The days which passed between the occurrences related in the last
chapter and the great prize day went on wings. The girls were all
exceedingly busy. If there were many prizes to be won, and there was
hard work beforehand to win them, there was the thought, too, of the
long and delightful summer holidays to gladden each young heart; the
reunion with fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters; the pleasures
of the seaside resort or the country house; the knowledge that lessons,
however useful in themselves, might be put away for six long, delightful
weeks.
The girls were in the best of humour; and, as though Nature herself were
in sympathy with them, the sun rose day by day in a cloudless sky, the
flowers bloomed in more and more profusion, and the whole world seemed
preparing for a grand holiday. Lyttelton School was famed for its
roses, and the profusion of roses that blossomed during this special
summer was long remembered by every member of the school.
Mabel Lushington was not a girl especially remarkable for
conscientiousness. She was now completely under Annie's spell, who,
having won her point, was determined that there should not be a single
flaw in her grand scheme. Her whispers about Mabel had spread a rumour
in the school that Mabel Lushington, who had long been remarkable for
her fine figure, handsome face, and a certain haughtiness of bearing,
was also exceedingly clever. It is no easy matter to convert a girl who
has hitherto been renowned as a dunce into a genius. Nevertheless,
clever Annie managed to effect this object.
"She writes such good verses, you know," Annie said first to one girl,
and then to another; and as Mabel had been forewarned on the subject,
she was not taken by surprise when the girls used to crowd round her and
beg to see some specimens of her art.
"Oh, I can't, I can't!" Mabel would say, blushing and even giggling a
little. "Don't, don't ask me; I should die of shame."
These were her invariable retorts, and, as a rule, she managed to excuse
herself with a certain amount of success. But schoolgirls are
tenacious. The subject of Mabel's gift for poetry became the general
talk of the school, and finally a whole bevy of girls waited on Miss
Lushington with the request that she would allow them to sample her
poems.
"The fact is," said Constance Smedley, "seeing is believing. You most
read us something, Mabel; you really must."
Mabel found herself turning pale, and Constance, who was a remarkably
keen observer of character, noted the fact. Annie was nowhere within
reach. Mabel began to feel as though a torture-screw were put on.
"Come, Mabel," said Constance, "it is but fair. We love poetry, and
will not be hard on you."
"What I think is this," said another girl. "Mabel is a satirist; she
has been laughing at us all in her sleeve. She writes about us, and
doesn't want us to know.--Come, May, I know that is the case, otherwise
you would not be so red."
"She was pale a minute ago," said Constance.--"What are you changing
colour about, you silly old May? We won't mind whether you satirise us
or not. Come, get your verses."
"I--I--can't; I--won't," said Mabel. She had not an idea what the girls
meant when they spoke of her as a satirist. She wished herself far
away. As she said afterwards, she could have sunk through the ground at
that moment. Her tortures were at their height when Annie Brooke
appeared. Annie and Priscilla were crossing the lawn arm-in-arm. Annie
had been talking eagerly. Priscilla, very grave and quiet, was replying
in monosyllables. Suddenly Priscilla looked up.
"What is the matter with Mabel?" she said.
"How queer she looks!"
"I had best go to her, I suppose," said Annie. "She is such an old
silly that unless I keep by her side she is sure to do some thing
wrong."
"Here you are, Annie," cried Constance. "Now you will be on our side.
You have assured us that Mabel is not the dunce of the school, but the
genius."
"So she is," said Annie indignantly. "Who dares to deny it?"
"None of us," said Constance; "only we want proof."
"What do you mean?" said Annie, still quite calm in appearance, but
feeling a little uncomfortable nevertheless.
"We want proof," repeated Constance.
"Yes," said Agnes--"proof."
"Proof, proof!" echoed several other voices. "Mabel writes verses--very
clever verses. We want to see them."
"So you shall," said Annie at once.
"Oh Annie, I won't show them," said poor Mabel.
"Nonsense, May! that is absurd. Girls, you can see them to-morrow
afternoon. To-morrow is our half-holiday; Mabel will read her verses
aloud herself to you at four o'clock to-morrow on this identical spot.
She has no time now, for the gong has just sounded for tea."
Mabel turned a flushed, surprised face towards Annie. Priscilla stood
perfectly still in unbounded astonishment. The girls were not quite
satisfied; still, there was nothing to complain of. They must go to tea
now. Immediately after tea school-work would recommence; there would
not be a moment of time to read the verses before the following day.
Annie, leaving Mabel to her fate, marched into the house, her hand on
Constance Smedley's arm.
"I am glad I came out," she said. "Poor May is quite abnormally
sensitive on the subject of her verses."
"Nonsense!" said Constance. "If she writes verses she won't mind our
seeing them."
"She ought not to mind; and if she were an ordinary girl she would not,"
said Annie. "But, you see, she is not ordinary. There is many a girl
with a genius who, as regards other matters, is even a little silly.
The fact is, Mabel is frightened of her own talent."
"Well, we are glad you came up, for we are quite determined to get a
specimen of our genius's work," said Constance.
"You shall know all about it; she will read them to you herself. Ta-ta
for the present."
Annie marched to her own place at the tea-table, and nothing more was
said. But she was not comfortable. She had got herself and her
unfortunate friend into a hornet's nest. Verses of some sort must be
produced; but how? Annie could not write the most abject doggerel.
Clever enough with regard to her prose, she was hopeless as a rhymster.
Perhaps Priscie could do it. Annie looked wildly at Priscie, but as she
looked even this hope faded away. She had had a conversation with that
young lady on that very afternoon, and Priscie, although she was to have
her extra year at school--for everything was quite arranged now--did not
seem to be happy about it. She had even gone to the length of telling
Annie that she would prefer learning how to manage a farm-house or
becoming a country dressmaker to staying on at Lyttelton School under
the present conditions. Annie had assured her that if she failed them
now, the mischief she would do would be so incalculable that it would
practically never end, and Priscilla had been quieted for the time
being. 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 to
fulfil her promise made to all those odious girls that Mabel would read
her verses aloud? She saw that the girls were already slightly
suspicious. She knew it was all-important for Mabel's success when she
won the literary prize that the girls' minds should be already prepared
with regard to her genius. If they were really satisfied that she wrote
even moderately good verse, they would accept without comment the fact
that she had won the prize over Priscilla's head. But how--oh! how--in
what 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 have
done so; but there was no great store of poetry at the school. The few
books out of which the girls learned their different pieces for
recitation were too well-known to be tampered with, and yet Annie must
do something. Her head ached with the enormity of the task which she
had so unwittingly undertaken. Why, oh! why had she started that awful
idea of Mabel's poetical genius in the school? Far better would it have
been even to have the girls' suspicions slightly aroused by the
excellence of her prize essay. Poor Annie had not only to think of this
and to solve the riddle set her, but she had to appear before the eyes
of her schoolfellows as utterly calm and cool. She was at her
wits'-end, and certainly matters were not improved when Mabel that night
tapped at her wall--the signal that the girls had arranged between them
when 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 fine
hair hanging about her shoulders.
"I have not had a minute to speak to you before," said Mabel. "You know
perfectly 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. And
now what is to be done? You are going to produce a specimen of my verse
which 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 had
to start that little rumour in order to make it all safe for you on
prize day. You don't suppose, darling did May, that I have brought you
as 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. Agnes
said 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. "It
is too awful to give a girl the imputation of a genius, when you know
all 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. A
satirist is a person who makes fun of her best friends. Now, you would
never make fun of your own Annie, would you?"
"No, indeed! I am glad I am not a satirist," said May. "What a horror
those girls must think me!"
"Go to by-by now, May, and leave me to settle things for you," said
Annie; and she crept back to her own bed.