary.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said,” replied poor Leslie, trembling from head to foot. “I cannot tell you more than you know already.”
“What I know already is not the truth. Go, child; tell your friend that you have failed, and that the fault is yours.”
Leslie walked across the room. Mr. Parker preceded her and flung open the door. He followed Leslie into Annie’s presence. He stood and faced Annie Colchester.
“I understand,” he said, bringing out his words coldly, “that you have asked Leslie Gilroy to come here and plead for you. You want to be my secretary?”
“I could do the work well,” said Annie, standing up and speaking with glistening eyes.
“Your brother also assured me that he could do my work well. He had brains enough, but nothing else, the scoundrel!”
Annie bit her lips until the blood nearly came. She made a valiant effort not to speak; but to hear Rupert abused was like dragging her through fire.
“Now, listen to me.” said Parker. “I have spoken to Leslie Gilroy; I have told her that I will grant her request when she tells me the whole truth about that sixty pounds which you took from me to her. It is true I have her letter; but it was not only her letter, it was your pleading which induced me to give it. Since that hour I have felt certain that something is hidden. When Leslie tells me the exact truth, you, Annie Colchester shall have the place. You had better go away, both of you girls, and consult—there is something at the back of this. I will keep the post open for forty-eight hours, but no longer. Now go; you have my decision.”