Chapter Ten.The Illness.Mr Brooke was not very well. He was subject to very severe headaches, and had at these times to stay quiet. Annie might have noticed by his languid brown eyes and his slow and somewhat feeble step that something was wrong with him, had she not been so absorbed in her own pleasure.“Good-morning, Uncle Maurice,” she said. “I hope you are hungry for breakfast; for if you are not, I am.”“I can’t manage much this morning, my love,” said the old rector. “Just a cup of tea, please, and—and—well, yes—a very small piece of toast.”“Are you ill?” said Annie a little crossly, for she had small sympathy for suffering.“Not exactly, my love. I have a headache; but it will pass.”“Oh, if you only knew how I suffered from them at school,” said Annie in a careless tone. “Dear me! isn’t this room too hot, Uncle Maurice? Do you mind if I open the window?”“No, my love,” he answered. But when she flung wide the window he shivered slightly, although he would not show his discomfort for the world.Annie helped herself to the excellent breakfast provided by Mrs Shelf. She was really hungry, and was in excellent spirits. Things were turning out well. Even the Rectory would be endurable if she might leave it on Monday. She made a careful calculation in her own mind. This was Friday morning. She would have to go to London on Monday night.She must sleep at a hotel; that would be all the better fun. Then she would start on Tuesday from Victoria Station and arrive in Paris that night. Nothing mattered after that; all would be golden after that. Her reaping-time would arrive; her harvest would be ready for her to gather. Oh yes, she was a happy and contented girl this morning!“How nice the home-made bread is!” she said; “and the butter is so good! Have you got Cowslip and Dewlip still, Uncle Maurice?”“Yes, my dear,” he answered, brightening up at her interest in the Rectory animals; “and Dewlip has such a lovely calf with a white star on her forehead. We have called it after you—Annie. I hope you don’t mind. Mrs Shelf would do it; for she took it into her head that the calf had a look of you.”“Really, uncle! That’s not a compliment; but I don’t care. I’ll have some of that strawberry jam, if you please.”“The jam is good, isn’t it?” said Mr Brooke. “It is made from the last crop of strawberries. Mrs Shelf is a first-rate housekeeper.”Annie helped herself plentifully. She poured rich cream on the jam, and ate with an epicure’s appreciation. At last her appetite was satisfied, and she had time to consider as to when she would break her tidings to Uncle Maurice.“Are you coming out with me?” she asked. “What are we going to do with ourselves this morning?”“Well, my love—I am really sorry—it is most unlucky—I haven’t suffered as I am doing to-day—I may say for months. I suppose it is the excitement of having you back again, little Annie; but I really do fear that until my head gets better I must remain quiet. I get so giddy, my darling, when I try to walk; but doubtless by lunch-time I shall be better. You must amuse yourself alone this morning, my little girl; but I have no doubt that Mrs Shelf has all kinds of plans to propose to you.”Annie stood up. Outside, the garden smiled; but the little room in which they breakfasted, warm enough in the evening, was somewhat chilly now, for it faced due west.“I do want to talk to you so badly,” she said; “and—can I just have a few words with you between now and post-time? I must write a letter for the post, and I have to consult you about it. I won’t worry you, dear; only the thing must be talked about and arranged, so when shall I come to you?”“The post goes early from here,” said the rector—“at one o’clock. It is nine now; come to me at twelve, Annie. I dare say I shall be all right by then.”“All right or not,” thought Annie, “he’ll have to hear my little bit of information not later that twelve o’clock.”She went out of the room. The rector watched her as she disappeared. He did not know why he felt so depressed and uneasy. His headache was rather worse, and he felt some slight shivers going down his old frame, caused no doubt by the open window.He left the breakfast-room and entered his study, where a fire was burning, and where, in his opinion, things were much more comfortable. He did not feel well enough to settle down to any special work. He drew up an easy-chair in front of the fire and sat there lost in thought.His darling was safe at home; the apple of his eye was with him. She was all he possessed in the wide, wide world. There was nothing he would grudge her—nothing in reason; but, somehow, he dreaded the time when she would return and talk to him about that letter which must catch the post. Anxiety was bad for him, and his head grew worse.Meanwhile Annie, avoiding Mrs Shelf, took her writing materials into the garden, and in the sunniest corner penned a long letter to her friend.“Of course I am coming, dear Mabel,” she wrote. “I have got to tackle the old uncle at twelve o’clock, but it will be all right. When I have seen him and got the needful, or the promise of it, I will write to Lady Lushington. I am looking forward beyond words to our time together. You need not be uneasy; I will manage the horrid bills. Whatever else your Annie lacks, she is not destitute of brains. Trust to me, dear, to see you through. Oh! I am glad that you appreciate my efforts on your behalf.—Your loving friend,—“Annie Brooke.”This letter was just written when Mrs Shelf approached Annie’s side.“I wonder now, Annie,” she said, “if you would mind riding into Rashleigh to fetch Dr Brett. I don’t like the state your uncle is in. You could have Dobbin to ride; he’s not up to much, but really I think Dr Brett should come. I don’t like Mr Brooke’s appearance. He is so flashed about the face, and so queer in himself altogether.”
Mr Brooke was not very well. He was subject to very severe headaches, and had at these times to stay quiet. Annie might have noticed by his languid brown eyes and his slow and somewhat feeble step that something was wrong with him, had she not been so absorbed in her own pleasure.
“Good-morning, Uncle Maurice,” she said. “I hope you are hungry for breakfast; for if you are not, I am.”
“I can’t manage much this morning, my love,” said the old rector. “Just a cup of tea, please, and—and—well, yes—a very small piece of toast.”
“Are you ill?” said Annie a little crossly, for she had small sympathy for suffering.
“Not exactly, my love. I have a headache; but it will pass.”
“Oh, if you only knew how I suffered from them at school,” said Annie in a careless tone. “Dear me! isn’t this room too hot, Uncle Maurice? Do you mind if I open the window?”
“No, my love,” he answered. But when she flung wide the window he shivered slightly, although he would not show his discomfort for the world.
Annie helped herself to the excellent breakfast provided by Mrs Shelf. She was really hungry, and was in excellent spirits. Things were turning out well. Even the Rectory would be endurable if she might leave it on Monday. She made a careful calculation in her own mind. This was Friday morning. She would have to go to London on Monday night.
She must sleep at a hotel; that would be all the better fun. Then she would start on Tuesday from Victoria Station and arrive in Paris that night. Nothing mattered after that; all would be golden after that. Her reaping-time would arrive; her harvest would be ready for her to gather. Oh yes, she was a happy and contented girl this morning!
“How nice the home-made bread is!” she said; “and the butter is so good! Have you got Cowslip and Dewlip still, Uncle Maurice?”
“Yes, my dear,” he answered, brightening up at her interest in the Rectory animals; “and Dewlip has such a lovely calf with a white star on her forehead. We have called it after you—Annie. I hope you don’t mind. Mrs Shelf would do it; for she took it into her head that the calf had a look of you.”
“Really, uncle! That’s not a compliment; but I don’t care. I’ll have some of that strawberry jam, if you please.”
“The jam is good, isn’t it?” said Mr Brooke. “It is made from the last crop of strawberries. Mrs Shelf is a first-rate housekeeper.”
Annie helped herself plentifully. She poured rich cream on the jam, and ate with an epicure’s appreciation. At last her appetite was satisfied, and she had time to consider as to when she would break her tidings to Uncle Maurice.
“Are you coming out with me?” she asked. “What are we going to do with ourselves this morning?”
“Well, my love—I am really sorry—it is most unlucky—I haven’t suffered as I am doing to-day—I may say for months. I suppose it is the excitement of having you back again, little Annie; but I really do fear that until my head gets better I must remain quiet. I get so giddy, my darling, when I try to walk; but doubtless by lunch-time I shall be better. You must amuse yourself alone this morning, my little girl; but I have no doubt that Mrs Shelf has all kinds of plans to propose to you.”
Annie stood up. Outside, the garden smiled; but the little room in which they breakfasted, warm enough in the evening, was somewhat chilly now, for it faced due west.
“I do want to talk to you so badly,” she said; “and—can I just have a few words with you between now and post-time? I must write a letter for the post, and I have to consult you about it. I won’t worry you, dear; only the thing must be talked about and arranged, so when shall I come to you?”
“The post goes early from here,” said the rector—“at one o’clock. It is nine now; come to me at twelve, Annie. I dare say I shall be all right by then.”
“All right or not,” thought Annie, “he’ll have to hear my little bit of information not later that twelve o’clock.”
She went out of the room. The rector watched her as she disappeared. He did not know why he felt so depressed and uneasy. His headache was rather worse, and he felt some slight shivers going down his old frame, caused no doubt by the open window.
He left the breakfast-room and entered his study, where a fire was burning, and where, in his opinion, things were much more comfortable. He did not feel well enough to settle down to any special work. He drew up an easy-chair in front of the fire and sat there lost in thought.
His darling was safe at home; the apple of his eye was with him. She was all he possessed in the wide, wide world. There was nothing he would grudge her—nothing in reason; but, somehow, he dreaded the time when she would return and talk to him about that letter which must catch the post. Anxiety was bad for him, and his head grew worse.
Meanwhile Annie, avoiding Mrs Shelf, took her writing materials into the garden, and in the sunniest corner penned a long letter to her friend.
“Of course I am coming, dear Mabel,” she wrote. “I have got to tackle the old uncle at twelve o’clock, but it will be all right. When I have seen him and got the needful, or the promise of it, I will write to Lady Lushington. I am looking forward beyond words to our time together. You need not be uneasy; I will manage the horrid bills. Whatever else your Annie lacks, she is not destitute of brains. Trust to me, dear, to see you through. Oh! I am glad that you appreciate my efforts on your behalf.—Your loving friend,—
“Annie Brooke.”
This letter was just written when Mrs Shelf approached Annie’s side.
“I wonder now, Annie,” she said, “if you would mind riding into Rashleigh to fetch Dr Brett. I don’t like the state your uncle is in. You could have Dobbin to ride; he’s not up to much, but really I think Dr Brett should come. I don’t like Mr Brooke’s appearance. He is so flashed about the face, and so queer in himself altogether.”
Chapter Eleven.The Letter.“I will go, of course,” said Annie, jumping up; “what is the hour, Mrs Shelf?”“It is a quarter to twelve. You had best go at once; if you don’t delay you will catch Dr Brett when he returns home for lunch. Billy can put the saddle on Dobbin for you, and there’s the old habit hanging on the peg in your bedroom.”“Detestable old habit,” thought Annie, “and horrid Dobbin, and shocking side-saddle! Oh dear! oh dear! But whatever happens, I must get that letter off immediately.”“Why are you so slow?” said Mrs Shelf, looking at the girl with great annoyance. “Your uncle wants medical aid, and he ought to have it.”“I will go, of course,” said Annie, “but not for a few minutes. Don’t fidget, please; I don’t believe there is anything serious the matter with Uncle Maurice. He often has these headaches.”She went slowly towards the house. Mrs Shelf stood and watched her.“Well, if there is a heartless piece in the whole of England, it is that girl,” thought the good woman. “What my dear master finds to like in her beats me. If she doesn’t go off immediately for Dr Brett, I’ll put Dobbin to the gig and drive to Rashleigh myself.”Meanwhile Annie entered the house. Mr Brooke was lying back in his chair, his face flushed, his hands tremulous.“I am very sorry, my darling,” he said when he saw Annie, “but I have been a little bit faint. It will pass, of course; but poor Mrs Shelf is nervous about me, and wants Brett to be called in. I don’t suppose it is really necessary.”“Of course it isn’t a bit necessary, uncle,” said Annie. “You are just excited because I have come back. Now do listen to me, darling. Your Annie has such a big favour to ask of you. You must not think it unkind of me to speak of it now, but it is so tremendously important. I will go and fetch the doctor immediately afterwards—I will indeed—if you really want him; but don’t you think you are just a wee bit nervous?”“No, dear, not nervous,” said the old man. “I am really ill. This attack is sudden, but doubtless it will pass, and I must not be selfish.”“It is horrid to disturb you when your head aches,” said Annie, “I wish now I had spoken to you this morning. I did not like to when you seemed not quite the thing. I am naturally thoughtful, you know.”“Yes, yes, my little girl,” he answered, patting her hand. “I shall be well very, quickly now you are back.”“But, Uncle Maurice, dear—oh, Uncle Maurice! you won’t say no? I have an invitation. I—I—wantto accept it. It is from a very great lady. Here it is; can you read it?”She put Lady Lushington’s letter into the old rector’s hand. He read the words slowly and with apparent calm. Then he laid it on his knee. For a minute there was silence between the two. Annie’s heart was beating hard. At last Mr Brooke said:“You want to go?”“I want to go,” said Annie with emphasis, “more than I want anything else in all the wide world.”“You understand,” said the rector very slowly, “that I am old and not well. This will be a keen disappointment to me.”“I know, I know, darling Uncle Maurice; but you aresounselfish. You would not deprive your own Annie of her pleasure.”“No, Annie,” said Mr Brooke, rousing himself, no longer lying back in his chair, but sitting upright; “God knows that I should be the last to do that. You are young, and want your pleasure.”“Oh, so much! Think what it means.”“But what sort of woman is Lady Lushington?”“Uncle Maurice, she is delightful; she is the aunt of my greatest friend, Mabel Lushington, one of my schoolfellows.”“And yet,” said the rector, “the aunt of one of your schoolfellows may be the last person I should think it desirable to send you to. I pray God to keep me from the great sin of selfishness, but I would not have you spend your holidays with a woman, whom I know nothing about. Before I allow you to accept this invitation, Annie, I must inquire of Mrs Lyttelton something with regard to the character of Lady Lushington.”“Oh uncle! uncle!”“My mind is firmly made up, child. I will write to Mrs Lyttelton by this post. If her report is favourable I will give you money to go to Paris—not a great deal, for I am poor, but sufficient. This is all that I can say.”“But listen, darling uncle. Lady Lushington wants me to meet her at the Grand Hotel in Paris on Tuesday night. You cannot hear in time from Mrs Lyttelton. I shall lose my chance of joining Lady Lushington and Mabel. Oh, do—do be reasonable!”“Annie, I have made up my mind. I will not give you one farthing to join this woman until I know something about her from one who is at least acquainted with her. My child, don’t be angry; I am absolutely determined.”“Then you are unkind. It is dreadful of you,” said Annie.She burst into petulant tears and ran out of the room. Here was a checkmate. What was to be done? She was trembling from head to foot. Her heart was full of anger—such anger as she had not known for years. Mrs Shelf was hovering about outside.“Oh, what is it?” said Annie. “Why do you follow me?”“I want you to go at once to fetch the doctor. I have ordered Dobbin to be saddled, and Billy will bring him round to the front door for you. Do rush upstairs and put on your riding-habit. Be quick, child; be quick.”Annie flew upstairs. The village of Rashleigh was between three and four miles away, for the old parish was a very extensive one, and the Rectory happened to be situated a long way from the village.Annie had just sprung into the saddle, and was arranging her habit preparatory to riding to Rashleigh, when Mrs Shelf came out.“Take this to the butcher’s, Annie,” she said, handing the girl a letter, “and be sure you get a receipt from him. Ask him to give you what I have ordered on this piece of paper, and bring it back with you.”“All right,” said Annie carelessly. She started on her ride. When she had gone a very short way she dropped the reins on the old pony’s neck and began to think. She had never for a single moment expected the obstacle which now stood between her and her desires. She had thought that she could easily get round Uncle Maurice, but she had not really analysed his character. He was unselfish of the unselfish—that she knew; but she had failed to remember that he was a man who was always actuated by the very highest religious principles. He was, in short, unworldly. To do right meant far more with him than to be great and grand and rich and powerful. All those things which to Annie meant life and happiness were less than nothing to Uncle Maurice. Lady Lushington might be the richest and the grandest woman on earth, but if she was not also a good woman nothing would induce him to entrust one so precious as Annie to her care. The rector would make his inquiries; nothing that Annie could do would stop him. Even supposing the result were favourable—which Annie rather doubted, for she knew quite well that Lady Lushington was a most worldly woman—the plans made for her by the great lady in Paris could not be carried out. It was already too late to post a letter to Mrs Lyttelton that day; even if she were still at Lyttelton School, she could not get it before Sunday morning, and her reply, under the most favourable circumstances, could not reach the little old Welsh Rectory until Tuesday morning. But in all probability Mr Brooke’s letter would have to follow Mrs Lyttelton, who had doubtless long before now left Hendon. Mrs Lyttelton’s answer would, therefore, be late, and when it came it would most likely not be what Annie desired. Whatever happened, Mrs Lyttelton would tell the truth; she was the sort of woman who never shirked her duties.At the best, therefore, Annie could not reach the Grand Hotel in Paris by Tuesday night, and at the worst she could not go at all. Was she, who had sinned so deeply in order to obtain her heart’s desire, to be balked of everything at the eleventh hour? Was Priscilla to have things to her liking? Was Mabel to have a great and royal time? And was Annie to be left alone—all alone—in the hideous Rectory, with one stupid woman to talk to her about preserves and pickles, and one stupid old man? Oh, well, he was not quite that; he was a dear old uncle, but nevertheless hewasrather prosy, and she was young; she could not endure her life at the Rectory. Something must be done.She was thinking these thoughts when she suddenly saw advancing to meet her a gig which contained no less a person than Dr Brett.“Oh doctor!” cried the girl, riding up to him, “will you please call at the Rectory? How lucky it is that I should have met you! I was going to Rashleigh to leave you a message.”“Welcome back from school, Miss Annie,” said Dr Brett, a stout, elderly man with a florid face. “Is anything wrong, my dear?” he added.“I don’t think that there is; but Uncle Maurice is fanciful, and Mrs Shelf more so. Will you just look in and give uncle something to put him right?”“Of course I will go at once. But, my dear Miss Annie, you are mistaken when you call the rector fanciful; I never knew any one less so. I have often told him that he overworks, and that he ought to be careful. It is in the head that the mischief lies; and he is an old man, my dear Miss Annie, and has led a strenuous life. I am glad that you met me; it will save time.”The doctor drove away, and Annie’s first intention was to turn her pony’s steps back again in the direction of Rashleigh Rectory, but as she was about to do so her hand came in contact with the letter addressed to Dawson the butcher. She might as well take it on; anything was better than dawdling away her time at the dull Rectory. Then, too, she could post her letter herself to Mabel, adding something to it so as to assure her friend that the question of joining her was only postponed. Besides—but this was an afterthought—there were some things wanted at Dawson’s. Annie again touched the letter, and as she did so her eyes rested on the signature. It was in her uncle’s well-known hand. She was to give this letter to Dawson, and he was to give her a receipt. A receipt meant that he was to acknowledge some money.Annie’s heart gave a sudden leap. Was it possible that there was money in the letter? She felt the crimson colour rushing to her cheeks; a suffocating feeling just for a minute visited her heart. Then, urging the pony forward, she rode as fast as she could in the direction of Rashleigh.
“I will go, of course,” said Annie, jumping up; “what is the hour, Mrs Shelf?”
“It is a quarter to twelve. You had best go at once; if you don’t delay you will catch Dr Brett when he returns home for lunch. Billy can put the saddle on Dobbin for you, and there’s the old habit hanging on the peg in your bedroom.”
“Detestable old habit,” thought Annie, “and horrid Dobbin, and shocking side-saddle! Oh dear! oh dear! But whatever happens, I must get that letter off immediately.”
“Why are you so slow?” said Mrs Shelf, looking at the girl with great annoyance. “Your uncle wants medical aid, and he ought to have it.”
“I will go, of course,” said Annie, “but not for a few minutes. Don’t fidget, please; I don’t believe there is anything serious the matter with Uncle Maurice. He often has these headaches.”
She went slowly towards the house. Mrs Shelf stood and watched her.
“Well, if there is a heartless piece in the whole of England, it is that girl,” thought the good woman. “What my dear master finds to like in her beats me. If she doesn’t go off immediately for Dr Brett, I’ll put Dobbin to the gig and drive to Rashleigh myself.”
Meanwhile Annie entered the house. Mr Brooke was lying back in his chair, his face flushed, his hands tremulous.
“I am very sorry, my darling,” he said when he saw Annie, “but I have been a little bit faint. It will pass, of course; but poor Mrs Shelf is nervous about me, and wants Brett to be called in. I don’t suppose it is really necessary.”
“Of course it isn’t a bit necessary, uncle,” said Annie. “You are just excited because I have come back. Now do listen to me, darling. Your Annie has such a big favour to ask of you. You must not think it unkind of me to speak of it now, but it is so tremendously important. I will go and fetch the doctor immediately afterwards—I will indeed—if you really want him; but don’t you think you are just a wee bit nervous?”
“No, dear, not nervous,” said the old man. “I am really ill. This attack is sudden, but doubtless it will pass, and I must not be selfish.”
“It is horrid to disturb you when your head aches,” said Annie, “I wish now I had spoken to you this morning. I did not like to when you seemed not quite the thing. I am naturally thoughtful, you know.”
“Yes, yes, my little girl,” he answered, patting her hand. “I shall be well very, quickly now you are back.”
“But, Uncle Maurice, dear—oh, Uncle Maurice! you won’t say no? I have an invitation. I—I—wantto accept it. It is from a very great lady. Here it is; can you read it?”
She put Lady Lushington’s letter into the old rector’s hand. He read the words slowly and with apparent calm. Then he laid it on his knee. For a minute there was silence between the two. Annie’s heart was beating hard. At last Mr Brooke said:
“You want to go?”
“I want to go,” said Annie with emphasis, “more than I want anything else in all the wide world.”
“You understand,” said the rector very slowly, “that I am old and not well. This will be a keen disappointment to me.”
“I know, I know, darling Uncle Maurice; but you aresounselfish. You would not deprive your own Annie of her pleasure.”
“No, Annie,” said Mr Brooke, rousing himself, no longer lying back in his chair, but sitting upright; “God knows that I should be the last to do that. You are young, and want your pleasure.”
“Oh, so much! Think what it means.”
“But what sort of woman is Lady Lushington?”
“Uncle Maurice, she is delightful; she is the aunt of my greatest friend, Mabel Lushington, one of my schoolfellows.”
“And yet,” said the rector, “the aunt of one of your schoolfellows may be the last person I should think it desirable to send you to. I pray God to keep me from the great sin of selfishness, but I would not have you spend your holidays with a woman, whom I know nothing about. Before I allow you to accept this invitation, Annie, I must inquire of Mrs Lyttelton something with regard to the character of Lady Lushington.”
“Oh uncle! uncle!”
“My mind is firmly made up, child. I will write to Mrs Lyttelton by this post. If her report is favourable I will give you money to go to Paris—not a great deal, for I am poor, but sufficient. This is all that I can say.”
“But listen, darling uncle. Lady Lushington wants me to meet her at the Grand Hotel in Paris on Tuesday night. You cannot hear in time from Mrs Lyttelton. I shall lose my chance of joining Lady Lushington and Mabel. Oh, do—do be reasonable!”
“Annie, I have made up my mind. I will not give you one farthing to join this woman until I know something about her from one who is at least acquainted with her. My child, don’t be angry; I am absolutely determined.”
“Then you are unkind. It is dreadful of you,” said Annie.
She burst into petulant tears and ran out of the room. Here was a checkmate. What was to be done? She was trembling from head to foot. Her heart was full of anger—such anger as she had not known for years. Mrs Shelf was hovering about outside.
“Oh, what is it?” said Annie. “Why do you follow me?”
“I want you to go at once to fetch the doctor. I have ordered Dobbin to be saddled, and Billy will bring him round to the front door for you. Do rush upstairs and put on your riding-habit. Be quick, child; be quick.”
Annie flew upstairs. The village of Rashleigh was between three and four miles away, for the old parish was a very extensive one, and the Rectory happened to be situated a long way from the village.
Annie had just sprung into the saddle, and was arranging her habit preparatory to riding to Rashleigh, when Mrs Shelf came out.
“Take this to the butcher’s, Annie,” she said, handing the girl a letter, “and be sure you get a receipt from him. Ask him to give you what I have ordered on this piece of paper, and bring it back with you.”
“All right,” said Annie carelessly. She started on her ride. When she had gone a very short way she dropped the reins on the old pony’s neck and began to think. She had never for a single moment expected the obstacle which now stood between her and her desires. She had thought that she could easily get round Uncle Maurice, but she had not really analysed his character. He was unselfish of the unselfish—that she knew; but she had failed to remember that he was a man who was always actuated by the very highest religious principles. He was, in short, unworldly. To do right meant far more with him than to be great and grand and rich and powerful. All those things which to Annie meant life and happiness were less than nothing to Uncle Maurice. Lady Lushington might be the richest and the grandest woman on earth, but if she was not also a good woman nothing would induce him to entrust one so precious as Annie to her care. The rector would make his inquiries; nothing that Annie could do would stop him. Even supposing the result were favourable—which Annie rather doubted, for she knew quite well that Lady Lushington was a most worldly woman—the plans made for her by the great lady in Paris could not be carried out. It was already too late to post a letter to Mrs Lyttelton that day; even if she were still at Lyttelton School, she could not get it before Sunday morning, and her reply, under the most favourable circumstances, could not reach the little old Welsh Rectory until Tuesday morning. But in all probability Mr Brooke’s letter would have to follow Mrs Lyttelton, who had doubtless long before now left Hendon. Mrs Lyttelton’s answer would, therefore, be late, and when it came it would most likely not be what Annie desired. Whatever happened, Mrs Lyttelton would tell the truth; she was the sort of woman who never shirked her duties.
At the best, therefore, Annie could not reach the Grand Hotel in Paris by Tuesday night, and at the worst she could not go at all. Was she, who had sinned so deeply in order to obtain her heart’s desire, to be balked of everything at the eleventh hour? Was Priscilla to have things to her liking? Was Mabel to have a great and royal time? And was Annie to be left alone—all alone—in the hideous Rectory, with one stupid woman to talk to her about preserves and pickles, and one stupid old man? Oh, well, he was not quite that; he was a dear old uncle, but nevertheless hewasrather prosy, and she was young; she could not endure her life at the Rectory. Something must be done.
She was thinking these thoughts when she suddenly saw advancing to meet her a gig which contained no less a person than Dr Brett.
“Oh doctor!” cried the girl, riding up to him, “will you please call at the Rectory? How lucky it is that I should have met you! I was going to Rashleigh to leave you a message.”
“Welcome back from school, Miss Annie,” said Dr Brett, a stout, elderly man with a florid face. “Is anything wrong, my dear?” he added.
“I don’t think that there is; but Uncle Maurice is fanciful, and Mrs Shelf more so. Will you just look in and give uncle something to put him right?”
“Of course I will go at once. But, my dear Miss Annie, you are mistaken when you call the rector fanciful; I never knew any one less so. I have often told him that he overworks, and that he ought to be careful. It is in the head that the mischief lies; and he is an old man, my dear Miss Annie, and has led a strenuous life. I am glad that you met me; it will save time.”
The doctor drove away, and Annie’s first intention was to turn her pony’s steps back again in the direction of Rashleigh Rectory, but as she was about to do so her hand came in contact with the letter addressed to Dawson the butcher. She might as well take it on; anything was better than dawdling away her time at the dull Rectory. Then, too, she could post her letter herself to Mabel, adding something to it so as to assure her friend that the question of joining her was only postponed. Besides—but this was an afterthought—there were some things wanted at Dawson’s. Annie again touched the letter, and as she did so her eyes rested on the signature. It was in her uncle’s well-known hand. She was to give this letter to Dawson, and he was to give her a receipt. A receipt meant that he was to acknowledge some money.
Annie’s heart gave a sudden leap. Was it possible that there was money in the letter? She felt the crimson colour rushing to her cheeks; a suffocating feeling just for a minute visited her heart. Then, urging the pony forward, she rode as fast as she could in the direction of Rashleigh.
Chapter Twelve.Her Great Sin.No one would have supposed that Annie Brooke, brought up so carefully by such an uncle as the Rev. Maurice Brooke, would so easily yield to one temptation after another. But it is one of the most surprising and true things in life that it is the first wrong-doing that counts. It is over the first wrong action that we struggle and hesitate. We shrink away then from the edge of the abyss, and if we do yield to temptation our consciences speak loudly.But conscience is of so delicate a fibre, so sensitive an organisation, that if she is neglected her voice grows feeble. She ceases to reproach when reproach is useless, and so each fall, be it great or little, is felt less than the last.A few months ago, even in her young life, Annie would not have believed it possible that she could have brought herself to open her uncle’s letter. Nevertheless, a mile out of Rashleigh she did so. Within the letter lay a cheque. It was an open cheque, payable to bearer and signed by the rector. The cheque was for twenty pounds. A bill of the butcher’s lay within. This bill amounted to twenty pounds. The rector, therefore, was sending Dawson, the well-known village butcher, a cheque for twenty pounds to pay the yearly account. It was the fashion at Rashleigh for the principal trades-people to be paid once a year. This twenty pounds, therefore, stood for the supply of meat of various sorts which was used at the Rectory during the year.Twenty pounds! Annie looked at it. Her eyes shone. “Take this, and you are all right,” whispered a voice. “With this you can easily get off to London, and from there to Paris. All you want is money. Well, here is money. You must write to your uncle when you get to Paris, and confess to him then. He will forgive you. He will be shocked; but he will forgive you. Of course he will.”Annie considered the whole position. “I have done a lot of uncomfortable things,” she thought. “I managed that affair of the essays, and I used poor Susan Martin’s poems for my purpose; and—and—I have got Mabel into no end of a scrape; it is my duty to see poor Mabel through. This thing is horrid! I know it is. I hate myself for doing it; but, after all, the money has been thrown in my way. Twenty pounds! I can buy some little articles of dress, too. Dawson will cash this for me; oh, of course he will. It does seem as if I were meant to do it; it is the only way out. Uncle Maurice is terrible when he takes, as it were, the bit between his teeth. Yes, I must do it; yes, I will. It is the only, only way.”Before Annie and her pony had gone another quarter of a mile Dawson’s bill had been torn into hundreds of tiny fragments, which floated away on the summer breeze, and the open cheque in the old rector’s handwriting, with his signature at the bottom and his name endorsing it behind, was folded carefully up in Annie’s purse.It was a pretty-looking girl—for excitement always added to Annie’s charms—who rode at last into the little village. She went straight to Dawson’s, sprang off her pony, and entered the shop.Old Dawson, who had known her from her babyhood, welcomed her back with effusion.“Dear me, now, miss,” he said, “I am that glad to see you! How I wish my missis was in! Why, you have grown into quite a young lady, Miss Annie.”“Of course,” replied Annie, “I am grown up, although I am not leaving school just yet. Please, Mr Dawson, I want you to give me—”She took a piece of paper from her pocket and laid it on the counter. The man glanced at Mrs Shelf’s orders, and desiring a foreman to attend to them, returned to talk to Annie.“And please,” continued the girl, her heart now jumping into her mouth, “uncle would be so much obliged if you could cash this for him.”Dawson glanced at the cheque.“Of course, miss,” he said. “How will you have it?”“In gold, please,” said Annie.“I can give you fifteen pounds in gold, miss. Will you take the rest in a five-pound note?”Annie agreed. Two or three minutes later, with her little parcel of meat put into a basket for her, and twenty pounds in her pocket, she was riding towards the post-office.There she dismounted, and asking for a sheet of the best note-paper, wrote a line to Lady Lushington. It ran as follows:“Dear Lady Lushington,—Thank you ever so much for your most kind invitation, which I take pleasure in accepting. My uncle is so glad that you have asked me, and I thank you now in his name as well as my own. I shall be in Paris on Tuesday night, so will you kindly send your maid, as you suggest, to meet me at the railway station? Please give my love to Mabel.—Yours very sincerely and gratefully, Annie Brooke.”When the letter was finished it was put into a separate envelope from the one which had already been written to Mabel, and then the two were addressed and stamped and dropped by Annie’s own hand into the box of the village post-office. How excited she felt, and how triumphant! Yes—oh yes—she had surmounted every difficulty now, for long before her theft with regard to the cheque had been discovered she would have left the country. She could be agreeable now to every one. She could smile at her neighbours; she could talk to the village children; and, above all things, she could and would be very, very nice to Uncle Maurice.When she arrived back at the Rectory such a rosy-faced, bright-eyed, pretty-looking girl walked into Mrs Shelf’s presence that that good woman hardly knew her. The sulky, disagreeable, selfish Annie of that morning had vanished, and a girl who was only too anxious to do what she could for every one appeared in her place.“I met Dr Brett, Mrs Shelf—wasn’t it a piece of luck?—and sent him on to see Uncle Maurice. Has he been, Mrs Shelf?”“Oh yes, my dear, he has; and I am glad to tell you he thinks that your dear uncle, with care and quiet, will soon be himself again. The doctor thinks a great lot of your being here, Annie, and says that your company will do your uncle more good than anything else in the world. He wants cheering up, he says, and to have his mind distracted from all his parish work. I know you will do what you can—won’t you?”“Of course I shall,” said Annie. “And here are the things from the butcher’s,” she added.“It was very thoughtful of you, Annie, to ride on to Rashleigh,” said Mrs Shelf. “I did want these sweetbreads. I mean to make a very delicate little stew out of them for your uncle’s dinner. The doctor says that he wants a lot of building up. He is an old man, my dear, and if we are not very precious of him, and careful of him, we sha’n’t keep him long. There are few of his like in this world, Annie, and it will be a sad day for many when the Lord calls him.”“Oh, but that won’t be for years and years,” said Annie, who disliked this sort of talk immensely. “Well,” she added, “I will go and sit with uncle now for a bit, and will make his tea for him presently; I know just how he likes it.”“Do, my dear. You know where his favourite cups and saucers are, and I am baking some special tea-cakes in the oven; and you can boil the kettle yourself, can’t you, Annie? for I shall be as busy as a bee looking after Peggie and the churning. That wench would try any one; she hasn’t a bit of head on her shoulders. And, by the way, Annie, what about the receipt? You paid Dawson, didn’t you?”Annie was leaving the kitchen. She turned her head slightly. “Dawson will send the receipt,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I was in such a hurry to get back that I didn’t wait for it.”“Well, my dear,” said Mrs Shelf, “that is all right; I expect it will arrive on Monday. The cart won’t be here before then, for we’ve got our week’s supply of meat in. It came this morning.”“Splendid,” thought Annie. “By Monday I shall be away.”She almost skipped into her uncle’s study. The old man was better already. He was lying back in his chair, and was reading a paper which had come by the afternoon’s post.“Ah, here you are, my love!” he said.“Here I am, uncle. I am so glad I met Dr Brett; he has made you better already.”“He has, child; he always does me good.” Annie drew a chair forward, and pushed her hair back from her forehead. The impatient look had left her face. It looked tranquil and at its best.“By the way, child,” said Mr Brooke, “you will want me to write that letter for you.”“You must not worry about it now, really, uncle,” said Annie, laying her hand on his.“It will do quite well to-morrow—quite well,” she added. “You know that whatever your Annie is, she would do nothing to make you worse.”“My dear little girl,” said the old man, deeply affected by what he considered such thoughtfulness, “you may be sure that all my thoughts with regard to you are prompted by real love for you. I don’t pretend that I have not looked forward very much indeed to these holidays. Nevertheless, I cannot forget that I am old, my love, and you are young. The young must have their day, dear, and the pleasure of the old is to watch them enjoying it. While you were out I have been thinking over my little money matters, and I think I can quite manage to give you a few extra pounds over and above your fare to Paris—a ten-pound note, perhaps, to buy some pretty little articles of dress.”“Thank you so much, uncle,” said Annie, speaking in her sweetest tone.“But my dear child, this will depend altogether on what Mrs Lyttelton says. But I expect the best, dear; for all her girls are nice, and you say that Miss Lushington is your special friend.”“My very greatest,” said Annie—“a sweet girl—a poetess!”“Indeed, Annie? She shows gifts at this early age? How very interesting! I am always impressed by young efforts; I like to encourage them. You have not by chance any of her little effusions by you?”Now Annie had brought poor Susan Martin’s manuscript book with her to the Rectory. She thought for a minute. Would it be safe to show these verses to the Rector? After a minute she said:“I think I have. I will look in my trunk after tea.”“Do, my love; I shall be much interested. I used to indulge in verses when I was young myself, dear. Ah, those far-off days! And I had my dreams of greatness too. We all have our little ambitions when we are young. I wonder what yours are, my little Annie.”“Oh, I don’t want to be clever at all,” said Annie; “I just want to have a good time—and to make you happy,” she added as an afterthought, putting out her small hand and laying it on his.“Bless you, my darling—bless you! You are the sunshine of my life. Yes—thank God, I am much better this afternoon; that horrid feeling in my head has passed away. It gives me anxiety now and then, but only on your account, my child. As far as I am concerned, I am ready and waiting—only waiting to obey. I have had my warning—most old people have, dear; but for your sake I would live a little.”“Of course you will live for many, many years longer, Uncle Maurice,” said Annie, rising and kissing him. “And now you are not going to be dismal, or to talk horrid things about—about dying. I am going to give you your tea; you always love the tea that Annie makes for you.”She flitted out of the room. She was the gayest of the gay during the rest of that evening. She chatted, and laughed, and made herself pleasant to every one; and when Uncle Maurice went to bed, feeling almost quite well again, he thanked God on his knees for having given him so bonny a creature as Annie to be the light and joy of his old age.Meanwhile Annie herself, seated by her open window, with the moonlight falling full upon her, was counting her money—that money which she had stolen from the faithful and affectionate old man. She put it in rows before her on the table. Fifteen beautiful, bright golden sovereigns; and there was also a five-pound note! The note looked a little dirty and as though it had passed through many hands.Annie sat by the window and made her plans. Whether her conscience would prick her by-and-by remained to be proved; but on the present occasion it was quite tired out, stupefied by all those things which miserable Annie had done to try it. She felt, therefore, quite at her ease, and made her arrangements with care.It would not do for her to arrive in Paris before the appointed evening. She had, therefore, the whole of to-morrow to spend at the Rectory, and also the whole of Sunday. Monday, too, might be spent there; and she would have done this but for the fact that the butcher’s cart called on Monday morning, and that Mrs Shelf would notice the absence of Dawson’s receipt. At first, of course, she would not be greatly surprised, and would content herself with writing him a note demanding it. It might be possible, however, that she would go to Rashleigh to see him. In great astonishment, he would ask many questions of Mrs Shelf, and would naturally tell her that Annie had cashed the cheque for twenty pounds.Annie was positively sure that her uncle would forgive her even so great a sin as this, but she did not want to be in the house when he knew of her guilt. She resolved, therefore, to leave the Rectory on Monday morning, of course first writing a little note to her uncle telling him what she had done—in fact, making her confession to him, and begging him to forgive her.“There is nothing else for it,” she thought. “I know the dear old man will be dreadfully disappointed, but he will forgive me; I know he will.”That evening Annie neglected even to say that semblance of prayer which she was accustomed to utter before she laid her head on her pillow. Somehow, she dared not pray.The next morning she was up, bright and early, singing gaily about the house. Mr Brooke had quite recovered. He came to meet her as she ran down into the garden.“Why, Uncle Maurice!” cried the girl. “Oh, you are naughty!”“I am quite well,” he answered, “and I have good news for you. Who do you think is coming to stay here to-day?”“Whom?” asked the girl. “My cousin’s son from Australia—John Saxon. I have not seen him since he was a baby. You will have some fun now, Annie, with a young person in the house.”“Is he really young?” said Annie.“Young, my dear? I should think so; about five or six and twenty. He’s as good a lad as ever walked. I had a long letter from his mother. She says he is going to pay me a visit, and I may expect him—yes, to-day. You will have something to look forward to now, Annie, if Lady Lushington’s character as a worldly-minded woman prevents my sending you to Paris.”“But I think I shall go to Paris,” said Annie. She looked very pretty and expectant. The rector uttered a slight sigh.“Come in, uncle; I must give you your breakfast, even if fifty John Saxons are coming to pay you a visit. Oh yes, of course I am glad.”But she did not feel so; she had a dim sort of idea that this young man might interfere with her own plans.
No one would have supposed that Annie Brooke, brought up so carefully by such an uncle as the Rev. Maurice Brooke, would so easily yield to one temptation after another. But it is one of the most surprising and true things in life that it is the first wrong-doing that counts. It is over the first wrong action that we struggle and hesitate. We shrink away then from the edge of the abyss, and if we do yield to temptation our consciences speak loudly.
But conscience is of so delicate a fibre, so sensitive an organisation, that if she is neglected her voice grows feeble. She ceases to reproach when reproach is useless, and so each fall, be it great or little, is felt less than the last.
A few months ago, even in her young life, Annie would not have believed it possible that she could have brought herself to open her uncle’s letter. Nevertheless, a mile out of Rashleigh she did so. Within the letter lay a cheque. It was an open cheque, payable to bearer and signed by the rector. The cheque was for twenty pounds. A bill of the butcher’s lay within. This bill amounted to twenty pounds. The rector, therefore, was sending Dawson, the well-known village butcher, a cheque for twenty pounds to pay the yearly account. It was the fashion at Rashleigh for the principal trades-people to be paid once a year. This twenty pounds, therefore, stood for the supply of meat of various sorts which was used at the Rectory during the year.
Twenty pounds! Annie looked at it. Her eyes shone. “Take this, and you are all right,” whispered a voice. “With this you can easily get off to London, and from there to Paris. All you want is money. Well, here is money. You must write to your uncle when you get to Paris, and confess to him then. He will forgive you. He will be shocked; but he will forgive you. Of course he will.”
Annie considered the whole position. “I have done a lot of uncomfortable things,” she thought. “I managed that affair of the essays, and I used poor Susan Martin’s poems for my purpose; and—and—I have got Mabel into no end of a scrape; it is my duty to see poor Mabel through. This thing is horrid! I know it is. I hate myself for doing it; but, after all, the money has been thrown in my way. Twenty pounds! I can buy some little articles of dress, too. Dawson will cash this for me; oh, of course he will. It does seem as if I were meant to do it; it is the only way out. Uncle Maurice is terrible when he takes, as it were, the bit between his teeth. Yes, I must do it; yes, I will. It is the only, only way.”
Before Annie and her pony had gone another quarter of a mile Dawson’s bill had been torn into hundreds of tiny fragments, which floated away on the summer breeze, and the open cheque in the old rector’s handwriting, with his signature at the bottom and his name endorsing it behind, was folded carefully up in Annie’s purse.
It was a pretty-looking girl—for excitement always added to Annie’s charms—who rode at last into the little village. She went straight to Dawson’s, sprang off her pony, and entered the shop.
Old Dawson, who had known her from her babyhood, welcomed her back with effusion.
“Dear me, now, miss,” he said, “I am that glad to see you! How I wish my missis was in! Why, you have grown into quite a young lady, Miss Annie.”
“Of course,” replied Annie, “I am grown up, although I am not leaving school just yet. Please, Mr Dawson, I want you to give me—”
She took a piece of paper from her pocket and laid it on the counter. The man glanced at Mrs Shelf’s orders, and desiring a foreman to attend to them, returned to talk to Annie.
“And please,” continued the girl, her heart now jumping into her mouth, “uncle would be so much obliged if you could cash this for him.”
Dawson glanced at the cheque.
“Of course, miss,” he said. “How will you have it?”
“In gold, please,” said Annie.
“I can give you fifteen pounds in gold, miss. Will you take the rest in a five-pound note?”
Annie agreed. Two or three minutes later, with her little parcel of meat put into a basket for her, and twenty pounds in her pocket, she was riding towards the post-office.
There she dismounted, and asking for a sheet of the best note-paper, wrote a line to Lady Lushington. It ran as follows:
“Dear Lady Lushington,—Thank you ever so much for your most kind invitation, which I take pleasure in accepting. My uncle is so glad that you have asked me, and I thank you now in his name as well as my own. I shall be in Paris on Tuesday night, so will you kindly send your maid, as you suggest, to meet me at the railway station? Please give my love to Mabel.—Yours very sincerely and gratefully, Annie Brooke.”
When the letter was finished it was put into a separate envelope from the one which had already been written to Mabel, and then the two were addressed and stamped and dropped by Annie’s own hand into the box of the village post-office. How excited she felt, and how triumphant! Yes—oh yes—she had surmounted every difficulty now, for long before her theft with regard to the cheque had been discovered she would have left the country. She could be agreeable now to every one. She could smile at her neighbours; she could talk to the village children; and, above all things, she could and would be very, very nice to Uncle Maurice.
When she arrived back at the Rectory such a rosy-faced, bright-eyed, pretty-looking girl walked into Mrs Shelf’s presence that that good woman hardly knew her. The sulky, disagreeable, selfish Annie of that morning had vanished, and a girl who was only too anxious to do what she could for every one appeared in her place.
“I met Dr Brett, Mrs Shelf—wasn’t it a piece of luck?—and sent him on to see Uncle Maurice. Has he been, Mrs Shelf?”
“Oh yes, my dear, he has; and I am glad to tell you he thinks that your dear uncle, with care and quiet, will soon be himself again. The doctor thinks a great lot of your being here, Annie, and says that your company will do your uncle more good than anything else in the world. He wants cheering up, he says, and to have his mind distracted from all his parish work. I know you will do what you can—won’t you?”
“Of course I shall,” said Annie. “And here are the things from the butcher’s,” she added.
“It was very thoughtful of you, Annie, to ride on to Rashleigh,” said Mrs Shelf. “I did want these sweetbreads. I mean to make a very delicate little stew out of them for your uncle’s dinner. The doctor says that he wants a lot of building up. He is an old man, my dear, and if we are not very precious of him, and careful of him, we sha’n’t keep him long. There are few of his like in this world, Annie, and it will be a sad day for many when the Lord calls him.”
“Oh, but that won’t be for years and years,” said Annie, who disliked this sort of talk immensely. “Well,” she added, “I will go and sit with uncle now for a bit, and will make his tea for him presently; I know just how he likes it.”
“Do, my dear. You know where his favourite cups and saucers are, and I am baking some special tea-cakes in the oven; and you can boil the kettle yourself, can’t you, Annie? for I shall be as busy as a bee looking after Peggie and the churning. That wench would try any one; she hasn’t a bit of head on her shoulders. And, by the way, Annie, what about the receipt? You paid Dawson, didn’t you?”
Annie was leaving the kitchen. She turned her head slightly. “Dawson will send the receipt,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I was in such a hurry to get back that I didn’t wait for it.”
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs Shelf, “that is all right; I expect it will arrive on Monday. The cart won’t be here before then, for we’ve got our week’s supply of meat in. It came this morning.”
“Splendid,” thought Annie. “By Monday I shall be away.”
She almost skipped into her uncle’s study. The old man was better already. He was lying back in his chair, and was reading a paper which had come by the afternoon’s post.
“Ah, here you are, my love!” he said.
“Here I am, uncle. I am so glad I met Dr Brett; he has made you better already.”
“He has, child; he always does me good.” Annie drew a chair forward, and pushed her hair back from her forehead. The impatient look had left her face. It looked tranquil and at its best.
“By the way, child,” said Mr Brooke, “you will want me to write that letter for you.”
“You must not worry about it now, really, uncle,” said Annie, laying her hand on his.
“It will do quite well to-morrow—quite well,” she added. “You know that whatever your Annie is, she would do nothing to make you worse.”
“My dear little girl,” said the old man, deeply affected by what he considered such thoughtfulness, “you may be sure that all my thoughts with regard to you are prompted by real love for you. I don’t pretend that I have not looked forward very much indeed to these holidays. Nevertheless, I cannot forget that I am old, my love, and you are young. The young must have their day, dear, and the pleasure of the old is to watch them enjoying it. While you were out I have been thinking over my little money matters, and I think I can quite manage to give you a few extra pounds over and above your fare to Paris—a ten-pound note, perhaps, to buy some pretty little articles of dress.”
“Thank you so much, uncle,” said Annie, speaking in her sweetest tone.
“But my dear child, this will depend altogether on what Mrs Lyttelton says. But I expect the best, dear; for all her girls are nice, and you say that Miss Lushington is your special friend.”
“My very greatest,” said Annie—“a sweet girl—a poetess!”
“Indeed, Annie? She shows gifts at this early age? How very interesting! I am always impressed by young efforts; I like to encourage them. You have not by chance any of her little effusions by you?”
Now Annie had brought poor Susan Martin’s manuscript book with her to the Rectory. She thought for a minute. Would it be safe to show these verses to the Rector? After a minute she said:
“I think I have. I will look in my trunk after tea.”
“Do, my love; I shall be much interested. I used to indulge in verses when I was young myself, dear. Ah, those far-off days! And I had my dreams of greatness too. We all have our little ambitions when we are young. I wonder what yours are, my little Annie.”
“Oh, I don’t want to be clever at all,” said Annie; “I just want to have a good time—and to make you happy,” she added as an afterthought, putting out her small hand and laying it on his.
“Bless you, my darling—bless you! You are the sunshine of my life. Yes—thank God, I am much better this afternoon; that horrid feeling in my head has passed away. It gives me anxiety now and then, but only on your account, my child. As far as I am concerned, I am ready and waiting—only waiting to obey. I have had my warning—most old people have, dear; but for your sake I would live a little.”
“Of course you will live for many, many years longer, Uncle Maurice,” said Annie, rising and kissing him. “And now you are not going to be dismal, or to talk horrid things about—about dying. I am going to give you your tea; you always love the tea that Annie makes for you.”
She flitted out of the room. She was the gayest of the gay during the rest of that evening. She chatted, and laughed, and made herself pleasant to every one; and when Uncle Maurice went to bed, feeling almost quite well again, he thanked God on his knees for having given him so bonny a creature as Annie to be the light and joy of his old age.
Meanwhile Annie herself, seated by her open window, with the moonlight falling full upon her, was counting her money—that money which she had stolen from the faithful and affectionate old man. She put it in rows before her on the table. Fifteen beautiful, bright golden sovereigns; and there was also a five-pound note! The note looked a little dirty and as though it had passed through many hands.
Annie sat by the window and made her plans. Whether her conscience would prick her by-and-by remained to be proved; but on the present occasion it was quite tired out, stupefied by all those things which miserable Annie had done to try it. She felt, therefore, quite at her ease, and made her arrangements with care.
It would not do for her to arrive in Paris before the appointed evening. She had, therefore, the whole of to-morrow to spend at the Rectory, and also the whole of Sunday. Monday, too, might be spent there; and she would have done this but for the fact that the butcher’s cart called on Monday morning, and that Mrs Shelf would notice the absence of Dawson’s receipt. At first, of course, she would not be greatly surprised, and would content herself with writing him a note demanding it. It might be possible, however, that she would go to Rashleigh to see him. In great astonishment, he would ask many questions of Mrs Shelf, and would naturally tell her that Annie had cashed the cheque for twenty pounds.
Annie was positively sure that her uncle would forgive her even so great a sin as this, but she did not want to be in the house when he knew of her guilt. She resolved, therefore, to leave the Rectory on Monday morning, of course first writing a little note to her uncle telling him what she had done—in fact, making her confession to him, and begging him to forgive her.
“There is nothing else for it,” she thought. “I know the dear old man will be dreadfully disappointed, but he will forgive me; I know he will.”
That evening Annie neglected even to say that semblance of prayer which she was accustomed to utter before she laid her head on her pillow. Somehow, she dared not pray.
The next morning she was up, bright and early, singing gaily about the house. Mr Brooke had quite recovered. He came to meet her as she ran down into the garden.
“Why, Uncle Maurice!” cried the girl. “Oh, you are naughty!”
“I am quite well,” he answered, “and I have good news for you. Who do you think is coming to stay here to-day?”
“Whom?” asked the girl. “My cousin’s son from Australia—John Saxon. I have not seen him since he was a baby. You will have some fun now, Annie, with a young person in the house.”
“Is he really young?” said Annie.
“Young, my dear? I should think so; about five or six and twenty. He’s as good a lad as ever walked. I had a long letter from his mother. She says he is going to pay me a visit, and I may expect him—yes, to-day. You will have something to look forward to now, Annie, if Lady Lushington’s character as a worldly-minded woman prevents my sending you to Paris.”
“But I think I shall go to Paris,” said Annie. She looked very pretty and expectant. The rector uttered a slight sigh.
“Come in, uncle; I must give you your breakfast, even if fifty John Saxons are coming to pay you a visit. Oh yes, of course I am glad.”
But she did not feel so; she had a dim sort of idea that this young man might interfere with her own plans.
Chapter Thirteen.Annie’s Appeal.John Saxon was big and square and muscular. Under ordinary circumstances Annie would have been charmed with his society. He was frankly glad to meet her, and they had not been half-an-hour in each other’s company before they were chatting together as the best of friends.“We are distant cousins, you know,” said the young man. “I am so glad you are here, Miss Brooke.”“I am glad to be here, too,” said Annie, “to welcome you; but you won’t have much of my society, for I am going to Paris in a few days.”“Are you? I am sorry for that.”“Oh, you won’t stay long either,” said Annie; “you won’t be able to stand the place.”“But I think I shall like it very much,” he replied. “I love the country, and have never seen English country life before; this place doesn’t seem at all lonely to me after our life in Tasmania. You haven’t an idea what real loneliness is in any part of England; but if you lived fifty or sixty miles away from the nearest neighbour, then you’d have some idea of it.”“It must be horrible,” said Annie, who was standing that moment in the sunlit garden with an apple-tree behind her and her pretty little figure silhouetted against the evening sky.“Not for me,” said young Saxon; “I love the life. Your England seems to suffocate me. In London I hadn’t room to breathe, and in that Paris to which you are going, Miss Brooke, I really felt ill.”“Oh dear!” said Annie; “then you have not my sort of nature.”He looked at her tentatively. She was fresh and young, and he had never talked to a real English girl before. But, somehow, she did not quite suit him. He was a keen judge of character, and those eyes of hers did not look long enough at any one. They soon lowered their lids as though they were keeping back a secret; and her pretty little mouth could also look unamiable at times. He hated himself for finding these flaws in a creature whom the rector worshipped, but nevertheless he could not help observing them.Saxon arrived at the Rectory on the afternoon of Saturday, and he and Annie had already become, to all appearance, excellent friends.When Sunday dawned he accompanied her to church, where the old rector preached one of the best sermons his affectionate congregation had ever listened to. Saxon and Annie were both long to remember that sermon and all that immediately followed, for on the afternoon of that same day the old man had another attack of drowsiness and giddiness. The doctor was sent for, and shook his head.“He is not at all well,” said Dr Brett; “he is in no condition to stand the slightest shock. He did far too much when he preached to-day. Oh, Miss Annie, you need not look so dismal; I make no doubt we shall pull him round, but we have got to beverycareful.”Annie felt puzzled. Of course she was sorry for her uncle, but she had by no means reached the stage when she would give up her pleasure for him. She was, however, alarmed when the doctor said that the old man was in no condition to stand a shock. Was not a shock being prepared for him? Annie knew well how he loved her. She also knew how strong were his opinions with regard to right and wrong, with regard to goodness and wickedness. To old Mr Brooke Annie’s deed would bring such sorrow that his life, already in danger, might go out under the shock.The girl felt herself trembling. She turned away from Saxon. He noticed her agitation, and went into the garden. Saxon felt that he had never liked Annie so much before.“I thought her a rather pretty, rather heartless little thing,” he said to himself; “but I am mistaken. She does love the dear old man very truly.”Meanwhile Annie was pacing up and down wondering what was to be done. Nothing would induce her to give up Paris; but if only she could go without giving her uncle that terrible shock with regard to the money!All of a sudden a thought darted through her brain. Why should she not ask her cousin, John Saxon, to lend her twenty pounds? He had talked quite carelessly about his life in Tasmania last night, and, without intending to do so, had given Annie to understand that he was very comfortably off. The more she thought of borrowing money from her cousin, the more easy did it seem to her. If he gave it to her, she would go very early to-morrow to Rashleigh, pay Dawson, and bring back the receipt. Then all would be well. She could write a letter to her uncle explaining that she was forced to go to Paris for a little, but if he were really ill, she would not stay very long. In the meantime John Saxon would look after him. As to the money which she was about to borrow, Annie gave her shoulders a shrug.“I’ll manage to let John have it some time,” she thought. “I don’t know how or when—but some time, and I don’t think he will be hard on me.”Having made up her mind, she returned to the house. Mrs Shelf, who had been talking to Saxon, came up to her.“You mustn’t fret really, missie,” she said. “All the doctor requires is that my dear master should have no anxiety of any sort. I am sure, miss, you would be the very last to give him any; and as we will all be equally careful, he will soon come round again.”“Of course I wouldn’t hurt Uncle Maurice,” cried Annie. “What is he doing at present?” she added.“He is asleep in his study, my dear; and I am going to watch by him this afternoon, for Dr Brett has given him a composing draught, and would like him to have a long rest. When he wakes I shall be handy to give him his tea. So I was thinking that if you and Mr Saxon went for a long walk it would do you both a sight of good.”“Yes, do come, please,” said Saxon, who approached at that moment. “I want to see some of the country that you think so wild.”“I shall be delighted,” said Annie, who felt that this proposal of Mrs Shelf’s would exactly fit in with her own plans.Soon after three o’clock the young people started on their walk. Annie took her cousin on purpose up the hill at the back of the old Rectory and into the wildest part of the pariah, for she was determined to have him quite to herself. At last, when she was too tired to go any farther, they both sat down on the edge of a beetling crag, from where they could obtain a superb view both of land and ocean.“Now,” said Annie, with a smile, “if you don’t call this a wild and desolate spot, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”“The view is exceedingly fine,” replied Saxon; “but as to its being wild—why, look, Miss Annie, look—you can see a little thread of smoke there”—and he pointed to his right—“and there”—he pointed to his left; “in fact, all over the place. Each little thread of blue smoke,” he continued, “means a house, and each house means a family, or at least some human beings; and in addition to the human creatures, there are probably horses, and dogs, and cats, and barn-door fowls. Oh, I call this place thickly-peopled, if you ask me.”Annie shuddered.“I hate it,” she said with sudden emphasis.“You what?” asked Saxon, bending towards her.“Hate it,” she repeated. “I want to get away.”“You can’t just now,” he said, speaking in a low, sympathetic tone. “It would be impossible—would it not?—while your uncle is so ill.”“He isn’t really ill,” said Annie; “he just wants care.”“He wants the sort of care you can give him,” repeated Saxon.“Or you,” said Annie.“I?” said the young man. “How can I possibly do what you would do for him?”“You can do far better than I,” said Annie restlessly. “And the fact is, Cousin John—may I call you Cousin John?”“Call me John, without the ‘cousin,’ as I will call you Annie if you don’t mind.”“Then we are Annie and John to each other,” said the girl; “that means that we are friends. Give me your hand, John, to close the compact.” She laid her little white hand in his, and he grasped it with right goodwill.“John,” said Annie, “I must confide in you; I have no one else.”“Of course if I can help you I shall be glad,” he said a little coldly; for there was something in her words which brought back his distrust of her.“Well, it is just this: I have to go to Paris for a short time—”“You have—I don’t understand.”“And the painful part,” continued Annie, “is this—that I am unable to explain. But I can tell you this much. I have a school friend—indeed, two school friends—who are both in—in trouble; and they can’t possibly get out of their trouble without my help. If I go to Paris now to join my friend, things will be all right; if I don’t go, things will be all wrong.”“But, excuse me,” said Saxon, “how can you go when your uncle is so ill?”“That is it,” said Annie. “Of course, if he were in real danger I should be obliged to give my friends up. But he is not in danger, John; he only wants care. What I mean to do is this—or rather, I should say, what I should like to do. I would go, say, to-morrow to London, and then across to Paris, and there get through my little business and put things straight for those I love.”Annie spoke most pathetically, and her blue eyes filled with tears.“She has a feeling heart,” thought the young man. Once again his suspicions were disarmed.He drew a little closer to her. She felt that she had secured his sympathy.“Can’t you understand,” continued Annie, “that things may happen which involve other people? Can’t you understand?”“It is difficult to know why you cannot speak about them, Annie,” replied the young man. “Nevertheless, if you say so, it is of course the case.”“It is the case. I undertook, perhaps wrongly—although I don’t think so—to get a school fellow what she wanted most in the world last term. I wish you knew her; she is such a splendid, noble girl. She is very clever, too. I will tell you her name—Priscilla Weir. She has such a fine face, with, oh! so much in it. But she is unhappily situated. Her father is in India, and either cannot or will not help her; and she has no mother living, poor darling! and her uncle, her mother’s brother, is quite a dreadful sort of creature. Priscilla is, oh, so clever! She has quite wonderful talents. And what do you think this uncle wants to do? Why, to apprentice her to a dressmaker. Think of it—a dressmaker!”John Saxon did think of it but he showed no surprise. One of the nicest girls he knew in Tasmania was a dressmaker. She was very well informed, and could talk well on many subjects. She read good books, and had a dear little house of her own, and often and often he sat and talked with her of an evening, when the day’s work was done and they were both at leisure to exchange confidences. John Saxon was not the least bit in love with the dressmaker, but for her sake now he could not condemn the occupation. He said, therefore, quietly:“As long as women wear dresses there must be other women to make them, I suppose. I see nothing derogatory in that, Annie, provided your friend likes it.”“Oh, how can you talk in such a way?” said Annie, her tone changing now to one of almost petulance. “Why, if Priscie were turned into a dressmaker she would lose her position; she wouldn’t have a chance; she would go under; and she is so clever—oh, so clever! It does not require that sort of cleverness to be a dressmaker.”“Perhaps not,” said Saxon. “I begin to understand; your English view of the calling is not ours in Tasmania. And so you want to go to Paris to help this girl?”“Yes; principally about her. In fact, I may say I am going almost wholly about her.”“I am not to know the reason?”“I cannot tell you, for it would betray her.”“Have you spoken to your uncle on the subject?”“Yes.”“And what did he say?”“Well,” said Annie eagerly, “it was this way. My other great friend is a certain Mabel Lushington. She is staying with her aunt Lady Lushington; and Lady Lushington most kindly sent me an invitation to join them both on Tuesday evening. They are going to take me to Switzerland and pay all my expenses, and of course I shall have a jolly time.”“But would that help your friend, the prospective dressmaker?”“Yes. It may sound very puzzling; but if I were to join Mabel Lushington, it would put things all right for my friend.”“It is puzzling, of course, for me to understand, Annie; but I must take you at your word and suppose that it is so.”“Indeed it is, John; indeed it is. And I am, oh, so unhappy about it!”The blue eyes filled with tears. They looked very pretty as they brimmed over and the tears rolled down the smooth young cheeks. Annie could cry just a little without her appearance being at all spoiled thereby. On the contrary, a few tears added to a certain pathos which came at such times into her face. John Saxon found himself looking at the tears and accepting Annie’s view of the matter as quite plausible.“It is very good of you to give me a little of your confidence,” he said.“I do!” she answered resolutely; “for I want you to help me.”“Anything in my power that is not wrong I will do,” he replied.The firm tone of his voice, and the way in which he said, “Anything that is not wrong,” damped Annie’s hopes for a minute. Then she continued:“I spoke to Uncle Maurice, not telling him, of course, anything about Priscie, but simply expressing a desire to accept the invitation, and he said that I should go and he would find the money if Lady Lushington was all right.”“What does that mean?” asked Saxon.“Oh, really, John, it was too bad. You know Uncle Maurice is very narrow-minded. He wanted to write first to Mrs Lyttelton to discover what sort of person Lady Lushington was, whether she was worldly or not; but, you see, there is no time, for if I don’t join Mabel and Lady Lushington on Tuesday night in Paris I shall not be able to join them at all, for they begin their travels on Wednesday morning, and I have not the slightest idea where I can pick them up. Besides, I don’t know foreign countries. I could perhaps get to Paris, where I should be met; but I couldn’t manage Switzerland or any place farther afield. Don’t you see that for yourself?”“I do.”“Well, John,” continued Annie, imperceptibly coming a little nearer to him, “I want you to do this for me. I want to go to Paris, but only for a day or two. I want to see Mabel and put that thing right with regard to poor, dear, clever Priscie; and then, if Uncle Maurice is really ill, I will come back. I know he would let me go if you persuaded him; and I want you to do so, dear John; and as he must not be worried in any way, will you lend me twenty pounds until Uncle Maurice is well enough to be troubled?”“But you cannot go without telling him, Annie. Of course, my dear, I could and would lend you the money, but even your friend is not so important just now as your uncle. He loves to have you near him. I wish you could have heard how he spoke of you to me. You were his sunshine, his darling, the joy of his heart.”“I know I am,” said Annie; “and it is what I want to be, and love to be,” she added. “But you are here, and there is my dear friend, oh! in such trouble; and she trusts me, and I can put everything right for her. Oh! if you would only lend me twenty pounds—and—and—tell Uncle Maurice yourself that I am going away for a few days and will be back again very soon. Won’t you lend it to me, John—just because we are cousins, and you have come all the way across the seas—the wide, wide seas—to help me at this pressing moment?”“You affect me, Annie,” said the young man.“You speak very strongly. I did not know schoolgirls desired things so badly as all this. Twenty pounds—it is nothing; it is yours for the asking. Here, I will give it to you now.”He put his hand into his pocket and took out four five-pound notes.“Here,” he said, “if this will make you happy and save your friend from the fate of being a village dressmaker, take it, and welcome.”“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Annie, trembling all over. “Oh! I don’t know how.”“Don’t thank me,” he replied a little stiffly. “The thing is a mere bagatelle.”“You shall have it back as soon as possible,” said Annie.“At your convenience,” he replied. He still spoke stiffly.She folded up the money and pushed the notes inside her gloves. Her whole face had changed, and to John Saxon, who watched her, it had not changed for the better. The pathos and entreaty had gone out of it. It was a hard little face once more; and again he noticed that want of candour and that inability to look any one straight in the face which he had already observed in her eyes. He wondered uneasily if he had done wrong in lending her the money; but what was he to do? She must really want it, poor little thing! and after all, to Saxon, who was accustomed to great journeys taken at a moment’s notice, and who had visited America and most of the habitable globe—although this was his first visit to England—a little trip to Paris meant less, than nothing.“When do you propose to go?” he said to the girl when they presently rose to their feet.“I should like to go to-morrow; in fact. I must if I am to meet Mabel and Lady Lushington.”“Then perhaps it would do if I broke the information to your uncle to-morrow morning?”“Yes; that will doquitebeautifully. Oh! I don’t really know how to thank you.”“Effect your worthy object, Annie, and I shall have obtained all the thanks I need,” was the young man’s reply.
John Saxon was big and square and muscular. Under ordinary circumstances Annie would have been charmed with his society. He was frankly glad to meet her, and they had not been half-an-hour in each other’s company before they were chatting together as the best of friends.
“We are distant cousins, you know,” said the young man. “I am so glad you are here, Miss Brooke.”
“I am glad to be here, too,” said Annie, “to welcome you; but you won’t have much of my society, for I am going to Paris in a few days.”
“Are you? I am sorry for that.”
“Oh, you won’t stay long either,” said Annie; “you won’t be able to stand the place.”
“But I think I shall like it very much,” he replied. “I love the country, and have never seen English country life before; this place doesn’t seem at all lonely to me after our life in Tasmania. You haven’t an idea what real loneliness is in any part of England; but if you lived fifty or sixty miles away from the nearest neighbour, then you’d have some idea of it.”
“It must be horrible,” said Annie, who was standing that moment in the sunlit garden with an apple-tree behind her and her pretty little figure silhouetted against the evening sky.
“Not for me,” said young Saxon; “I love the life. Your England seems to suffocate me. In London I hadn’t room to breathe, and in that Paris to which you are going, Miss Brooke, I really felt ill.”
“Oh dear!” said Annie; “then you have not my sort of nature.”
He looked at her tentatively. She was fresh and young, and he had never talked to a real English girl before. But, somehow, she did not quite suit him. He was a keen judge of character, and those eyes of hers did not look long enough at any one. They soon lowered their lids as though they were keeping back a secret; and her pretty little mouth could also look unamiable at times. He hated himself for finding these flaws in a creature whom the rector worshipped, but nevertheless he could not help observing them.
Saxon arrived at the Rectory on the afternoon of Saturday, and he and Annie had already become, to all appearance, excellent friends.
When Sunday dawned he accompanied her to church, where the old rector preached one of the best sermons his affectionate congregation had ever listened to. Saxon and Annie were both long to remember that sermon and all that immediately followed, for on the afternoon of that same day the old man had another attack of drowsiness and giddiness. The doctor was sent for, and shook his head.
“He is not at all well,” said Dr Brett; “he is in no condition to stand the slightest shock. He did far too much when he preached to-day. Oh, Miss Annie, you need not look so dismal; I make no doubt we shall pull him round, but we have got to beverycareful.”
Annie felt puzzled. Of course she was sorry for her uncle, but she had by no means reached the stage when she would give up her pleasure for him. She was, however, alarmed when the doctor said that the old man was in no condition to stand a shock. Was not a shock being prepared for him? Annie knew well how he loved her. She also knew how strong were his opinions with regard to right and wrong, with regard to goodness and wickedness. To old Mr Brooke Annie’s deed would bring such sorrow that his life, already in danger, might go out under the shock.
The girl felt herself trembling. She turned away from Saxon. He noticed her agitation, and went into the garden. Saxon felt that he had never liked Annie so much before.
“I thought her a rather pretty, rather heartless little thing,” he said to himself; “but I am mistaken. She does love the dear old man very truly.”
Meanwhile Annie was pacing up and down wondering what was to be done. Nothing would induce her to give up Paris; but if only she could go without giving her uncle that terrible shock with regard to the money!
All of a sudden a thought darted through her brain. Why should she not ask her cousin, John Saxon, to lend her twenty pounds? He had talked quite carelessly about his life in Tasmania last night, and, without intending to do so, had given Annie to understand that he was very comfortably off. The more she thought of borrowing money from her cousin, the more easy did it seem to her. If he gave it to her, she would go very early to-morrow to Rashleigh, pay Dawson, and bring back the receipt. Then all would be well. She could write a letter to her uncle explaining that she was forced to go to Paris for a little, but if he were really ill, she would not stay very long. In the meantime John Saxon would look after him. As to the money which she was about to borrow, Annie gave her shoulders a shrug.
“I’ll manage to let John have it some time,” she thought. “I don’t know how or when—but some time, and I don’t think he will be hard on me.”
Having made up her mind, she returned to the house. Mrs Shelf, who had been talking to Saxon, came up to her.
“You mustn’t fret really, missie,” she said. “All the doctor requires is that my dear master should have no anxiety of any sort. I am sure, miss, you would be the very last to give him any; and as we will all be equally careful, he will soon come round again.”
“Of course I wouldn’t hurt Uncle Maurice,” cried Annie. “What is he doing at present?” she added.
“He is asleep in his study, my dear; and I am going to watch by him this afternoon, for Dr Brett has given him a composing draught, and would like him to have a long rest. When he wakes I shall be handy to give him his tea. So I was thinking that if you and Mr Saxon went for a long walk it would do you both a sight of good.”
“Yes, do come, please,” said Saxon, who approached at that moment. “I want to see some of the country that you think so wild.”
“I shall be delighted,” said Annie, who felt that this proposal of Mrs Shelf’s would exactly fit in with her own plans.
Soon after three o’clock the young people started on their walk. Annie took her cousin on purpose up the hill at the back of the old Rectory and into the wildest part of the pariah, for she was determined to have him quite to herself. At last, when she was too tired to go any farther, they both sat down on the edge of a beetling crag, from where they could obtain a superb view both of land and ocean.
“Now,” said Annie, with a smile, “if you don’t call this a wild and desolate spot, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“The view is exceedingly fine,” replied Saxon; “but as to its being wild—why, look, Miss Annie, look—you can see a little thread of smoke there”—and he pointed to his right—“and there”—he pointed to his left; “in fact, all over the place. Each little thread of blue smoke,” he continued, “means a house, and each house means a family, or at least some human beings; and in addition to the human creatures, there are probably horses, and dogs, and cats, and barn-door fowls. Oh, I call this place thickly-peopled, if you ask me.”
Annie shuddered.
“I hate it,” she said with sudden emphasis.
“You what?” asked Saxon, bending towards her.
“Hate it,” she repeated. “I want to get away.”
“You can’t just now,” he said, speaking in a low, sympathetic tone. “It would be impossible—would it not?—while your uncle is so ill.”
“He isn’t really ill,” said Annie; “he just wants care.”
“He wants the sort of care you can give him,” repeated Saxon.
“Or you,” said Annie.
“I?” said the young man. “How can I possibly do what you would do for him?”
“You can do far better than I,” said Annie restlessly. “And the fact is, Cousin John—may I call you Cousin John?”
“Call me John, without the ‘cousin,’ as I will call you Annie if you don’t mind.”
“Then we are Annie and John to each other,” said the girl; “that means that we are friends. Give me your hand, John, to close the compact.” She laid her little white hand in his, and he grasped it with right goodwill.
“John,” said Annie, “I must confide in you; I have no one else.”
“Of course if I can help you I shall be glad,” he said a little coldly; for there was something in her words which brought back his distrust of her.
“Well, it is just this: I have to go to Paris for a short time—”
“You have—I don’t understand.”
“And the painful part,” continued Annie, “is this—that I am unable to explain. But I can tell you this much. I have a school friend—indeed, two school friends—who are both in—in trouble; and they can’t possibly get out of their trouble without my help. If I go to Paris now to join my friend, things will be all right; if I don’t go, things will be all wrong.”
“But, excuse me,” said Saxon, “how can you go when your uncle is so ill?”
“That is it,” said Annie. “Of course, if he were in real danger I should be obliged to give my friends up. But he is not in danger, John; he only wants care. What I mean to do is this—or rather, I should say, what I should like to do. I would go, say, to-morrow to London, and then across to Paris, and there get through my little business and put things straight for those I love.”
Annie spoke most pathetically, and her blue eyes filled with tears.
“She has a feeling heart,” thought the young man. Once again his suspicions were disarmed.
He drew a little closer to her. She felt that she had secured his sympathy.
“Can’t you understand,” continued Annie, “that things may happen which involve other people? Can’t you understand?”
“It is difficult to know why you cannot speak about them, Annie,” replied the young man. “Nevertheless, if you say so, it is of course the case.”
“It is the case. I undertook, perhaps wrongly—although I don’t think so—to get a school fellow what she wanted most in the world last term. I wish you knew her; she is such a splendid, noble girl. She is very clever, too. I will tell you her name—Priscilla Weir. She has such a fine face, with, oh! so much in it. But she is unhappily situated. Her father is in India, and either cannot or will not help her; and she has no mother living, poor darling! and her uncle, her mother’s brother, is quite a dreadful sort of creature. Priscilla is, oh, so clever! She has quite wonderful talents. And what do you think this uncle wants to do? Why, to apprentice her to a dressmaker. Think of it—a dressmaker!”
John Saxon did think of it but he showed no surprise. One of the nicest girls he knew in Tasmania was a dressmaker. She was very well informed, and could talk well on many subjects. She read good books, and had a dear little house of her own, and often and often he sat and talked with her of an evening, when the day’s work was done and they were both at leisure to exchange confidences. John Saxon was not the least bit in love with the dressmaker, but for her sake now he could not condemn the occupation. He said, therefore, quietly:
“As long as women wear dresses there must be other women to make them, I suppose. I see nothing derogatory in that, Annie, provided your friend likes it.”
“Oh, how can you talk in such a way?” said Annie, her tone changing now to one of almost petulance. “Why, if Priscie were turned into a dressmaker she would lose her position; she wouldn’t have a chance; she would go under; and she is so clever—oh, so clever! It does not require that sort of cleverness to be a dressmaker.”
“Perhaps not,” said Saxon. “I begin to understand; your English view of the calling is not ours in Tasmania. And so you want to go to Paris to help this girl?”
“Yes; principally about her. In fact, I may say I am going almost wholly about her.”
“I am not to know the reason?”
“I cannot tell you, for it would betray her.”
“Have you spoken to your uncle on the subject?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“Well,” said Annie eagerly, “it was this way. My other great friend is a certain Mabel Lushington. She is staying with her aunt Lady Lushington; and Lady Lushington most kindly sent me an invitation to join them both on Tuesday evening. They are going to take me to Switzerland and pay all my expenses, and of course I shall have a jolly time.”
“But would that help your friend, the prospective dressmaker?”
“Yes. It may sound very puzzling; but if I were to join Mabel Lushington, it would put things all right for my friend.”
“It is puzzling, of course, for me to understand, Annie; but I must take you at your word and suppose that it is so.”
“Indeed it is, John; indeed it is. And I am, oh, so unhappy about it!”
The blue eyes filled with tears. They looked very pretty as they brimmed over and the tears rolled down the smooth young cheeks. Annie could cry just a little without her appearance being at all spoiled thereby. On the contrary, a few tears added to a certain pathos which came at such times into her face. John Saxon found himself looking at the tears and accepting Annie’s view of the matter as quite plausible.
“It is very good of you to give me a little of your confidence,” he said.
“I do!” she answered resolutely; “for I want you to help me.”
“Anything in my power that is not wrong I will do,” he replied.
The firm tone of his voice, and the way in which he said, “Anything that is not wrong,” damped Annie’s hopes for a minute. Then she continued:
“I spoke to Uncle Maurice, not telling him, of course, anything about Priscie, but simply expressing a desire to accept the invitation, and he said that I should go and he would find the money if Lady Lushington was all right.”
“What does that mean?” asked Saxon.
“Oh, really, John, it was too bad. You know Uncle Maurice is very narrow-minded. He wanted to write first to Mrs Lyttelton to discover what sort of person Lady Lushington was, whether she was worldly or not; but, you see, there is no time, for if I don’t join Mabel and Lady Lushington on Tuesday night in Paris I shall not be able to join them at all, for they begin their travels on Wednesday morning, and I have not the slightest idea where I can pick them up. Besides, I don’t know foreign countries. I could perhaps get to Paris, where I should be met; but I couldn’t manage Switzerland or any place farther afield. Don’t you see that for yourself?”
“I do.”
“Well, John,” continued Annie, imperceptibly coming a little nearer to him, “I want you to do this for me. I want to go to Paris, but only for a day or two. I want to see Mabel and put that thing right with regard to poor, dear, clever Priscie; and then, if Uncle Maurice is really ill, I will come back. I know he would let me go if you persuaded him; and I want you to do so, dear John; and as he must not be worried in any way, will you lend me twenty pounds until Uncle Maurice is well enough to be troubled?”
“But you cannot go without telling him, Annie. Of course, my dear, I could and would lend you the money, but even your friend is not so important just now as your uncle. He loves to have you near him. I wish you could have heard how he spoke of you to me. You were his sunshine, his darling, the joy of his heart.”
“I know I am,” said Annie; “and it is what I want to be, and love to be,” she added. “But you are here, and there is my dear friend, oh! in such trouble; and she trusts me, and I can put everything right for her. Oh! if you would only lend me twenty pounds—and—and—tell Uncle Maurice yourself that I am going away for a few days and will be back again very soon. Won’t you lend it to me, John—just because we are cousins, and you have come all the way across the seas—the wide, wide seas—to help me at this pressing moment?”
“You affect me, Annie,” said the young man.
“You speak very strongly. I did not know schoolgirls desired things so badly as all this. Twenty pounds—it is nothing; it is yours for the asking. Here, I will give it to you now.”
He put his hand into his pocket and took out four five-pound notes.
“Here,” he said, “if this will make you happy and save your friend from the fate of being a village dressmaker, take it, and welcome.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Annie, trembling all over. “Oh! I don’t know how.”
“Don’t thank me,” he replied a little stiffly. “The thing is a mere bagatelle.”
“You shall have it back as soon as possible,” said Annie.
“At your convenience,” he replied. He still spoke stiffly.
She folded up the money and pushed the notes inside her gloves. Her whole face had changed, and to John Saxon, who watched her, it had not changed for the better. The pathos and entreaty had gone out of it. It was a hard little face once more; and again he noticed that want of candour and that inability to look any one straight in the face which he had already observed in her eyes. He wondered uneasily if he had done wrong in lending her the money; but what was he to do? She must really want it, poor little thing! and after all, to Saxon, who was accustomed to great journeys taken at a moment’s notice, and who had visited America and most of the habitable globe—although this was his first visit to England—a little trip to Paris meant less, than nothing.
“When do you propose to go?” he said to the girl when they presently rose to their feet.
“I should like to go to-morrow; in fact. I must if I am to meet Mabel and Lady Lushington.”
“Then perhaps it would do if I broke the information to your uncle to-morrow morning?”
“Yes; that will doquitebeautifully. Oh! I don’t really know how to thank you.”
“Effect your worthy object, Annie, and I shall have obtained all the thanks I need,” was the young man’s reply.