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Girls of St. Wode's

<h2 id="chapter-xxviannies-request."><a>CHAPTER XXVI—ANNIE’S REQUEST.</h2> The next day Marjorie awoke from her long sleep with a stunned feeling at her heart, but no longer quite such a keen sense of despair. She clung to Leslie, and would scarcely let her out of her sight. The doctors were rather anxious about her. She was scarcely likely to take the fever; but, if she exhausted herself in the way she was doing, she might be laid up with a severe nervous attack. Accordingly, Mrs. Chetwynd implored Leslie to remain with them; and Leslie, having received a note from her mother to say that she was only too glad she was making herself useful, agreed to do so. On the afternoon of that same day Marjorie went to lie down. There was absolute stillness in the house, for Lettie had gone out to spend the afternoon with a friend. The sick girl was fighting death in the room overhead, and Leslie found herself alone in the pretty boudoir. It was a charming room, furnished with every taste and luxury; but Leslie, as she lay back in a deep chair, had a strange feeling of inertia and lassitude all over her. She was glad to be with Marjorie; but the depression which had so often visited her of late was on this afternoon worse than ever. Mr. Parker’s attitude to her yesterday kept recurring again and again to her memory. The cold, almost disdainful look he had given her, the effort to appear as usual before her mother and brother and sisters, the signal failure of that effort, kept coming back to her. He had done much for her; she had taken  an enormous favor from his hands. Now what a terrible position she found herself in. Oh, Llewellyn was right after all! He would not take a money-favor from anyone. How she wished she had been equally determined. In the midst of these meditations she heard a ring at the front door. The next moment the footman came up, opened the door of the boudoir, and ushered in a visitor. Leslie started to her feet, a vexed exclamation came to her lips, and with difficulty remained unspoken, for Annie Colchester stood before her. “I followed you here, Leslie,” said Annie. “Can I see you at once, and by yourself?” “Certainly,” said Leslie. Her tone was cold. “Sit down, Annie.” Annie did not sit; she came quickly across the room, and looked full at Leslie. “You know, of course,” she said abruptly, “that I have come down from St. Wode’s?” “Yes; and how did you pass your final?” “I took an ordinary—no more; and now I want some work to do.” “Of course.” “How cold you look, Leslie; so different from what you were when first I met you at St. Wode’s.” “Never mind about me,” answered Leslie. “Do you want me to help you? Have you come on that account?” “Yes. I have come to you on that account, for you can help me. I went to your house this morning and heard you were out. It was of the most vital importance that I should see you, so I got your address from your mother. She was unwilling to give it to me at first, for she said you were staying in a house of illness; but I begged so hard that at last she gave way, and here I am.”  “Well. What is it?” asked Leslie. Her tone was still icy-cold, and the want of sympathy in her eyes caused Annie’s dark red-brown ones to flash angrily. “Oh, you are one of those dreadfully Puritan, goody-goody people,” she said, “who always hate an unfortunate sinner. I would not like you to be my judge at the Great Assize.” “You must not talk to me in that tone,” said Leslie, stung in her turn. “You know what you have done. You have changed all my life.” “You don’t mean to say you are still fretting over that matter. What can it signify to you whether Mr. Parker thinks badly of you or not. Just consider for a moment what would have happened if you had betrayed me that time.” “It might have been the better for me and for you too if I had spoken the truth,” said Leslie. “I am sometimes inclined to believe that I did wrong to shield you.” “Wrong to shield me! Why, I should have been expelled, ruined; absolutely ruined for life.” “But I should not be feeling as bitter as I now do.” “You would have been so miserable you would not have cared to live,” said Annie, with conviction. “But, now, don’t let us hark back on that affair. I want you to do something for me, and at once. Can you possibly come out with me? I want you to come with me to Mr. Parker.” “To Mr. Parker, and with you? No, Annie; that I cannot do.” “But you must. Listen to me, Leslie.” Annie suddenly fell on her knees and took one of Leslie’s hands in hers. “How luxurious this room is,” she said. She looked around it as she spoke, glancing at the curtained  windows, the pictured walls, the comfortable chair in which Leslie was seated. “Your friends are rich,” she continued. “And although your home is plain enough, yet you have never wanted. I wonder, Leslie, if you were ever hungry, hungry to the point of starvation.” “What do you mean?” asked Leslie. “Oh, you’d know very well if you had suffered. Now, I have. Let me show you the money I have in my pocket.” She slipped her hand into her pocket, took out her purse, and tumbled its contents into Leslie’s lap. “I don’t want to see,” said Leslie. “But you must look. See, here is a ten-shilling piece, and here are four shillings. Ten and four make fourteen. That is all I possess, absolutely all, and I have not a friend in the world. My brother——” “Your brother is in Australia?” “Never mind where he is. If he keeps his promise to you I must never see him again; he must never come back to England. But listen; this has nothing to do with my brother—it has to do with me. I could scarcely live on less than two shillings a day, which means that I have exactly a week in which to spend my money. At the end of that time where am I?” She stood up and held out her empty palms. “Now listen, Leslie. I know Mr. Parker does not like me, and he never liked Rupert. It is true he was kind to me, for he helped to pay for my education at St. Wode’s. If I had taken a first-class at my final I could have got a good situation as a teacher, although I hate teaching, for I am too impatient and too dreamy; but as I have only barely taken an ordinary, all that sort of thing is hopeless. Besides, even if it were not hopeless, there  is nothing vacant. I must live while I am waiting for a situation. Now, Mr. Parker wants a secretary. He wants a girl to come to his office every day to write his letters and to attend generally to his correspondence, and I intend to secure that post. I am told that he offers his secretary two guineas a week. I mean to be that secretary: I mean to earn that money. He won’t give me the post, though, because he does not like me well enough; but if you come with me and plead for me, just because he likes you, because he loves you, he will give the post to me. Can you come now, at once? I was at his office this morning. I did not say who I was; and, do you know, there were twenty girls waiting to see him for this one situation. They all looked capable and clever, the sort who would write his letters and attend to his correspondence, and keep things going for him. But every one of those twenty girls are to be disappointed, for I am to be the successful one. I shall be, if you will speak a good word for me. Come, Leslie, will you do this for me?” “But do you quite realize what you are asking?” said Leslie; “to demand a favor of Mr. Parker? Annie, you cannot know what this means. I will speak to you frankly. My heart has been cold as a stone to you. You have made my life all gall and bitterness.” “Oh, folly!” said Annie. “Remember, I shall starve. Only fourteen shillings between me and the world!” “But Mr. Parker will not give you the situation if I ask him,” continued Leslie. “He scarcely speaks to me now if we meet. How can I ask him to do me a favor? Annie, you expect too much.” Annie stared very hard at Leslie; then she rose to her feet. There was a look of despair in her eyes; her cheeks were ghastly white.  “Fourteen shillings,” she said in a whisper. She returned her purse to her pocket, and looked again at Leslie. “Are you sure you won’t yield?” she said. “Remember, whatever you do must be done to-day; he is going to decide to-day.” Leslie struggled with herself. Just at that moment the door was quickly opened, and Marjorie rushed in. There was a queer look on Marjorie’s face, traces of recent tears in her eyes, and a softness about her mouth. She went up to Leslie and kissed her. She did not see Annie at all. “Eileen is better,” she cried; “she has had a long, quiet sleep, and the nurse says she is certainly better. The doctors have just gone, too, and they believe that she is on the mend. They think that the worst is over. Leslie, God did hear our prayers. I shall believe in God now as long as ever I live. I wish Belle Acheson would come, in order that I might tell her how God heard our prayers. Yes. I shall believe in Him as long as I live. It was your thought, Leslie; your splendid thought, and it has succeeded. Oh, I am so happy!” She kissed Leslie again, and ran out of the room as quickly as she had entered. She did not even notice Annie Colchester, who stood near the window. When Marjorie closed the door behind her. Leslie looked full at Annie. “What can it all mean?” said Annie. “How queer Marjorie Chetwynd looked!” “No wonder,” said Leslie. “Her sister Eileen was at death’s door; but she is a little better to-day.” “Only Marjorie talked some humbug about prayer. Did she imagine that you—you prayed? I thought you were too hard.”  “No, no,” said Leslie, with a catch in her voice, and a suppressed sob. “I am a miserable girl; but I—it does not matter. Annie, I will do what you wish.” “Then you are an angel after all. I thought you one once, and so did Rupert; but you yourself choked us off. Well, come with me now. You are an angel after all.” The words were scarcely out of Annie’s lips, her hand, hot and trembling with excitement, had scarcely touched Leslie’s sleeve, before the door was thrown open and Belle Acheson was announced. Belle came in with a queer, eager look on her face, a kind of hungry, half-starved look. She went straight up to Leslie. “I did not ask the man at the door,” she said. “I didn’t wish to; I felt I would rather get the news, good or bad, from you. Do you know what a queer thing happened? I was so impressed by what you told me yesterday that I, actually I, Belle Acheson, began to pray in real earnest. All night long I kept asking God to spare Eileen; and now the question is, has He done so? Leslie, how is Eileen? Is she better?” “She is, Belle; oh, she is,” cried Leslie. “It is too wonderful; but it is true. God has heard all our prayers. It is only a moment back that dear Marjorie ran into the room and told me that Eileen was better.” “Thank you,” replied Belle; “you need not say any more.” She turned her back on Leslie, and walked to the window. She stood there, behind the shelter of the curtains, and looked out. No one knew what she saw or what she felt. After a time she looked round. “Then it is all right,” she said. “There is a God who answers prayers; Eileen will get well again. It is a great thing for a girl to discover the truth of that; it makes a great difference in her life. It is quite too interesting,  and too—too wonderful. It makes everything worth while, somehow. Oh, there! I cannot speak about it.” She stopped abruptly. Leslie did not reply; but Annie now ran up to Belle. “Don’t you know me?” she said. “Or are you too absorbed with this—this wonderful discovery, to notice that I am one of the St. Wode’s girls.” “Of course I know you; you are Annie Colchester, the queer, extraordinary girl who was almost as enthusiastic as I am to win distinction, to solve problems, to acquire the great, the glorious possession of knowledge.” “I am the same,” answered Annie; “although in some ways my views have changed.” “Don’t tell me so. If you are one of those who put their hand to the plough and then look back I will have nothing to do with you. By the way, you have passed your exam before now; how have you succeeded?” “I have not succeeded at all—that is, I have only just taken an ordinary.” “And you meant to take a first-class in honors?” “Yes.” “Then you have done poorly.” “I know I have,” replied Annie, hanging her head. “Let me look at you,” said Belle. She went straight up to her, put her hand under Annie’s chin, and lifted up the blushing face. “And yet you have a fine, well-developed brow,” she said; “plenty of brains there, and your eyes are clear and dancing with intelligence. Stay though, let me feel your pulse.” She caught Annie’s wrist between her finger and thumb. Belle herself was all eagerness now; her attitude was that of one who stood at attention. “Come,” she said. “H’m! I’m not a doctor, but I  don’t like that pulse. One moment it seems to be running away, the next it stops dead—then it is wabbly, quite uncertain. Annie Colchester, do you eat enough?” “Don’t question me,” answered Annie. Belle’s gray eyes traveled to Leslie’s face. Leslie’s lips formed a voiceless “No.” Belle understood her. “By the way, where are you staying?” she asked, turning again to Annie; “have you any friends in town?” “I have no special friends. I am in lodgings.” “What address?” “I cannot give you an address, because I am leaving to-day.” “Then that is delightful; you shall come home with me.” “With you? Do you mean it?” “Of course I mean it. I am not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean. I should consider such conduct a breach of truth. Do you imagine for a moment that I am a liar; I, who wish to cultivate all the sacred virtues, to stoop to a lie. When I ask you to come home with me, I wish to have you. I want a friend to keep me company, an intelligent friend. You shall stay with me for a week at least. I don’t believe in that failure of yours. If you did not take honors, you ought to have taken them. That brow and those eyes were not given you for nothing. By the way, did I ever mention to you—no, I don’t think I did—that I am starting a little hostel of my own, that I am saving money for it. I do not know the exact sum that I have saved, but it is not very far from a hundred pounds. You are one of the girls I should like to live with me there. You are just the sort to fling aside every weight, and devote yourself heart and soul to the acquiring of glorious knowledge.”  “I have felt like that now and then,” said Annie; “but somehow the motive has gone. It is unfair, absolutely unfair, for me to come to you on false pretenses.” “Oh, whether you are clever or not, you look as if you wanted a week’s rest. I am very happy to-day—what occurred has given me—I cannot exactly tell you what, but a wonderful feeling. I am in the humor to do a good deed, and you are the person who wants it done to. You want rest and good nourishment and peace. You have been tossed about in a sore battle. I do not know where, and I do not know how; but the proof lies in the queer, desolate expression of your face. My home is comfortable, and mother always does exactly what I like; so come at once.” “I thank you from my heart, and I will come,” said Annie. “It is a great boon to me; but I must first go out with Leslie Gilroy.” “Off with you then at once. I don’t want to pry into any secrets; but, Leslie, when you have done with her, bring her or send her back to me. You know the old address in Maida Vale. Good-by for the present.”  <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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