Chapter 15 Three Girls from School by L. T. Meade
A Travelling Companion
Nothing interfered with Annie’s arrangements. She left Rashleigh by the train by which she had always intended to go up to town. She took a room at the Grosvenor Hotel for the night, spending what little time she had in doing some necessary shopping.
Her intention was to write to Uncle Maurice for further funds on her arrival at the Grand Hotel. She would know there Lady Lushington’s movements, and could tell her uncle where to forward letters. There was one thing, however, which brought rather a sting with it. There was a memory which she did not care to recall; that was the look on John Saxon’s face when he bade her good-bye.
John Saxon had been her very good friend. He had helped her with funds so that her wicked action with regard to Dawson’s cheque would never now be discovered. He had also smoothed the way for her with her uncle. She had gone away from the Rectory with Uncle Maurice’s blessing sounding in her ears; and although Mrs Shelf was decidedly chuff, and muttered things under her breath, and declared resolutely that she had no patience with gadabouts, and that there was a time for preserving, and not for preserving, and a time for nursing, and not for nursing; and a time for pleasuring, and not for pleasuring, these things made little impression on Annie; but John Saxon, who was silent and said nothing at all, made her feel uncomfortable. Just at the end he made a solitary remark:
“Give us your address as soon as possible; for, if necessary, I will telegraph for you. And now good-bye. I trust you will enjoy yourself and—and—save your friend.”
Then the train had whizzed out of sight. She no longer saw the upright figure and the manly face, and she no longer felt the disapproval in the voice and the want of confidence in the eyes. But the memory of these things remained with her, and she wanted to shut them away.
The next morning she was in good time at Victoria Station. But what was her amazement to find standing on the same platform, and evidently intending to go to Dover by the same train, no less a person than her old schoolfellow, Priscilla Weir!
“You look surprised, Annie,” said Priscilla. “Nevertheless, no less a thing has happened than that I am going to Paris too. Lady Lushington has invited me, and as she is good enough to pay all my expenses, you and I are travelling together. I had no time to let you know, or I would have done so. I hope you are pleased. But I don’t suppose,” added Priscilla, “that it makes much difference whether you are pleased or not.”
“I don’t suppose it does,” answered Annie, who was secretly very much annoyed. “Well, of course,” she continued, “we had best travel in the same carriage.”
The girls found their seats, and after a time, when the bustle of departure was over, Annie turned to Priscilla.
“How has this come about?” she asked.
“It was Mabel’s doing;” said Priscilla—“Mabel’s, and partly, I think, Mrs Lyttelton’s. Mrs Lyttelton found it rather inconvenient to keep me at the school during the holidays, for a good many of the rooms are to be redecorated. I couldn’t go to Uncle Josiah; and I cannot tell you how or why, but I had a long letter from Mabel, most jolly and affectionate, asking me to join her aunt and herself, and telling me that you would be sure to be of the party. There was enclosed a letter from Lady Lushington, sending me a cheque; and although I scarcely care for this sort of invitation, yet I have been forced to accept it. I am on my way now to share your fun. I can quite well believe that this is not agreeable to you, but it really cannot be helped.”
“Oh, agreeable or disagreeable, we must make the best of it,” said Annie. “Of coarse,” she added, “I am glad to have a companion. There’s no reason, Priscilla, why we should not be the best of friends. It did seem rather funny, at first, to think of you, of all people, joining this expedition. But if you are not sorry to be with me, I don’t see why I should not be pleased to be with you.”
“Were I to choose,” said Priscilla, “I would much prefer not to be either with you or Mabel. But that is neither here nor there. I have done wrong; I am very unhappy. I suppose I shall go on doing wrong now to the end of the chapter. But I don’t want to bother you about it. Let us look out of the window and enjoy the scenery. I suppose that is the correct thing to do.”
Annie still felt a strong sense of irritation. How hard she had worked to get this pleasure for herself, and now, was Priscilla, of all people, to damp her joys? Whatever her faults, however, Annie Brooke was outwardly good-natured and essentially good-tempered. There are a great many people of this sort in the world. They are lacking in principle and sadly wanting in sincerity, but nevertheless they are pleasant to be with. They show the sunny side of their character on most occasions, and in small matters are fairly unselfish and inclined to make the best of things.
Annie now, after a brief time of reflection, made up her mind to make the best of Priscilla. Priscilla was not to her taste. She was too conscientious and, in Annie’s opinion, far too narrow-minded. Nevertheless, they were outwardly very good friends, and must continue to act their parts. So on board the steamer she made herself pleasant, and useful also, to poor Priscilla, who felt the motion of the boat considerably, and had, in short, a bad time. Annie, who was never seasick in her life, won golden opinions while on board for her goodness and consideration to Priscilla; and when, finally, they were ensconced in two comfortable seats en route for Paris, her spirits rose high. She put aside all disagreeable memories and gave herself up to enjoyment.
“We shall have fun,” she said. “We must make the very best of things; we must forget all school disagreeables.”
“I only hope one thing,” said Priscilla, dropping her voice to a low tone, “and that is that the subject of the prize essay won’t be mentioned in my presence. You know how I acted with regard to it. Well, I have done the wicked deed, and want if possible, to forget it.”
“But why should it be spoken about?”
“Surely,” remarked Priscilla, “Lady Lushington is very likely to talk on the subject. You know it was on account of Mabel winning the prize that she has been taken away from school.”
“Oh yes,” said Annie in an off-hand way; “but I could quite imagine, from what I have heard of Lady Lushington, that she will forget all about the matter in an incredibly short space of time.”
“I hope so,” said Priscilla; “it will be all the better for me if she does.”
“There is one thing you must remember, Priscie,” said Annie; “if by any chance she alludes to it, you must keep up the deception.”
Priscilla looked at Annie with very wide-open, grey eyes.
“I shall leave the room,” she said; “I am not good at being deceitful.” Then she added quickly, “There are times when I feel that I can only recover my self-respect by making a clean breast of everything.”
“Oh!” said Annie, in some alarm, “you could not possibly do that; think what awful trouble you would get poor Mabel and me into.”
“I know,” said Priscilla; “and that is the one thing which keeps me back.”
“If I might venture to make the remark,” said Annie, “it is the one thing which in honour ought to keep you back. There is honour even amongst thieves, you know,” she added a little nervously.
“And that is what I am,” said poor Priscilla. “I have practically stolen my year’s schooling; I have, like Esau, sold my birthright for a mess of pottage. Oh! what shall I do?”
“Nothing,” said Annie; “and please don’t talk any more in that particularly intense way, for people will begin to stare at us.”
Priscilla sank back in her seat. Her head was aching. Annie, on the contrary, sat very upright, looking fresh, bright, and happy. After a time, however, something occurred which made her feel less comfortable. Priscilla bent towards her and said:
“By the way—I was almost forgetting, and she begged of me so hard not to do so—but will you return her book to Susan Martin?” Annie’s face became crimson, then pale.
“Susan Martin?” she said. “Do you know her?”
“Of course I know her, Annie. What a queer colour you have turned! She has been making several things for me during the last few days. She is very much excited, poor girl, about a manuscript book of poems which you borrowed from her. She said you wanted them to show to a judge of poetry in order to help her to get them published. I had not an idea that the poor girl was a poet.”
“Oh, she is,” said Annie, who by this time had recovered her self-possession, and whom the very imminence of the danger rendered cool and self-possessed. “She writes quite wonderfully. I did borrow her book to show to Uncle Maurice; he is such a good judge.”
“Oh, was that all?” said Priscilla. “I thought from Susan’s manner that you knew some publisher. She thinks a great deal about her poems.”
“Yes, poor girl!” said Annie; “I must write to her.”
“Have you shown the poems to your uncle, Annie?”
“Not yet, Priscilla. Uncle Maurice has not been well; I could not worry him with those sort of matters.”
“Not well?” said Priscilla. “And you have left him?”
“Yes, my dear, good Priscilla,” said Annie; “I have been wicked enough to do so. He is too ill to be bothered with Susan Martin’s productions, but not too ill to afford me a pleasant little holiday. Now do let’s change the subject.”
“With pleasure,” said Priscilla. “I wish to change it, if you don’t mind, by shutting my eyes, for I have a very bad headache.”
While Priscilla slept, or tried to sleep, Annie sat back amongst her cushions lost in thought.
“Really,” she said to herself, “if all the things that I have done lately were discovered I should have but a poor time. I forgot all about Susan Martin and her manuscript book. It came in very handily at the time, but now it is no end of a bore. I ought to have cautioned her not to speak of it to any one. It is a great pity that Priscilla knows about it, for if by any chance she asks Susan to show her the book, the two poems attributed to Mabel will immediately be discovered. Certainly Priscilla is a disagreeable character, and I cannot imagine why I have bothered myself so much about her.”
The railway journey came to an end, and a short time afterwards the girls found themselves greeted by Lady Lushington and Mabel at the Grand Hotel.
Lady Lushington was a tall, slender woman of from thirty-eight to forty years of age. Her face was rather worn and pale. She had a beautiful figure, and was evidently a good deal made up. Her hair was of a fashionable shade of colour. Annie concluded at once that it was dyed. Priscilla, who had never heard of dyed hair, thought it very beautiful.
“My dears,” said the good lady, advancing to meet both girls, “I am delighted to see you.—Mabel, here are your two young friends.—Now, will you go at once with Parker to your rooms and get ready for dinner? We all dine in the restaurant—demi-toilette, you know. Afterwards we will sit in the courtyard and listen to the band.”
“I will come with you both,” said Mabel, who, dressed with extreme care and looking remarkably fresh and handsome, now took a hand of each of her friends.—“This is your room, Priscilla,” she said, and she ushered Priscilla into a small room which looked on to the courtyard.—“Parker,” she continued, turning to the maid, “will you see that Miss Weir has everything that she wants.—Now, Annie, I will attend to you. You don’t mind, do you?—for it is only for one night—but you have to share my room; the hotel is so full, Aunt Henrietta could not get a room for you alone. But I will promise to make myself as little obtrusive as possible.”
“Oh May!” said Annie, “I am just delighted to sleep in a room with you. I have so much to say—dear old May!” she added suddenly, turning and kissing her friend. “I am glad to see you again!”
“And I to see you, Annie,” replied Mabel. “I am having a glorious time, and want you to share it with me. Aunt Hennie has just been splendid, and has given me a completely new wardrobe—the most exquisite dresses, all bought and made at the best shops here, quite regardless of expense, too. I cannot tell you how much they have cost. How do you like this pink silk? Isn’t it sweet?”
“Yes, lovely,” said Annie, thinking with a sigh of her own poor clothes. But then she added, “Rich dresses suit you, Mabel, for you are made on a big and a bountiful scale. It is lucky for me that I can do with lees fine garments.”
“Oh, but I assure you, Annie, you are not going to be left out in the cold. You must have no scruples whatever in wearing the clothes that Aunt Hennie has got for you. She wants to take some young girls about with her, and she would not have you a frump for all the world; so there are a few pretty, fresh little toilettes put away in that box by Parker which I think will exactly fit you. There is a dress on that bed—oh, only white lace and muslin—which you are to wear this evening at the restaurant dinner; and there is a smart little travelling-costume for you to appear in to-morrow. You can leave them all behind you at the end of your jaunt, if you are too proud to take them; but, anyhow, while with us you have to wear them nolens volens.”
“Oh dear!” said Annie, almost skipping with rapture, “I am sure I am not a bit too proud.”
“We have got things for Priscie too,” said Mabel, “and I do hope she won’t turn up crusty; she is such a queer girl.”
“Why ever did you invite her, Mabel?” asked Annie.
“Why did I invite her?” said Mabel. “It was not my doing, you may be sure. Not that I dislike the poor old thing; far from that. She is quite a dear. But, of course, what I wanted was to have you to myself; but no—Aunt Hennie wouldn’t hear of it; she said that nothing would induce her to take two girls about with her. Her remark was that we should always be together, and that she would be de trop. Now she doesn’t mean to be de trop, so one of us is always to be with her, and the other two can enjoy themselves. She said at once, when I broached the subject of your joining us, that you might come with pleasure, and she would be only too delighted if another of our schoolfellows came as well. My dear, I argued and argued, but she was firm. So then I had to think of poor Priscilla, for really there was no one else to come; none of the others would dream of giving up their own friends and their own fun; and there was Priscilla landed at the school. So I told Aunt Hennie what she was like—grave and sedate, with grey eyes and a nice sort of face. I assured her that Priscie was a girl worth knowing, and Aunt Henrietta took a fancy to my description, told me to write off to her and to Mrs Lyttelton; and she wrote herself also; and, of course, Mrs Lyttelton jumped at it. So here we are, saddled with Priscie, and we must make the best of it. Dear Annie, do take off your hat and jacket, and get into your evening-dress; we shall be going down to dinner in a few minutes. I will help you with your hair if you need it, for I expect Parker is having a war of words with Priscilla. There’s such a sweet dress waiting for Priscie to wear—dove-coloured silk, made very simply. She will look like a Quakeress in it; it will suit her to perfection.”
Just at that moment a commotion was heard on the landing outside; a hurried knock came at the room door, and Priscilla, flushed, untidy, and wearing the same dress as she had travelled in, stood on the threshold. Behind Priscilla appeared the equally disturbed face and figure of Parker.
“Really, Miss Lushington,” began Parker, “I have done all I could—”
“Your conduct is not justifiable,” interrupted Priscilla. “I am very sorry indeed, Mabel; you mean kindly, of course, but I cannot wear clothes that don’t belong to me. I would rather not have dinner, if you will excuse me. My head aches, and I should much prefer to go to bed.”
“Oh dear,” said Mabel, “what a fuss you make about nothing, Priscie! Why, the dress is all part of the play. Let us think of you as acting in a play while you are with Aunt Henrietta and me; if you take a part in it, you must dress to fit the part. Oh, put on your lovely grey silk—you will look perfectly sweet in it—and come down to dinner with Annie and me. See Annie; she is in her white muslin already, and looks a perfect darling.”
“I feel a perfect darling,” said Annie. “I love this dress. I adore fine clothes. I am not one little bit ashamed to wear it.”
“Well,” said Priscilla, “Annie can please herself; but if I have to wear other people’s clothes, or clothes that don’t belong to me and that I have no right whatever to accept, I shall have to give up this trip and go back to England to-morrow.”
“Oh dear!” said Mabel, “you are queer, Priscilla. I do wish—I do wish I could persuade you.”
“It is all useless, miss,” said Parker in an offended tone; “I have spoken to Miss Weir until I am tired, and she won’t see reason.—You see, miss,” continued Parker, “the dresses are bought, and if you don’t wear them they will be wasted. I understand proper pride, miss, but this does not seem to me reasonable, miss. You will forgive my saying so?”
“Yes, Parker, of course I forgive you,” said Priscilla; “but all the same,” she added, “I shall go on this expedition in my own clothes or I don’t go at all.”
“You will be a fright,” said Annie.
“I would rather be a fright and myself; I should not feel myself in other people’s clothes.”
“You are very silly,” said Mabel. “Can I do nothing?”
“I will talk to you afterwards, Priscilla,” said Annie.—“Let her alone now, May. She had a bad time crossing, and I dare say would rather go to bed.—You will look at all these things in a different light in the morning, Pris.”
“We shall have to be off fairly early in the morning,” said Mabel, “so you may as well go to bed if you are dead-tired, Priscie.—Parker, will you get some tea and anything else that Miss Weir may require, and have it brought to her room?”
“Thank you,” said Priscilla. She stood, tall, awkward, and ungracious, before the other two. They felt that she was so, and that there was something in her expression which made them both, deep down in their hearts, feel small. Annie could not help saying to herself, “I wouldn’t give up the chance of wearing pretty clothes;” and Mabel was thinking, “If only Priscilla were well dressed she would look handsomer than either of us.”
A minute later Priscilla turned to leave the room. “I am very sorry, girls,” she said.—“Perhaps, Mabel,” she added, “as you are leaving in the morning, I ought to see Lady Lushington now.”
“Oh, dear me!” said Mabel; “you will put Aunt Hennie out enormously if you worry her now.”
“Still, I think I ought. I am terribly sorry, but she ought to understand immediately my feelings in this matter.”
“Let her go; let her speak to your aunt,” whispered Annie.
“Very well,” said Mabel. “You will find Aunt Henrietta,” she continued, “waiting for us all in the drawing-room.”
Priscilla immediately left the room. She walked across the broad landing to the private sitting-room which Lady Lushington occupied in the hotel. The latter was standing by a window, when the door opened, and a tall, rather untidy girl dressed in dark-blue serge of no graceful cut, with her hair brushed back from her forehead and her face much agitated, appeared before that lady.
“I have something to say to you, Lady Lushington,” said Priscilla.
“You are Priscilla Weir?” said that lady. “There is a great difference between you and the little girl with the blue eyes. What is her name?”
“Annie Brooke.”
“You are very great friends, are you not?”
“We are schoolfellows,” was Priscilla’s reply. Lady Lushington looked all over the girl. The expression of her face signified disapproval; but suddenly her eyes met the large, grey ones of Priscilla and a curious feeling visited her. She was a kindly woman, although full of prejudices.
“Sit down, child,” she said. “If you have something really to say I will listen; although, to tell you the truth, I am exceedingly hungry, and am waiting for you all to dine with me in the restaurant.”
“I am not hungry,” said Priscilla, “and, if you will excuse me, I will not go to the restaurant to-night; your kind maid will bring me something to eat in my bedroom.”
“You are tired from your journey, poor girl! Well, then, go to bed and get rested. We start for Interlaken in the morning.”
“That is why I must trouble you to-night,” said Priscilla.
“Why, my dear? Do sit down.”
But Priscilla stood; only now she put out a slim hand and steadied herself by holding on to the back of a chair.
“It was a great delight to come to you,” said Priscilla, “and a very great surprise; and when you arranged to pay all my travelling expenses and to take me about with you from place to place, I consented without my pride being especially hurt; for I felt sure that in many small ways I could be of use to you. I thought over all the different things I could do, and, somehow, it seemed to me that I might make up to you for the money you are spending on me—”
“But when we ask a guest,” interrupted Lady Lushington, “to go with us on a pleasure-trip, we don’t form a sort of creditor and debtor account in our minds; we are just glad to give pleasure, and want no return for it beyond the fact that we are giving pleasure.”
“I understand that,” said Priscilla, her eyes brightening; “and the pleasure you would give me would be, oh! beyond any power of mine to describe, for there is something in me which would appreciate; and if I were to see great, grand, beautiful scenery, it would dwell always in my mind, and in the very darkest days that came afterwards I should remember it and be happy because of it.”
“Sit down, child. How queerly you speak! You have very good eyes, let me tell you, child—fine, expressive, interesting eyes.”
Priscilla did not seem to hear, and Lady Lushington was more impressed by this fact than she had been yet by anything she had discovered about her.
“There are the clothes,” said Priscilla, bursting into the heart of her subject, and interlacing her long fingers tightly together. “I—you will forgive me—but I am too proud to wear them. I cannot, Lady Lushington. If you won’t have me shabby as I am—and I am sure I am very shabby—I cannot come with you. You will be so exceedingly generous as to let me have my fare back to Lyttelton School, and I shall always thank you for your best of best intentions. But I cannot wear clothes that I have not earned, and that I have no right to.”
“But Annie Brooke?” interrupted Lady Lushington.
“I am not here to answer for Annie Brooke,” replied Priscilla with great dignity. “If you want me, you must take me as I am.”
“I declare,” said Lady Lushington, “you are a queer creature. And you really mean it?”
“Yes—absolutely. It is just because I am too proud. I have no right to my pride, perhaps; still, I cannot let it go.”
There was a world of pathos in Priscilla’s eyes now as they fixed themselves on the worldly face of the lady.
“You are quaint; you are delightful,” said Lady Lushington. “Come as you are, then. You will perhaps not be too proud to allow Parker to arrange your hair so as to show off that fine head of yours to the best advantage. But even in rags, child, come with us; for any one fresh like you, and unselfconscious like you, and indifferent to outward appearance like you, carries a charm of her own, and I do believe it is beyond the charm of dress.”
When Lady Lushington had uttered these words Priscilla went up to her and took her hand, and suddenly, before the great lady could prevent her, she raised that hand to her lips and kissed it. Then she hurried from the room.