Chapter 14 Three Girls from School by L. T. Meade
“It Relates to your Niece Annie”
It seemed to Annie that she had got quite close to John Saxon when he and she sat together on that boulder overhanging the valley below. But when they returned to the Rectory a barrier was once again erected between them.
She had little or nothing to say to her cousin, and he had little or nothing to communicate to her. Mr Brooke was better. He was awake and inclined for company. Annie and Saxon both sat with him after supper. He asked Annie to sing for him. She had a sweet though commonplace voice.
She sat down by the little, old piano, played hymn tunes, and sang two or three of the best-known hymns. By-and-by Saxon took her place. He had a lovely tenor voice, and the difference between his singing and Annie’s was so marked that Mrs Shelf crept into the room to listen, and the old clergyman sat gently moving his hand up and down to keep time to the perfect rhythm and the exquisite, rich tones of the singer.
“Nearer, my God, to Thee,” sang John Saxon.
Mr Brooke looked at Annie. Her head was bowed. Instinctively he put out his hand and laid it on her shoulder. “E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me,” sang the sweet voice.
“A cross that raiseth me,” murmured old Mr Brooke. His hand rested a little heavier on the slim young shoulder. Annie felt herself trembling. Her worldly thoughts could not desert her even at that sacred moment.
She had escaped a terrible danger, for even she, bad as she was, would not jeopardise the life of the old man who loved her best in the world. All fear of that was over now, and she would win a delightful time in Paris into the bargain. She was quite sure that John could manage her uncle.
The next morning the strange attack which had rendered Mr Brooke’s condition one of such anxiety had to all appearance? passed away. He was a little weak still, and his head a trifle dizzy; but he was able to potter about the garden leaning on John Saxon’s arm.
Annie, who was anxious to go as soon as possible to Rashleigh, ran up to John for a minute.
“I have to ride to Rashleigh to get some things for Mrs Shelf,” she said. “While I am away tell him—I know you will do it beautifully—tell him how necessary it is, and that I shall come back whenever he sends for me. Do it now, please; for you know that I must leave here this afternoon.”
Accordingly, while Annie was trotting on horseback in to Rashleigh with that money which was to be exchanged for the necessary receipt from Dawson, Saxon broached the subject of Paris to the old man.
“There is a little matter, sir,” he said, “which I should like to speak to you about.”
“And what is that, John?”
“It relates to your niece Annie.”
“Ah, dear child!” said the old man; “and what about her?”
“She seems to be in distress,” continued Saxon. “Oh, please don’t worry, sir; her great anxiety is to prevent your worrying.”
“Dear, dear child! So thoughtful of her,” murmured the clergyman.
“You were rather bad, you know, yesterday, and she and I took a walk together while you were having your sleep. It was then she confided to me that she has been invited to Paris.”
“I know, John,” said old Mr Brooke, turning and looking fixedly at the young man; “and I am the last to prevent her going; but, naturally, I want to know something about the woman who has invited her—a certain Lady Lushington. I never heard her name before. Annie tells me that Lady Lushington’s niece is her greatest school friend; and I feel assured that my Annie would not have a school friend who was not in all respects worthy—that goes without saying; nevertheless, a young girl has to be guarded. Don’t you agree with me, John?”
“Certainly I do, sir. Still, if you will permit me to say so, Annie seems very sensible.”
“She is wonderfully so; my Annie’s little head is screwed the right way on her shoulders—not a doubt whatever on that point. But the thing is this. I can inquire of Mrs Lyttelton what she knows with regard to Lady Lushington. If matters are favourable the child shall go. Can anything be more reasonable?”
“In one sense, sir, nothing can be more reasonable; but in another, your making this condition forces poor Annie practically to give up her invitation.”
“Eh? How so? How so?”
“Well, you see, it is this way. If she cannot join Lady Lushington on Tuesday evening—that is, to-morrow—she cannot join her at all, for this lady is leaving Paris on the following day. Annie can either go with her or not go with her. There is, therefore, you will perceive, sir, no time to communicate with Mrs Lyttelton.”
“That is true,” said Mr Brooke. “But why didn’t Annie tell me so herself?”
“She couldn’t bear to worry you. Poor child! she was put out very much, but she meant to give up her visit rather than worry you.” Saxon wondered, as he was uttering the last words, if he were straining at the truth. He continued now abruptly: “And that is not all. From what your niece tells me, she goes, or hopes to go, to Paris for a very different reason from mere selfish pleasure. There is a young friend of hers whom she hopes most seriously to benefit by this visit. She will not tell me how, but she assures me emphatically that it is so.”
“Dear, dear!” said the old man. “Sweet of her! sweet of her! And you think—you really think I ought to waive my objection and trust my child?”
“She earnestly hopes that you will do so, sir—that you will permit her at least to go for a day or two, and then recall her if it is essential.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that; I wouldn’t for a moment be so selfish.”
“But she herself would wish to come back to you if you were really indisposed.”
“I would not be so selfish, John—not for a moment. Yes, you have opened my eyes; the dear child shall certainly go. It is a disappointment not to have her, but if we old folks cannot take a few little crosses when we are so near the summit of the hill, and all the crosses and all the difficulties are almost smoothed away, what are we worth, my dear young sir? Oh, I should be the last to stand in the way of my dear little girl.”
“On the other hand,” said Saxon, “Annie would be extremely unworthy if she stayed away from you did you really need her. To go to Paris, to transact her necessary business, and then quickly to return is a very different matter. And now, sir, don’t let us talk any more about it. Let me bring you back to your study, and let me fetch you a glass of good port wine.” Saxon met Annie as she was returning with Dawson’s receipt in her pocket.
“Good news!” he said, smiling at her. She felt herself turning pale.
“Oh, does he consent?”
“He does, and only as he could—right willingly and with all his heart. He is a man in ten thousand! I told him that you would not stay if he were really ill I shall trust you, therefore, to come back as soon as ever I send you word that it is necessary. Will you promise me that?”
“Of course, of course,” she replied.
“Well, go to him now. Don’t stay long. Remember that he is weak and will feel the parting. He has said nothing about money; and as you have sufficient you had better not worry him for the present.”
Annie’s conference with her uncle was of short duration. He kissed her two or three times, but there were no tears in his eyes.
“You should have confided in me, Annie,” he said once. “I am not an unreasonable man. I thought this was a pleasure visit; I did not know that my dear little girl had a noble and unselfish project at the back of everything. My Annie will herself know if Lady Lushington is the sort of woman I should like her to be with. If you find her as I should like her to be found, stay with her, Annie, until I recall you. You see how I trust you, my darling.”
“You do, you do,” answered the girl; “and I love you,” she added, “as I never loved you before.”