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Yes; he lived for that sort of thing. He had a very handsome house, however, at the corner of Park Lane, and this house was filled with rich furniture, and he had a goodly staff of servants, and many friends as rich as himself came to see him, and he drank the most costly wines and ate the most expensive dinners, and never spent a penny on charity or did one good thing with all his gold. There was one room, however, in that house which was kept sacred from the faintest touch of worldliness. This room contained the portrait of the child who was taken away from him in her first bloom. It was a simple room, having a little white bed and the plainest furniture that a girl could possibly use. There were a few of Esther’s possessions lying about – her work-box, her little writing-desk, a pile of books, most of them good and worth reading; and Mr Manchuri kept the key of that room and never allowed any one to enter it. It was the sacred shrine in that worldly house. It was, in short the heart of the house.
But now Mr Manchuri discovered on this midnight journey that that withered heart of his own, which he had supposed to be dead to all the world, was suddenly alive and keenly interested in a girl of the age of his Esther – a girl who absolutely told him that she was not good, and that because she was not good she must stand alone.
“I will get her secret out of the poor young thing,” he said to himself; “and what is more – what is more, I will help her a little bit for the sake of my Esther.”
Priscilla was really very tired. She slept a good deal during the night, all of which time they had the carriage to themselves. But in the morning some fresh travellers entered their compartment, and Mr Manchuri had no opportunity of saying a word in private to Priscilla until they were on their way to London. When, however, they had crossed the Channel, the first thing he did was to engage a private coupé on the express train, and soon, as they were whirling away towards the great centre of life and commerce, he was once again alone with his young companion.
“Now, my dear,” he said, “you will just forgive me for asking you a plain question.”
“I am sure I will, Mr Manchuri,” said Priscilla. “You have been most, most kind to me.”
“We shall arrive in London,” said Mr Manchuri, “at five o’clock. Now, may I ask where you intend to go for the night?”
“I will send a telegram to my schoolmistress, Mrs Lyttelton, and then take the next train to Hendon,” was Priscilla’s remark.
“But is your schoolmistress at home?”
“I do not know; but somebody will be.”
“Do you want to go back to school in the holidays?”
“Not very specially; but I must go, so there is no use talking about it. I felt so bewildered yesterday that I did not send a telegram, as I might have done. But I know the servants can put me up, and it will be all right – and you have been, oh! so kind, Mr Manchuri.”
“Not at all, my dear Priscilla; not at all. The fact is, I have never enjoyed a journey so much; your company has given me real pleasure. And now what do you say – ”
“Yes?” interrupted Priscilla.
“To coming to me to my house for a few days – even for a night or so – instead of going back to Hendon?”
“To your house, Mr Manchuri?”
“Yes, my dear; you will have a hearty welcome there, and I assure you it is quite large enough. I have got excellent servants, who will look after you, and you won’t see much of me except in the evening, and then perhaps you will cheer me up a bit; and – and I want to show you what you know, my dear – ”
Priscilla turned first red and then white.
“I have told you why I cannot see that,” she said.
“That is the subject I want to discuss with you more fully. Will you come back with me to Park Lane, and to-night? I am an old man and lonely, and you, my dear little girl, have stirred something within me which has never been stirred for thirty years, and which I thought was quite dead. You won’t refuse me, will you? That, indeed, would be a sin. That would be putting a heart back once more into its grave.”
Priscilla was startled at the words, and still more at the expression in the old face; there was such a hungry, pleading look in the eyes.
“Oh no,” she said simply, “I am not so bad as that. If you want me like that – I, who am not wanted by any one else – indeed, I will come.”
Chapter Twenty One
Confessions
Mr Manchuri was a person who seldom had his soft moods; but he was very kind to Priscilla. She found the house most luxurious, and was allowed to do exactly what she liked in it. The housekeeper, Mrs Wolf, petted her a good deal, and the other servants were most respectful to her. She was given a large, luxurious room to sleep in, and was allowed to do what she liked with herself while Mr Manchuri was busy all day long over his business affairs.
So one day lengthened into two, and two into three; and a week passed, and still Priscilla was the guest of old Mr Manchuri. It was a Sunday evening, the first Sunday after her visit, when she and the old man were seated together, and the old man put out his hand and touched hers and said:
“There is a dress of Esther’s upstairs; it is all grey and long and straight, and belongs to no special fashion, and I believe if you put it on it would exactly fit you; and I think, in this sort of half-light, if you came down to me in that dress I should almost believe that Esther had returned.”
“But I can’t wear the dress,” said Priscilla, “because of that which I have told you; nor can I see the portrait of your Esther for the same reason.”
“Now, my dear,” said Mr Manchuri, “I won’t ask you to wear the dress and I won’t show you the portrait of my child until you yourself ask me to do so. But what I do want to say is this: that whatever happens, I am your friend; and as to your having done something that you call wicked – why, there – I don’t believe it. What can a young girl who is not yet seventeen have done? Why, look at me, my dear. I am as worldly an old fellow as ever lived, and I have made a capital good bit of business while at Interlaken. It is connected with that secret that I hinted to you about when we were on our way back from Interlaken.”
“Mr Manchuri,” said Priscilla, “what you have done in your life cannot affect what I have done in mine. I have done a very bad thing. It seems dreadful to me, and” – here she looked at him in a frightened way – “you attract me very much,” she said. “You have been so wonderfully kind to me, and the thought of your Esther seems to give me a sort of fascination towards you, and if you will let me I – I – should like to tell you what I have done.”
“Ay?” said the old man, rubbing his hands. “Now we are coming to the point.”
“You will send me away, of course,” said Priscilla; “I know that. I know, too, that you will counsel me to do the only right thing left, and that is to make a clean breast of everything to Mrs Lyttelton.”
“She is your schoolmistress?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is something you have done at school?”
“That is it.”
“Oh, a schoolgirl offence – a scrape of that sort! My dear young lady, my dear Priscilla, when you come to my age you won’t think much of things of that sort.”
“I hope I shall never think lightly of them,” said Priscilla; “that would be quite the worst of all.”
“Well, out with it now. I am ready to listen.”
“I want you to do more than listen,” said Priscilla. She took one of his hands and held it in both of hers. “I want you to be Esther for the time being. I want you to judge me as Esther would judge me if she were here.”
“My God!” said the old man. “I cannot do that. I cannot look at you with her eyes.”
“Try to, won’t you? Try to, very hard.”
“You move me, Priscilla. But tell me the story.”
“It implicates other people,” said Priscilla – she sank back again in her seat – “and in telling you my share in it I must mention no names; but the facts are simply these. I have a great and very passionate love for learning. I am also ambitious. I was sent to Mrs Lyttelton’s most excellent school by an uncle in the country. He could not very well afford to pay the fees of the school, and his intention was to remove me from it at the end of last term. I ought to tell you, perhaps, that I have a father in India; but he has married a second time and has a young family, and he is very poor. Uncle Josiah is my mother’s brother, and he has always done what he could for me. But he is a rather rough, uneducated man; in short, he is a farmer in the south-west of England. Towards the end of the last term I received a letter from him saying that he could not afford to keep me at school any longer, and that I was to come back to him and either help my aunt in the house-work – which meant giving up my books and all my dreams of life – or that I was to be apprenticed to a dressmaker in the village.
“Now both these prospects were equally odious to me. I struggled and fought against them. The suffering I endured was very keen and most real. Then, just when I was most miserable, there came a temptation. By the very post which brought me the dreadful letter from my uncle Josiah, there came a letter to another girl in the school who was most keenly desirous to leave it. I cannot mention the girl’s name, but she was told that unless she won the first prize for literature at the break-up she was to remain for another year. You see, Mr Manchuri, this was the position. One girl wanted to go; another girl wanted to stay. Now I wanted to stay, oh! so tremendously, for another year at school would give me a chance which would almost have been a certainty of getting a big scholarship, which would have enabled me to go from Mrs Lyttelton’s school to Girton or Newnham, and from there I could have continued my intellectual life and earned my bread honourably as a teacher.”
“This is quite interesting,” said Mr Manchuri. “And what happened? You are still at school – at least, so you tell me.”
“Yes,” said Priscilla, “I am still at school; I am there because I – sinned.”
“How, child? Speak, Priscilla; speak.”
“There was another girl in the school, and she was wonderfully clever. I must not tell you her name. She managed the thing. She managed that the girl who wanted to leave the school should get the prize for literature, and that I should stay for a year longer at Mrs Lyttelton’s.”
“But how? How could she do it?”
“She was so marvellously clever that she did do it – of course with my connivance.”
“Oh, with your connivance. How?”
“Well, you see, I could write better essays than most girls in the school, and – and – it was arranged, and – and I consented to give up my essay to the girl who wanted to go, and to allow her to put her signature to it, and I took her essay and put my signature to hers. So she got the first prize for literature and left the school, and I stayed on, my reward being that my fees were to be paid for the ensuing year. That is the wicked thing I have done, and it has sunk into my heart and has made life unendurable.”
“Thank you; thank you very much,” said Mr Manchuri.
Priscilla bowed her head. The old man started up and began to pace up and down the room. After a time he went up to the girl, just touched her on her bowed head, and said very gently: “We will judge this thing, if you please, in the presence of my daughter Esther. Come with me now to her room; you shall see her. The portrait of her is so good that you will almost feel that you are looking at her living self.” Priscilla rose tremblingly. She was weak and exhausted in every limb, but it seemed to her that a powerful hand was drawing her forward, and that she had very little will to resist. Mr Manchuri took the girl up to a room on the first floor. It was a beautifully large room, but scantily furnished. He lit some candles that had been previously arranged in front of a large picture which stood on an easel. This picture had been painted by one of the great portrait-painters of thirty years ago. It was a most speaking likeness, and Priscilla, when first she saw it, started, turned very white, and clasped Mr Manchuri’s hand.
“Why, it is I!” she said; “it is I! I have seen myself like – like that in the glass.”
Mr Manchuri drew a deep breath of relief.
“Didn’t I know it?” he said. “Didn’t I say that you were like her? And see – she smiles at you. – You forgive Priscilla, don’t you, Esther? Smile at her again, Esther, if you forgive her.” The smile on the young face of the girl who had so long been dead seemed to become more pronounced, more sweet, more radiant.
“There,” said Mr Manchuri, “Esther has judged just as God does, I take it; and the thing is forgiven as only God forgives; but what you have to do, Priscilla Weir, is this. You have to put yourself right with your schoolmistress, and in doing so you cannot, in any justice, shield your schoolfellows. I am no fool, dear girl, and I know their names well enough. One of them is that Miss Lushington whom I met at the Hotel Belle Vue, and the other – the girl who arranged the plot and carried it through with such cleverness – is no less an individual than my little quondam friend, Annie Brooke. You see, my dear, there is no genius in my making this discovery, for I have heard them both talk of Mrs Lyttelton’s school, and Miss Brooke often entertained me in the most charming way by giving me a minute description of Miss Lushington’s talents and how she won the great literature prize. Little, little did I then guess that I should be so much interested in you, my dear. We will leave Esther now. Come downstairs with me again.”
Chapter Twenty Two
Contrary Influences
Annie’s high spirits continued with her during all the somewhat hot journey from Interlaken to Zermatt. She was, in truth, the life of the party, and kept every one in the best possible humour. Her charm was undoubted, and her apparent unselfishness made her invaluable. Even Parker acknowledged that there never was such an obliging young lady, or such a thoughtful one, as Miss Annie Brooke. Mabel could groan at the heat. Lady Lushington grumble and complain, even Parker herself could give way to insupportable headache, but nothing, nothing daunted the unflagging good-humour of Annie Brooke. Had she not the eau-de-Cologne handy for poor Parker’s head? Could she not chat cheerfully to Lady Lushington and make her laugh, and could she not insist on Mabel’s having the seat where she was at once protected from too much draught and yet not exposed to the full glare of the August sun?
When they reached the hotel, too, it was Annie who chose, without a moment’s hesitation, the one uncomfortable room of the little suite which was set apart for Lady Lushington’s party.
“Nothing matters for me,” said Annie. “I have got unflagging health, and I am so happy,” she said. “Every one is so kind to me.”
“You really are a dear little thing,” said Lady Lushington when Annie herself entered that lady’s room bearing a cup of tea which she had made from Lady Lushington’s own private store, and which smelt so fragrant and looked so good. “Oh, my dear Annie,” continued the good lady – “I really must call you by your Christian name – I never did find any one quite so pleasant before. Now if Mabel had not been such a goose as to get that literature prize, which I verily believe has swamped every scrap of brain the poor girl ever possessed, I could have had you as my little companion for a year. How we should have enjoyed ourselves!”
“Oh, indeed, how we should!” said Annie, a bitter sigh of regret filling her heart, for what might she not have made of such a supreme opportunity? “But,” she added quickly, “you would not have known me then, would you? You would never have known me but for Mabel.”
“It is one of the very luckiest things that could have happened to me – Mabel wishing that you might join us,” said Lady Lushington. “You are the comfort of my life; you are worth fifty Parkers and a hundred Mabels. Yes, is the exact right angle for the pillow, my dear. Thank you so much – thank you; that is delicious, and I think I will have a biscuit. What a glorious view we have of Monte Rosa from the window!”
“Oh yes,” said Annie, “isn’t it lovely?”
“By the way, Annie, you are quite sure that Mabel is taking care of those pearls of hers. We have to thank you too, you clever little thing, for discovering them. I am quite under the impression that I have come by a good bargain in that matter.”
“I am sure you have, dear Lady Lushington; and the pearls are quite, quite safe.”
“I knew you would see to it, dear; you are so thoughtful about everything. By the way, I have already seen on the visitors’ list the name of a certain Mrs Ogilvie. If she is my friend I should like to show her the necklace.”
Annie felt her heart nearly stop for a minute. “Of course you must show it,” was her gentle response; “and I will see that dear Mabel takes care of the precious things.”
“Well, you can go now, darling; you have made me feel so nice, and this room is delicious. Really, the journey was trying. It is horrible travelling in this intense heat, but we shall do beautifully here.”
Annie tripped out of the room and went straight to Mabel’s. Mabel’s room was not nearly as good as the one which Lady Lushington occupied, but still it was a very nice room, with two large windows which opened in French fashion and had deep balconies where one could stand and look into the very heart of the everlasting hills. Parker’s room was just beyond Mabel’s, and Annie’s was at the back. It was arranged that Parker should be within easy reach of her mistress and her young lady, and self-forgetful Annie therefore selected the back-room. She had no view at all; but then, what did views matter to Annie, who was blind to all their beauty? Mabel was alone. She felt very hot and dusty after her journey, and had just slipped into a cool, white dressing-gown.
“Let me take down your hair, dear May,” said Annie, “and if you sit in that deep arm-chair I will brush it for you. Isn’t it nice here, May?”
“Yes,” replied Mabel, “I suppose it is; only you have a horrid small room, Annie.”
“I don’t care a bit about that,” said Annie. “I am not going to be much in it except to sleep, and when one is asleep any room suffices. But, May, I want to talk to you.”
“What about?” said May. “Anything fresh?” Annie carefully shut the door which communicated between Mabel’s room and Parker’s.
“It is this,” said Annie; “Your aunt Henrietta has been talking to me about the pearl necklace, and says she hopes you have it safe.”
“Well, yes,” said Mabel, with a yawn; “it is quite absolutely safe, isn’t it, Annie?”
“Yes; but this is the crux: I thought she would have forgotten all about it, but she evidently hasn’t, and she says she thinks a friend of hers – a Mrs Ogilvie – is staying in the hotel, and if so, she would like to show it to her.”
“Oh, good gracious!” said Mabel, springing to her feet, and knocking the brush out of Annie’s hand in her excitement; “and if such a thing happens – and it is more than likely – what is to become of us?”
“If such a thing happens,” said Annie with extreme coolness, “there is only one thing to be done.”
“Oh Annie, what – what?”
“We must pretend that we have lost it. So many people are robbed nowadays; we must be robbed also: that is all Parker is supposed to have charge of it; you must confess that you never gave it to Parker, but put it into the lid of your trunk. You must lose one or two other things as well. You must have your story ready in case Mrs Ogilvie is in the hotel.”
“Oh! I don’t think I can stand any more of this,” said poor Mabel. “You seem to lead me on, Annie, from one wickedness to another. I don’t know where it is to end.”
“You must obey me in this,” said Annie with great determination.
“Oh, we are both lost!”
“We are nearly out of the wood; we are not going to lose our courage at the supreme moment. Come now, Mabel, don’t be absolutely silly; nothing may happen. But if anything happens, you must be prepared to do what I tell you.”
“You have an extraordinary power over me,” said Mabel. “I often and often wish that I had not yielded to you at that time when Aunt Henrietta wrote me that letter and I was so cross and disappointed. I think now that if you had not been present I should be a happier girl on the whole. I should be going back to the horrid school, of course, and Priscie would have left; but still – ”
“Come, come,” said Annie, sitting down determinedly on a low chair by her friend’s side. “What is the matter with you? I really have to go over old ground until things are quite disagreeable. What have you not won through me? A whole year’s emancipation, a jolly, delightful winter, a pleasant autumn at the Italian lakes and in Rome and Florence. I think, from what she tells me, Lady Lushington means to go to Cairo for the cold weather. Of course you will go with her. Think of the dresses unlimited, and the balls and the fun, and the expeditions up the Nile. Oh, you lucky, you more than lucky Mabel! And then home again in the early spring, and preparations for your great début taking place, your presentation dress being ordered, and all the rest. Imagine this state of things instead of pursuing the life which your poor faithful little Annie will lead at Mrs Lyttelton’s school! And yet you blame me because you have to pay a certain price for these enjoyments.”
“I do blame you, Annie; I can’t help it. I know it all sounds most fascinating; but if you are not happy deep down in your heart, where’s the use?”
When Mabel said this Annie looked really alarmed.
“But you are quite happy,” she said. “You are not going to follow that idiotic Priscie. You are not going to get a horrible, troublesome conscience to wake itself up and torment you over this most innocent little affair.”
“I will go through it, of course,” said Mabel. “It seemed very bad at the beginning, but the amount of badness it has risen to now shocks even me. Still, I will go through that, for I cannot go back. As to Priscie, I am convinced she would rather be apprenticed as a dressmaker than live as she is doing with that load on her conscience.”
“Oh, bother Priscie!” cried Annie. “She is one of those intolerable, conscientious girls whom one cannot abide. All the same,” she added a little bitterly, “she took advantage of my talent as much as you did, Mabel.”
Mabel sighed, groaned, struggled, but eventually yielded absolutely to Annie’s stronger will, and it was definitely arranged between the two girls that Mabel was to be fully prepared to declare the loss of her necklace if Mrs Ogilvie was proved to be in the hotel.
“If she is not it will be all right,” said Annie; “for I know your aunt Henrietta pretty well by this time, and she will have other things to occupy her mind. We can soon find out if the good woman is there through Parker.”
“I don’t think I would consult Parker if I were you,” said Mabel. “She talks a great deal to Aunt Henrietta, and of late, somehow, I have rather imagined that she is a little suspicious.” Annie soon afterwards retired to her own room, but not like Mabel and Lady Lushington, to rest. Those who follow crooked ways have seldom time for rest, and Annie Brooke was finding this out to her cost. She was really exceedingly tired; even her strength could scarcely stand the strain of the last few weeks. Priscilla’s misery, Mabel’s recklessness, Lady Lushington’s anger with regard to Mrs Priestley’s bill, the terrible possibility of being found out – all these things visited the girl, making her not sorry for her sin, but afraid of the consequences. Then, too, in spite of herself, she was a little anxious with regard to Uncle Maurice. There was always a possibility – just a possibility – that Uncle Maurice might be as bad as that tiresome John Saxon had declared him to be; and if so, was she (Annie) kind about it all? A great many things had happened, and Annie had sinned very deeply. Oh, well, she was not going to get her conscience into speaking order; that mentor within must be kept silent at any cost.
Still, she was too restless to lie down on her bed, which, indeed, was not specially inviting, for the room was a most minute one, and looked out on a wall of the hotel, which, as with most great foreign hotels, surrounded a court. Not a peep of any glorious view could be seen from Annie’s window, and the hot western sun poured into the little room, making it stiflingly hot; and she could even smell the making of many dishes from the kitchens, which lay just beneath her windows.
So she changed her dress, made herself look as neat and fresh as possible, and ran downstairs into the great, cool hall.
It was delicious in the hall. The doors were wide-open, the windows also stood apart, and in every direction were to be seen peeps of snow-clad mountains soaring up far into the clouds. Even Annie was touched for a minute by the glorious view. She went and stood in the cool doorway, and was glad of the refreshing breeze which fanned her hot cheeks.
Business, however, must ever be foremost. She was pining for a cup of tea, but it was one of Lady Lushington’s economies never to allow extra things to be ordered at the hotel. She had tea made for herself and her party in her room every day, and therefore kept strictly to the pension terms. Annie, however, suddenly remembered that she herself was the proud possessor of eighty pounds. Surely so wealthy a young lady need not suffer from thirst. She accordingly called a waiter and desired him to bring her thé complet. This he proceeded to do, suggesting at the same time that the young lady should have her tea on the terrace.
The broad terrace was covered by an enormous veranda, and Annie found it even more enjoyable outside than in. She liked the importance of taking her tea alone, and was particularly gratified when several nice-looking people turned to look at her. She was certainly an attractive girl, and when her cheeks became flushed she was almost pretty. The waiter came up and asked her for the number of her room. She gave it; and he immediately remarked:
“I beg your pardon, madam; I did not remember that you belonged to Lady Lushington’s party.”
“Yes; but I wish to pay for this tea myself,” said Annie, and she produced, with considerable pride, a five-pound note.
The man withdrew at once to fetch the necessary change. As he did this a party of travellers who had evidently only just arrived turned to look at Annie. There was nothing very special about her action; nevertheless the little incident remained fixed in their memories. They had heard the waiter say, “You belong to Lady Lushington’s party.” The note of wonder was struck in their minds that a girl of Annie’s age and in the care of other people should pay for her own tea. Annie, however, collected her change with great care, counting it shrewdly over and putting it into her purse.
She then re-entered the lounge. When she did so the lady who was seated near her turned to her husband and said:
“Is it possible that Lady Lushington is here?”
“It seems so,” said the gentleman; “but we can soon ascertain, my dear, by looking at the visitors’ list.”
“I shall be exceedingly pleased if she is,” said Mrs Ogilvie, for it was she. “I have not seen Henrietta Lushington for two or three years. She used to be a great friend of mine. But what in the world is she doing with that girl?”
“Why should not Henrietta Lushington have a girl belonging to her party?” was Mr Ogilvie’s response. “There is nothing the matter with that fact, is there, Susan?”
“Oh, nothing; and I know she has a niece, but somehow I never thought that the niece would look like that girl.”
“Why, what in the world is the matter with her? I thought her quite pretty.”
“Oh, my dear Henry! Pretty perhaps, but not classy; not for a moment the style of girl that Lady Lushington’s niece would be expected to be. And then her paying for her own tea – it seemed to me slightly bad form. However, perhaps the girl does not belong to our Lady Lushington at all.”
Meanwhile Annie was doing a little business on her own account in the great hall. She had got possession of the visitors’ book, and was scanning the names of the visitors with intense interest. Nowhere did she see the name Ogilvie, and in consequence a great load was lifted from her heart. She ran up in high spirits to Mabel’s room.
“No fear, May; no fear,” she said, skipping about as she spoke. “Mrs Ogilvie is not here at all; I have looked through the list.”
“Well, that’s a comfort,” said Mabel, who was lying on her bed half-asleep before Annie came in. “But what a restless spirit you are, Annie! Can you ever keep still for a minute? I was certain you were asleep in your room.”
“You could not sleep much yourself in my room, darling. It is a little hot and a little – dinnery. Not that I complain; but there is a magnificent hall downstairs, and such a terrace! And, do you know, I received a wee present of money a couple of mornings ago from darling Uncle Maurice, so I treated myself to some tea. I was thirsty. I had it all alone on a little table on the terrace. I can tell you I felt distinguished.”
“You poor dear!” said Mabel. “Why, of course you ought to have had tea when we had it. I will say this for you, Annie, that you are the queerest mixture I ever came across. You have – oh, you know the side to which I allude; but then, on the other hand, you are the most absolutely unselfish creature that ever lived. Why, even Parker has been enjoying delicious tea, and we never thought of you at all.”
“Poor little me!” said Annie. “Well, it doesn’t matter, for, you see, I thought of myself. Now I will leave you. Be sure you make an effective toilet to-night. There are really some very nice-looking people downstairs; we shall have a jolly time at this hotel. What a good thing it is we got rid of Priscie! She made us look so odd and peculiar.”
“I suppose the poor thing is bored to death at Hendon by this time,” said Mabel.
“Oh no, she is not quite there yet; she will have plenty of time to think of her conscience while she is at Hendon. And now you and I will forget her.”
