by L. T. Meade
her?"
"Not exactly, but I have hinted at it--I mean at something--and she isvery much interested. I'll have to tell her that my little scheme is upa tree. Poor old Mabel! She is such a dear, too. We shall be glad tokeep her at school."
"Really, Annie, you are too extraordinary. Have you written a paper forthe literature prize yourself?"
"I? Oh yes. But I have no imagination; not a bit. The subject is`Idealism'--such an odious, impossible subject; but it has appealed toyou."
"It did appeal to me very strongly; I loved to write about it."
"I can fancy you at it; you are just full of imagination."
"It is my dearest possession," said Priscilla. A _new_ look came intoher eyes. She turned her fine face and looked at her companion. "Andwhen I leave school," she added, "I shall take it with me. Even when Iam working in the dairy and mending the children's socks I shall stillrejoice in it. I am glad you reminded me of it--very glad."
"Well, I wish you joy of your future life. I would have helped you, butyou won't be helped."
"You don't suppose," said Priscilla suddenly, "that I don't just long tocatch at any straw? You don't suppose that I am not tempted? Buteven--even if I were to consider your base proposal for a single minute,what good on earth would it do me? The reason I am leaving school isbecause Uncle Josiah will not pay for my schooling. He certainly won'tpay for it any more because I have not won the literature prize."
"But if I can positively promise you--and I am almost sure it can bedone--that your schooling will be paid in another way, what then?"
"Annie, you cannot make me that promise. Say nothing more about it."
"Oh, well, if you won't talk of it, it can't be helped. I am going toMabel now."
"Annie, I suppose you mean kindly, and I suppose I ought to feel thatyou do; but you don't understand. It is a case of _noblesse oblige_with me. If I did stoop to what you suggest I should never, never havea happy hour again."
"Very well," said Annie. "I am glad I have not such a troublesomeconscience."
As she spoke she skipped away from her companion and joined the othergirls on the lawn. Two little girls of about eleven and twelve years ofage ran up to her. Their names were Flora and Violet Frere.
"What are you looking so solemn about, Annie?" asked Violet.
"Oh, I am worried. Poor old Priscie has got to leave school. Isn't itan awful shame?"
Violet gave a sort of howl. "I can't live without Priscie. I don'tbelieve it for a single minute. Where is she?"
"She is walking up and down in the shrubbery. I tell you what it is,Vi. You have great influence with her. You and Flora both go to hernow, and put your arms about her, and pet her a lot, and tell her thatshe simply must not go--that she must stay with you whatever happens."
"Come, Flora," said Violet--"Thank you, Annie, for telling us. We'llcertainly go and _make_ dear Priscie stay."
"Yes," said Flora. "I wouldn't stay at school myself if Priscie were toleave. I should be a very naughty girl; I would run away."
"And so would I," said Violet. Annie stood still for a minute or twoafter the little girls had left her; then she went into the house. Shefelt troubled. Annie was by no means the best of girls. She hadnaturally a turn for crooked and underhand ways. She was ambitious anddiscontented with her own lot. When she left school she would go tostay with her uncle, the Rev Maurice Butler. She would live in amusty old rectory in a very dull part of England, and see hardly anypeople, and try to devote her time to mothers' meetings and schoolfeasts, and all the thousand and one things which occupy a young girl'stime when she happens to be the niece or daughter of the rector. Now,Annie had no taste for these occupations. She hated the holidays, whichshe had invariably to spend at Burfield Rectory. She had noappreciation for Uncle Maurice, although he was the best and kindest ofmen. She wanted to get into the world. She pined to enjoy herself.She was neither very pretty nor very clever. She was, as far asappearance went, an everyday sort of girl. It is true, she had lovelygolden hair, but that was about all. At school she was the sort of girlwho, apparently good-natured, makes many friends. Her object was tomake friends. Her one desire in life was to secure the goodwill of herschool companions, so that by-and-by they might invite her to theirhouses and give her the sort of good time she had always pined for. Sheknew in a vague sort of way that if she could get one of these girlsmore or less into her power, she might dictate her own terms. And nowher chance had come. No prickings of conscience held her back; it didnot even occur to her that she was acting badly. If she thought at all,it was but to pronounce Priscilla's ideas of honour obsolete andimpossible. She had little doubt that she could get Priscilla to yieldto the plan which was forming itself in her own brain; and she was alsopretty sure that Mabel would be even a more easy victim. Many of herschool friends were fond of asking small services of Annie; for she wasinvariably good-natured, and had a sunny, pleasant temper. She wasrather amusing, too, and to all appearance never thought of herself.
Now she ran up to the elder girls' sitting-room, threw the door openwide, and entered. A tall, pale girl, with an aristocratic face wasseated by an open desk busily writing. She looked annoyed when Annieentered.
"Am I in your way, Constance?" asked Annie.
"No, Annie. Of course you have a right to sit here, but I do hope youwill keep quiet. I am busy writing my prize essay--not that I have achance of the prize, but of course I want to do my very best. Thesubject interests me."
Annie said nothing. She flung herself into a chair, and taking up astory-book, tried to read. But her thoughts were too busy with thescheme which was forming itself in her brain. She threw down the book,and drawing her chair to the opposite window, looked out.
Constance Hadley seemed to feel her presence, for after a time she sankback in her chair with a sigh.
"Finished, Constance?" cried Annie.
"No; I can't manage the end. I want to do something really good, butthe something won't come."
"I wonder you bother," said Annie; "that is, of course, unless you aresure of the prize."
"I sure of the prize!" laughed Constance. "Why, there are at least fourgirls in the school who will do better work than I. You, for instance,Annie; you have an audacious, smart little way of writing which veryoften takes."
"But I can do nothing with such a subject as `Idealism,'" replied Annie,"except to laugh at it and thank my stars that I have not got it."
Constance looked at her gravely.
"I wonder who _will_ get the prize," she said.
Annie did not reply. Constance rose, stretched herself slightly, andputting her papers together, laid them in orderly fashion in her desk.
"I shall get up early to-morrow," she said, "and come down here andfinish my paper. There is no time so good as before breakfast forbrain-work."
"Well, thank goodness, my attempt is quite finished," said Annie.
"I suppose," remarked Constance, "that Priscilla will get the prize.She is the cleverest of us all."
"Oh, I'm not at all sure of that," said Annie. "Priscie is clever, nodoubt; but Mabel is clever too--very clever."
"Mabel Lushington! What do you mean?"
"What I say. She is awfully clever when she takes pains."
"I must say I have never found it out."
"Well, I have," said Annie, her cheeks brightening and her eyes growingdeeper in hue, "and I will just tell you how. She is always scribblingpoetry. I found her at her desk one day, and taxed her with it. Shewas frightfully annoyed, and begged and implored of me not to mentionit, for she said she would be ragged by every one if it were discovered.Then she confessed that her one ambition was to be a poet. Isn't itabsurd? Just think of her, with her pretty, round, dimpled sort offace, a poet, forsooth! But, nevertheless, appearances deceive, andMabel is a poet already. I should not be a scrap surprised if she didvery well with such a subject as Idealism."
"You astonish me!" said Constance. "She
must be far cleverer than Igave her credit for; and her very genius in hiding all trace of hertalent is much to be commended."
"Oh, now you are nasty and satirical," said Annie, "and you don'tbelieve a word I say. Nevertheless, it is all true; our Mabel is apoet."
"Well, poet or not," remarked Constance, "she is a very jolly girl; Ilike her just awfully."
"You would not want her to leave the school, would you?"
"Leave the school! Why, there isn't a chance of it, is there?"
"I don't know. I hope not. But I must go to her now, poor old darling!She is worrying over her prize essay, doubting her own ability, and allthat sort of thing, whereas I know she could do capital work if shepleased."
"And beat Priscilla?"
"Oh, Priscilla would not be in it if Mabel chose to exercise her powers.But the fact is, she is terribly afraid of your all finding her out.You won't breathe what I have told you to a living soul, will you,Connie?"
"Not I. I am glad you confided in me. I shall listen to her essay withspecial pleasure this day fortnight, now that you have reallyenlightened me with regard to the order of her mind."
Annie left the room and ran up to Mabel's bedroom.
Mabel's room and Annie's adjoined; but one of the strictest rules of thehouse was that after bed-time each girl should be unmolested by herschoolfellows. One of the worst offences at Lyttelton School was for agirl, after bed-time had arrived, to infringe the rules by going intothe room of her schoolfellow. Before bed-time full liberty was,however, given, and Annie tapped now with confidence at Mabel's door.
Mabel said, "Come in," and Annie entered.
"Well, May," she cried, "has any light dawned on you?"
"Light dawned on me?" replied Mabel in a tone almost of passion. "Nonewhatsoever. I am just in pitch darkness. I can't write a word that anyone will care to listen to. I never could, as you very well know, andcertainly am less capable than ever now of doing so. The very thoughtof all that hangs on my efforts quite unnerves me. I shall writetwaddle, my dear Annie; in fact, I don't think I'll write at all."
"Oh, but you must; that would seem very bad, and make your aunt soangry. She might think that you had refused to do so out of temper, andmight keep you two years at school instead of one."
"Do you think so, really? That would be too appalling."
"I am not at all sure; from what you tell me of her character, I thinkit would be extremely likely."
"Well, I will do something. For that matter, I _have_ done something.Can't I send it in?"
"No, no!" said Annie. "You showed it to me, and I never read suchrubbish in all my life. Now, look here, Mabel. You shall write apaper, and it must be the very best paper you can put together; and Iwill help you all I can."
"But there is no time."
"Yes, there is. We can do it to-night."
"To-night? You know we can't."
"I know we can. Miss Phillips goes round to see that all the girls aretucked up properly at ten o'clock. Soon afterwards she goes to bed,poor old dear! When the cat's away the mice will play. I will tapthree times on my wall, and you must tap three times on yours. Notanother soul will hear us. Then we'll both get up and slip stockingsover our shoes, and we'll go down, hand-in-hand, through the silenthouse until we find ourselves on the ground-floor. I know a windowwhere the hasp is broken. We'll raise the sash and go out. We will goto the summer-house at the far end of the grounds. I will have candlesand manuscript paper and ink there all ready. You will write your essaythere, in the summer-house, and I will help you."
"It is a very dangerous thing to do, Annie, and it strikes me we risk agreat deal for very little. For if I were to steal out every nightbetween now and prize day, and write an essay every night in thesummer-house, I should not get a prize."
"You certainly wouldn't get a prize in that way; but what you doto-night will lead you to the prize."
"Now I don't understand you."
"I will tell you, Mabel. You must listen very attentively, and if youpositively decide to have nothing to do with it, you must not be shockedwith me or attempt to betray me. What I do I do for your good--although, I will confess, partly for my own also."
"Ah, I thought a little bit of self would come in," said Mabel, who knewher school friend better, perhaps, than most people did.
"Yes," said Annie quite calmly; "I don't pretend for a moment that Ihaven't a bit of self at the bottom of this. But let me tell you myscheme. Only before I breathe it, you will promise most, mostfaithfully not to betray me?"
"Of course I will. I know you better than you imagine, Annie. You haveyour good impulses, but you are not the very straightest girl in all theworld."
"Oh, thank you so much," said Annie. She coloured faintly. "Perhapsyou would not be straight," she said after a minute, "if you had noprospect whatever in life but Uncle Maurice--Uncle Maurice, and all theold women in the parish, every one of them, setting their caps at him,and knitting comforters for his dear throat, and working slippers forhis dear feet, and asking about his precious cough, and if he would likesome more red-currant jelly. Perhaps _you_ would be a little crooked ifyou had to sit by the hour holding slobbering babies on your lap atmothers' meetings, and getting your best frock jammed over by the horridvillage children. Oh, it is not a life to recommend itself, I can tellyou!"
"Poor Annie!" said Mabel, "I do pity you. But, of course, you won't bealways with your uncle Maurice. Now forgive me for speaking as I did,and tell me your plan."
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nest you are trying to land me in, Annie! As if Priscilla wouldconsent!"
"Priscilla will consent. I have sounded her, and I know she will. Shefights shy of it, of course, at first, but she will consent, and beforemorning."
"But, Annie, what good will it do her? My going away from the schoolwon't give her money to stay here."
"Ah," said Annie, "now comes the crux. You must give her money to stay;you must manage it. You always have heaps of pocket-money. You mustundertake to pay all her school expenses for at least a year."
"Now you are a silly!" answered Mabel.
"To begin with, I have not the slightest idea what Priscilla's schoolbills amount to. I know nothing about my own school bills, far lesshers. Aunt Henrietta pays for me, and there's an end of the thing."
"Mabel," said Annie, who was now very much excited, "don't be horrid,please. Listen to me."
"I am listening. You are propounding an impossible plan, and I amtelling you my opinion. Have you anything further to say to me?"
"A great deal. Your aunt is very rich."
"Rich? Oh, I imagine so. My aunt Henrietta--Lady Lushington--can gowhere she likes and do what she likes. She never denies herselfanything at all."
"Nor you, Mabel, anything at all."
"Isn't she denying me my liberty, and is that nothing?"
"She does it for your good," said Annie; "there is no question of moneyin the matter. Now do listen to me. I happen to know what dearPriscie's school bills amount to. She is taken cheaper than the othergirls, and all her expenses for one term are abundantly covered bythirty pounds. Now most likely your expenses for a single term wouldamount to fifty or sixty pounds, perhaps even to more; but poor old Prisis taken, on special terms. Mrs Lyttelton doesn't wish it to be known,but I found out; for one day I came across a letter from her uncle, inwhich he enclosed a cheque to Priscie for last term's expenses, and Iknow exactly what it amounted to: twenty-seven pounds seventeenshillings and fourpence. I thought it rather funny of him to enclosethe cheque to her, and spoke to her about it. You know she is fearfullyuntidy, and she had left it with her handkerchiefs and ribbons andthings in her top drawer. She told me then, poor girl! that her unclealways sent her the cheque, expecting her to hand it over at once to MrsLyttelton. `He hates even paying that much for me,' she said, `and I dowish I could get away from him altogether. He is horrid to me, and Ilead a hateful life on account of him.'"
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"Poor thing!" said Mabel. "It must be disagreeable for her. In someways she is worse off than I am."
"She would give all the world to stay here for another year," continuedAnnie; "and it's most cruel of that horrid old uncle Josiah of here totake her from school; for I know quite well that if she were allowedanother twelve months here she could try for a big scholarship, and goto Girton or Newnham, and than be able to support herself in the way shelikes best."
"Yes, of course," said Mabel, yawning and walking over towards thewindow, which she flung wide-open. "But still, I don't see how I canhelp."
"I know how you can help quite well, and how you shall help, and musthelp," said Annie, speaking with great deliberation. "You must do whatmay seem just a _leetle_ crooked in order that good may come Priscie'slife shall not be spoiled; you shall not have a dull year; and I--poorlittle Annie--must also have my fan, and perhaps before long. Now Iwill tell you at once, Mabel, how you can do it."
Mabel sank