Chapter 22 Three Girls from School by L. T. Meade
Contrary Influences
Annie’s high spirits continued with her during all the somewhat hot journey from Interlaken to Zermatt. She was, in truth, the life of the party, and kept every one in the best possible humour. Her charm was undoubted, and her apparent unselfishness made her invaluable. Even Parker acknowledged that there never was such an obliging young lady, or such a thoughtful one, as Miss Annie Brooke. Mabel could groan at the heat. Lady Lushington grumble and complain, even Parker herself could give way to insupportable headache, but nothing, nothing daunted the unflagging good-humour of Annie Brooke. Had she not the eau-de-Cologne handy for poor Parker’s head? Could she not chat cheerfully to Lady Lushington and make her laugh, and could she not insist on Mabel’s having the seat where she was at once protected from too much draught and yet not exposed to the full glare of the August sun?
When they reached the hotel, too, it was Annie who chose, without a moment’s hesitation, the one uncomfortable room of the little suite which was set apart for Lady Lushington’s party.
“Nothing matters for me,” said Annie. “I have got unflagging health, and I am so happy,” she said. “Every one is so kind to me.”
“You really are a dear little thing,” said Lady Lushington when Annie herself entered that lady’s room bearing a cup of tea which she had made from Lady Lushington’s own private store, and which smelt so fragrant and looked so good. “Oh, my dear Annie,” continued the good lady—“I really must call you by your Christian name—I never did find any one quite so pleasant before. Now if Mabel had not been such a goose as to get that literature prize, which I verily believe has swamped every scrap of brain the poor girl ever possessed, I could have had you as my little companion for a year. How we should have enjoyed ourselves!”
“Oh, indeed, how we should!” said Annie, a bitter sigh of regret filling her heart, for what might she not have made of such a supreme opportunity? “But,” she added quickly, “you would not have known me then, would you? You would never have known me but for Mabel.”
“It is one of the very luckiest things that could have happened to me—Mabel wishing that you might join us,” said Lady Lushington. “You are the comfort of my life; you are worth fifty Parkers and a hundred Mabels. Yes, is the exact right angle for the pillow, my dear. Thank you so much—thank you; that is delicious, and I think I will have a biscuit. What a glorious view we have of Monte Rosa from the window!”
“Oh yes,” said Annie, “isn’t it lovely?”
“By the way, Annie, you are quite sure that Mabel is taking care of those pearls of hers. We have to thank you too, you clever little thing, for discovering them. I am quite under the impression that I have come by a good bargain in that matter.”
“I am sure you have, dear Lady Lushington; and the pearls are quite, quite safe.”
“I knew you would see to it, dear; you are so thoughtful about everything. By the way, I have already seen on the visitors’ list the name of a certain Mrs Ogilvie. If she is my friend I should like to show her the necklace.”
Annie felt her heart nearly stop for a minute. “Of course you must show it,” was her gentle response; “and I will see that dear Mabel takes care of the precious things.”
“Well, you can go now, darling; you have made me feel so nice, and this room is delicious. Really, the journey was trying. It is horrible travelling in this intense heat, but we shall do beautifully here.”
Annie tripped out of the room and went straight to Mabel’s. Mabel’s room was not nearly as good as the one which Lady Lushington occupied, but still it was a very nice room, with two large windows which opened in French fashion and had deep balconies where one could stand and look into the very heart of the everlasting hills. Parker’s room was just beyond Mabel’s, and Annie’s was at the back. It was arranged that Parker should be within easy reach of her mistress and her young lady, and self-forgetful Annie therefore selected the back-room. She had no view at all; but then, what did views matter to Annie, who was blind to all their beauty? Mabel was alone. She felt very hot and dusty after her journey, and had just slipped into a cool, white dressing-gown.
“Let me take down your hair, dear May,” said Annie, “and if you sit in that deep arm-chair I will brush it for you. Isn’t it nice here, May?”
“Yes,” replied Mabel, “I suppose it is; only you have a horrid small room, Annie.”
“I don’t care a bit about that,” said Annie. “I am not going to be much in it except to sleep, and when one is asleep any room suffices. But, May, I want to talk to you.”
“What about?” said May. “Anything fresh?” Annie carefully shut the door which communicated between Mabel’s room and Parker’s.
“It is this,” said Annie; “Your aunt Henrietta has been talking to me about the pearl necklace, and says she hopes you have it safe.”
“Well, yes,” said Mabel, with a yawn; “it is quite absolutely safe, isn’t it, Annie?”
“Yes; but this is the crux: I thought she would have forgotten all about it, but she evidently hasn’t, and she says she thinks a friend of hers—a Mrs Ogilvie—is staying in the hotel, and if so, she would like to show it to her.”
“Oh, good gracious!” said Mabel, springing to her feet, and knocking the brush out of Annie’s hand in her excitement; “and if such a thing happens—and it is more than likely—what is to become of us?”
“If such a thing happens,” said Annie with extreme coolness, “there is only one thing to be done.”
“Oh Annie, what—what?”
“We must pretend that we have lost it. So many people are robbed nowadays; we must be robbed also: that is all Parker is supposed to have charge of it; you must confess that you never gave it to Parker, but put it into the lid of your trunk. You must lose one or two other things as well. You must have your story ready in case Mrs Ogilvie is in the hotel.”
“Oh! I don’t think I can stand any more of this,” said poor Mabel. “You seem to lead me on, Annie, from one wickedness to another. I don’t know where it is to end.”
“You must obey me in this,” said Annie with great determination.
“Oh, we are both lost!”
“We are nearly out of the wood; we are not going to lose our courage at the supreme moment. Come now, Mabel, don’t be absolutely silly; nothing may happen. But if anything happens, you must be prepared to do what I tell you.”
“You have an extraordinary power over me,” said Mabel. “I often and often wish that I had not yielded to you at that time when Aunt Henrietta wrote me that letter and I was so cross and disappointed. I think now that if you had not been present I should be a happier girl on the whole. I should be going back to the horrid school, of course, and Priscie would have left; but still—”
“Come, come,” said Annie, sitting down determinedly on a low chair by her friend’s side. “What is the matter with you? I really have to go over old ground until things are quite disagreeable. What have you not won through me? A whole year’s emancipation, a jolly, delightful winter, a pleasant autumn at the Italian lakes and in Rome and Florence. I think, from what she tells me, Lady Lushington means to go to Cairo for the cold weather. Of course you will go with her. Think of the dresses unlimited, and the balls and the fun, and the expeditions up the Nile. Oh, you lucky, you more than lucky Mabel! And then home again in the early spring, and preparations for your great début taking place, your presentation dress being ordered, and all the rest. Imagine this state of things instead of pursuing the life which your poor faithful little Annie will lead at Mrs Lyttelton’s school! And yet you blame me because you have to pay a certain price for these enjoyments.”
“I do blame you, Annie; I can’t help it. I know it all sounds most fascinating; but if you are not happy deep down in your heart, where’s the use?”
When Mabel said this Annie looked really alarmed.
“But you are quite happy,” she said. “You are not going to follow that idiotic Priscie. You are not going to get a horrible, troublesome conscience to wake itself up and torment you over this most innocent little affair.”
“I will go through it, of course,” said Mabel. “It seemed very bad at the beginning, but the amount of badness it has risen to now shocks even me. Still, I will go through that, for I cannot go back. As to Priscie, I am convinced she would rather be apprenticed as a dressmaker than live as she is doing with that load on her conscience.”
“Oh, bother Priscie!” cried Annie. “She is one of those intolerable, conscientious girls whom one cannot abide. All the same,” she added a little bitterly, “she took advantage of my talent as much as you did, Mabel.”
Mabel sighed, groaned, struggled, but eventually yielded absolutely to Annie’s stronger will, and it was definitely arranged between the two girls that Mabel was to be fully prepared to declare the loss of her necklace if Mrs Ogilvie was proved to be in the hotel.
“If she is not it will be all right,” said Annie; “for I know your aunt Henrietta pretty well by this time, and she will have other things to occupy her mind. We can soon find out if the good woman is there through Parker.”
“I don’t think I would consult Parker if I were you,” said Mabel. “She talks a great deal to Aunt Henrietta, and of late, somehow, I have rather imagined that she is a little suspicious.” Annie soon afterwards retired to her own room, but not like Mabel and Lady Lushington, to rest. Those who follow crooked ways have seldom time for rest, and Annie Brooke was finding this out to her cost. She was really exceedingly tired; even her strength could scarcely stand the strain of the last few weeks. Priscilla’s misery, Mabel’s recklessness, Lady Lushington’s anger with regard to Mrs Priestley’s bill, the terrible possibility of being found out—all these things visited the girl, making her not sorry for her sin, but afraid of the consequences. Then, too, in spite of herself, she was a little anxious with regard to Uncle Maurice. There was always a possibility—just a possibility—that Uncle Maurice might be as bad as that tiresome John Saxon had declared him to be; and if so, was she (Annie) kind about it all? A great many things had happened, and Annie had sinned very deeply. Oh, well, she was not going to get her conscience into speaking order; that mentor within must be kept silent at any cost.
Still, she was too restless to lie down on her bed, which, indeed, was not specially inviting, for the room was a most minute one, and looked out on a wall of the hotel, which, as with most great foreign hotels, surrounded a court. Not a peep of any glorious view could be seen from Annie’s window, and the hot western sun poured into the little room, making it stiflingly hot; and she could even smell the making of many dishes from the kitchens, which lay just beneath her windows.
So she changed her dress, made herself look as neat and fresh as possible, and ran downstairs into the great, cool hall.
It was delicious in the hall. The doors were wide-open, the windows also stood apart, and in every direction were to be seen peeps of snow-clad mountains soaring up far into the clouds. Even Annie was touched for a minute by the glorious view. She went and stood in the cool doorway, and was glad of the refreshing breeze which fanned her hot cheeks.
Business, however, must ever be foremost. She was pining for a cup of tea, but it was one of Lady Lushington’s economies never to allow extra things to be ordered at the hotel. She had tea made for herself and her party in her room every day, and therefore kept strictly to the pension terms. Annie, however, suddenly remembered that she herself was the proud possessor of eighty pounds. Surely so wealthy a young lady need not suffer from thirst. She accordingly called a waiter and desired him to bring her thé complet. This he proceeded to do, suggesting at the same time that the young lady should have her tea on the terrace.
The broad terrace was covered by an enormous veranda, and Annie found it even more enjoyable outside than in. She liked the importance of taking her tea alone, and was particularly gratified when several nice-looking people turned to look at her. She was certainly an attractive girl, and when her cheeks became flushed she was almost pretty. The waiter came up and asked her for the number of her room. She gave it; and he immediately remarked:
“I beg your pardon, madam; I did not remember that you belonged to Lady Lushington’s party.”
“Yes; but I wish to pay for this tea myself,” said Annie, and she produced, with considerable pride, a five-pound note.
The man withdrew at once to fetch the necessary change. As he did this a party of travellers who had evidently only just arrived turned to look at Annie. There was nothing very special about her action; nevertheless the little incident remained fixed in their memories. They had heard the waiter say, “You belong to Lady Lushington’s party.” The note of wonder was struck in their minds that a girl of Annie’s age and in the care of other people should pay for her own tea. Annie, however, collected her change with great care, counting it shrewdly over and putting it into her purse.
She then re-entered the lounge. When she did so the lady who was seated near her turned to her husband and said:
“Is it possible that Lady Lushington is here?”
“It seems so,” said the gentleman; “but we can soon ascertain, my dear, by looking at the visitors’ list.”
“I shall be exceedingly pleased if she is,” said Mrs Ogilvie, for it was she. “I have not seen Henrietta Lushington for two or three years. She used to be a great friend of mine. But what in the world is she doing with that girl?”
“Why should not Henrietta Lushington have a girl belonging to her party?” was Mr Ogilvie’s response. “There is nothing the matter with that fact, is there, Susan?”
“Oh, nothing; and I know she has a niece, but somehow I never thought that the niece would look like that girl.”
“Why, what in the world is the matter with her? I thought her quite pretty.”
“Oh, my dear Henry! Pretty perhaps, but not classy; not for a moment the style of girl that Lady Lushington’s niece would be expected to be. And then her paying for her own tea—it seemed to me slightly bad form. However, perhaps the girl does not belong to our Lady Lushington at all.”
Meanwhile Annie was doing a little business on her own account in the great hall. She had got possession of the visitors’ book, and was scanning the names of the visitors with intense interest. Nowhere did she see the name Ogilvie, and in consequence a great load was lifted from her heart. She ran up in high spirits to Mabel’s room.
“No fear, May; no fear,” she said, skipping about as she spoke. “Mrs Ogilvie is not here at all; I have looked through the list.”
“Well, that’s a comfort,” said Mabel, who was lying on her bed half-asleep before Annie came in. “But what a restless spirit you are, Annie! Can you ever keep still for a minute? I was certain you were asleep in your room.”
“You could not sleep much yourself in my room, darling. It is a little hot and a little—dinnery. Not that I complain; but there is a magnificent hall downstairs, and such a terrace! And, do you know, I received a wee present of money a couple of mornings ago from darling Uncle Maurice, so I treated myself to some tea. I was thirsty. I had it all alone on a little table on the terrace. I can tell you I felt distinguished.”
“You poor dear!” said Mabel. “Why, of course you ought to have had tea when we had it. I will say this for you, Annie, that you are the queerest mixture I ever came across. You have—oh, you know the side to which I allude; but then, on the other hand, you are the most absolutely unselfish creature that ever lived. Why, even Parker has been enjoying delicious tea, and we never thought of you at all.”
“Poor little me!” said Annie. “Well, it doesn’t matter, for, you see, I thought of myself. Now I will leave you. Be sure you make an effective toilet to-night. There are really some very nice-looking people downstairs; we shall have a jolly time at this hotel. What a good thing it is we got rid of Priscie! She made us look so odd and peculiar.”
“I suppose the poor thing is bored to death at Hendon by this time,” said Mabel.
“Oh no, she is not quite there yet; she will have plenty of time to think of her conscience while she is at Hendon. And now you and I will forget her.”
Annie spent the next hour or two on the terrace—where she pretended to read—and looked at the different visitors as they came in and out of the hotel. She went up in good time to her bedroom, and Parker, who was always exceedingly particular with regard to the dress of both the young ladies, arrayed her on this occasion in a dress of the softest, palest, most becoming blue crêpe-de-Chine. This demi-toilet, with its elbow-sleeves and lace falling away from the young, round throat, was absolutely the most becoming garment Annie could possibly wear. It seemed to add to the blue of her blue eyes and to bring out the golden shades of her lovely hair.
She felt as she entered the great salle-à-manger that she was looked at very nearly as much as Lady Lushington and Mabel. They had a pleasant little dinner in one of the great bay windows, which commanded a glorious view of the Alps; and during dinner Lady Lushington was her most charming self, and continued to be exceedingly friendly to Annie.
It was not until the meal had nearly come to an end that a remark was made which caused both girls to feel slightly uncomfortable. Lady Lushington turned to Mabel.
“My dear Mabel,” she said, “I am really rather annoyed.”
“What about, auntie?”
“Oh, please don’t be annoyed this glorious evening,” interrupted Annie; “we are so happy and you are so sweet. I thought perhaps we might have coffee on the terrace; I know the very table where we can sit and we can watch the moon sailing up from behind that great mountain—I cannot possibly remember its name; I am not good at all at names.”
“We will have coffee on the terrace if I wish it, Annie Brooke. In the meantime I want to say what I have to say.”
No one knew better when she was snubbed than Annie. She immediately retired into her shell and looked very modest and pretty—something like a daisy when it droops its head.
“I have been asking Parker about the jewels,” continued Lady Lushington, turning to her niece, “and she assures me you did not give her the necklace to put away with the other things.” Mabel coloured.
Annie said at once, “Mabel dear, did you not put it into the tray of your trunk? You know I asked you to be sure to give it to Parker.”
“I was in such a hurry at the last minute, I had not time; but it is quite safe in my trunk,” said Mabel.
“Well, I hope it is,” said Lady Lushington; “but it is a foolish and dangerous thing to do; and, Annie, I thought you would see that Parker had the necklace. However, no matter now; you will give it, Mabel, to Parker to-night. It is not safe to have valuable jewels lying about in these hotels. You know that there is a notice in every room that the proprietors will not consider themselves liable if they are lost. No one can tamper with the jewel-case, however, when it is under Parker’s care.”
The girls murmured something, and the subject was dropped. They then all went out on the terrace. They had not been there more than a minute or two when a lady was seen to emerge from a shadowy corner and advance towards Lady Lushington. There was an affectionate interchange of greetings, and Annie whispered to Mabel to come away.
“How tiresome!” said Mabel. “When once Aunt Henrietta gets hold of an old friend she is good for nothing. Now she won’t take us anywhere and we shall be as dull as ditch-water.”
“Oh, nonsense, Mabel! We will make friends on our own account. What a good thing the friend is not Mrs Ogilvie!”
“How can you tell that she isn’t?” said Mabel. “Why, of course she isn’t; Mrs Ogilvie’s name is not on the visitors’ list.”
The girls paced up and down.
“I got a great fright at dinner,” said Mabel after a pause; “but you helped me out of it as usual.”
“Yes; but it was an awkward moment,” said Annie. “I didn’t for a moment suppose that your aunt would keep on thinking of that necklace. I hope she won’t insist on seeing it. I am afraid, after all, even though Mrs Ogilvie is not here, we must manage to lose it.”
“Oh! I shall go wild if I have to go through that sort of thing,” was Mabel’s answer.
“Besides,” continued Annie, “the friend your aunt met may be another of those women who adore looking at bargains and old-fashioned gems. I am certain we shall have to lose it; there is no other possible way out.”
“And I know I shall die in the process,” said Mabel. “I feel myself quite wasting away.”
“You are too silly,” said Annie. “You look as bonny as ever you can look, and there isn’t a scrap of any appearance of decline about you.”
It was at that moment that Lady Lushington’s voice was heard calling in the darkness, “Mabel, come here!”
“Now what does she want?” said Mabel.
“Come with me, for goodness’ sake, Annie! I can’t walk a single step of this tortuous way without your help.”
“Really, Mabel,” said Annie, “you are using quite a poetic expression. Your character of a poetess will be established, my dear, if you continue to speak in that vein.”
“Mabel!” said her aunt.
“I will help you through your tortuous way,” laughed Annie; and the girls advanced arm-in-arm.
“Mabel,” said Lady Lushington, “I have the pleasure of introducing you to my dear friend Mrs Ogilvie.”
Poor Mabel gave a start; but for Annie’s supporting arm, big as she was, she might have fallen.
The terrace was lighted with Japanese lanterns, which swayed slightly in the faint breeze. These cast lights here and there, and immense shadows in other directions. Annie and Mabel had now got into the light. Lady Lushington moved a step or two, bringing Mrs Ogilvie forward as she did so, and the four figures were all distinctly visible.
“Which of these girls is your niece, my dear Henrietta?” said Mrs Ogilvie.
“This is my niece, Susan,” was Lady Lushington’s response; and Mabel felt her hand clasped by a kindly but firm palm. She looked into the eyes of a tall woman with a pleasant expression of face, who was becomingly dressed in black lace.
This lady had hair turning grey, and a face which did not show the slightest trace of being made up. She might have been fifty years of age.
“I must also introduce you,” said Lady Lushington, “to our little friend Miss Brooke. Miss Brooke: Mrs Ogilvie.”
Annie’s hand was also held for a minute, and Annie instantly remembered that she had sat next this lady when she was enjoying her tea on the terrace, and that Mrs Ogilvie had seen her pay for her own meal. But she could not allow this trifling circumstance to worry her on the present occasion; there were too many other rocks ahead.
“We will go into the hall in a minute or two,” said Lady Lushington; “and then, Mabel, you will go upstairs, please, and bring down the pearl necklace which I bought at Interlaken. Mrs Ogilvie is so much interested in antique gems and old settings that I was telling her about it.”
“You sometimes do pick up good things,” said the lady, “in out-of-the-way places. From what you tell me, Henrietta, you seem to have hit upon a bargain.”
“I must be just,” said Lady Lushington. “I should never even have heard of the necklace but for this dear, clever little girl, Miss Brooke. It was she who discovered it.”
Mrs Ogilvie glanced for a minute at Annie. Annie’s eyes were raised and fixed on the good lady’s face.
“How lovely it is here!” said Mrs Ogilvie after a pause. “I think the peace of nature the most soothing thing in all the world. Don’t you, Miss Brooke?”
Annie said “Yes,” uttering the word with a little gasp. She was wondering in her heart of hearts what to do next. Whatever happened, she must rush upstairs with Mabel. How could she have overlooked Mrs Ogilvie’s name in the visitors’ list? But Mrs Ogilvie’s next words explained the circumstance.
“We too are fresh arrivals,” she said. “We must have come by the very next train after you, Henrietta.”
“Oh dear!” thought Annie. “If you only would have stayed away! How one does get pursued by all sorts of contrary influences when one is just hoping that one is out of the wood! The peace of nature indeed! Much peace it gives to me.”
“It is getting a little chilly here,” said Lady Lushington. “I think, if you don’t mind, Susan, we will go indoors.—Girls, you can follow us in a few minutes.”
Annie gave a deep sigh of relief. Not a word about the necklace. Perhaps there might be a few hours’ reprieve. Perhaps it would not be mentioned again until the morning.
The two elderly ladies moved slowly together into the house, and the girls were left alone.
“Didn’t I tell you,” said Mabel, “that she would be sure to be here? Isn’t it just like our bad luck?”
“We must go through with it,” said Annie.
“Perhaps it is best in the end. Of course there will be a commotion and a great fuss, but nothing ever can be discovered.”
“I know what they will do,” said Mabel, in an agony of terror. “They will search all the jewellers’ shops at Interlaken, and of course it will be found. Oh Annie, I am fit to die!”
“You must compose yourself,” said Annie; “things are not quite as bad as that. We should indeed be in a desperate hole if I had sold the necklace to a jeweller at Interlaken; but I did nothing of the sort.”
“Then you didn’t sell it at all? You have it all the time?”
“Now, Mabel, what nonsense you talk! Didn’t I show you three ten-pound notes, and didn’t I send them to Mrs Priestley?”
“Oh, I am bewildered!” said poor Mabel.
“Why did I ever pose as a genius? I am sure I have no head at all for the complications of wickedness.”
“You are very complimentary to me, I must say,” said Annie. “But listen; I will calm your poor, palpitating little heart. I did a splendid thing; I sold the necklace to Mr Manchuri.”
“Who on earth is Mr Manchuri?” said Mabel.
“Mabel, you really are silly. He is the dear old Jewish gentleman who took Priscilla Weir home.”
“And why did you give it to him?”
“Because, my dear, I invariably use my eyes and my ears and, if possible, my tongue; and I made a discovery with regard to Mr Manchuri. He owns a big jeweller’s shop in Bond Street; therefore why should not he have the necklace? So you see it is safe out of Switzerland by this time.”
“And,” continued Mabel, “he gave thirty pounds for it?”
“Oh, he didn’t think much of it,” said Annie. “Still, he gave me that, and I was glad to close with the offer.”
“Well,” said Mabel, “it is a certain relief to know that it won’t be found in any of the shops in Interlaken.”
“It is a very great relief,” said Annie. “And now our object is, if possible, to make little of it to Lady Lushington. I think I can manage that; but come upstairs, won’t you? I am certain your aunt won’t say anything more about the stupid old thing this evening.”
“I hope not, I am sure,” said Mabel. “But don’t go in for a minute or two, Annie, for the omnibus has just arrived, and we may as well watch the fresh visitors.”
The girls came forward towards the deep porch. The large green-and-gold omnibus, with the words ‘Beau Séjour’ painted conspicuously on its sides, drew up with a clatter and fuss in front of the hotel. Waiters and servants of different sorts darted out to assist the visitors to alight. The omnibus was nearly full, and there was a quantity of luggage on the roof. Ladders were put up to get it down, and the girls watched the proceedings with intense amusement—the pearl necklace forgotten, all cares for the moment laid aside. They made a pretty pair as they stood thus side by side. Annie, in her ethereal blue dress, might have been taken for that sweetest of all flowers, the blue forget-me-not; Mabel, in her purest white, for the stately lily.
So thought for a brief instant a certain young man as he alighted from the omnibus; but the next moment his face changed. A hard expression came into his eyes. He came straight up to Annie Brooke.
“I have come for you, Annie,” he said.