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Girls of St. Wode's

<h2 id="chapter-xxviiirupert."><a>CHAPTER XXVIII—RUPERT.</h2> When the girls found themselves once more in the open air neither of them spoke. Then Annie said in a gasping sort of voice: “I see quite well, Leslie, that it is all useless. I give up the hope which seemed so bright a short time ago. You have done your very best, and I thank you from my heart. I will go to Belle Acheson now. Perhaps something will turn up at the end of a week. At any rate, I have that week to turn round in.” “We will go to the Bank,” said Leslie; “omnibuses go from there in all directions. As to what Mr. Parker said, you know, Annie, that it remains with yourself.” “And do you think,” said Annie, coloring and shivering, “that if I could bring myself to tell the real truth I should get the post?” “I think so; for Mr. Parker is a man who never goes back on his word. He promised to give it to you if the truth were known. He made no condition.” “And you—you will be restored to his favor?” “I have nothing to say,” replied Leslie somewhat proudly. “I will not plead for myself. You won’t get the post you covet unless the truth is known.” “I cannot do it,” said Annie. “It would be betraying not only myself, but Rupert. Can you find your way back to the Chetwynds’?”  “Certainly I can; and that is your omnibus with Maida Vale marked on it.” Leslie held up her parasol and the driver stopped. Annie got in; Leslie nodded to her and turned away. Annie shrank back in her corner. She shut her eyes: her head was aching violently. Her one desire—the only desire that she had at that moment—was not to tell but to hide the truth. The secretaryship would have saved her—it would have enabled her to live respectably and in comfort; but it was not to be hers. Between it and her lay a sin—a sin which she committed for the one she loved best in the world. Now she had to think how she was to manage. Where could she get work? What work could she best undertake? How long would Belle keep her as a guest? Belle was known to be erratic and uncertain. Well, at least for a week she was safe. During that time she would treasure her shillings as if they were gold. The drive was a long one, but presently she reached her destination. The omnibus drew up, she alighted and turned forlornly into the square where Belle lived with her mother. Belle’s house was No. 30; it was at the left-hand side of the square. Annie had nearly reached it when she felt a hand laid lightly on her shoulder. She turned round in an access of terror, then a cry of mingled astonishment, fear, and delight burst from her, and the next instant she had clasped her arms round her brother’s neck. “Oh, Rupert!” she cried, “where did you come from? I thought you were at the other side of the world.” “I will tell you all,” replied Rupert in a cheerful voice. “There’s no manner of use in your giving way, and don’t, for goodness’ sake! hug me in public, Annie. Of course I’m not in Australia—I never went there; I’m not such a  fool. Do you think it’s likely I would leave this place when I had sixty pounds in my pocket?” “But you owed that money; it was given you to pay a debt.” “Well, I paid part of it—not all. The fellows were only too glad to get twenty pounds from me; so you see, my dear little sister, I had forty pounds left to go on the spree with. But now my creditors are clamoring for the second instalment. Annie, my dear, I want your help again; and what is more, I must have it. You little guessed, when you were shrinking up in that corner of the omnibus, that I was enjoying a cigar on the roof. I hurried down when you alighted, and have followed you. That precious, goody-goody Miss Gilroy little knew how close I was to her vicinity when she bade you good-by at the Bank.” “Oh, Rupert, I am so terribly frightened; and yet—and yet it is a real joy to see you.” “Poor old girl,” said Rupert, patting Annie on her shoulder; “you always were affectionate. You’ve got me out of more than one scrape, and you’ll get me out of this one; won’t you, kiddy? Now, where can we go for a real good talk?” “I don’t know this part of London,” replied Annie. “Well, it is like any other part, I suppose. We must talk in the streets; but it’s abominably hard. What is your address, Annie? Where are you staying?” “I am just going to spend a week with Mrs. Acheson. She lives in No. 30 in this square—Newbolt Square it is called.” “No. 30 Newbolt Square; then here we are. I’ll come and see you; nothing more natural.” “But, Rupert, you must not—it would be most dangerous.”  “Why should it be dangerous? Why should not a bona-fide brother go to see his only sister? You are my sister, Annie.” “And I glory in the fact,” said Annie. “Whatever you do, I shall always feel glad that I belong to you. You will always be the darling of my heart; but oh, Rupert, if Leslie finds out that you have broken your word, it is in her to be very hard. She is hard already. I never knew anyone so changed. I live in constant terror of her. Do you know what happened only to-day?” “No, Annie; and what is more, I don’t want to know. I am too full of my own affairs to be bothered by your minor troubles.” “That is so like you, Rupert. I am afraid you are growing terribly selfish.” “Now, don’t begin to preach, old girl. There, if it will make you any happier you shall tell me your little adventure, whatever it was; only be quick about it.” They walked round the square many times. Miserable as Annie felt, there was a strange glow at her heart, the color had flamed into her pale cheeks, and light into her red-brown eyes. She looked wonderfully handsome, and more than one person turned to gaze at her. She briefly told Rupert what had occurred at Mr. Parker’s. “The old wretch!” cried Rupert. “If there is a man in the world whom I fairly loathe, it is Parker. And so he spoke of me as a scoundrel, did he? Perhaps I’ll have my little revenge yet.” “But you would not really do anything wrong, Rupert?” “Oh, dear me, no!” said Rupert in a sarcastic voice; “all I want at present is twenty pounds. Do let us drop Parker out of this conversation. If I could bleed him to that extent I would, right heartily; but as I do  not see my way to doing so a second time, we must get it in some other fashion; and that remains for you to discover, Annie mine.” “But, dear Rupert, there are no means open to me; and I would not, if I could, help you in that dreadful way again.” “But you might think out another dodge. I laugh now when I think of how you managed before—forging a letter in another girl’s name and taking it to Parker of all people, and Parker giving the money and blaming that bread-and-butter Miss Gilroy, and you and I getting off scot-free. It was about the cheekiest, boldest, cleverest deed that any girl ever did, and you did it for your brother’s sake. Annie, my dear, you will be as clever, as cheeky, as bold again for your poor brother’s sake.” “Rupert, I cannot.” “Then you know, of course, what the consequence will be.” Rupert Colchester now completely changed his manner. He had an expressive face, capable of almost any emotion. He had been sad, he had been jocular, in Annie’s presence during this short interview. Now he looked as if despair had seized him. His face changed color, it lengthened, and seemed to grow thinner and more haggard each moment. “Then I cannot help it,” he said. “I suppose there is nothing further to say. You did your best, and you can do no more. I’ll be locked up; I have got into a scrape which I cannot explain to you. There is a fellow to whom I owe twenty pounds, and if I don’t get it I’ll be locked up. Think what you will feel when you have to go to the police court to give evidence against your brother.”  “But, oh, Rupert! Rupert! how can you go in for such bad ways? Oh, if only mother were alive!” “Look here, Annie, none of that,” said Colchester, his voice becoming so stern that poor Annie nearly shook. “There,” he added, instantly changing his tone when he saw that she shivered and shrank from him. “I know you will help me if you can. You’ll just think it over, and let me know when next we meet. Where did you say you were going to stay—at No. 30? Who lives at No. 30 Newbolt Square?” “People of the name of Acheson.” “But who are they?” “I don’t know, Rupert.” “They live in a respectable house, and must be well off,” said Rupert. “I tell you what you’ll do, Annie. You get Mrs. Acheson to lend you twenty pounds. Now, see you do it, and be quick about it. She’ll lend it fast enough if you pull a long face, and make up a pitiable story, and I’ll meet you somehow or other to-morrow. Oh, yes, I’ll manage; I need not enter into particulars just now. You will tell me what you can do when we meet. That is all I require for the present. If you get me that twenty pounds I’ll let you alone—I promise I will—for a month or two.” “But, Rupert, I don’t know anything whatever about Mrs. Acheson. I have never even seen her. Belle, her daughter, is a very odd, clever creature; but I am quite certain the Achesons are not rich.” “Is this Belle one of the St. Wode’s undergraduates?” “Yes.” “Then, of course, they must be rich, or she could not go to a place like Wingfield. And that reminds me, Annie, what a goose you were not to take honors in your exam. You barely qualified—no more. If you had  taken a first, I know a fellow who would have lent me twenty pounds on the strength of your getting a good post; but now all that is knocked on the head, and by your laziness. Positively it’s enough to sicken a fellow. Well, Annie, you know what you have before you. You must get twenty pounds for your brother within the next two or three days, or there is a prison ahead of him.” “Oh, Rupert! Rupert! you do make me so perfectly wretched,” said poor Annie. “I must frankly confess that I have no hope at all of being able to help you.” “Where there’s a will there’s a way,” said Rupert, whistling gaily. “Now I’m not going to bother you any more. My words will sink deep, I know, my pretty little Annie. Think of the old times. Do you remember that spring when we went out together and picked primroses, and that time when you had the measles, and I was so awfully good to you? Don’t you remember when you were so tired of being left by yourself I used to come in, and risk taking the beastly thing a second time, to amuse you? Oh, you’ll help me; you won’t leave your brother Rupert in a lurch. Well, go off now to your precious Achesons and your comfortable home. Think, when you are lapped in luxury, of your poor, starving brother.” “Oh, Rupert, you surely are not starving?” “Well, I have not had a decent meal for a week. Last time I ate was yesterday evening, so you can imagine I’m pretty peckish. By the way, you don’t happen to have a sovereign about you?” “No, indeed, I don’t possess so much in the world. I’ve only got fourteen shillings, not a penny more.” Rupert gave vent to a prolonged whistle. “Are things really as bad as that?” he cried. “Well, at any rate, you won’t want money while you are at the  Achesons’. You might let me have those few shillings; you can have them back when you want them.” “But, Rupert, they are all I possess, all I have between me and the workhouse.” “Bother the workhouse! Much chance a pretty girl like you has of going there. Let me have ten shillings at least. You surely do not mean to refuse your starving brother?” “Of course I cannot refuse you,” said Annie. She took up her purse, opened it, and gave Rupert half a sovereign. “Ta-ta,” he replied; “this will do until we meet to-morrow. You do look a bit dragged, Annie, now I come to examine you carefully; but better days will dawn.” He shrugged his shoulders, and walked down the street. Poor as he professed himself to be, he was by no means shabbily dressed. He had a fine figure, square shoulders, and a swagger in his walk. Annie gazed long after his retreating form. “Why is he about the most wicked person in the world, and why do I love him so much?” she thought. “There, I have only four shillings now. How I am to get that twenty pounds Heaven only knows. Oh, I am a miserable, most miserable girl!”  <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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