ANNIE IN THE TOILS.
At seven the Achesons dined. Soon after eight o’clock there came a ring
to the front door, and Rupert Colchester was announced. He came in
looking brisk, smart, and handsome. He had managed, Annie could not
imagine how, to get himself up well. He wore a frock-coat of the newest
cut, his tie was immaculate, so were his collar and cuffs. He had a
hemstitched handkerchief in his pocket with a slight scent about it. His
hair had been cut, his face was clean-shaven; he was so good-looking
that poor, foolish Annie felt a glow at her heart when she saw him enter
the room.
Mrs. Acheson was kind to Annie’s brother, and Annie’s brother managed to
make himself extremely agreeable. He talked to Mrs. Acheson, but he
looked at Belle.
Now Belle, although she declared that there was no one in the world she
despised like a man in his first adolescence, was disturbed by these
glances from Rupert’s dark eyes. She pretended not to remark them,
nevertheless she found her own short-sighted orbs meeting his again and
again. After the fourth or fifth meeting of the two pairs of eyes Rupert
got up, left his seat by Mrs. Acheson, and came over to where Belle sat.
“Do you know,” he said, dropping into a chair by her side, “that you
interest me immensely?”
“Indeed,” answered Belle, “I am rather surprised to hear you say so. I
never yet knew the man who wanted to look at me a second time. I know I
am extremely plain, and the fact is I glory in being so.”
“It is my turn now to be surprised,” said Rupert very gently; “good
looks are a great gift. You are quite mistaken in considering yourself
plain. However, it is not your coloring, nor the size of your mouth, nor
the shape of your face which specially strikes me; it is the remarkable
development of your forehead. I spent several of my early years in
America, and I remember when there meeting a man with a forehead like
yours. He was the greatest classical scholar at Harvard College, near
Boston.”
Belle could not help blushing with intense gratification.
“Ah,” she said, “I also have the same tastes. I passionately love the
classics.”
Rupert dropped his voice. He began to talk to Belle at once about
Cicero, Socrates, Homer, and her other favorite writers of antiquity.
Soon they were in the full flow of a most animated conversation. Belle
spoke eagerly and well; she unfolded the riches of her really great
knowledge, and Rupert cleverly led her on. He had a smattering of Greek
and Latin at his fingers’ ends, but no more. He managed, however, to use
his very little knowledge to the best advantage; and Belle was so
flattered by his covert glances, by his skillfully veiled compliments,
by his pretended comprehension of her and her moods, that she never
guessed how shallow were his acquirements, and opened out herself more
and more.
If Annie was nice, her brother was even nicer. He was the exception that
proves the rule. After all, there always was an exception—always,
always.
A faint color came into her thin cheeks. Coffee was brought in, very
fragrant, strong coffee. A servant approached Belle with a tray, but she
waved it aside.
“Not now,” she said. Then she turned to Rupert. “Why will mother always
insist upon spoiling a great intellectual treat with those tiresome
attentions to creature comforts. Who wants coffee at a moment like
this?”
Now Rupert, who had not been able to indulge in a good dinner, would
have liked a cup of fragrant coffee immensely; but he instantly took his
cue from Belle, and declined it with a wave of the hand.
“None for me,” he said. “Yes, Miss Acheson, I agree with you; at a
moment like the present one cannot think of sublunary matters.”
“Do go on,” said Belle; “So you really studied——” And then once more the
conversation assumed its classical complexion.
Annie, looking on from afar, felt more and more dreadful each moment.
Rupert was undoubtedly trying to be agreeable to Belle for a purpose.
Annie knew her brother quite sufficiently well to be certain that
Belle’s manners, her attachment to the classics, her whole style, would
be the very last that Rupert, in easier moments of his career, would
have deigned to notice.
At last, soon after ten o’clock, he took his leave. In the meantime he
had learned, not only all that Belle could tell him of her own college
life, but also the darling hope of the future. The little wooden box
which contained the eighty-nine pounds odd was pointed out to Rupert.
He nodded to Annie as he left the room. She followed him into the hall.
“Well, how did I get on?” he inquired.
“I don’t understand you,” answered Annie; “you frighten me dreadfully.”
“What a little goose you are. Well, I’m coming again. I shall come
to-morrow or next day. Be sure you follow up the impression I have made
with the fair Belle.” Then he made a grimace, kissed Annie lightly on
her forehead, and left the house.
She went to bed feeling intensely uncomfortable. By the first post in
the morning she received a letter. It was from Rupert, and ran as
follows:
“My Dear Annie:
“For the desperate, only desperate devices. I am desperate. I have
made up my mind. The fair and delightful Miss Belle shall be my
deliverer. I want you and she to meet me in the Broad Walk in Regent’s
Park between four and five this afternoon. I mean boldly to secure
forty pounds out of her wooden box. She herself shall give it to me.
While I am talking to her you must be engaged in another way.
Excellent! Get the good mamma to come too. You and the mamma can walk
behind, the fascinating Belle and I in front. I foretell that I can
twist my fair Belle round my little finger. Help me now, Annie, as you
value your brother’s future. You perceive how nobly I take the matter
out of your hands. Miss Belle Acheson has her sphere in life, but it
is not what she thinks. It is not to open a hostel for idiotic women
who think themselves learned, but to help Rupert Colchester in his
hour of need.
“Your Affectionate Brother.”
Annie read this letter twice. At each perusal her sense of dismay grew
greater. The worst of it was, too, that Rupert had given no address. She
could not write in reply, or send him a telegram, or do anything to stop
him. He would walk in the Broad Walk in Regent’s Park that afternoon,
and if Annie and Belle did not appear would go boldly to the house in
Newbolt Square. Annie felt that she herself was a guest in that house
more or less on false pretenses; but that Rupert should take advantage
of Mrs. Acheson’s hospitality was more than the poor girl could stand.
“I must have it out with him,” she said to herself; “but Belle shall not
come with me. I must go and brave him alone. Oh, I know what he will
say, and what torture I shall have to endure; for, great sins as he has
committed, I still love him. No. I will be brave now. I won’t sin again
for him. But God help me, I do not know how to bear all this awful
burden.”
The poor girl looked so miserable at breakfast that Mrs. Acheson
remarked it.
“My dear child,” she said, “do you know that your appearance quite
concerns me? I am certain you are not well; I am also sure that you are
troubled about something. Have you no relations, dear, except that
extremely nice-looking brother of yours?”
“I have no relations at all,” replied Annie, “except Rupert. My father
and mother lived in America, where they died. I was quite a child when I
came to England. Since then Rupert and I have been practically alone. We
were brought up during the early years of our life by a guardian, who
has since died.”
“Well, at any rate, I congratulate you on your brother, Annie,” said
Belle from the far end of the room, where she was reading Socrates. “He
has what I call a pure taste for the classics. I shall be very pleased
indeed to see him here again. Mother, don’t you agree with me that Mr.
Rupert Colchester is a scholarly and gentlemanly man?”
“Yes, dear Belle, I do,” said Mrs. Acheson. “Now, I tell you what it
is,” she said, turning in a confidential way to Annie, “you and your
brother shall see as much of each other as possible while you are with
me. If you will just give me his address I will send him a line asking
him to dine with us this evening. He feels leaving you so much.”
“Leaving me?” said Annie. “Did he say anything about that?”
“Yes, my dear, when he goes to India, he says, you will feel the parting
terribly. He has secured an excellent post in the Civil Service, and has
to start in about a fortnight. Why, what is the matter, dear Annie?” for
Annie’s eyes had dropped on to her plate and her face looked like death.
“I did not know that Rupert was going to India,” she said at last,
raising them desperately and fixing them on Mrs. Acheson.
“Perhaps he did not like to tell you, my love. From the way he spoke I
rather judged that he had only just got his appointment. Of course you
must know in the end. He feels so very full of sympathy for you, Annie.”
Annie got up. She made an excuse to leave the room; she felt that she
could not contain herself another moment.
“Give me his address, dear, before you go,” said Mrs. Acheson. “I think
it might be best for me to send him a telegram. Where is he staying?”
Annie turned, stood bolt upright, and uttered as if she was charging the
words out of a cannon:
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where your brother is staying? That does seem strange.
But has he no permanent address?”
“Dear me, mother,” said Belle from the other end of the room, “does that
matter? A man with Mr. Colchester’s extensive tastes doubtless cares
little where he lays his head at night. He is, I presume, at one of the
hotels. There are many hotels in London; have you not discovered that
yet?”
“I never thought of the hotels,” said Mrs. Acheson in an apologetic
voice. “He did not happen to tell you which one he was staying at, my
love?”
“No,” said Annie, “he did not.”
“That is a pity.”
“But,” continued the young girl, “I can give him your invitation. It is
very kind of you to ask him. I had a letter from him this morning asking
me to meet him in Regent’s Park.”
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Acheson; “of course he wants to tell you this
news about India. Certainly, my love, you shall go; it will be quite
convenient. And now, what do you say to having a nice drive? I think a
little fresh air would do you good. Belle, suppose you go for a drive
with Annie? I will send round to Marchand’s for a landau. You might take
her to Richmond.”
“Really, mother,” answered Belle in a tart and injured voice, “do you
suppose I have time for such frivolity, for a drive with no object
whatever except to inhale the air? Do you not understand that all my
life is mapped out, that each moment is lived by rule? This morning I
intend to make a careful study of my Greek grammar, as it is my
intention to write an exhaustive essay on the characteristics of the
Æolic dialect, with illustrations from literature.”
Mrs. Acheson sighed, and rose hastily.
“You must do as you please, Belle, of course,” she said.
“Certainly, dear mother, I intend to. If Annie likes, she can stay and
help me, for she has quite a good taste in Greek, and a nice accent; but
if, on the other hand, she prefers the utter inanity of a drive, why,
surely you can go with her?”
“So I will,” said Mrs. Acheson; “and I believe that Annie and I will
enjoy the ‘inanity,’ as you call it, immensely. Annie, we will go to
Richmond.”
“So be it,” said Belle. “I do not expect to see either of you until this
evening. I am off at once to my study. The Greek dialects, classified as
Ionian and non-Ionian, are full of the deepest interest.”
She fled from the room in a sort of whirlwind, slamming the door after
her.
Mrs. Acheson looked at Annie.
“Belle is a dear, good creature,” she said in a half-hesitating way;
“but still it seems a pity.”
“What?” asked Annie.
“That she should be quite so devoted to the dead languages. Surely
things of living moment are much more important?”
“Well, I happen to be very fond of the classics myself,” answered Annie,
“so I ought not to blame Belle; but she does go to the fair with the
thing, does she not?”
“It seems so to me, dear; but then I am, comparatively speaking, an
ignorant woman. We women of the last generation had not the advantages
which you young creatures now receive. What Belle means by the Ionian
and non-Ionian dialects I am absolutely ignorant about.”
“It does not matter,” said Annie gently.
“I agree with you; my love, it scarcely matters much; but your pale
cheeks and that anxious expression in your eyes matter a great deal. If
I can be of any use to you, Annie, understand that I shall be only too
pleased.”
“Do you mean it?” said Annie. She went up to Mrs. Acheson. The widow
held out her hand, which Annie clasped.
“Do you really mean it?” continued Annie.
“I do, my dear child. I wish you would tell me what really troubles
you.”
“I long to confide everything to you,” replied Annie, “but I dare not;
please don’t ask me. Let me be happy while I am here, and don’t be—oh,
don’t be too kind!”
“What does the poor child mean?” thought Mrs. Acheson. She now laid her
hand on Annie’s shoulder, drew her to her side, and kissed her tenderly
on her forehead.
“I am drawn to you because you are a motherless girl,” she said; “and
whenever you feel that you can give me your confidence I shall be only
too happy to receive it, and also, Annie, my dear, to respect it. I am
an old woman, and have seen much of life; perhaps I could counsel you if
you are in any difficulty.”
“No, no; it may not be,” said Annie in a whisper which nearly choked
her.
“Very well; we will say no more at present. I am going now to give
directions about the carriage.”
At eleven o’clock an open landau was at the door, and Mrs. Acheson and
Annie went for their drive. It was a lovely summer’s day, and Regent’s
Park looked its best. Long years afterward Annie Colchester remembered
that drive. The delightful motion of the easy carriage in which she was
seated, the soft breezes on her cheeks, Mrs. Acheson’s kind and
intelligent conversation returned to her memory again and again. Oh, why
was life so different for her to what it was for other girls! Oh, that
she could confide in Mrs. Acheson! But then the knowledge that this good
woman pitied her because she imagined that she was suffering from a
girlish depression, or some other equally unimportant contretemps,
caused her heart to rise with wild rebellion in her breast.
“If I could tell her the truth—the truth—would not her ears tingle and
her heart beat,” thought Annie to herself. “Good as she is, she is not
the person to help me in a great calamity of this sort. In her quiet,
sheltered, prosperous life, what can she know of sorrows like mine? Oh,
Rupert, why were you and I left alone in the world, and why—why did you
turn out bad, and why do I love you so much?”
The drive was over, and the time arrived when Annie was to set off to
meet Rupert in Regent’s Park. She arrived at the rendezvous a minute or
two late, and he was already waiting for her. He still wore the
immaculate frock-coat, and looked quite the handsome, smart young man of
the world; but when he saw Annie coming to meet him alone a heavy frown
completely altered his expression, his lips took a sarcastic and even
malignant curve. He went up to his sister and shook her by the shoulder.
“Now, what is the meaning of this?” he said.
But Rupert’s very insolence made Annie brave.
“It means,” she replied, “that I do not intend to do what you ask.”
“You don’t? You’re a nice girl to help a fellow.”
“I have made up my mind,” continued Annie. “I won’t ever do anything
wrong to help you again.”
“Oh, you won’t, won’t you? Then listen—heartless girl. Don’t you know
that I have you completely in my power? If I were to tell what you did
at Wingfield you could be arrested on a charge of forgery. There is an
ugly punishment accorded by the law to such proceedings.”
“You cannot frighten me, Rupert,” said Annie, much to the astonishment
of that gentleman, “for I have thought the whole thing carefully over.
It would be quite impossible for me to be punished and for you to go
scot-free; so, for your own safety, you will keep what you know in the
dark. Now, the thing for you to consider is that I do not intend to help
you to get any money from my friends, the Achesons.”
Rupert was so much astonished at Annie’s tone that for a moment he did
not reply. Then, all of a sudden, he changed his tactics. He ceased to
be furious, and became, in the poor girl’s opinion, far more dangerous.
He drew her hand through his arm and invited her to walk with him. He
then proceeded to sketch a most vivid and graphic picture of his own
sufferings, the extreme danger in which he stood, and the awful disgrace
which would fall upon Annie’s devoted head when the law of the land took
its course upon him.
But Annie, for some reason which she did not quite understand herself,
felt strangely strong that afternoon. Perhaps it was Mrs. Acheson’s
kindness; perhaps it was the thought of Leslie, and what Leslie endured
through Annie’s former ill-doing. Even Belle, with all her
eccentricities, had a perceptible influence upon Annie now.
“For all these good, these dear people look upon crime as an
impossibility,” thought the girl. “Now, Rupert seems to take it as the
ordinary course of existence. There is no saying; I may get to look at
things from his standpoint if I don’t take care. I dare not; I will
never yield to his entreaties.”
So, though he begged of her, and implored of her, and bullied her, and
flattered her, though he used all his eloquence, Annie remained firm.
It was the first time in all Rupert’s experience that he found her so,
and it was the first time he thoroughly respected his sister. At the end
of that interview he saw that if he was to get anything out of the
Achesons he must do it in his own way.
“You have astonished and pained me,” he said at last. “I never thought
you would desert me. Even in my darkest hour I have always thought
‘Well, at least there is Annie.’ Now my hour of gloom has truly arrived,
my black hour come, and I am only able to say ‘Annie has deserted me.’”
“No,” answered Annie, “I have not really deserted you; but I will not
consent to drag either you or myself any lower. I dragged you low enough
when I gave you that last money; I have lowered myself. I shall never be
the same again. I have also injured one of the best girls in the world.
I bitterly repent of the sin which I committed. I am truly sorry for
poor Leslie. Now, Rupert, you know my decision.”
“Yes, it is true what I have just said: you have utterly forsaken me.”
“No; for I still love you.”
“Oh, don’t talk humbug, Annie!” said Rupert with an angry interjection.
“When you utter the word ‘love’ at such a moment like the present you
make me actually sick.”
“I will not utter it again,” said Annie; “but I can still feel it.
Rupert, I will not do wrong for you. On that point I am firm. Now I must
leave you. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Acheson gave me a message for you. She
wished to know if you would dine with them this evening. Of course you
will not come. Under the circumstances it would be quite impossible; but
you may as well send back a polite message.”
“Say, with my compliments, that I shall be heartily pleased to accept
the invitation,” answered Rupert.
“How can you dare?”
“Will you give the message? May I not accept my own invitation, or am I
to be beholden to you?”
“Well, come if you like,” said poor Annie. “I cannot quarrel with you
nor argue with you any longer. Come if you wish to do so; but plainly
understand that, if you attempt to ask Belle Acheson to lend you any
money, I shall immediately tell the entire truth to Mrs. Acheson.”
“I believe you; you are turning into a perfect little fiend. Well, at
any rate expect me at dinner time.”