Leslie dressed hastily, put her part of the room in order, opened her window wide, and then ran down to breakfast.
There were a couple of letters on her plate. These occupied her attention during the meal, and she scarcely spoke to anyone. Immediately after prayers she had to attend a lecture in Wingfield. As she was returning to the college she was met by Marjorie and Eileen, who stopped her, to speak eagerly about Miss Lauderdale’s scheme of the night before.
“It is exactly what we want,” said Eileen; “for the first time we both feel really in touch with St. Wode’s. You, Leslie, will be sure to take part in this noble work?”
“If I have time I certainly will,” replied Leslie; “but I have come here to study. I am working hard for a very definite object, and nothing must stand in the way of my work.”
“By the way, you are going to see Belle Acheson this afternoon?”
“Yes; I promised to do so,” replied Leslie.
“I am heartily glad you like her,” said Eileen; “she is a dear old thing. I cannot bear the way Lettie goes on about her. Lettie is my own cousin; but she disappoints me terribly in her attitude towards Belle. But I can prophesy that you and Belle Acheson will be firm friends.”
“I respect all people who are really earnest,” said Leslie in a grave voice.
“By the way, do you know why Annie Colchester has gone up to town?” said Eileen suddenly.
“Annie Colchester gone to London?” said Leslie, starting and turning slightly pale.
“Yes: didn’t you know? We met her two hours ago on her way to the station. She will return by the last train this evening. She told us that Miss Lauderdale had given her leave. Miss Lauderdale was very good to her, and she has gone off in the highest spirits. She asked if we had any messages.”
Leslie said nothing more; but she slowly entered North Hall, went up to her own room, and sat down by the open window. Some of the fear of the night before visited her. What was Annie’s motive in going up to town? Was she really only looking for one of her own papers in Leslie’s desk in the middle of the night? A queer sense of coming danger and calamity oppressed her. Her head ached, and she scarcely knew her own sensations.
At the appointed hour, Leslie Gilroy went across to Belle Acheson’s room. That young lady was in and received her with a fair amount of graciousness.
“Sit down, pray,” she said. “You will like that chair which faces the view. I prefer the one with my back to it. That view upsets me when I am very busy over my studies. But enough about Ego for the present. Let me look at you steadily.”
Leslie seated herself on the very stiff and uncomfortable chair pointed out by her companion, and Belle eyed her from head to foot.
“Yours is a very great temptation,” she said at last slowly. “I pity you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Mine is a very great temptation!” repeated Leslie. She colored, and for a moment felt slightly alarmed. Was it possible that Belle knew about her anxiety with regard to Annie? But her companion’s next remark dispelled this illusion.
“I refer to your good looks,” she said. “Those like you who are condemned to the trial of regular features, bright eyes, and masses of hair, have a struggle to fulfil their part worthily in life’s battle. But there, I will add no more.”
“I totally and completely disagree with you,” cried Leslie. “If you and I are to be friends, you must allow me to speak out quite frankly. Miss Acheson, I heartily respect you. I know that you are earnest and clever, and——”
“Don’t flatter; a flatterer is indeed a false friend.”
“But I am not flattering you. I do think what I have just said to you most truly and sincerely; but now I must speak on my own account. I have been taught by a very wise and good mother to regard a pleasant and pretty face as a blessing, as a talent sent from God. I have to use it aright in influencing for good my fellowmen. Beauty is a power which can be used for good. If one thinks of it in that way one need never be vain.”
“And you have the audacity to tell me that you think yourself good-looking?”
“I do,” answered Leslie calmly. “I know I have a very pretty face; it would be the height of affectation for me to say anything else. But do not let us talk any more about personal appearance. Surely you did not want me to visit you to discuss my looks?”
“By no means. From Eileen or Marjorie the words you have just uttered would disgust me so completely that I should ask the one who had so spoken to leave the room; but you have something queer about you, something earnest and out of the common; you are not an ordinary girl, and cannot be judged by ordinary standards. I am convinced that you will never take life frivolously.”
“I hope I never shall, Belle.”
“Belle! You call me Belle, and you only met me for the first time yesterday!”
“I hope you do not think me presuming,” said Leslie—she held out her hand to Belle as she spoke—“but I feel somehow that we are going to be friends.”
Belle’s thin hand was immediately outstretched, and for an instant she clasped Leslie’s—she then let it drop with a sigh.
“Why had I not a sister like you?” she said. “It is hard to go through life without sympathy, and I get little.”
“If you will allow me, I will give you plenty in the future.”
“If I will allow you! But there, perhaps this is a temptation. Are we really to be friends? If so, you will promise not to tempt me.”
“In what way? How can I?”
“You will not insert the thin end of the wedge; you will not cause me to allow luxuries to creep into my life? Oh, I have set myself so strenuously against all that sort of thing. I live so fixedly by rule. Now, a carpet to the floor, an easy-chair to lounge in, curtains to the windows to keep out the racking heat of the midday sun—all these things would be sins in a person like me. You will not insist, too, upon my spending money—money, that precious gift—on dress. Oh, I assure you the simplest covering does. You know how short our lives are; and our bodies, are they not just clothes for the soul? Why need we pamper the body. It is the soul that lives forever; it alone requires careful attention.”
“Why, Belle, you ought to have been in a nunnery.”
“There, now, you are laughing at me.”
“I am not, indeed; but I do feel that the soul is more comfortable, and more likely to thrive, if it is lodged in a nicely cared for body. Why should it not have a nice, pretty house to live in? And as to dress, I do hope you will allow me to say one thing: that a dress, however simple, ought to be whole and decent-looking and clean.”
“Oh, of course, I admit that; but is anything the matter with mine?”
“Have you a clothes brush, dear: I should so like to brush off the mud from the tail of your skirt.”
“Thank you, thank you; but I cannot permit it. You are now verging into the commonplace. You resemble that terrible young person, Letitia Chetwynd. She is really, I assure you, one of the trials of my life. She is a butterfly, impossible to be suppressed. She visits me in my room and insists upon talking her frivolous nonsense until my head aches. I repeat the words of the great masters of literature, under my breath, when she is present. She sees me muttering, and yet she will not go. There she sits with needle and thread repairing my garments, and I—I permit it.”
“I think she is awfully kind to you,” said Leslie. “You ought to be grateful.”
“I’m not—I can’t be. She and I are abhorrent each to the other. As the poles are we asunder. But do not let us waste these precious moments talking of her. I want so much to hear about yourself—your ambitions, your hopes, your desires. What, for instance, are your aims with regard to literature? You will take honors, of course?”
“I don’t know,” replied Leslie. “It requires a great deal of talent to take honors in work like mine; but I will admit that I am struggling very hard with that object in view.”
“Then, let me help you. Let us talk over our mutual studies. Here, sit close to me, draw up your chair near mine. It is sometimes permitted for those whose souls are akin to clasp their earthly hands together. Now then, let us speak. Ah! when you are almost intoxicated with those great and stimulating thoughts, does not your soul burn, does not you brain seem to expand until it almost bursts?”
“Never,” said Leslie: “if it did I should feel very much alarmed about myself.”
Belle uttered a sigh.
“We are differently affected by these things, I see,” she remarked. “I cannot explain to you the intense, the passionate pleasure I feel when I am engaged over hard mental work. There is no stimulant like it. You are not laughing at me?”
“Indeed I am not,” said Leslie. “I said before that I respected you as I respect anyone else who is wholly in earnest.”
“In earnest,” said Belle; “yes, indeed, I am that. I am ever thinking of Kingsley’s passionate words, ‘Be earnest, earnest, earnest; mad if thou wilt.’ Oh, Miss Gilroy, do think of the frivolity of the greater number of our sex. Even in this house of learning frivolity creeps in.”
Leslie smiled and endeavored to draw her companion into more reasonable conversation.
“Do you know what my aim in life is?” said Belle at last. “I will whisper it to you; but not even to Marjorie or Eileen have I yet confided it.”
“I will respect your secret, and I am very glad you are going to tell me,” replied Leslie, for she thought to herself that nothing would do this queer girl more good than to have a confidante.
“Well,” continued Belle, “my mother is fairly well off—of course not nearly so rich as the Chetwynds; but as I am her only child, she gives me plenty of money for my own personal use. Quite apart from the fees and general expenses of the college, I receive twenty-five pounds a term. Now, I have managed since I came here to spend something under five pounds a term, therefore I have already a nice little sum put by. In that humble little desk there lies in notes and gold over eighty pounds. I will show you my little bank.”
She jumped up hastily, unlocked her desk, and taking out a canvas bag, poured the contents into her lap.
“My savings,” she cried; “what I have secured in place of flowers, in place of cocoa-parties, in place of luxurious furniture, in place of the fal-lals and prettinesses which take the tone out of life. Do you know what this money is the nest-egg for?”
“Some good purpose, I am sure,” replied Leslie.
“An excellent purpose. I mean by and by to found a nunnery on a new line. A college after Tennyson’s idea will be realized by me, where those girls who wish to devote themselves wholly and completely to study shall live their lives. I shall begin my house of learning in a humble cottage. I shall take in my girl residents on the cheapest terms. The house will be small, the furniture of the plainest, the food just what is sufficient to sustain life. I could keep a niche for you if you signified your wish at an early date.”
“Thank you,” answered Leslie, rising as she spoke, “but I could not accept it. My work will be in the midst of the busy world—not in any hermitage. Belle, you have a great deal in you; but you are mistaken on many points. You need some lessons in life——”
“Oh, don’t, don’t,” said Belle, putting her fingers to her ears. “This visit has been so refreshing, and I like you so much: but don’t spoil it by an inopportune and ineffectual lecture. Go away, take your beautiful face out of my sight; don’t haunt me with it a moment longer. It is possible that I may see it to-night instead of the pure, pale lineament of Spenser’s Faerie Queene—instead of Dante’s Beatrice—instead of the divine Althea in Richard Lovelace’s matchless verses. Good-by, good-by.”
Leslie went to the door, and Belle saw her off.
In some wonder, and feeling almost dazed by her recent conversation, she returned to her own room in North Hall.
Just half an hour before dinner Annie walked in. She entered the room briskly, greeted Leslie with a hard and yet excited laugh, and, tossing off her hat, seated herself on the side of her sofa-bed.
“I had a good day in town,” she exclaimed. “What are you staring at me for?”
“I am sorry. I did not know I was staring at you,” answered Leslie. “I am glad you are back again; but why did you not tell me this morning that you were going to town?”
“And why should I tell you? I never knew that I was obliged to make confidences to you. Well, I don’t want to say anything offensive now; and I am in good spirits, very good indeed. I had to go to town on urgent business. It was necessary to get Miss Lauderdale’s leave. She was kind enough to forgive me for my apparent rudeness of last night, and also to give me the necessary permission to spend to-day in London.”
“I am rather surprised,” answered Leslie; “but of course, as you say, it is not my affair.”
“It certainly is not, and I trust you won’t interfere further in the matter. Keep your own counsel, that is all I ask of you.”
As Annie spoke she started up, removing her jacket, and, going to her toilet table, began to arrange her fuzzy locks. With brush in hand she turned round and looked at Leslie.
“I am sorry I have been rude to you of late,” she said: “but the fact is, I was so worried I scarcely knew what I was doing. I don’t pretend for a moment that you have not been good to me, very good; now it is my turn to be good to you. I shall make myself as cheerful and pleasant as I can in the future. I shan’t slave so hard over books either. I have found out for myself that much study is a weariness to the flesh. But there, I am much better this evening, much better.”
Leslie did not make any reply. A moment or two later the girls went down to dinner together. At dinner, Annie, contrary to her wont, talked not only with Leslie but with the other girls who sat near. She laughed a good deal, described some of her adventures in town in a spirited manner, and was to all appearance in the best of spirits. Leslie, as she watched her, could not help wondering if she had got the money she wanted so badly. She hated to follow Annie with her eyes, and yet the thought of her and her trouble was never really absent from her mind.
Leslie was engaged to attend a cocoa-party at West Hall that evening; but even there she could not get Annie out of her head. When between ten and eleven that night she returned to her own room, Annie had already gone to bed and was fast asleep. Leslie gave a sigh of relief as she watched her in this peaceful slumber.
The next day, immediately after lunch, as Annie and Leslie were both engaged over their respective tasks, a servant came up and knocked at the door. She brought in a card on a salver.
“A gentleman is downstairs, Miss Gilroy,” she said. “He wants to know if he can see you?”
Leslie took up the card and read the name: “Mr. Charles Parker.” She uttered an exclamation of astonishment. Annie, who was buried, not in her studies but in a novel, did not even look up; and Leslie, saying she would see the gentleman immediately, left the room.
She ran quickly downstairs to the common room, where her visitor was waiting for her.
“This is very kind of you, Mr. Parker,” she said, holding out her hand to him; “but I trust nothing is wrong at home?”
“Nothing whatever, young lady, and I am delighted to see you,” replied that individual, rubbing his hands and looking affectionately and yet with anxiety at Leslie.
“It was good of you to come to see me,” said Leslie, “and of course I am ever so pleased. When did you see mother last?”
“Three or four days ago. All the young ’uns are doing well, and your mother looks, if I may use the word, blooming. She is not working quite so hard. By the way, Miss Leslie, I have a great respect for that fine young brother of yours, Llewellyn; he has the right stuff in him. I am only biding my time to give him a leg up.”
“But I don’t think Llewellyn means to take a leg up, as you call it, from anyone; he is very independent, Mr. Parker.”
“Aye, aye; but there are ways and means of helping an honest lad, and I am not the one to shirk my duty. But now, Miss Leslie, I have come down here because I am a little alarmed with regard to you.”
“A little alarmed with regard to me! What can you mean?” said Leslie.
“Let us go out somewhere,” said Mr. Parker. “Somehow it seems to me that these walls may have ears, and there are such a lot of girls coming and going. So this is what you call a college, is it?”
“This is one of the houses of residence at St. Wode’s College,” replied Leslie. “The college and lecture-rooms themselves are in a separate building; but of course we attend a great many lectures at the men’s halls.”
“Very improper, indeed, young lady; but if it’s the fashion, why, I can’t say a word. In my time such an opportunity for indiscriminate flirtation——”
“Oh, we none of us dream of flirting,” said Leslie with a laugh; “and then we are properly chaperoned, you know. I assure you the thing is most correct and proper.”
“Well, I’ll take your word for it, though I don’t quite believe it all the same. When pretty girls are about, and young men to the fore, we always know what that sort of thing means.”
“You ought to come here for a time, Mr. Parker; seeing is believing.”
“Not I, not I, young lady. Do you think I’d mix myself up in a mare’s nest of this sort? No, no; but I am bound to believe the words of a pretty girl like yourself.”
“Would you really care to go for a walk, Mr. Parker?”
“Yes, Miss Leslie. I have got something to say, something not too pleasant either, but which of course you must be in a manner prepared for.” Here Mr. Parker tried to fix Leslie with his eyes. She gazed up at him in astonishment. He sighed and felt himself coloring.
“You remind me of my own girl,” he said. “You don’t know what a keen pleasure it is to me to do anything for you on that account; but there, time presses, and I must go back by the five-o’clock train.”
“Well, I will just get my hat. I am most anxious to know how you can possibly have heard bad news of me.”
“She does not look a bit like it,” muttered the merchant to himself as Leslie ran out of the room.
Mr. Parker and Leslie went in the direction of the river. They walked slowly down the towing-path. Several of the college girls were out in their different boats. Leslie began to remark about them. The merchant held up his hand to stop her.
“We will discuss the beauties of nature and the beauty of those fair companions of yours later on,” he remarked. “But first of all I want to talk over the very important matter which has brought me here to-day. Miss Leslie, I want you to confide in me. What is up, my dear—what is up?”
“What is up!” cried Leslie. “I do not understand you. Oh, I know,” she added, her face turning pale, “that you are hiding something dreadful from me. Mother is ill, or Llewellyn, or one of the girls; but I have heard nothing, I assure you. Oh, please, tell me the truth at once.”
“It is for you to tell me,” replied Mr. Parker somewhat tartly. “Let me assure you once for all that your family are in the best of health; but, Miss Leslie, I did think that you—well, I will say it, I felt hurt at what occurred yesterday.”
“But what can you mean? You felt hurt at what occurred yesterday! What did occur? I assure you I am absolutely in the dark.”
“Oh, no, you are not, young lady. You are putting it on, and that does not suit a man of my caliber at all. Instead of coming to me yourself, or even writing to me—instead of giving me your full confidence, and feeling sure that I, as your father’s old friend, would not be too hard on you—you had not the courage to do that—you sent a stranger to me.”
“I cannot understand,” said poor Leslie. Her heart beat fast. She felt quite certain now that some trouble was going to be revealed to her; she knew that the moment had come when she must exercise self-control. Happen what might, she must not give herself away. Another, a stranger had approached Mr. Parker on her behalf. A queer sense of heartsickness came over her; she seemed partly to guess already what was coming. Making a violent effort not to show the alarm which was paling her cheeks, and almost causing her heart to stop beating, she said quickly: “Please speak.”
Mr. Parker had observed her agitation and he now whispered to himself.
“She has done it; I am mistaken in her. I thought she was like my Jenny. She had the same voice, and something the same ways, and very much the same expression; but I am mistaken. There never could have been two Jennies in this wicked old world. I was mistaken. The child was like her in the external features only.”
“Please speak,” repeated Leslie.
“I am going to speak,” said the merchant. “I am disappointed. No, I am not going to be angry. I suppose girls, all but one, and her I won’t mention in this discussion, are alike all the world over. If they suddenly want a little money and remember that their father’s old friend can be befooled, being an old man himself, and tender-hearted, they yielded to temptation. You are like the rest, Miss Leslie; just like the rest. Your mother shall never know, nor that brave brother of yours. I won’t say another word when I have had my say out today; but, my dear, let me ask you just once, why did you do it?”
“Oh, you are driving me mad,” said poor Leslie. “You are talking about something I did; but I don’t know yet what I did. Do speak.”
“You don’t know about that sixty pounds. Come, now, that’s putting it on too fine. You went into debt for sixty pounds, and were afraid, and sent that other girl, Annie Colchester, whose shoes you are not fit to black, for the money. I gave it to her, of course, for your letter was so pitiable; but I did not tell her that I was coming down the next day to inquire into this matter myself.”
There was a seat close by; it faced the river. Leslie sat down on it just as if somebody had shot her. She did not speak for some time. Had she done so, she must have burst out with the truth. In her immense effort for self-control, for repression of her feelings, she even thought that she was going to faint.
“You ran in debt, child; the temptations here were too much for you. You ran in debt for fal-lals and gew-gaws, and all the other sort of things which please pretty girls; you thought, of course, the old man would pay up. Well, the old man has paid up. I am sorry. You might have asked me for the money in the first place, and not gone into debt for it; but that is the way with modern girls. We will say no more about it. I see you did not want to pain me.”
Mr. Parker patted her on the arm. Leslie shrank away from him.
“Don’t,” she said. “I cannot bear you to touch me just now.”
“You cannot bear me to touch you! Well, that’s nice hearing when I’m spending my money on you and thinking such a lot of you, and remembering the straight honorable sort of man your father was.”
“But do you, knowing my father as you did, feeling for him as you still do—do you really believe this of me?” said Leslie.
“Believe it of you? How can I help it, child? But if there is any way out of, any way to lessen the kind of shock I got yesterday, I will bless you, Leslie Gilroy, to the longest day I live.”
Leslie again felt as if she had got a dash of cold water. She could clear herself, but at what a cost!
“Tell me exactly what occurred before I say anything more,” she said in a low, tremulous voice.
“Oh, that’s all easy enough,” said Mr. Parker. “It was Annie Colchester who came to me. I have known her brother for a year or two. Rupert is about as bad a lot as I have ever met. The girl is different; clever, with a lot of enthusiasm and blind worship for that good-for-nothing brother of hers. I helped Rupert, took him into my own office; but afterwards I had to give him the sack. I could not keep that sort about me, you understand.”
“Please, go on,” said Leslie.
“Well, I dismissed him a month ago for improper conduct. I expect that chap will go to the dogs as fast as he can. I am the last man, Leslie, to uphold young rascals of that sort. He is a scoundrel, and the least said about him the better. The girl is different. I had letters from her now and then, and she always spoke of you with great affection. She never mentioned you by name, and I never guessed until yesterday, when she called to see me, that you were the girl, her roomfellow, she said, whom she liked better than anybody else at St. Wode’s—that you were the same girl whom I cared for more than aught else in the world.”
“Oh, you don’t,” said Leslie. There was a break in her voice.
“I do, child. You always seemed to me to be Jenny come back again; but there, once for all, I will not drag Jenny into this. Annie Colchester called at my office yesterday; she brought me a note from you. By the way, here it is.”
“Don’t show it to me,” said Leslie suddenly.
“Don’t show you your own letter? Why not?”
“Because—oh, don’t ask me.” She felt cold and sick. If Mr. Parker really showed her that letter, written by Annie but signed in her name, she knew that she could not trust herself, she knew that she must say something which would betray her miserable friend. The one rope she had to cling to was a blind sense of honor. She would give Annie a chance, she would not betray her, she would get Annie herself to make her own confession.
“What train must you go back by?” she said suddenly.
“You look quite ill, child. I see you cannot put the thing straight, as I had hoped just for a moment: but, after I have asked you one or two questions, we will never allude to the matter again. Was it an ordinary debt you wanted the money for?”
Leslie bent her head in apparent acquiescence.
“Then, that is a relief. I did think that you were above all the petty wants and caprices of your sex; but if you do want to look pretty and charming, why, my dear, I have more money than I know what to do with. Here”—he fumbled in his pocket—“would you like another twenty pounds, for I have got some bank-notes? I could let you have three or four. You are pretty enough to look charming in the simplest dress; but if you think otherwise, why——”
“Oh, don’t, Mr. Parker,” cried Leslie. “I cannot touch your money; put it away, please.” She pushed it from her. The strain was becoming intolerable.
“Did you say,” she continued, “that Annie took you that note herself?”
“Yes, my dear. You told me in it that you particularly wished to get the money in notes and gold; so I sent notes and gold. Now, Leslie, don’t be tempted in that way again. If you want money come to me straight. Say to me, ‘Mr. Parker, for the sake of my father, let me have five pounds,’ or ten, or fifteen, or whatever supply you want. Don’t ask me in Jenny’s name, for Jenny would not have done that sort of thing; but, for Gilroy’s sake, I—I’ll never refuse you, child. Don’t go into debt for it, that’s all.”
“I never will,” said poor Leslie. “Oh, I cannot explain things now, and I know you must think dreadfully of me.”
“I see you are concealing something,” said Parker, knitting his brows and giving her another fixed look. “Tell me the whole truth, little girl.”
“I can’t; not at present.”
Mr. Parker’s voice changed again. He looked hard at Leslie, then he looked away. He pursed up his lips and uttered a long whistle.
“If you cannot tell me, well, there’s no more to be said,” he remarked. “I am cut up a bit, that’s all. But understand this, Leslie, I’ll have no more fooling. There is a limit even to my endurance, and, when roused, I can be hard and very just. I will never tell your mother. I wouldn’t vex her nor give her another care for all the money I possess. You did wrong in spending that money before you got it; you did very wrong to go into debt. If you go in debt again, why, there, I won’t help you. But if you ask me for money, and say you want it, and give me a good reason—even if it is to buy a smart frock or pretty hat—you shall have it, child; and there’s my last word. Good-by, my dear. Don’t fret too much. Whatever you may have done wrong, you stand in Jenny’s place to me now. Cheer up, cheer up.”
But Leslie could not utter a word, she did not even raise her head; she was only conscious that Mr. Parker had pulled out his watch, uttered a hasty exclamation, looked to right and left, then, going up to her, stooped and kissed her lightly on her forehead.
“For your father’s sake, and for the sake of old times,” he said.
She heard his retreating footsteps as he went along the towing-path to Wingfield.
For nearly an hour Leslie Gilroy sat on that seat alone. None of her companions came by. She was glad of this, if she could be said to be glad of anything at that moment. She felt stunned; all her life up to the present had been bright. She found herself all of a sudden, through no fault of her own, in the position of one who is degraded, dishonored; she, who had always been upright, respectable, and respected. With her and open sin there was nothing whatever in common. To sin gravely, to commit a really great sin, was impossible to a nature like Leslie’s. Direct temptation would shrink away from one so pure, so innocent, so generous, so loving; and now she was stained just as if she had really committed the sin which she loathed. How could she live under this terrible imputation? How could she take the sin of another and bear it bravely on her young shoulders? The man to whom she was indebted for so much believed her guilty. How could she stand it? Was it right for her to stand it?
Leslie considered this with bent head and knitted brows.
Suppose she wrote to Mr. Parker, and told him the truth, what would happen then? She could guess, and the thought of what would happen caused her to tremble. He liked her; he was kind to her for her dead father’s sake and because he imagined that she bore a likeness to the child he had lost; but he had spoken with a certain harshness of the Colchesters. He would certainly not stand the knowledge that he had been befooled by a girl twice as clever as himself. He would come down to Wingfield, he would see Annie, he would speak to the authorities about her, she would be rusticated, sent down, expelled. Her career in life would be practically ruined. No. Leslie felt she could not betray her.
“Not yet, anyhow,” she said to herself. “If she will confess, I think Mr. Parker will forgive her, but I cannot be the one to ruin her whole life.”
Leslie struggled hard to regain her ordinary calmness; but, try as she would, she could not get it back. Annie had hurt her too deeply. To take a letter purporting to be written in her hand to Mr. Parker, to borrow money in her name, to get Mr. Parker to think so badly of her. Oh, the sin was too dark; it cut too sore; it lay too deep.
Leslie shivered as she returned slowly to the house. Eileen Chetwynd met her in the quadrangle and ran up eagerly.
“We were looking for you, Leslie,” she cried. “We wanted you to come on the water with us this lovely afternoon. Have you a headache? You don’t look well.”
“Perhaps I have a headache; but I don’t quite know,” replied Leslie.
“You don’t quite know? You look queer.”
“I will go upstairs and lie down.” Leslie ran past Eileen, who stared after her in some wonder.
When Leslie entered her room, Annie, still buried in her novel, was crouched up on the window-sill. Her books, papers, and problems were pushed aside; her hair was rumpled, her cheeks slightly flushed; nevertheless, there was an expression of rest about her face that Leslie had never before seen there. She turned away from her, feeling that she could scarcely bear to inhabit the same room. For the first time in her gentle life hatred of another was visiting her. Her religious principles did not come to her aid in this crisis; she felt a sense of being crushed, she felt sure that because of this thing she must go halt and maimed for the remainder of her days.
Annie looked up as she came in.
“Had a good time?” she asked in a light, careless sort of voice.
“I was down by the river,” replied Leslie coldly.
“Has your visitor gone?” asked Annie, not noticing the tone.
“Yes. He returned to London by the 5.30.”
Leslie wondered that Annie did not take alarm when she heard that her visitor had come from London; but the possibility of Mr. Parker’s appearing at Wingfield had evidently never entered her brain. She turned another page of her novel, and read on contentedly.
“How good it is to have a whole afternoon’s real rest,” she said; “and this book is splendid. By the way, have you read it—‘The Caxtons,’ by Bulwer Lytton?”
“Yes; I have read it,” replied Leslie in a low voice.
“Don’t you want to make any tea this afternoon?” said Annie. “I am so thirsty.”
“I don’t care about tea to-night,” replied Leslie.
“We shall be going down to dinner in less than an hour.”
Annie stifled a sigh, and once more resumed her book. Leslie went and sat with her back to her. She took up a book, but she could not read. As a rule, it was Leslie’s task and privilege to get tea for them both. Annie missed her companion’s gentle attentions. After a minute or two she tumbled down from her seat on the window-sill, and began in a perfunctory manner to get ready for dinner.
Leslie also rose, shook out her dress, put on a fresh tie and collar, and smoothed her hair.
“You are not making much of a toilet this evening,” said Annie.
“Oh, I shall do very well,” replied Leslie.
“Do! I should think you will,” said Annie in a tone almost of affection. “If I had as pretty a face as yours, I should not much mind how I dressed; or, yes, perhaps I should. Perhaps I should give up my whole life to my beautiful face, and spend all my time devising means to make it still more attractive.”
“Don’t,” said Leslie in a sharp voice. The thought that Mr. Parker also supposed that she was vain enough and despicable enough to go into debt for fine clothes returned to her memory with Annie’s words.
“You look sweet,” said Annie. “Come along, take my arm. I am in a mighty good humor, I can tell you, and as hungry as a hawk. I missed the tea which you, you kind little roomfellow, have generally got for me.”
“Go on; don’t wait for me,” said Leslie. “I have forgotten a handkerchief.”
She ran back just when they reached the door. Annie, in some wonder, went downstairs alone. Leslie waited until she had gone.
“Oh, God help me to bear it!” she said, raising a piteous cry to the One who alone could help her. Then, feeling a little better, she went downstairs, and took her place at table.
When dinner was over, one or two girls came up to invite both Annie and Leslie to join them at a cocoa-party.
Leslie looked at Annie with a sort of suppressed eagerness.
“She will be going out presently,” thought the girl. “She will be going to meet that bad fellow, to give him the money—the money which has ruined my life. I shall watch her. I hate being with her, and yet I cannot keep away from her.”
She waited for Annie to speak again.
“Do you want to go?” she said.
“No; I cannot go this evening,” said Annie; “but it will be all right for you, Leslie. You will go, will you not?”
“I shall stay with you.” said Leslie in a dogged sort of voice.
The girls who had invited them looked somewhat surprised and disappointed. They said nothing more, however; and Leslie and Annie went upstairs once more to their own room. Annie went and stood by the open window.
“What can be the matter with you?” she said, turning to her companion. “You do look very queer. You have not been a bit like yourself for the last hour or two.”
Leslie made no reply.
Annie glanced at her again.
“It is so hot to-night,” she said. “I am going out for a stroll. I may not be in until half-past ten, or even later. Why, Leslie Gilroy, you are quite glaring at me; your eyes have got the queerest expression.”
“Never mind about my eyes,” replied Leslie. “I have something to say.” Her quiet was over; she knew that the time for action had come.
“Annie Colchester,” she said, “I know where you are going. You have got a chance, one chance; will you take it?”
“You know where I am going, and I have got a chance—what do you mean? How very queer you look!”
“I will tell you in a few words exactly what I mean. I know everything. There is time yet. Annie, Annie, you cannot mean really to ruin me. I have always been kind to you—that is, I have tried to be kind. You cannot mean quite to ruin me, Annie.”
“To ruin you—to ruin you, Leslie? No; I don’t mean to ruin you.”
It was now Annie’s turn to look pale; her eyes, startled and alarmed, glanced from Leslie to the ground.
“At any rate, don’t keep me now,” she said, a shiver passing through her frame. “When I come back I will talk with you as long as you like; but I am in a great hurry. We can talk over—over what you mean (I am sure I cannot imagine what it can be) when I come back.”
“We must talk now,” cried Leslie; “it will be too late when you come back. Annie, I have something to confess to you; and you—God knows you have something terrible to confess to me; but my confession comes first. I followed you the night before last. After the meeting at East Hall I came back to our room and found you absent. I was restless and miserable about you, and I went out to look for you. I was standing near the boat-house when you landed with—with——”
“You saw us?” cried Annie. “Then you are a sneak—a spy. You saw us, and you——”
“Yes, I saw you. I stood in the shadow, and I heard what you said. The man who was with you——”
“Don’t dare to say a word against him!” cried Annie.
“Yes, I will. He is a rascal; a scoundrel.”
“Oh, he is my brother!” cried Annie; “the only one I love in all the world; and you dare not abuse him. What right have you?”
“I have every right, Annie; I know the truth. He wanted money; I heard him say so. He spoke cruelly to you; and you—you promised to help him. You were in great trouble, and I pitied you from my very soul. I did not know; I could not guess that you would make use of me; the crudest, the most terrible use. You forged a letter in my name, and you took it to my friend, Mr. Parker.”
“How—how can you know?” said Annie. Her voice had sunk to the lowest whisper. Leslie had to strain her ears to catch the words.
“I know in the best possible way, and from the best authority,” replied Leslie. “Mr. Parker came to see me to-day, and he told me everything.”
“And you betrayed me?”
Annie flung herself suddenly on her knees; she covered her face with her shaking hands.
“Oh! and I thought myself safe,” she continued. “I have lived through such awful agony—misery beyond words was mine; and just when I thought myself safe. Oh, I was resting to-day, I was so tired; but all my security was false, and I am done for—ruined. Why was I ever born?”
She uttered a piercing cry, and fell forward on her face and hands.
“Get up, Annie; don’t kneel like that. I did not betray you.”
“You did not betray me? Do you mean what you are saying?” Annie started up now, came close to Leslie, and tried to take her hand. “Mr. Parker came here today, and told you what I did yesterday, and you did not tell him the truth? Oh, you angel! Oh, you darling! All my life, as long as I live, I will live for you, and devote myself to you. Oh, you darling; you brave darling!”
“Don’t,” said Leslie. “You would not speak those words to me if you knew what I felt in my heart. Do you think I love you now? No; I am scarcely sorry for you. I simply feel that I cannot betray you.”
“Then, all is well,” said Annie. “I don’t mind in the least at the present moment whether you hate me or not. I declare now, and I shall always maintain it, that you are the noblest girl in the world.”
“But, Annie, do you quite understand? You cannot mean to go on with this. Now that you know what it is to me, you must—you must make restitution. You cannot allow Mr. Parker to go on thinking day after day, month after month, and year after year, that I was really guilty of the terrible sin and meanness of going into debt for sixty pounds, and then sending you to him to ask him to pay my debt. You cannot mean this, Annie?”
“Yes, I do mean it; and so would you if you had a brother like Rupert, and you felt that all his future depended on your helping him. What are you compared to Rupert? He is the only one in the world I passionately love. Oh, there, the clock has struck ten, and he will be waiting for me. If he does not get that sixty pounds to-night he will be desperate. The police are after him, I know; he will be locked up. Oh! what is your grief compared to his misery? Leslie, I am going out; you did not betray me to-day, and you won’t betray me now. Let me go, let me go.”
“Not without me,” said Leslie with sudden firmness. “If you go, I shall go; but if you refuse, I will speak to——”
“Oh, don’t! don’t! come if you wish; anything, so that we get to him at once. He will be put in prison, sent to penal servitude; and I shall go mad, raving mad. Come; be quick, be quick!”
Annie dragged Leslie by her arm, not allowing her time to utter another word. The girls flew downstairs together, and a moment later were out, with the stars looking down at them, and the moon shining on the beautiful river.
Annie dragged her companion in the direction of the boat-house. A man was standing in the deepest shadow. When the girls came up he took a step forward, then, seeing two, he started back.
“It is all right, Rupert,” cried Annie. “I—I have got the money.”
Leslie, who was watching him attentively, saw him change color. He had a bronzed cheek and a keen, dark eye. The bronze left his cheek now, and his eyes flashed fire.
“Is it true?” he said.
Annie held out both her hands to him. He clasped them so tight that it was with difficulty she could repress a cry; but as he did so he looked beyond her at Leslie. There was alarm and incredulity in his glance.
“It is all right; I brought her here, or, rather, she would come. It is through her I got it. All my life I must thank her for what she has done for you.”
“This is more than I can bear,” cried Leslie. “I have come here, it is true, Mr. Colchester; but not for the purpose you think. I have come here to tell you what I think of you. I do not know what trouble you have got into, nor do I wish to know; but I do know what your sister has done. I blame her—yes, I blame her most bitterly; but I blame you more.”
“Don’t tell, don’t tell!” cried Annie. She came up to Leslie, and tried to put her hand across her mouth.
“I will tell him; but no one else,” said Leslie. “He must know; he drove you to it, and he must know. Listen,” she added. She came up close to Rupert Colchester, and stared him full in the face.
“Your sister wrote a letter in my name to my best friend. She wrote it to the man who is kinder to me than anyone else in the world. She signed the letter with my signature, and he thought that it came from me. Having written the letter, she made an excuse to go to London yesterday, and took it to him. It contained a request to give me, because I had gone into debt, sixty pounds. The money was to be given in notes and gold. She brought the money back, and now she, not I, is giving it to you.”
“Indeed!” said the man. He started back. He looked from Annie to Leslie.
“I didn’t know you were clever enough for that,” he said; “it seems to run in our blood—I mean the capacity for thieving. I did not know you could do it. You are clever enough, Annie, and you have cheek enough; but to do that, to commit a forgery, and to drag another girl in!”
“It was done for you, and you of all people ought not to blame her,” said Leslie.
“You had cheek,” repeated Colchester. He laid his hand lightly on his sister’s shoulder. “I thank you from my heart, of course, and you, too, Miss—Miss—I don’t know your name.”
“You had better not know it; I don’t want you to. Yes, she did it, and Mr. Parker thinks that I am guilty. Do you quite realize, both of you, what Annie Colchester has done?”
“I realize it fast enough,” said Colchester; “but you are a merciful girl. I see it in your eyes.”
“Nevertheless, I will state the position quite plainly. Your sister, by writing such a letter, committed forgery.”
Annie uttered a deep groan, and covered her face. After a moment she raised her eyes, and glanced at Rupert. He was not looking at her; he was staring at Leslie.
“Try and keep quiet, Annie, and allow me to speak,” continued Leslie. “I do not intend to betray her. But I want you to know, Mr. Colchester, what it has cost me; it has nearly driven me mad. Think what it must mean to me. Mr. Parker imagines that I am the sort of girl who will go into debt, and then come to him to clear me. Do you know that because of this he came to Wingfield to-day? He sought me out; he spoke to me; he was in the deepest distress.”
“And you—you confided in him?” said Rupert Colchester. “Few girls would be noble enough——”
“Oh, you do her injustice!” interrupted Annie. “She has not told; she has not betrayed us. Is it not brave of her?”
“I have not told,” said Leslie; “but I have had an awful struggle. If I told what Annie has really done it might get her into such fearful trouble that she would be ruined. She would have to leave St. Wode’s; her career would be practically over. Even if the law did not punish her, she would never do any good in this country again. I have saved her from that; but it was a great effort. I have come here to-night, Mr. Colchester, to tell you that you are the one most to blame. I am going to keep this thing to myself; but only on a condition. This is the most bitter moment of my life; this thing that Annie has done on account of you has turned both my present and my future into gall and bitterness. I was the happiest of girls yesterday; now I am the most miserable. My best friend thinks badly of me, and I can never set myself right with him. But I promise here willingly, before God, that I will not tell what Annie has done, if you, on your part, will make me a promise.”
“What is it?” said Colchester. “’Pon my word! you’re a brave sort of girl, and I don’t mind—that is, short of ruining myself.”
“It will not ruin you; it will save you. I want you to promise me to leave Annie alone in the future.”
Annie uttered a sharp cry.
“But I don’t wish to be left alone,” she said. “I cannot live without Rupert.”
“That you will leave Annie alone in the future,” continued Leslie; “that you will never again take money from her. That sixty pounds is my present to you. I exonerate Annie from all blame in the matter. She shall never get into trouble on my account if you, on your part, will keep your word.”
“You are plucky,” said Colchester. He was impressed by Leslie’s manner and by her remarkable beauty. The moon was shining full upon her face, which looked clear and pale and unearthly.
“You are a very plucky girl,” he repeated; “and Annie is in luck to have made you her friend. Yes, I am all right now. This little girl, or, rather, you, Miss”—he paused, but Leslie did not supply the name—“have made it all right for me.”
“Very well; I promise not to tell what Annie has done if you make me a promise not to blackmail her again.”
“Blackmail! that is an ugly word,” said Colchester; “after all, she is my sister.”
“The more shame on you to get your sister into trouble. I have a brother. Do you think he—but there, I cannot speak of him in the same breath with you. If you attempt to blackmail Annie any more I will tell Mr. Parker all about this matter. I will consider that the promise I have made to-day is no longer binding. Now, it rests with yourself. Bid your sister good-by, and go.”
“Oh, I cannot, cannot part with you, Rupert!” cried Annie.
She burst into a bitter flood of tears, flung her arms round her brother’s neck, and laid her head on his shoulder.
“There is nothing—nothing I would not do for you,” she sobbed.
Leslie moved away to a little distance. She had spoken with emphasis and spirit, but never in the whole course of her life had she felt so cold, so bitter. Although she had promised before God not to betray her miserable companion, yet she knew no sense of happiness. It seemed to her that she was setting the seal to her degradation. Never again could she be happy. Always now there would be one person who would think of her as a girl capable of any meanness, any smallness, any deceit. The mere knowledge that someone would so regard her troubled her so much that she wondered if, in the future, she could lead an upright life. And why was she doing it? For Annie did not appreciate her sacrifice, except in as far as it saved Rupert; and as to Rupert himself, it needed only to look into his face to see how weak and worthless he was.
Wrapped in the misery of these thoughts, Leslie did not notice Annie until she came back and touched her on the arm.
“He cannot praise you enough. You do not know what he has been saying of you. He wants to bid you good-by now. He is going to Australia; he has made up his mind. I shall never see him more.”
There was a note of such utter misery in Annie’s voice that Leslie, wretched as she was, started up and shook herself.
“Let him go,” she said. “I do not want to speak to him again.”
“But I so earnestly wish you would. He is terribly touched by what you have done. This may be the turning-point. Do come and shake hands with him.”
“I cannot.”
“You cannot? Leslie, do you think him as bad as all that?”
“He is very bad, Annie, and he is making you bad—and, oh, indirectly he is making me bad too. I cannot go; I can never touch his hand.”
“You are too hard,” said Annie. “I could have loved you for what you have done; but when you speak against him I cannot bear you.”
“Feel just as you please about me,” said Leslie; “but I cannot bid your brother good-by, nor shake hands with him. Come back to me when he has gone, and be quick. We ought to be in the house now. There is no use in our getting into fresh trouble.”
Annie turned slowly away. In about ten minutes she came back to Leslie.
“He has gone,” she said. “He will take his passage for Australia to-morrow. I shall never see him any more.”
Her tone was cold, calm, and low.
“Then let us return to the house,” said Leslie.
They went slowly across the quadrangle, entered by the side door, and went up to their room.
“I wish I was not your roomfellow, Annie,” said Leslie. “I never knew I could feel so bitter towards anyone.”
“You will get over it, dear, and, after all, as Rupert says——”
“Oh, please don’t mention his name!”
Annie looked at her, a frown coming between her brows.
“I cannot understand you,” she said, after a pause. “You are so noble, and yet you are so hard. Are good, very good, people often like you?”
“I am not good. I don’t think I shall ever be good again,” said poor Leslie. She sat down on the nearest seat, and covered her face with her trembling hands.
Annie switched on the electric light.
“At least there need be no more study,” she said, after a pause.
Leslie did not take the slightest notice.
Annie sat down on a sofa, took up the novel she had been reading that afternoon, and turned a page or two listlessly. Presently she flung it down and uttered a heartrending sigh. That sigh reached Leslie. She looked up, and tried to speak in a cheerful tone.
“Are not you going to get out your books? You know you have so much to do before the honor examination?”
“I do not mean to study any more. Did not you hear me say so?”
“But why? I cannot understand.”
“The motive for study has gone. I shall take my pass exam., and let that suffice. I shall leave Wingfield at the end of term.”
“But why should you give up everything?”
“Why?” said Annie, “why?” She went over and stood by the window. The night wind came in and lifted a tress of her hair and played with it.
Leslie, seated on her own sofa at the farther end of the room, seemed always, in her moments of bitterest grief in the future, to see that tress of hair tossed up and down by the wind. The electric light in the room played on it, and brought out some of its red fire. Annie’s face was ghastly pale; but her eyes were large and too brilliant for health.
“Why should you give up everything?” repeated Leslie, after another pause.
“Why? Can’t you understand? Did you ever have a watch with a broken spring?”
“I think so; yes.”
“It was useless, was it not?”
“Of course; until it was mended.”
“Well, I am like that watch. The spring that guided my life is broken, and, unlike the watch, it can never be mended.”
“You forget that there is such a thing as a watchmaker; even for the human watch,” said Leslie, her tone softening.
“Granted; but I shall not put myself into His hands. Good-night, I am dead tired. I feel numb all over. I am going to bed. I want, beyond everything else on earth, to sleep.”
She threw herself down on her bed without an attempt at undressing.
Leslie started up to remonstrate. If Annie lay like that she would have a terrible cold in the morning. She advanced a step or two across the room, and then paused.
“After all, it does not matter,” she said to herself. “I should not have got into this awful scrape if I had not been good to her. I will leave her alone now. I have ruined myself absolutely and for ever; but I cannot—cannot be friends with her.”
“Rupert has gone, Rupert has gone,” moaned Annie, “and my sun has set.”
Leslie heard the words, but even they did not soften her.
“What has come to me?” she thought. “Has this trouble turned me into a stone?”
The Gilroy children were all in the wildest state of excitement. It was a lovely day in July, and they were going off for a picnic on the river. Leslie was standing by the center table in the dining room, busily packing a basket. Kitty was buttering bread and making sandwiches, Mabel was cutting cake into thick slices, Hester was darning a rent in the back of her dress, and Llewellyn was here, there, and everywhere.
“We must start soon,” he said. “When will the baskets be ready? I wonder mother has not come in.”
“Is not she in?” asked Leslie, standing up to her full height, and pressing her hand to her forehead.
“Have you got one of your headaches back again, Leslie?” asked Llewellyn.
“Oh, just a little, very little; but the air will do me good. It will be lovely to-day on the river.”
“Yes, splendid,” said Llewellyn. “We will have tea at Twickenham, and go home in the cool of the evening. You cannot think how nice old Forrest has been about this. He gave me a holiday at once when I asked him this morning. He said that he only wished he kept a provision shop instead of a drapery shop, so that he might send us pies and things for our picnic.”
“But even though he does keep a linen-draper’s shop,” said Hester, “he could still help us. I, for instance, should not at all object to materials for a new gown. This old serge is so thick and hot.”
“But if you put on a white shirt, dear, you will look as neat and nice as possible,” said Leslie; “and won’t be at all too warm.”
“Oh, I can’t be bothered,” said Hester, shrugging her shoulders. “I forgot to send my shirts to the wash on Monday, and I have not one fit to be seen.”
“Then it serves you right if you are hot and uncomfortable,” cried Kitty.
Kitty herself was always the pink of neatness. Hester was evidently the troublesome one of the family.
Leslie went on packing her basket. She wedged in the hard-boiled eggs, raised pies, roast chickens, sandwiches, and the sweets. At last the big basket was quite full.
“Doesn’t it look tempting?” said Mabel, smacking her lips. “How frightfully hungry I’ll be. Oh, don’t forget, whatever happens, the other basket with the ginger beer and lemonade. I only trust we have got enough.”
“And the cold tea for mother,” said Llewellyn; “be sure you put that in.”
The boys and girls chatted eagerly one to the other.
“I say,” cried Kitty, “isn’t it nice to have old Leslie back again? We’ll hate it when you have to return to your grand college in the autumn, Leslie; but I wish,” she added, “you would talk more about it. I thought you’d have no end of rattling good stories to tell us; but you are as mum and quiet as if you had not had a good time at all, whereas, of course, you have had the very best time a girl could have. I suppose it is the weight of all the learning that bothers you. And what about those Chetwynds? You wrote to mother about them, and about that extraordinary girl, Belle Acheson; but since you have come back, you have hardly said a word about any of your fellow-students.”
“I am sorry,” said Leslie. “I will try to tell you something amusing to-day, Kitty. I don’t want to make myself mum and disagreeable.”
“Oh, you are never that, you dear old darling; only, we were hoping for so much—weren’t we, Hetty?”
“Yes,” said Hester, who was still darning the rent in her dress. “I do wish this cotton wouldn’t break so.”
“Give it to me,” said Leslie; “I’ll have it darned in a trice. Ah! there’s mother’s step at last. Dear old mammy, I hope she is not too tired.”
“There is someone coming back with her,” said Kitty. “Don’t you hear two footsteps? Who can it possibly be?”
The next moment the room-door was opened, and Mrs. Gilroy, accompanied by Mr. Parker, came in.
Leslie had not seen Mr. Parker since her interview with him at Wingfield. She now felt herself turning pale; her pallor was suddenly succeeded by a quick flush of color. She hoped no one noticed her agitation; but, raising her eyes, she met those of Llewellyn. His wore a perturbed expression.
Mr. Parker, after greeting the other children, came up to her and offered his hand.
“Glad to see you back again, Miss Leslie,” he said. There was an indescribable, restrained note in his voice.
“Well, children, what do you say to my joining you to-day?” He turned and faced Kitty and Hester. “Your mother was good enough to invite me, and I am as up to a bit of frolic as if I were as young as you. Where is little Dan? He must be my special charge to-day.”
“Kitty, give me those sandwiches. I can finish packing them,” said Leslie in a low voice which she hardly recognized as her own.
After Mr. Parker’s one hand-clasp, which was firm and cordial enough, he had turned his back on her. He still did so, and kept on talking to Llewellyn and the younger children.
Mrs. Gilroy sat down on the sofa.
“It is very hot,” she said.
“And you are very tired,” said Mr. Parker. “Now listen; I am going to have my own way, and nobody shall interfere. What is the good of money if you cannot spend it now and then? You want to go to Richmond?” turning to Mrs. Gilroy, “Go to Richmond you shall, but you are not going by train. No, we will have a carriage, and I will drive you down. A carriage will hold you and myself and a couple of the children. Not another word, my dear friend. What is the good of money if you cannot have a treat?”
“But you do far too much for us, Mr. Parker,” replied Mrs. Gilroy.
“Far too much!” he answered; “tut, tut! not a bit of it. I am a lonely man, madam. My one interest in life is you and your family.”
Here he glanced at Leslie, but the next moment looked away. There was disapproval in his face.
Leslie started up impulsively. All the provisions were packed.
“Yes, mother,” she cried, “do let Mr. Parker drive you; it will do you no end of good.”
“All right, darling. I have not the least objection if you will come with us. I need not ask you, Mr. Parker, if you will object to Leslie being one of the party in the carriage?”
“Dan shall sit on my knee,” said Mr. Parker, “and two of the children can be crowded in. Just as Miss Leslie likes, of course.”
But Leslie had left the room. She called Llewellyn to follow her.
He hurried out.
“What is the matter with you. Leslie?” he said.
“My head is very bad. I cannot go to the picnic.”
“Leslie! you will upset us all, and as to mother——”
“Listen, Lew, I cannot give you any reason; but neither can I go, and I want you to help me.”
“But I fail to understand. You were full of going a moment ago.”
“I know, but with a headache like mine there is nothing for it but rest and quiet. Do help me, please. I am most anxious that mother should have this one delightful, happy day. Let Kitty and Mabel go in the carriage, and Dan too, if there is room, and will you take Hester by train? Let mother think that I am coming with you. Then, when you meet by the river, you must just tell her that I had a bad headache, and was obliged to stay at home. I cannot go, Lew; there is no use in coaxing me; and I do not wish mother to know until she gets to Richmond.”
“Well, of course, I’ll manage it if it must be managed,” said Llewellyn; “but I cannot imagine what is up. I am certain it is more than a mere headache; but of course, Leslie, I have no intention of forcing your confidence.”
“Don’t, like a darling,” said Leslie. She touched him on the arm, and looked into his face.
“Then, you are in trouble, dear old girl?”
Tears rose to her eyes.
“Yes; but you cannot help me to bear it. It is something which I must not tell to anyone. I must just bear my burden alone. Do not ask me any more.”
“I won’t, and I’ll manage things for you. Run upstairs now, and keep quiet. I’ll tell mother when we get to Richmond that you were a bit seedy; but that a few hours of rest will put you right.”
He hurried off, and a few moments later Leslie from her window saw the carriage party get under way. Soon afterwards, Llewellyn and Hester started off for the railway station. Leslie found herself alone. She sat down by her window, and tried to face the position. It had not been the first time she had made a gallant effort to do so.
“What am I to do?” she said now to herself. But the answer came quickly.
“Live it down,” was the reply of her heart. “Be true to your sense of honor. Save your friend if you can. Bear the terrible and cruel position in which you are placed. Trust to God putting things right.”
“But the dreadful part of it is,” thought poor Leslie, “that He is making me so hard. I almost hate Annie Colchester. I did not know it was in me to feel so bad about anything. There is one thing certain: I shall never be able to endure Mr. Parker’s eyes. I shall have to leave the room or the house when he comes to see us. There, I must not sit still any longer. Poor darling Lew; he little knows what I am really suffering.”
Early in the afternoon there came a ring at the front door, and who should be seen standing on the threshold but the well-known figure of Belle Acheson!
Leslie ran to let her in.
“How lucky that I was in,” she said. “Please come into the dining room, Belle.”
“So this is your domicile,” said Belle. She raised her eyes, and looked up at the windows; then glancing round the walls, finally settled them on the much-worn carpet at her feet.
“Neat, but not gaudy,” she said; “not much to complain of when all is said and done. How do you do?”