Three Girls from School

by L. T. Meade

“You are looking well, my dear,” said the woman, “and I am glad you are back, for we want young life about the old place.”

“You won’t have it long,” said Annie.

Mrs Shelf took no notice. “The raspberries are past,” she said; “but there are a good few gooseberries still to preserve, and there are the early pears coming on; they make beautiful jam, if boiled whole with cloves and lemon-peel and a little port wine thrown in. But you must stand over them the whole time in order to keep them from breaking. Then there are the peaches; I set store by them, and always put them in bottles and bury them in the garden. There are gherkins, too, for pickling; and there are a whole lot of walnuts. We mustn’t lose a day about pickling the walnuts, or they’ll be spoiled. We might begin over some of the jams to-morrow. What do you think?”

“You may if you like, Shelfy,” said Annie; “but I sha’n’t. I have only come here for a visit. I’m off to Paris immediately.”

“You off to Paris!” said the old woman. “Highty-tighty! what will your uncle say?”

“Uncle Maurice will say just what I like him to say,” answered Annie. “Please have a chop or something nice for my supper, for I can’t stand slops. And is my room ready?”

“I hope so, child. I told Peggie to see to it.” Peggie was not the best of servants, and Annie’s room was by no means in a state of immaculate order. It was a large room, but, like the rest of the house, very badly furnished. There was a huge old four-poster for the girl to sleep in, and there was a little rickety table which held a looking-glass with a crack down the middle, and there was a cracked white basin and jug on another table at the farther end of the room. Of wardrobe there was none; but a large door, when opened, revealed some shelves and a hanging press.

“Oh! it is just as of old,” thought the girl—“an intolerable, horrid place. I could never live here—never; and what’s more, I won’t. How wise I was to make provision for myself while at school! I declare, bad as I thought the old place, I didn’t imagine it to be quite so ramshackle.”

While these thoughts were rushing through Annie’s mind she was brushing out her pretty golden hair and arranging it becomingly round her small head. Then she straightened and tidied her dress, and presently ran downstairs, her trim little figure quite stylish-looking for that old house, and pretty enough, in the rector’s opinion, to gladden any place which she chose to grace.

Old Mr Brooke loved Annie. She was all he possessed in the world. He had never married, and when his only brother, on dying, had left the child to his care, he had vowed to be a father to her, to bring her up well, and to do the best he could for her. Annie was the child of an English father and an Italian mother. In appearance she had taken in every respect after her father’s race, being fair, with all the attributes of the Saxon, but in her nature she had some of the craftiness which distinguishes the Italian. Hers was a difficult nature to fathom, and to a very high-minded man like the Rev. Maurice Brooke she was a problem he could never solve. For a couple of years past he had owned himself puzzled by Annie. When she was a little child she delighted him; but more and more, as she returned from school for each holiday, he felt that there was something behind. She was frank with him; she grumbled quite openly in his presence. These things he did not mind, but he was sure there was something behind the grumbling, and that fact puzzled and distressed him.