"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!"

CHAPTER XXIX

30 NEWBOLT SQUARE.

Mrs. Acheson, although a most kind-hearted woman and affectionate mother, would, if she had spoken her innermost thoughts, have confessed that Belle was not at all to her mind. Being her daughter she thought it her duty to be as good as she could possibly be to Belle, but she would infinitely have preferred a girl in the style of Lettie Chetwynd, a sociable, agreeable, pleasant girl, who would have done credit to pretty dresses, have won a desirable lover, and married comfortably. She would indeed have considered her cup of happiness complete had such a girl as Leslie Gilroy been hers; but Belle being the child allotted to her by Providence, she was wise enough to make the best of her, not to attempt to turn her into any other groove, and to endeavor to counteract her eccentricities as far as possible.

When Belle mentioned to her mother that she had invited a St. Wode's girl to stay with her, Mrs. Acheson was pleased. She went happily upstairs to see that Annie's room was neat and comfortable, the bed well aired, and all the necessary accessories of a bedroom as they ought to be.

When her young guest arrived, she hurried downstairs to welcome her; and seeing that the girl looked forlorn and tired, with a droop about her lips and an expression in her eyes which quite went to the good woman's heart, she kissed her affectionately, bade her welcome, and took her into the drawing room.

"You don't look well, dear," she said. "I am very pleased that Belle has asked you to stay with us. May I ask if you and my daughter are great friends?"

"No," replied Annie; "in fact we scarcely know each other. We did not live in the same house at St. Wode's, but we have met often. I happened to be at the Chetwynds' this morning, where Leslie Gilroy was staying, when Miss Acheson arrived, and most kindly invited me here for a week. I was only too glad to accept the invitation," continued Annie, raising her pathetic, half-starved eyes to Mrs. Acheson's face, "for I have no home at present."

"Dear, dear, my poor child; that is truly sad," said the good lady. "But you must tell me all your story later on. I am deeply interested in young girls, and any friend of my Belle's has my kindest sympathy. Now, let me take you to your room."

Mrs. Acheson took Annie upstairs. She saw that the girl had hot water, said that Belle would be glad to lend her anything until her own trunk arrived, and left her.

"But I don't like the look on her face, all the same," thought the good woman as she trotted downstairs. Belle was standing in the hall.

"My dear," said Mrs. Acheson eagerly, "Miss Colchester has arrived."

Belle did not immediately reply. She was hanging her jacket on the hat-stand; she seldom troubled to take it upstairs.

"Yes, mother," she answered, putting her hand to her forehead and arranging her short locks into position; "but what about it? I thought naturally she would arrive."

"She does not look very well, Belle. She seems so tired, and-I scarcely like to say the word-so hungry."

"Oh, I dare say she is!" replied Belle in a careless tone. "She was always a good bit of an oddity, and in the pursuit of knowledge doubtless neglected her food; but as to her being ill, I think she is all right. She has worked rather hard, that is all."

"Then we will give her a right good time; won't we, dear?" said Mrs.

Acheson.

Belle stared at her mother through her gla.s.ses, and again did not reply.

She went into the drawing room in her dusty boots.

"As we have a guest to-night, Belle, dear; and--"

"What in the world is it, mother? What are you fidgeting so dreadfully about?"

"Nothing, my love; only would you greatly mind going upstairs to wash your hands, tidy your hair, and take off your dusty boots before dinner?"

"Oh, dear," replied Belle in an impatient voice. "If I had thought Annie Colchester's being here would mean all this sort of thing I would have thought twice before I invited her."

It was now Mrs. Acheson's turn to make no reply. She knew Belle quite well enough to be certain that it was worse than useless to argue with her. If she left that eccentric young person to herself, things as a rule turned out according to Mrs. Acheson's wish.

Belle hummed and hawed, and looked very cross, but finally did leave the room.

When dinner was announced, the two girls entered the dining-room together. Annie was only able to make a very scanty and imperfect toilet; for her clothes, which she had telegraphed to her late landlady to forward, had not yet arrived.

They went down to dinner. The meal was a good one, and nicely served.

Annie ate heartily, and felt considerably refreshed afterwards. She was tired too; there was a sort of stunned feeling over her. If Mrs. Acheson only knew the truth, if she could guess even for a single moment that between Annie and starvation were only four shillings, would she not immediately think that she, Annie, had come into her house on false pretenses. People as a rule, do not ask starving girls to partake of the comforts of their luxurious homes. There is the workhouse for such as them. Annie shivered. The idea of confiding in Mrs. Acheson never occurred to her.

Meanwhile, that good and excellent woman had taken a fancy to the forlorn girl. She determined to give her a right good time, and to get at that secret which knitted her dark brows, and made her beautiful red-brown eyes so full of indescribable melancholy. Annie could not help cheering up after a little, in the sunshine of this rare kindness. The little week which lay before her was an oasis in the desert; she would enjoy it while she could. She might gather some strength during these few days for the solitary and miserable time which lay before her. But, after all, her poverty was scarcely her worst trouble now. It was the thought of Rupert, the terrible and awful thought that he had once more been guilty, that he had broken his solemn word, that the police even now were at his heels.

"What is to be done?" thought the wretched girl. "How am I to help him?"

Presently Mrs. Acheson suggested that they should go to bed.

"You can scarcely keep your eyes open," she said, looking at Annie. "Do go up to your room at once, dear, and have a long, good sleep."

"Not quite yet, mother," said Belle, looking up from her book. "I want Annie Colchester to help me with this translation. I know she has gone right through the sixth book of Herodotus, and I have not. I want her to help me with the translation of the story which gave rise to the saying 'What does Hippocleides care?'"

Mrs. Acheson sighed, and made no answer: a moment later she left the room.

"You are not dead tired? You are willing to help me?" said Belle, looking at Annie when they found themselves alone.

"I will help you of course, Belle, if I can. I have read Herodotus, and thought it splendid; but I do not know the story to which you allude."

"Well, you can help me, anyhow. Dear, dear, it does seem a pity that mother should have taken to you in this extraordinary manner. I know mother's ways so well. She will begin to fuss over you, and then you will imagine all sorts of things; but now, if you will take my advice, you won't consider yourself an ill-used martyr simply because mother has taken a fancy to you."

"Oh, I have never thought myself a martyr," said Annie.

"Then, for goodness' sake, don't wear that pensive air. I wish, too, you would not open your eyes so wide. It gives you a sort of starved look."