“I will look after her,” he said. “Don’t thank me, please, Miss Brooke; I don’t suppose that she will be the slightest trouble.”
Priscilla went up to her room, flung herself on her bed, and wept.
Chapter Twenty.
A Confession and a Friend.
It is quite true that very clever people are sometimes apt to overstep the bounds of reason and prudence; and whether all that befell Annie Brooke and all that retribution which she so richly merited would have fallen so quickly and so decisively on her devoted head had she not been anxious to get rid of poor Priscilla must remain an unsolved question. But certain it is that Priscilla Weir’s departure in the company of Mr Manchuri was the first step in her downfall. Annie, with eighty pounds in her pocket and with all fear of Mrs Priestley laid at rest, felt that she had not a care in the world.
But Priscilla, when she stepped into the first-class carriage which was to convey her en route for England, was one of the most perplexed and troubled girls who could be found anywhere. Mr Manchuri, with all his faults, his love of securing a bargain, his sharpness, had a kindly heart. He saw that the girl was in trouble, and took no notice at all of her for more than an hour of the journey.
It so happened, however, that very few people were returning to England so early in the season, and the pair had the railway carriage for a long time to themselves. When Priscilla had sat quite silent for a considerable time, her eyes gazing straight out into the ever-gathering darkness, Mr Manchuri could contain himself no longer.
He had scarcely ever glanced at Priscilla Weir when she was at the hotel. She was not pretty; she was not showily dressed; she was a queer girl. He knew that she belonged to Lady Lushington’s party, but beyond that he was scarcely aware of her existence. Now, however, he began to study her, and as he did so he began to see marks of what he considered interest in her face. What was more, he began to trace a likeness in her to some one else.