RUPERT.
When the girls found themselves once more in the open air neither of
them spoke. Then Annie said in a gasping sort of voice:
“I see quite well, Leslie, that it is all useless. I give up the hope
which seemed so bright a short time ago. You have done your very best,
and I thank you from my heart. I will go to Belle Acheson now. Perhaps
something will turn up at the end of a week. At any rate, I have that
week to turn round in.”
“We will go to the Bank,” said Leslie; “omnibuses go from there in all
directions. As to what Mr. Parker said, you know, Annie, that it remains
with yourself.”
“And do you think,” said Annie, coloring and shivering, “that if I could
bring myself to tell the real truth I should get the post?”
“I think so; for Mr. Parker is a man who never goes back on his word. He
promised to give it to you if the truth were known. He made no
condition.”
“And you—you will be restored to his favor?”
“I have nothing to say,” replied Leslie somewhat proudly. “I will not
plead for myself. You won’t get the post you covet unless the truth is
known.”
“I cannot do it,” said Annie. “It would be betraying not only myself,
but Rupert. Can you find your way back to the Chetwynds’?”
“Certainly I can; and that is your omnibus with Maida Vale marked on
it.” Leslie held up her parasol and the driver stopped. Annie got in;
Leslie nodded to her and turned away.
Annie shrank back in her corner. She shut her eyes: her head was aching
violently. Her one desire—the only desire that she had at that
moment—was not to tell but to hide the truth. The secretaryship would
have saved her—it would have enabled her to live respectably and in
comfort; but it was not to be hers. Between it and her lay a sin—a sin
which she committed for the one she loved best in the world. Now she had
to think how she was to manage. Where could she get work? What work
could she best undertake? How long would Belle keep her as a guest?
Belle was known to be erratic and uncertain. Well, at least for a week
she was safe. During that time she would treasure her shillings as if
they were gold.
The drive was a long one, but presently she reached her destination. The
omnibus drew up, she alighted and turned forlornly into the square where
Belle lived with her mother. Belle’s house was No. 30; it was at the
left-hand side of the square. Annie had nearly reached it when she felt
a hand laid lightly on her shoulder. She turned round in an access of
terror, then a cry of mingled astonishment, fear, and delight burst from
her, and the next instant she had clasped her arms round her brother’s
neck.
“Oh, Rupert!” she cried, “where did you come from? I thought you were at
the other side of the world.”
“I will tell you all,” replied Rupert in a cheerful voice. “There’s no
manner of use in your giving way, and don’t, for goodness’ sake! hug me
in public, Annie. Of course I’m not in Australia—I never went there; I’m
not such a fool. Do you think it’s likely I would leave this place when
I had sixty pounds in my pocket?”
“But you owed that money; it was given you to pay a debt.”
“Well, I paid part of it—not all. The fellows were only too glad to get
twenty pounds from me; so you see, my dear little sister, I had forty
pounds left to go on the spree with. But now my creditors are clamoring
for the second instalment. Annie, my dear, I want your help again; and
what is more, I must have it. You little guessed, when you were
shrinking up in that corner of the omnibus, that I was enjoying a cigar
on the roof. I hurried down when you alighted, and have followed you.
That precious, goody-goody Miss Gilroy little knew how close I was to
her vicinity when she bade you good-by at the Bank.”
“Oh, Rupert, I am so terribly frightened; and yet—and yet it is a real
joy to see you.”
“Poor old girl,” said Rupert, patting Annie on her shoulder; “you always
were affectionate. You’ve got me out of more than one scrape, and you’ll
get me out of this one; won’t you, kiddy? Now, where can we go for a
real good talk?”
“I don’t know this part of London,” replied Annie.
“Well, it is like any other part, I suppose. We must talk in the
streets; but it’s abominably hard. What is your address, Annie? Where
are you staying?”
“I am just going to spend a week with Mrs. Acheson. She lives in No. 30
in this square—Newbolt Square it is called.”
“No. 30 Newbolt Square; then here we are. I’ll come and see you; nothing
more natural.”
“But, Rupert, you must not—it would be most dangerous.”
“Why should it be dangerous? Why should not a bona-fide brother go to
see his only sister? You are my sister, Annie.”
“And I glory in the fact,” said Annie. “Whatever you do, I shall always
feel glad that I belong to you. You will always be the darling of my
heart; but oh, Rupert, if Leslie finds out that you have broken your
word, it is in her to be very hard. She is hard already. I never knew
anyone so changed. I live in constant terror of her. Do you know what
happened only to-day?”
“No, Annie; and what is more, I don’t want to know. I am too full of my
own affairs to be bothered by your minor troubles.”
“That is so like you, Rupert. I am afraid you are growing terribly
selfish.”
“Now, don’t begin to preach, old girl. There, if it will make you any
happier you shall tell me your little adventure, whatever it was; only
be quick about it.”
They walked round the square many times. Miserable as Annie felt, there
was a strange glow at her heart, the color had flamed into her pale
cheeks, and light into her red-brown eyes. She looked wonderfully
handsome, and more than one person turned to gaze at her. She briefly
told Rupert what had occurred at Mr. Parker’s.
“The old wretch!” cried Rupert. “If there is a man in the world whom I
fairly loathe, it is Parker. And so he spoke of me as a scoundrel, did
he? Perhaps I’ll have my little revenge yet.”
“But you would not really do anything wrong, Rupert?”
“Oh, dear me, no!” said Rupert in a sarcastic voice; “all I want at
present is twenty pounds. Do let us drop Parker out of this
conversation. If I could bleed him to that extent I would, right
heartily; but as I do not see my way to doing so a second time, we must
get it in some other fashion; and that remains for you to discover,
Annie mine.”
“But, dear Rupert, there are no means open to me; and I would not, if I
could, help you in that dreadful way again.”
“But you might think out another dodge. I laugh now when I think of how
you managed before—forging a letter in another girl’s name and taking it
to Parker of all people, and Parker giving the money and blaming that
bread-and-butter Miss Gilroy, and you and I getting off scot-free. It
was about the cheekiest, boldest, cleverest deed that any girl ever did,
and you did it for your brother’s sake. Annie, my dear, you will be as
clever, as cheeky, as bold again for your poor brother’s sake.”
“Rupert, I cannot.”
“Then you know, of course, what the consequence will be.”
Rupert Colchester now completely changed his manner. He had an
expressive face, capable of almost any emotion. He had been sad, he had
been jocular, in Annie’s presence during this short interview. Now he
looked as if despair had seized him. His face changed color, it
lengthened, and seemed to grow thinner and more haggard each moment.
“Then I cannot help it,” he said. “I suppose there is nothing further to
say. You did your best, and you can do no more. I’ll be locked up; I
have got into a scrape which I cannot explain to you. There is a fellow
to whom I owe twenty pounds, and if I don’t get it I’ll be locked up.
Think what you will feel when you have to go to the police court to give
evidence against your brother.”
“But, oh, Rupert! Rupert! how can you go in for such bad ways? Oh, if
only mother were alive!”
“Look here, Annie, none of that,” said Colchester, his voice becoming so
stern that poor Annie nearly shook. “There,” he added, instantly
changing his tone when he saw that she shivered and shrank from him. “I
know you will help me if you can. You’ll just think it over, and let me
know when next we meet. Where did you say you were going to stay—at No.
30? Who lives at No. 30 Newbolt Square?”
“People of the name of Acheson.”
“But who are they?”
“I don’t know, Rupert.”
“They live in a respectable house, and must be well off,” said Rupert.
“I tell you what you’ll do, Annie. You get Mrs. Acheson to lend you
twenty pounds. Now, see you do it, and be quick about it. She’ll lend it
fast enough if you pull a long face, and make up a pitiable story, and
I’ll meet you somehow or other to-morrow. Oh, yes, I’ll manage; I need
not enter into particulars just now. You will tell me what you can do
when we meet. That is all I require for the present. If you get me that
twenty pounds I’ll let you alone—I promise I will—for a month or two.”
“But, Rupert, I don’t know anything whatever about Mrs. Acheson. I have
never even seen her. Belle, her daughter, is a very odd, clever
creature; but I am quite certain the Achesons are not rich.”
“Is this Belle one of the St. Wode’s undergraduates?”
“Yes.”
“Then, of course, they must be rich, or she could not go to a place like
Wingfield. And that reminds me, Annie, what a goose you were not to take
honors in your exam. You barely qualified—no more. If you had taken a
first, I know a fellow who would have lent me twenty pounds on the
strength of your getting a good post; but now all that is knocked on the
head, and by your laziness. Positively it’s enough to sicken a fellow.
Well, Annie, you know what you have before you. You must get twenty
pounds for your brother within the next two or three days, or there is a
prison ahead of him.”
“Oh, Rupert! Rupert! you do make me so perfectly wretched,” said poor
Annie. “I must frankly confess that I have no hope at all of being able
to help you.”
“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” said Rupert, whistling gaily. “Now
I’m not going to bother you any more. My words will sink deep, I know,
my pretty little Annie. Think of the old times. Do you remember that
spring when we went out together and picked primroses, and that time
when you had the measles, and I was so awfully good to you? Don’t you
remember when you were so tired of being left by yourself I used to come
in, and risk taking the beastly thing a second time, to amuse you? Oh,
you’ll help me; you won’t leave your brother Rupert in a lurch. Well, go
off now to your precious Achesons and your comfortable home. Think, when
you are lapped in luxury, of your poor, starving brother.”
“Oh, Rupert, you surely are not starving?”
“Well, I have not had a decent meal for a week. Last time I ate was
yesterday evening, so you can imagine I’m pretty peckish. By the way,
you don’t happen to have a sovereign about you?”
“No, indeed, I don’t possess so much in the world. I’ve only got
fourteen shillings, not a penny more.”
Rupert gave vent to a prolonged whistle.
“Are things really as bad as that?” he cried. “Well, at any rate, you
won’t want money while you are at the Achesons’. You might let me have
those few shillings; you can have them back when you want them.”
“But, Rupert, they are all I possess, all I have between me and the
workhouse.”
“Bother the workhouse! Much chance a pretty girl like you has of going
there. Let me have ten shillings at least. You surely do not mean to
refuse your starving brother?”
“Of course I cannot refuse you,” said Annie. She took up her purse,
opened it, and gave Rupert half a sovereign.
“Ta-ta,” he replied; “this will do until we meet to-morrow. You do look
a bit dragged, Annie, now I come to examine you carefully; but better
days will dawn.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and walked down the street. Poor as he
professed himself to be, he was by no means shabbily dressed. He had a
fine figure, square shoulders, and a swagger in his walk.
Annie gazed long after his retreating form.
“Why is he about the most wicked person in the world, and why do I love
him so much?” she thought. “There, I have only four shillings now. How I
am to get that twenty pounds Heaven only knows. Oh, I am a miserable,
most miserable girl!”