30 NEWBOLT SQUARE.
Mrs. Acheson, although a most kind-hearted woman and affectionate
mother, would, if she had spoken her innermost thoughts, have confessed
that Belle was not at all to her mind. Being her daughter she thought it
her duty to be as good as she could possibly be to Belle, but she would
infinitely have preferred a girl in the style of Lettie Chetwynd, a
sociable, agreeable, pleasant girl, who would have done credit to pretty
dresses, have won a desirable lover, and married comfortably. She would
indeed have considered her cup of happiness complete had such a girl as
Leslie Gilroy been hers; but Belle being the child allotted to her by
Providence, she was wise enough to make the best of her, not to attempt
to turn her into any other groove, and to endeavor to counteract her
eccentricities as far as possible.
When Belle mentioned to her mother that she had invited a St. Wode’s
girl to stay with her, Mrs. Acheson was pleased. She went happily
upstairs to see that Annie’s room was neat and comfortable, the bed well
aired, and all the necessary accessories of a bedroom as they ought to
be.
When her young guest arrived, she hurried downstairs to welcome her; and
seeing that the girl looked forlorn and tired, with a droop about her
lips and an expression in her eyes which quite went to the good woman’s
heart, she kissed her affectionately, bade her welcome, and took her
into the drawing room.
“You don’t look well, dear,” she said. “I am very pleased that Belle has
asked you to stay with us. May I ask if you and my daughter are great
friends?”
“No,” replied Annie; “in fact we scarcely know each other. We did not
live in the same house at St. Wode’s, but we have met often. I happened
to be at the Chetwynds’ this morning, where Leslie Gilroy was staying,
when Miss Acheson arrived, and most kindly invited me here for a week. I
was only too glad to accept the invitation,” continued Annie, raising
her pathetic, half-starved eyes to Mrs. Acheson’s face, “for I have no
home at present.”
“Dear, dear, my poor child; that is truly sad,” said the good lady. “But
you must tell me all your story later on. I am deeply interested in
young girls, and any friend of my Belle’s has my kindest sympathy. Now,
let me take you to your room.”
Mrs. Acheson took Annie upstairs. She saw that the girl had hot water,
said that Belle would be glad to lend her anything until her own trunk
arrived, and left her.
“But I don’t like the look on her face, all the same,” thought the good
woman as she trotted downstairs. Belle was standing in the hall.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Acheson eagerly, “Miss Colchester has arrived.”
Belle did not immediately reply. She was hanging her jacket on the
hat-stand; she seldom troubled to take it upstairs.
“Yes, mother,” she answered, putting her hand to her forehead and
arranging her short locks into position; “but what about it? I thought
naturally she would arrive.”
“She does not look very well, Belle. She seems so tired, and—I scarcely
like to say the word—so hungry.”
“Oh, I dare say she is!” replied Belle in a careless tone. “She was
always a good bit of an oddity, and in the pursuit of knowledge
doubtless neglected her food; but as to her being ill, I think she is
all right. She has worked rather hard, that is all.”
“Then we will give her a right good time; won’t we, dear?” said Mrs.
Acheson.
Belle stared at her mother through her glasses, and again did not reply.
She went into the drawing room in her dusty boots.
“As we have a guest to-night, Belle, dear; and——”
“What in the world is it, mother? What are you fidgeting so dreadfully
about?”
“Nothing, my love; only would you greatly mind going upstairs to wash
your hands, tidy your hair, and take off your dusty boots before
dinner?”
“Oh, dear,” replied Belle in an impatient voice. “If I had thought Annie
Colchester’s being here would mean all this sort of thing I would have
thought twice before I invited her.”
It was now Mrs. Acheson’s turn to make no reply. She knew Belle quite
well enough to be certain that it was worse than useless to argue with
her. If she left that eccentric young person to herself, things as a
rule turned out according to Mrs. Acheson’s wish.
Belle hummed and hawed, and looked very cross, but finally did leave the
room.
When dinner was announced, the two girls entered the dining-room
together. Annie was only able to make a very scanty and imperfect
toilet; for her clothes, which she had telegraphed to her late landlady
to forward, had not yet arrived.
They went down to dinner. The meal was a good one, and nicely served.
Annie ate heartily, and felt considerably refreshed afterwards. She was
tired too; there was a sort of stunned feeling over her. If Mrs. Acheson
only knew the truth, if she could guess even for a single moment that
between Annie and starvation were only four shillings, would she not
immediately think that she, Annie, had come into her house on false
pretenses. People as a rule, do not ask starving girls to partake of the
comforts of their luxurious homes. There is the workhouse for such as
them. Annie shivered. The idea of confiding in Mrs. Acheson never
occurred to her.
Meanwhile, that good and excellent woman had taken a fancy to the
forlorn girl. She determined to give her a right good time, and to get
at that secret which knitted her dark brows, and made her beautiful
red-brown eyes so full of indescribable melancholy. Annie could not help
cheering up after a little, in the sunshine of this rare kindness. The
little week which lay before her was an oasis in the desert; she would
enjoy it while she could. She might gather some strength during these
few days for the solitary and miserable time which lay before her. But,
after all, her poverty was scarcely her worst trouble now. It was the
thought of Rupert, the terrible and awful thought that he had once more
been guilty, that he had broken his solemn word, that the police even
now were at his heels.
“What is to be done?” thought the wretched girl. “How am I to help him?”
Presently Mrs. Acheson suggested that they should go to bed.
“You can scarcely keep your eyes open,” she said, looking at Annie. “Do
go up to your room at once, dear, and have a long, good sleep.”
“Not quite yet, mother,” said Belle, looking up from her book. “I want
Annie Colchester to help me with this translation. I know she has gone
right through the sixth book of Herodotus, and I have not. I want her to
help me with the translation of the story which gave rise to the saying
‘What does Hippocleides care?’”
Mrs. Acheson sighed, and made no answer: a moment later she left the
room.
“You are not dead tired? You are willing to help me?” said Belle,
looking at Annie when they found themselves alone.
“I will help you of course, Belle, if I can. I have read Herodotus, and
thought it splendid; but I do not know the story to which you allude.”
“Well, you can help me, anyhow. Dear, dear, it does seem a pity that
mother should have taken to you in this extraordinary manner. I know
mother’s ways so well. She will begin to fuss over you, and then you
will imagine all sorts of things; but now, if you will take my advice,
you won’t consider yourself an ill-used martyr simply because mother has
taken a fancy to you.”
“Oh, I have never thought myself a martyr,” said Annie.
“Then, for goodness’ sake, don’t wear that pensive air. I wish, too, you
would not open your eyes so wide. It gives you a sort of starved look.”
“Starved? Really, Belle—I mean Miss Acheson.”
“You can call me Belle while you are here; it is shorter and more
convenient. I could not possibly ‘Miss Colchester’ you; the name is a
great deal too long for everyday use. You shall be Anne, or Ann, while
you are here. And now, pray, Ann, take this chair and let us get through
our work.”
They did so. Annie soon became interested. She had considerable
intellectual power, and between them the girls worked out the problem
with regard to Hippocleides. Belle, the first to recognize genius when
she saw it, clapped her hands with pleasure.
“This is quite splendid,” she said. “I never could get at the bottom of
that stiff rendering before. I am delighted you are here. We can become
the very closest friends. Some day, Annie, you shall come and live with
me in my hostel. Mother does not yet know of my darling scheme. Poor
mother herself must be excluded, and she will feel it, poor thing; but I
shall have quite money enough of my own to pay the rent of the house for
a couple of years after I leave college. Let me see; if you don’t mind,
I’ll get the money-box now, and count my savings. I declare I am getting
quite miserly over this matter.”
Belle went to the other end of the drawing room, and from a desk, where
her own special treasures were kept, took a square deal box. From her
pocket she extracted a little key, fitted it into the box, and opened
it.
“Is it safe to leave so much money about in that careless way?” said
Annie, who thought of her own four shillings, and quite shivered as
Belle lifted out three canvas bags.
“Safe. Of course it’s safe,” answered Belle. “Do you think our servants
would touch my money? Besides, they do not know it is here; even mother
does not know what this box contains. She likes to dust the drawing room
herself, and, a few days ago, she lifted the box and said: ‘Whatever is
in here, Belle? It is so heavy?’ I made no reply; and she said, ‘I
suppose, love, you are collecting coins.’ I said, ‘Yes, mother; I am
collecting coins.’ It was perfectly true, wasn’t it. Clever of me—eh?”
“Very clever,” answered Annie, with the ghost of a smile.
“Well, now, let us count. You shall help me by and by with my dear
hostel. How happy we shall be! The world quite out of sight, we delving
in the riches of the past. Oh, happy, happy maidens! We will eschew
marriage; we will be nuns in the true sense of the word. How silent you
are; are you not glad?”
“I cannot quite realize it,” said Annie.
“You will when you come to live with me. We won’t need much furniture,
will we, dear? Just the plainest rooms. Any spare cash we have will go
for books—first editions, original manuscripts. Oh, lovely, lovely,
bewitching, intoxicating! I see myself as I shall be during all the
coming years on to the decline of life, absorbing more and more
knowledge, living above the world; in it, but not of it.”
“But you won’t be in it when you are in your hostel,” said Annie, with a
gleam of humor in her sad eyes; “you will be apart from it, and that is
not according to Leslie Gilroy’s ideas.”
“Dear, pretty Leslie!” said Belle with sudden enthusiasm. “But the cares
of the world have her in their grip. I admire her more than any worldly
girl I have ever come across; but the world has her in its grip. Some
day she will see her folly. I hope to convert her to my views in the
long run.”
“That you never will,” said Annie.
“Think so? Well, I don’t agree with you. Now, let us count.”
The canvas bags were opened, and they did count, or rather, Belle did.
The money in the bags amounted to nearly ninety pounds.
“How glad I am I did not buy that new summer dress,” said Belle; “my old
serge does capitally.” She held out the dusty, fusty garment as she
spoke. “That economy added three pounds ten shillings to my hoard. See,
I will write down the exact amount.”
She took a sheet of paper, scribbled the sum in rough writing, and
thrust it into the box.
“Eighty-nine pounds, seven shillings, and tenpence,” she said. “Even the
pence are not to be despised. I shall be at St. Wode’s until next June.
During that time I hope to save, by the strictest economy, quite fifty
pounds more. We can then start our hostel almost immediately.”
“But what about food and furniture and all the rest of the things?”
“Well, each girl, of course, must bring her own share. Wherever we are
we must live.”
“Must we?” said Annie in a very pathetic voice.
“Why, of course; it is absolutely essential that each human being should
have his or her modicum of food. Now, don’t let us talk of anything so
very elemental. Let us consider the charming picture which lies before
us. A charming little cottage in the country—we shall get it for twenty
pounds a year; the rest of the money will buy the furniture. There,
Annie, you need not stay up any longer; you look as if you wished to
sleep. Do sleep—enjoy it—look like an ordinary mortal to-morrow; for, if
you don’t, mother will begin to take to you more than ever, and that
will not suit my plans at all.”
Annie went to her room. She was so weary that she could not even think
any longer. The box which held her few possessions had arrived. She took
out her nightdress and, soon afterward, got into bed. She slept heavily
all night, but toward morning she began to have confused and troubled
dreams with regard to Belle’s wooden box. She wished she had not been
with Belle when she counted her money. The thought of that money became
an oppression and a dreadful nightmare to her.
At seven o’clock the servant appeared with a daintily prepared tray
containing tea.
“Mrs. Acheson hopes you are quite rested, miss. She says if you are at
all tired she would like you to stay in bed for breakfast.”
“Oh, no, I am quite refreshed. Tell her I thank her very much,” said
poor Annie.
The girl bustled about the room preparing Annie’s bath. She then left
her to enjoy her tea.
Annie sat up and stirred the cream into the fragrant cup.
“How queer and dreamlike and wonderful all this is,” she said to
herself. “I enjoying tea at this hour in bed, and drinking it out of
such delicate china; and, oh, what a sweet little silver spoon! How
pretty the room is and everything belonging to it; and yet I possess
only four shillings in the world. Mrs. Acheson is quite the sweetest
woman I ever met. Oh, if my own mother had only lived. I should not be
the miserable, hopeless creature I am to-day!”
At breakfast Belle was in the best of spirits. She also had dreamed
about her hostel, and the thought of the money she had saved was
reflected in her face. After breakfast she proposed to Annie that they
should spend the morning at the British Museum.
“I can easily get you a day’s ticket for the reading room,” she said.
“You shall sit near me, and we can have a good time.”
“But perhaps Annie would rather not go to the Museum to-day,” said Mrs.
Acheson. “She looks very tired, as if she had been overdoing it.”
“I assure you, mother,” said Belle, “that most of the St. Wode’s
students have that sort of look; there is nothing whatever in it. The
rosy cheek, the bright eye which sparkles with no soul beneath, the
pouting lips full of rude health, do not belong to the earnest student.
Don’t be alarmed about either of us, pray; we like our life, and we mean
to cling to it.”
“Oh, I am not at all anxious about you, dear,” said Mrs. Acheson. “You
are always somewhat sallow, but you look well. Now, this poor child—how
very thin she is!”
Belle prepared to leave the room.
“You will excuse me,” she said, turning to Annie. “I have to get back to
my work. Do you mean to come with me or not?”
“I should like to come,” said Annie.
“Well, that is all right,” said Belle, slightly mollified; “you meet me
in the hall in half-an-hour.”
She dashed away, and Mrs. Acheson began to ask Annie some impossible
questions with regard to her health.
“If I could but tell her the truth,” thought the poor girl. “If I could
say: ‘Will you tell me how long four shillings—that means forty-eight
pence—will keep any girl in food and raiment, I should be greatly
obliged to you. If you can solve that problem you would indeed be my
greatest friend on earth.’ But no, no,” thought Annie, “I cannot confide
in her; that would be quite the worst of all.”
Presently Belle appeared, and the girls set off for the Museum. On their
way home Belle went for a moment into a stationer’s.
“You need not come in,” she said to Annie; “just walk slowly on and I’ll
soon overtake you.”
Annie had not gone a dozen yards before Rupert came up to her.
“I just thought I would meet you on the road home,” he said. “I have
made up my mind; I shall call on you at Mrs. Acheson’s this evening.”
“Oh, Rupert, surely you wouldn’t dare?”
“Dare?” said Rupert; “why shouldn’t I dare? You are to introduce me to
the Achesons as your brother. As to that girl you are staying with,
anyone can take her in. I shall be at 30 Newbolt Square between eight
and nine to-night. Look out for me, and don’t fail.”
He nodded and walked away. The next instant Belle came up.
“I saw you talking to a man,” said Belle. “Who was he? Do you know many
men? Are you deceiving me, Annie Colchester?”
“Deceiving you? What do you mean?” said Annie.
“If you contemplate marriage you had better tell me so at once.”
Notwithstanding all her misery, Annie could not help laughing.
“The man I was speaking to is my brother,” she said.
“Your brother? I thought you were an orphan and alone.”
“I have one brother; his name is Rupert.”
“And that was he? Why in the world didn’t you ask him to come home with
us; I am sure mother would be delighted to see him.”
“He is coming to see me this evening,” said Annie, her heart in her
mouth. “Do you suppose that your mother will think that it is——”
“Think what?”
“That he is taking a liberty?”
“Of course not. It is quite natural that a sister should like to talk to
a brother: and mother will be full of sympathy. Yes, he is welcome,
provided he does not come more than once. Give him to understand,
please, Annie, that we have no time to waste in idle conversation with
him. Yes, I will say it frankly, if there is a creature in the wide
world I thoroughly despise, it is man in his first adolescence.”
At lunch Belle mentioned to her mother that Annie Colchester had a
brother, and that he proposed to call that evening.
“I shall give him a hearty welcome for your sake, my dear,” said Mrs.
Acheson. “What a pity I did not know, and I would have asked him to
share our dinner.”
“It is very kind of you to see him at all,” said Annie, who felt more
wretched each moment. If Mrs. Acheson really knew the sort of man she
was receiving into her house would she ever forgive Annie?