FRESHERS.
In less than a week’s time the four freshers were completely settled
into the life at St. Wode’s. They had their work marked out for them,
the lectures they were to attend were definitely arranged, the books
they were to read were selected, some from the library, some from
Green’s in the Broad. They joined the tennis, racquets, and boating
clubs; Eileen and Marjorie, having submitted to the necessary test, were
made full-blown members of the latter club immediately. Leslie had to
take a few swimming lessons before she could do so.
Annie Colchester had begun to make friends with Leslie. She submitted to
her roomfellow’s ministrations at night, gulping down the cup of hot
cocoa which Leslie, evening after evening, presented to her, drinking
it, it is true, as one in a dream, her red-brown eyes looking far ahead
of her, her heavy brows contracted in an anxious frown. Nevertheless she
got into bed in reasonable time, and Leslie saw that her feet were no
longer cold nor her forehead burning.
Leslie determined to try for honors in English language and literature.
Her tastes all lay in this direction, her idea being by and by to follow
her mother’s profession of journalism, for which she already showed
considerable aptitude. As she intended to aim at a first, or, at least,
second class, her range of study was very wide; and German, French, and
Italian literature had to be more or less understood in order to give
her a thorough and complete grip of her subject. But Leslie was a
healthy girl; she had been well trained, she had plenty of
self-possession, and an abundance of strong common-sense. She had no
idea of allowing herself to break down. In order to avoid such a
catastrophe, she divided her hours carefully, allowing a certain amount
for recreation and a certain amount also for the guiding of her wayward
companion, to whom, as the days went on, she became really attached.
As to Annie herself, this was the first time she had ever permitted the
advances of any student. This large room at St. Wode’s had been more or
less of a worry to the governors, and it was finally settled, when
Annie’s time to leave the college arrived, that it should be divided by
a partition and let in future to two students. Up to the present no girl
had ever stayed more than one term with Annie. Remembering this, Annie,
one day toward the middle of the term, raised her eyes from her books
and fixed them on Leslie.
“You will be glad when the term is over, won’t you?” she said abruptly.
“What do you mean?” replied Leslie.
“Why, you will be parting from me, you know. I won’t be the constant
worry and plague of your life. If I take honors I shall be leaving St.
Wode’s. In any case, you are quite certain to wish for another room, and
to get it also next term. If I do remain, therefore, I shall be plagued
with some terrible student of the Florrie Smart or Jane Heriot style. I
nearly went mad over the last one; you can scarcely guess what a relief
you are, by way of contrast.”
“Thank you very much indeed for saying anything so nice,” replied
Leslie; “and perhaps now you will allow me in my turn to make a remark.
It is this: If by any chance you don’t leave St. Wode’s, Annie, I hope
you will allow me to be your roomfellow again next term.”
“Do you mean it?” said Annie, a flash of light coming into her eyes, and
then leaving them. “But,” she added abruptly, “you speak of something
which must not take place. I must pass in honors; if I don’t I shall
die.”
“And you are certain to succeed,” said Leslie in a tone of sympathy. “I
wish I could feel as sure of taking honors by and by in literature. I
find these modern languages so very stiff.”
“What are you studying now?” asked Annie.
“I have to take German literature from 1500 to the death of Goethe,”
said Leslie. “The course is enormous, and I am sometimes almost in
despair.”
“But you have only just come; you can easily manage, and in any case,
even if you fail——”
“I do not mean to fail any more than you do,” replied Leslie.
Annie did not smile. Her queer red-brown eyes with their distended
pupils gazed straight before her.
“It can never mean the same to you,” she said at last in a solemn voice,
and then she looked down again at her book, pushed her hands through her
red locks, and resumed her contemplation of the problem which lay before
her.
A few moments later there came a tap at the door. Annie did not hear it.
Leslie opened the door.
Jane Heriot stood without.
“These letters have just come for you and Annie Colchester,” she said:
“and, as I was coming upstairs, I thought I would leave them with you.”
Leslie thanked her and eagerly grasped the little parcel. There were two
letters for herself—one from her mother and one from Llewellyn. Her eyes
shone with pleasure at the anticipation of the delightful time she would
have reveling in the home news; the other letter was directed to Annie
Colchester.
Now Leslie had not failed to remark that Annie seldom or never got
letters, that she had made no real friends in the college, and that, as
far as she could tell, she seemed to have no special friend anywhere.
“Here is a letter for you, Annie,” cried Leslie. “I am so glad that you
have got one at last——”
She took the letter as she spoke over to Annie, who started up, dropped
her pen, and stood with both hands outstretched.
“It has come,” she cried: “at last I have news.”
Her face grew suddenly white as death.
“What is it, dear?” said Leslie with sympathy.
“At last I have news,” repeated Annie. “I have been starving, or,
rather, I have been thirsting. You cannot tell what a thirst like mine
means; and this, this is a cup of cold water.”
“Well, read it in peace,” said Leslie. “I won’t disturb you. I am truly
glad it has come.”
Leslie seated herself with her back to her companion and opened her own
letters. After a time she looked round. Annie was standing just where
she was when she received the letter; both her hands were clutching it
tightly, her eyes were fixed upon the written words, and her face was
white.
“Have you had bad news?” said Leslie.
“Don’t notice me,” replied Annie. She crushed the letter up tight,
thrust it into her pocket, and said abruptly, “What is the hour?”
“It is quite late—between ten and eleven.”
“I don’t care. I must go into the grounds; the air is stifling.”
“But they are just shutting up.”
“I shall go—I know a way. Don’t say a word. I’ll be back presently.”
She seized a small cloth cap which she was fond of wearing, and ran out
of the room.
Leslie stood and thought about her for a moment or two; but then her own
correspondence absorbed her, and she did not notice when eleven and even
twelve struck.
Just after midnight she rose with a sigh to prepare for bed. She looked
round the room. There was no sign of Annie Colchester.
“How stupid of me to have forgotten about her,” she thought with
compunction. “She ought to have been in bed and to have taken her cocoa
an hour ago. Oh! now I remember; she got a letter which upset her very
much and went out. Dear, dear! where can she be?”
Leslie went to the window and flung it open; she put her head out, and
tried to peer into the darkness; but the moon had already set, and she
could not see more than a couple of yards in front of her. She ventured
to call Annie’s name softly; there was no reply. She shut the window.
“There is nothing for it but for me to go and look for her,” she said to
herself. “She is a very queer, erratic creature; and that letter—there
was bad news in that letter. Poor girl, she spoke of it as cold water to
the thirsty; she looked when I saw her last as if it had half killed
her. What can she be doing out by herself? Yes, I must find her without
delay.”
Leslie left the room; but she had scarcely gone a dozen paces down the
corridor before she met Annie returning. Annie’s eyes were very bright,
her cheeks were no longer pale, and there was a brilliant color in them.
She did not take the least notice of Leslie; but, going into the room,
shut the door. Leslie opened it and followed her.
“Dear me, Annie!” she said, “I was quite frightened about you.”
“Don’t begin,” said Annie.
“Don’t begin! What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t want you to begin to ask questions. I am going to
get into bed, and to remain perfectly quiet, and you are not to ask me
one question about anything. I want to sleep. I walked up and down as
fast as ever I could outside in order to make myself sleepy. Don’t talk
to me, Leslie; don’t say a single word. I shall go off to sleep—that is
all I care for.”
“But your letter, dear?”
“Don’t,” said Annie. “I am not going to confide in you; so don’t think
it. I only want to get into bed and to sleep.”
Leslie did not venture to say any more. She lit the little spirit-lamp,
put on the milk to boil, and prepared the cocoa as usual. When Annie’s
cup was ready, brimful and frothy, and looking as tempting as it could,
she brought it to her with a biscuit.
“Now, drink this at once,” she said in a voice of authority, “if you
really wish to sleep.”
Annie stared vacantly at the cocoa, then she uttered a laugh.
“Drink that?” she said. “Do you want to kill me? Don’t talk any more. I
am sleepy; I shall sleep.”
She got into bed as she spoke, and wrapped the clothes tightly round
her.
“Oh, do turn off the electric light,” she said again. “Can’t you manage
with a candle, just for once?”
“Certainly,” said Leslie.
She turned off the light, and lit a candle, which she put behind her
screen, then prepared to get into bed.
Annie’s manner was very mysterious. There was no doubt that she had got
a shock; but of what nature Leslie could not in the least make out.
There was no help for it, however. Annie did not mean to confide in
anyone that night, and the kindest thing was to leave her alone.
“By and by I must get her to tell me,” thought Leslie; “but there is no
use in worrying her now.”
Tired out, Leslie herself dropped asleep. She was awakened in the middle
of the night. What was the matter? She heard the sound of someone
running swiftly. There was a sort of wind in the room. She sat up in
bed.
“Annie, is that you?” she called out.
There was no reply, but the sound of hurrying steps came quicker and
quicker—now and then they were interrupted by a groan.
Leslie lit her candle and peered into the darkness. She now saw that
Annie was running backwards and forwards in her part of the room.
“Annie!” she said again.
There was no reply, the steps went a little faster, and the groans came
oftener, then the following words fell upon Leslie’s ears:
“Oh, this will kill me; my heart will break. This will kill me!”
“What is the matter, Annie, dear?” said Leslie again. She hastily put on
her dressing-gown, and with candle in hand advanced to where the other
girl was pacing. Annie’s eyes were open; one glance showed Leslie that
she was walking in her sleep.