The Girls of St. Wode's Part 30

Miss Leslie, I want you to confide in me. What is up, my dear-what is up?"

"What is up!" cried Leslie. "I do not understand you. Oh, I know," she added, her face turning pale, "that you are hiding something dreadful from me. Mother is ill, or Llewellyn, or one of the girls; but I have heard nothing, I a.s.sure you. Oh, please, tell me the truth at once."

"It is for you to tell me," replied Mr. Parker somewhat tartly. "Let me a.s.sure you once for all that your family are in the best of health; but, Miss Leslie, I did think that you-well, I will say it, I felt hurt at what occurred yesterday."

"But what can you mean? You felt hurt at what occurred yesterday! What did occur? I a.s.sure you I am absolutely in the dark."

"Oh, no, you are not, young lady. You are putting it on, and that does not suit a man of my caliber at all. Instead of coming to me yourself, or even writing to me-instead of giving me your full confidence, and feeling sure that I, as your father's old friend, would not be too hard on you-you had not the courage to do that-you sent a stranger to me."

"I cannot understand," said poor Leslie. Her heart beat fast. She felt quite certain now that some trouble was going to be revealed to her; she knew that the moment had come when she must exercise self-control.

Happen what might, she must not give herself away. Another, a stranger had approached Mr. Parker on her behalf. A queer sense of heartsickness came over her; she seemed partly to guess already what was coming.

Making a violent effort not to show the alarm which was paling her cheeks, and almost causing her heart to stop beating, she said quickly: "Please speak."

Mr. Parker had observed her agitation and he now whispered to himself.

"She has done it; I am mistaken in her. I thought she was like my Jenny.

She had the same voice, and something the same ways, and very much the same expression; but I am mistaken. There never could have been two Jennies in this wicked old world. I was mistaken. The child was like her in the external features only."

"Please speak," repeated Leslie.

"I am going to speak," said the merchant. "I am disappointed. No, I am not going to be angry. I suppose girls, all but one, and her I won't mention in this discussion, are alike all the world over. If they suddenly want a little money and remember that their father's old friend can be befooled, being an old man himself, and tender-hearted, they yielded to temptation. You are like the rest, Miss Leslie; just like the rest. Your mother shall never know, nor that brave brother of yours. I won't say another word when I have had my say out today; but, my dear, let me ask you just once, why did you do it?"

"Oh, you are driving me mad," said poor Leslie. "You are talking about something I did; but I don't know yet what I did. Do speak."

"You don't know about that sixty pounds. Come, now, that's putting it on too fine. You went into debt for sixty pounds, and were afraid, and sent that other girl, Annie Colchester, whose shoes you are not fit to black, for the money. I gave it to her, of course, for your letter was so pitiable; but I did not tell her that I was coming down the next day to inquire into this matter myself."

There was a seat close by; it faced the river. Leslie sat down on it just as if somebody had shot her. She did not speak for some time. Had she done so, she must have burst out with the truth. In her immense effort for self-control, for repression of her feelings, she even thought that she was going to faint.

"You ran in debt, child; the temptations here were too much for you. You ran in debt for fal-lals and gew-gaws, and all the other sort of things which please pretty girls; you thought, of course, the old man would pay up. Well, the old man has paid up. I am sorry. You might have asked me for the money in the first place, and not gone into debt for it; but that is the way with modern girls. We will say no more about it. I see you did not want to pain me."

Mr. Parker patted her on the arm. Leslie shrank away from him.

"Don't," she said. "I cannot bear you to touch me just now."

"You cannot bear me to touch you! Well, that's nice hearing when I'm spending my money on you and thinking such a lot of you, and remembering the straight honorable sort of man your father was."

"But do you, knowing my father as you did, feeling for him as you still do-do you really believe this of me?" said Leslie.

"Believe it of you? How can I help it, child? But if there is any way out of, any way to lessen the kind of shock I got yesterday, I will bless you, Leslie Gilroy, to the longest day I live."

Leslie again felt as if she had got a dash of cold water. She could clear herself, but at what a cost!

"Tell me exactly what occurred before I say anything more," she said in a low, tremulous voice.

"Oh, that's all easy enough," said Mr. Parker. "It was Annie Colchester who came to me. I have known her brother for a year or two. Rupert is about as bad a lot as I have ever met. The girl is different; clever, with a lot of enthusiasm and blind wors.h.i.+p for that good-for-nothing brother of hers. I helped Rupert, took him into my own office; but afterwards I had to give him the sack. I could not keep that sort about me, you understand."

"Please, go on," said Leslie.

"Well, I dismissed him a month ago for improper conduct. I expect that chap will go to the dogs as fast as he can. I am the last man, Leslie, to uphold young rascals of that sort. He is a scoundrel, and the least said about him the better. The girl is different. I had letters from her now and then, and she always spoke of you with great affection. She never mentioned you by name, and I never guessed until yesterday, when she called to see me, that you were the girl, her roomfellow, she said, whom she liked better than anybody else at St. Wode's-that you were the same girl whom I cared for more than aught else in the world."

"Oh, you don't," said Leslie. There was a break in her voice.

"I do, child. You always seemed to me to be Jenny come back again; but there, once for all, I will not drag Jenny into this. Annie Colchester called at my office yesterday; she brought me a note from you. By the way, here it is."

"Don't show it to me," said Leslie suddenly.

"Don't show you your own letter? Why not?"

"Because-oh, don't ask me." She felt cold and sick. If Mr. Parker really showed her that letter, written by Annie but signed in her name, she knew that she could not trust herself, she knew that she must say something which would betray her miserable friend. The one rope she had to cling to was a blind sense of honor. She would give Annie a chance, she would not betray her, she would get Annie herself to make her own confession.

"What train must you go back by?" she said suddenly.

"You look quite ill, child. I see you cannot put the thing straight, as I had hoped just for a moment: but, after I have asked you one or two questions, we will never allude to the matter again. Was it an ordinary debt you wanted the money for?"

Leslie bent her head in apparent acquiescence.

"Then, that is a relief. I did think that you were above all the petty wants and caprices of your s.e.x; but if you do want to look pretty and charming, why, my dear, I have more money than I know what to do with.

Here"-he fumbled in his pocket-"would you like another twenty pounds, for I have got some bank-notes? I could let you have three or four. You are pretty enough to look charming in the simplest dress; but if you think otherwise, why--"

"Oh, don't, Mr. Parker," cried Leslie. "I cannot touch your money; put it away, please." She pushed it from her. The strain was becoming intolerable.

"Did you say," she continued, "that Annie took you that note herself?"

"Yes, my dear. You told me in it that you particularly wished to get the money in notes and gold; so I sent notes and gold. Now, Leslie, don't be tempted in that way again. If you want money come to me straight. Say to me, 'Mr. Parker, for the sake of my father, let me have five pounds,' or ten, or fifteen, or whatever supply you want. Don't ask me in Jenny's name, for Jenny would not have done that sort of thing; but, for Gilroy's sake, I-I'll never refuse you, child. Don't go into debt for it, that's all."

"I never will," said poor Leslie. "Oh, I cannot explain things now, and I know you must think dreadfully of me."

"I see you are concealing something," said Parker, knitting his brows and giving her another fixed look. "Tell me the whole truth, little girl."

"I can't; not at present."

Mr. Parker's voice changed again. He looked hard at Leslie, then he looked away. He pursed up his lips and uttered a long whistle.

"If you cannot tell me, well, there's no more to be said," he remarked.

"I am cut up a bit, that's all. But understand this, Leslie, I'll have no more fooling. There is a limit even to my endurance, and, when roused, I can be hard and very just. I will never tell your mother. I wouldn't vex her nor give her another care for all the money I possess.

You did wrong in spending that money before you got it; you did very wrong to go into debt. If you go in debt again, why, there, I won't help you. But if you ask me for money, and say you want it, and give me a good reason-even if it is to buy a smart frock or pretty hat-you shall have it, child; and there's my last word. Good-by, my dear. Don't fret too much. Whatever you may have done wrong, you stand in Jenny's place to me now. Cheer up, cheer up."

But Leslie could not utter a word, she did not even raise her head; she was only conscious that Mr. Parker had pulled out his watch, uttered a hasty exclamation, looked to right and left, then, going up to her, stooped and kissed her lightly on her forehead.

"For your father's sake, and for the sake of old times," he said.

She heard his retreating footsteps as he went along the towing-path to Wingfield.

For nearly an hour Leslie Gilroy sat on that seat alone. None of her companions came by. She was glad of this, if she could be said to be glad of anything at that moment. She felt stunned; all her life up to the present had been bright. She found herself all of a sudden, through no fault of her own, in the position of one who is degraded, dishonored; she, who had always been upright, respectable, and respected. With her and open sin there was nothing whatever in common. To sin gravely, to commit a really great sin, was impossible to a nature like Leslie's.

Direct temptation would shrink away from one so pure, so innocent, so generous, so loving; and now she was stained just as if she had really committed the sin which she loathed. How could she live under this terrible imputation? How could she take the sin of another and bear it bravely on her young shoulders? The man to whom she was indebted for so much believed her guilty. How could she stand it? Was it right for her to stand it?

Leslie considered this with bent head and knitted brows.

Suppose she wrote to Mr. Parker, and told him the truth, what would happen then? She could guess, and the thought of what would happen caused her to tremble. He liked her; he was kind to her for her dead father's sake and because he imagined that she bore a likeness to the child he had lost; but he had spoken with a certain harshness of the Colchesters. He would certainly not stand the knowledge that he had been befooled by a girl twice as clever as himself. He would come down to Wingfield, he would see Annie, he would speak to the authorities about her, she would be rusticated, sent down, expelled. Her career in life would be practically ruined. No. Leslie felt she could not betray her.