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Girls of St. Wode's

<h2 id="chapter-xvifreshers."><a>CHAPTER XVI—FRESHERS.</h2> In less than a week’s time the four freshers were completely settled into the life at St. Wode’s. They had their work marked out for them, the lectures they were to attend were definitely arranged, the books they were to read were selected, some from the library, some from Green’s in the Broad. They joined the tennis, racquets, and boating clubs; Eileen and Marjorie, having submitted to the necessary test, were made full-blown members of the latter club immediately. Leslie had to take a few swimming lessons before she could do so. Annie Colchester had begun to make friends with Leslie. She submitted to her roomfellow’s ministrations at night, gulping down the cup of hot cocoa which Leslie, evening after evening, presented to her, drinking it, it is true, as one in a dream, her red-brown eyes looking far ahead of her, her heavy brows contracted in an anxious frown. Nevertheless she got into bed in reasonable time, and Leslie saw that her feet were no longer cold nor her forehead burning. Leslie determined to try for honors in English language and literature. Her tastes all lay in this direction, her idea being by and by to follow her mother’s profession of journalism, for which she already showed considerable aptitude. As she intended to aim at a first, or, at least, second class, her range of study was very wide; and German, French, and Italian literature had to be more or less understood in order to give her a thorough and  complete grip of her subject. But Leslie was a healthy girl; she had been well trained, she had plenty of self-possession, and an abundance of strong common-sense. She had no idea of allowing herself to break down. In order to avoid such a catastrophe, she divided her hours carefully, allowing a certain amount for recreation and a certain amount also for the guiding of her wayward companion, to whom, as the days went on, she became really attached. As to Annie herself, this was the first time she had ever permitted the advances of any student. This large room at St. Wode’s had been more or less of a worry to the governors, and it was finally settled, when Annie’s time to leave the college arrived, that it should be divided by a partition and let in future to two students. Up to the present no girl had ever stayed more than one term with Annie. Remembering this, Annie, one day toward the middle of the term, raised her eyes from her books and fixed them on Leslie. “You will be glad when the term is over, won’t you?” she said abruptly. “What do you mean?” replied Leslie. “Why, you will be parting from me, you know. I won’t be the constant worry and plague of your life. If I take honors I shall be leaving St. Wode’s. In any case, you are quite certain to wish for another room, and to get it also next term. If I do remain, therefore, I shall be plagued with some terrible student of the Florrie Smart or Jane Heriot style. I nearly went mad over the last one; you can scarcely guess what a relief you are, by way of contrast.” “Thank you very much indeed for saying anything so nice,” replied Leslie; “and perhaps now you will allow me in my turn to make a remark. It is this: If by any  chance you don’t leave St. Wode’s, Annie, I hope you will allow me to be your roomfellow again next term.” “Do you mean it?” said Annie, a flash of light coming into her eyes, and then leaving them. “But,” she added abruptly, “you speak of something which must not take place. I must pass in honors; if I don’t I shall die.” “And you are certain to succeed,” said Leslie in a tone of sympathy. “I wish I could feel as sure of taking honors by and by in literature. I find these modern languages so very stiff.” “What are you studying now?” asked Annie. “I have to take German literature from 1500 to the death of Goethe,” said Leslie. “The course is enormous, and I am sometimes almost in despair.” “But you have only just come; you can easily manage, and in any case, even if you fail——” “I do not mean to fail any more than you do,” replied Leslie. Annie did not smile. Her queer red-brown eyes with their distended pupils gazed straight before her. “It can never mean the same to you,” she said at last in a solemn voice, and then she looked down again at her book, pushed her hands through her red locks, and resumed her contemplation of the problem which lay before her. A few moments later there came a tap at the door. Annie did not hear it. Leslie opened the door. Jane Heriot stood without. “These letters have just come for you and Annie Colchester,” she said: “and, as I was coming upstairs, I thought I would leave them with you.” Leslie thanked her and eagerly grasped the little parcel. There were two letters for herself—one from her mother and one from Llewellyn. Her eyes shone with  pleasure at the anticipation of the delightful time she would have reveling in the home news; the other letter was directed to Annie Colchester. Now Leslie had not failed to remark that Annie seldom or never got letters, that she had made no real friends in the college, and that, as far as she could tell, she seemed to have no special friend anywhere. “Here is a letter for you, Annie,” cried Leslie. “I am so glad that you have got one at last——” She took the letter as she spoke over to Annie, who started up, dropped her pen, and stood with both hands outstretched. “It has come,” she cried: “at last I have news.” Her face grew suddenly white as death. “What is it, dear?” said Leslie with sympathy. “At last I have news,” repeated Annie. “I have been starving, or, rather, I have been thirsting. You cannot tell what a thirst like mine means; and this, this is a cup of cold water.” “Well, read it in peace,” said Leslie. “I won’t disturb you. I am truly glad it has come.” Leslie seated herself with her back to her companion and opened her own letters. After a time she looked round. Annie was standing just where she was when she received the letter; both her hands were clutching it tightly, her eyes were fixed upon the written words, and her face was white. “Have you had bad news?” said Leslie. “Don’t notice me,” replied Annie. She crushed the letter up tight, thrust it into her pocket, and said abruptly, “What is the hour?” “It is quite late—between ten and eleven.” “I don’t care. I must go into the grounds; the air is stifling.”  “But they are just shutting up.” “I shall go—I know a way. Don’t say a word. I’ll be back presently.” She seized a small cloth cap which she was fond of wearing, and ran out of the room. Leslie stood and thought about her for a moment or two; but then her own correspondence absorbed her, and she did not notice when eleven and even twelve struck. Just after midnight she rose with a sigh to prepare for bed. She looked round the room. There was no sign of Annie Colchester. “How stupid of me to have forgotten about her,” she thought with compunction. “She ought to have been in bed and to have taken her cocoa an hour ago. Oh! now I remember; she got a letter which upset her very much and went out. Dear, dear! where can she be?” Leslie went to the window and flung it open; she put her head out, and tried to peer into the darkness; but the moon had already set, and she could not see more than a couple of yards in front of her. She ventured to call Annie’s name softly; there was no reply. She shut the window. “There is nothing for it but for me to go and look for her,” she said to herself. “She is a very queer, erratic creature; and that letter—there was bad news in that letter. Poor girl, she spoke of it as cold water to the thirsty; she looked when I saw her last as if it had half killed her. What can she be doing out by herself? Yes, I must find her without delay.” Leslie left the room; but she had scarcely gone a dozen paces down the corridor before she met Annie returning. Annie’s eyes were very bright, her cheeks were no longer pale, and there was a brilliant color in them. She did not take the least notice of Leslie; but, going into the  room, shut the door. Leslie opened it and followed her. “Dear me, Annie!” she said, “I was quite frightened about you.” “Don’t begin,” said Annie. “Don’t begin! What do you mean?” “I mean that I don’t want you to begin to ask questions. I am going to get into bed, and to remain perfectly quiet, and you are not to ask me one question about anything. I want to sleep. I walked up and down as fast as ever I could outside in order to make myself sleepy. Don’t talk to me, Leslie; don’t say a single word. I shall go off to sleep—that is all I care for.” “But your letter, dear?” “Don’t,” said Annie. “I am not going to confide in you; so don’t think it. I only want to get into bed and to sleep.” Leslie did not venture to say any more. She lit the little spirit-lamp, put on the milk to boil, and prepared the cocoa as usual. When Annie’s cup was ready, brimful and frothy, and looking as tempting as it could, she brought it to her with a biscuit. “Now, drink this at once,” she said in a voice of authority, “if you really wish to sleep.” Annie stared vacantly at the cocoa, then she uttered a laugh. “Drink that?” she said. “Do you want to kill me? Don’t talk any more. I am sleepy; I shall sleep.” She got into bed as she spoke, and wrapped the clothes tightly round her. “Oh, do turn off the electric light,” she said again. “Can’t you manage with a candle, just for once?” “Certainly,” said Leslie.  She turned off the light, and lit a candle, which she put behind her screen, then prepared to get into bed. Annie’s manner was very mysterious. There was no doubt that she had got a shock; but of what nature Leslie could not in the least make out. There was no help for it, however. Annie did not mean to confide in anyone that night, and the kindest thing was to leave her alone. “By and by I must get her to tell me,” thought Leslie; “but there is no use in worrying her now.” Tired out, Leslie herself dropped asleep. She was awakened in the middle of the night. What was the matter? She heard the sound of someone running swiftly. There was a sort of wind in the room. She sat up in bed. “Annie, is that you?” she called out. There was no reply, but the sound of hurrying steps came quicker and quicker—now and then they were interrupted by a groan. Leslie lit her candle and peered into the darkness. She now saw that Annie was running backwards and forwards in her part of the room. “Annie!” she said again. There was no reply, the steps went a little faster, and the groans came oftener, then the following words fell upon Leslie’s ears: “Oh, this will kill me; my heart will break. This will kill me!” “What is the matter, Annie, dear?” said Leslie again. She hastily put on her dressing-gown, and with candle in hand advanced to where the other girl was pacing. Annie’s eyes were open; one glance showed Leslie that she was walking in her sleep.  <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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