by L. T. Meade
to her prose, she was hopeless as a rhymster.Perhaps Priscie could do it. Annie looked wildly at Priscie, but as shelooked even this hope faded away. She had had a conversation with thatyoung lady on that very afternoon, and Priscie, although she was to haveher extra year at school--for everything was quite arranged now--did notseem to be happy about it. She had even gone to the length of tellingAnnie that she would prefer learning how to manage a farm-house orbecoming a country dressmaker to staying on at Lyttelton School underthe present conditions. Annie had assured her that if she failed themnow, the mischief she would do would be so incalculable that it wouldpractically never end, and Priscilla had been quieted for the timebeing. But Priscilla's conscience must not be further tampered with;Annie was resolved on that point. What, oh! what was she to do?
During the rest of that evening, while apparently busy over her studies,the mind of Annie Brooke was in a whirl. In what sort of way was she tofulfil her promise made to all those odious girls that Mabel would readher verses aloud? She saw that the girls were already slightlysuspicious. She knew it was all-important for Mabel's success when shewon the literary prize that the girls' minds should be already preparedwith regard to her genius. If they were really satisfied that she wroteeven moderately good verse, they would accept without comment the factthat she had won the prize over Priscilla's head. But how--oh! how--inwhat sort of fashion were these verses to be produced?
Annie was in the mood when she would have stopped short at very little.Could she have safely pilfered the verses of anybody else she would havedone so; but there was no great store of poetry at the school. The fewbooks out of which the girls learned their different pieces forrecitation were too well-known to be tampered with, and yet Annie mustdo something. Her head ached with the enormity of the task which shehad so unwittingly undertaken. Why, oh! why had she started that awfulidea of Mabel's poetical genius in the school? Far better would it havebeen even to have the girls' suspicions slightly aroused by theexcellence of her prize essay. Poor Annie had not only to think of thisand to solve the riddle set her, but she had to appear before the eyesof her schoolfellows as utterly calm and cool. She was at herwits'-end, and certainly matters were not improved when Mabel that nighttapped at her wall--the signal that the girls had arranged between themwhen it was necessary for one to speak to the other.
It was about eleven at night when Annie, feeling miserable beyond words,crept into Mabel's room. Mabel was sitting up in bed with all her finehair hanging about her shoulders.
"I have not had a minute to speak to you before," said Mabel. "You knowperfectly well, Annie, that I never wrote a line of poetry in my life.I can't abide the stuff; I can't even read it, far lees write it. Andnow what is to be done? You are going to produce a specimen of my versewhich I am to read aloud before all those odious girls to-morrow!"
"Oh, I'll manage it," said Annie; "only don't keep me now, May. I hadto start that little rumour in order to make it all safe for you onprize day. You don't suppose, darling did May, that I have brought youas far as this with such wonderful success in order to desert you now?You leave it to me, May Flower. I'll manage it for you somehow."
Mabel lay back on her pillow. "I did get an awful fright," she said."I can't tell you how terrible it was when they all clustered round me,and Agnes remarked one thing about me, and Constance another. Agnessaid I was a satirist. What on earth is a satirist, Annie?"
"Oh, not you, darling, at any rate," said Annie, kissing her friend."Poor May! that is the very last thing you could ever be."
"I know you think me very stupid," said Mabel in an offended tone. "Itis too awful to give a girl the imputation of a genius, when you knowall the time that she is an absolute fool."
"A very pretty one, at any rate," said Annie, kissing her friend again."You're not offended, silly May, because I said you were not a satirist?Why, a satirist is an _awful_ creature, dreaded by everybody. Asatirist is a person who makes fun of her best friends. Now, you wouldnever make fun of your own Annie, would you?"
"No, indeed! I am glad I am not a satirist," said May. "What a horrorthose girls must think me!"
"Go to by-by now, May, and leave me to settle things for you," saidAnnie; and she crept back to her own bed.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
A TOUCH OF THE SUN.
Towards morning a thought came to Annie. She could not quite tell whenit first darted through her brain. Perhaps it came in a dream. She wasnever quite certain, but it certainly caused her to jump, and it madeher heart beat tumultuously.
"I wonder," she said aloud; and then she added, "The very thing!" Thenshe said once more, "I will do it, or my name is not Annie Brooke."
That morning the mistress and the girls missed the pleasant face ofAnnie Brooke from the breakfast-table. Mabel Lushington, as hergreatest friend, was begged to go to her room to see if anything was thematter. She tapped at Annie's door. A very faint reply came, and Mabelentered in much consternation. She found her friend lying in bed, ahandkerchief wrung out of eau-de-Cologne and water on her brow, her hairdishevelled, her face pale.
"Oh Annie, you are ill!" said poor Mabel. "What is wrong?"
"My head, dear; it aches so badly."
"Oh, I am sorry!" said Mabel. "Mrs Lyttelton sent me upstairs to knowwhat is wrong."
"Tell her she must not be at all alarmed," said Annie. "It is just oneof my very worst headaches, no more. I sha'n't be able to do anylessons to-day. But I will creep out into the garden presently. I wantair and perfect quiet. I'll get into one of the hammocks in the gardenand lie there. Tell them all not to be a bit anxious, for I know what Iwant is rest."
"You do look bad," said Mabel. "Dear Annie, I know I am the cause ofit."
"You are most truly," thought Annie under her breath. But aloud shesaid, "No, dear, not at all; I am subject to headaches."
"I never knew you with one before," said Mabel.
"I have kept them to myself, darling; but Mrs Lyttelton knows, for Itold her. This is just worse than the others, and I can't keep it tomyself. If Miss Phillips likes to come up, she might bring me a cup oftea and a little toast. I couldn't eat anything else, indeed. Now,love, go down; don't be distressed; your Annie will be all right in theafternoon."
Mabel longed to say, "What are you going to do about the poem?" but insight of that pale presence with its look of suffering, and the bondageon the head, she thought that such a remark would be quite tooheartless. She stepped, therefore, very softly out of the room, andgoing downstairs, made a most effective announcement with regard toAnnie.
"She says it is nothing," remarked Mabel, who was almost in tears; "butshe looks quite dreadful--so ghastly white."
Little did Mabel know that Annie had smeared powder over her face togive it that death-like appearance. She had managed it with greatskill, and trusted to its not being noticed.
"Miss Phillips," said Mrs Lyttelton, "will you go and see what is wrong?If Annie is feverish we must get a doctor. She may have a little touchof the sun, my dears; it is always unwise to be out too much this hotweather."
"She looked awfully flushed," said one girl, "when we met her in theHigh Street yesterday. It was after she had been with Mrs Priestley."
"It must be a touch of the sun," said Mrs Lyttelton; "perhaps I hadbetter go to her myself."
"Let me go first, dear Mrs Lyttelton," said Miss Phillips; "I can soonlet you know if there is anything wrong."
Accordingly, Miss Phillips went gently upstairs Annie had the curtainsdrawn at the windows, but the windows themselves had their sashes open.She was lying in such a position that the powder on her face could notbe noticed. When Miss Phillips came in Annie uttered a groan.
"Oh, why do you trouble?" she said, opening half an eye and looking atthe mistress.
Her dread was that Mrs Lyttelton herself might appear. It would bedifficult to hide the powder from her. Old Phillips, however, as shetermed her, was a person easily imposed upon. "Don't fuss about me,plea
se," said Annie. "I have just a bad headache. I am sorry I can'tbe in the schoolroom this morning; but I just can't. I am not a bithot--not a bit--but my head is dreadful. I want to go out and lie inone of the hammocks in the garden. Do you think Mrs Lyttelton will letme?"
"Indeed she will, poor dear!" said Miss Phillips. "She is ever so sorryfor you. You do look bad, Annie. Wouldn't you like me to draw back thecurtain, dear? Your room is so dark."
"Oh, please don't!" said Annie. "I can't bear the light."
"Well, my dear--well, of course--how thoughtless of me! I have broughtyou some tea."
"Thank you; I shall be glad of a cup."
"Poor child! Then you wouldn't like to see Mrs Lyttelton herself?"
"Not for the world," said Annie with unnecessary vehemence. But thenshe added prettily, "It is so sweet of her to think of it, and forlittle me--as if I were of any consequence. It's just a headache, andI'll be all right in the garden, and at dinner-time you will see melooking just as usual."
"I hope so, indeed," said Miss Phillips, who went downstairs to reportthat Annie was singularly pale, but not in the least feverish, and thather great desire was to lie in a hammock during the entire morning inthe shady garden.
"Go up at once and tell her that she has my permission," said MrsLyttelton.
Miss Phillips opened the door very softly. Annie was still lying withher eyes shut, the bandage at once shading and concealing her face; butthe cheeks, the tip of the little nose, and the chin were all dreadfullywhite; only the pretty lips were still rosy.
Annie just opened languid eyes.
"I am better, really," she said in the faintest and most patient voice.
"You poor, sweet thing," said Miss Phillips. "How I sympathise withyou! I get those frantic headaches myself sometimes."
"It hurts me even to talk," said Annie. "I do value your sympathy, butI can't express what I feel. May I go into the garden? Did you findout?"
"Yes; Mrs Lyttelton has given you her permission. I am so sorry, dear,that none of us will be able to be with you. Mrs Lyttelton herself isgoing to drive to London, and of course the rest of us will be busy; butif you want any one, love, I could send one of the maids to you."
"I shall want nothing," said Annie, whose voice, in her eagerness, hadsuddenly become strong. Any one who was not poor Phillips would havebeen suspicious on the spot. "I am so dreadfully sorry," said Annie,"that you should be put out about me; but if I am allowed to treat myheadache in my own way, I shall be all right by early dinner. Now go,dear, won't you? I will get dressed and creep down to the garden assoon as lessons begin."
"You are such a thoughtful, unselfish girl," said Miss Phillips."Anybody else who looked so terribly ill would make a fuss."
"Sweet Miss Phillips!" murmured Annie; and with these words sounding inher ear Miss Phillips left the room.
The moment she did so Annie sprang to a sitting position on her bed.She flung the bandage across the room with a petulant movement, and thenext instant she had locked the door and begun an active and hurriedtoilet. The powder was removed. The small, fair face assumed itsnormal complexion, and by the time prayers were over and the girls wereall assembled in the different class-rooms, Annie, in her neat cottondress, wearing a big shady hat, with gloves drawn over her small whitehands, and a parasol ready to shade her from the sun, stood waiting byher open window.
Presently she heard a welcome sound--the noise of wheels disappearingdown the avenue. Now was her time. Across the lawn she went. Thehammocks were there, but Annie had no use for them at present. Untilshe was well out of sight of the house she did not dare to run, but whena depression in the ground hid the house from view she put wings to herfeet, and flew panting and racing along by the shrubbery, until, at thefarthest end, she found a small postern door.
This door opened by means of a certain catch, so that to the uninitiatedit always seemed locked, whereas to the initiated it would open anyminute. Annie was one of the initiated. She let herself out being verycareful to close the door after her, so that it would respond to thatsame apparently gentle touch when she wished to come back. It was mostimportant that she should make all things right with regard to the door,as by that means she saved at least half-an-hour of her precious--hermost precious time. Oh, if only Miss Phillips could see her now! Wherewas the pallid, suffering girl? Surely she was not represented by thisred-faced, panting, strong-looking creature who was careering along thedusty roads _en route_ for Hendon.
By-and-by she reached the suburbs, turned down a side street, andknocked loudly at a little green door. The door was opened by a womanwho was evidently at once the owner of the house and her own servant.
"How do you do, Miss Brooke?" she said, looking at Annie in someastonishment. "I am very sorry indeed, miss, but Susie has been havingher bad days, and your dresses are not ready for you. She'll send themdown this evening, if possible; but when her back aches at its worst shecannot manage the machine, miss; so I do hope, Miss Brooke, that youwon't be hard on her."
"Not at all; I am very sorry for her," said Annie in her gentle voice."May I go in and talk to her for a few minutes, Mrs Martin?"
"To be sure, miss; you will find her upstairs in the sewing-room."
Annie seemed to know her way quite well about this house. She ran upsome very steep stairs and entered a low room which had at the end asloping roof. There was a bed tucked as it were out of sight under theeaves; but right in the fall blaze of the summer sun, and where the roomwas most stiflingly hot, sat a very pallid girl with a large, overhanging brow, pale, tired-looking eyes, and a sensitive mouth.
The girl was bending over a large sewing-machine, the work of which shewas guiding with her hand, while her feet worked the treadles. Themoment she saw Annie she looked at her with a great rush of colourspreading over her face.
"Why, Miss Brooke!" she said.
"Ah," said Annie, "you are behaving very badly indeed to me, Susie. Ihave just seen your mother, and she says that your back is so bad youcan't do your machining, and in consequence my work--_mine_, Susan--isnot finished. Oh Susan! it is somebody else's dress you are making now,and you are quite well enough to do your machining. I am surprised."
"It is true what mother said, all the same, miss," replied the girl,interrupting her words as she spoke with a great and exhausting fit ofcoughing. "I ain't fit for no work, and this room is that stifling withthe sun pouring in and no means of opening more than that little crackof the window. I haven't done your work, miss, for I knew you 'ud bekind, and Mrs Hodge at the mill is so cross if I don't carry out herleast wish. But I meant--I did indeed, miss--to go on with your thingsthis afternoon. I did most truly, miss, for it's a real pleasure towork for you, Miss Brooke."
"Never mind my things to-day," said Annie; "you're not fit, and that isthe simple truth. You ought to go downstairs, Susan, and get yourmother to take you into the park; that is what you want."
"I may want it, miss," said Susan, "but I won't get it, for mother haveher hands full with the parlour lodger and the drawing-room lodger.Much time she do have for walking out with me as though I were a finelady."
"Poor Susie!" said Annie; "and you so clever, too."
"Ah, miss, nothing frets mother like me thinking myself clever. Shesays that all I want is to know the three R's--reading, writing, and'rithmetic--that's how she calls 'em. She hates my books, miss; and asto my thoughts--oh, dear Miss Brooke! you are the only one in all theworld as knows about them."
"And I want to help you," said Annie. "I have come here all the waythis morning to ask you to lend me that manuscript book of yours. Imean to show your lovely poems to a great, clever, and learned man, andif by chance he should publish any of them, you would be famous, Susan,and you need never do this horrible grinding work any more."
"Oh, miss," said the poor girl, "you don't say so!"
"I do say so, Susie; and I suppose I ought to know. Give me the book,dear, at once; don't keep me, for I haven't
a minute. These are schoolhours, and I had to pretend I had a headache in order to get away to seeyou. You must let me manage about your poetry, Susie; and of course youwill never tell."
"Why, miss, is it likely?"
"Well, fetch the book, then."
Susie crossed the room, went on her knees before an old chest ofdrawers, and with the colour now high in her wasted cheeks and her lighteyes darker with emotion, she presented the treasured book to Annie.
"There is my last bit, miss; you will find it at the end. It's`Thoughts on the Sunset' I was thinking them in reference to my ownearly death, miss, and they're very affecting indeed. Perhaps you willshow them the first, miss, for they seem to me the very best I havedone."
Susie looked with a world of pathos at Annie. Her eyes said as plainlyas eyes could speak, "Oh! do read the poem before you go, and tell mewhat you think of it." Annie read the message in the eyes, but had notan idea of acceding to poor Susie's wish.
"You will have your book back in a few days," she said, "and I do hopeI'll have good news for you; and here