Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Six.Dawson’s Shop.When Mrs Shelf arrived at Rashleigh she made haste to carry out her commissions. These she executed with her accustomed despatch, and would have been back at the Rectory some time before seven o’clock but for a little event which took place in no less a shop than Dawson the butcher’s.Mrs Shelf, having bought the manuscript book and the other odds and ends which Annie required, suddenly thought that she might as well choose the meat and small dainties which would be necessary for the reduced family at the Rectory during the next few days.Accordingly she desired Dan to take her to Dawson’s, and getting slowly and ponderously down out of the gig, she entered the shop.Dawson himself was present, and came forward with much respect and alacrity to serve his well-known customer.“Glad to see you out, Mrs Shelf,” he said. “The air will do you good, ma’am. The evenings are turning a bit nippy, aren’t they? Autumn coming on all too quickly. Ah, Mrs Shelf! and winter follows autumn just as death follows old age. We don’t know ourselves without the rector, Mrs Shelf. No wonder that you feel it—no wonder. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken of it. But you’ll come in now and have a cup of tea with my wife, won’t you, Mrs Shelf?”“No, that I can’t,” said Mrs Shelf, quickly wiping away the tears which had sprung to her eyes at mention of the beloved name. “I must hurry back to Miss Annie; she is all alone, poor little thing! at the Rectory.”“Is she, now?” said Dawson. “Well, now, and a sweetly pretty young lady she be. Of course you don’t want to leave her by herself. But isn’t that nice-looking young gentleman, her cousin, staying with you for a time?”“Mr Saxon, you mean?” said Mrs Shelf. “So he be; but he had to go up to London on business this morning, no Miss Annie and I are by ourselves for the time. Now I want please, Mr Dawson, two pounds of your best rump-steak and a piece of kidney for a pudding, and a pound and a half of the best end of neck of mutton. That’s about all to-day. We sha’n’t be wanting as much meat as formerly; and perhaps, Mr Dawson, you wouldn’t mind sending in your account in the course of the next week or so, for Mr Saxon is anxious to square up everything for Miss Annie before he leaves for Australia.”“I will see about the account,” said Dawson. “And now, that reminds me. I was going to speak about it before, only the dear rector was so ill, I couldn’t worrit him. But the fact is, I changed a cheque for twenty pounds for Miss Annie about a month ago; I can’t remember the exact date. The cheque was one of Mr Brooke’s, and as correct as possible. Miss Annie wanted it in gold, and I gave it to her; and the following Monday I sent Pearson, my foreman, round with it to the bank, and in some way the stupid fellow tore it so badly that they would not cash it, and said they must have a new cheque. Of course I would have gone to the rector, knowing that he would give it to me, but for his illness. Now, however, I should like to have my money back. Shall I add it to the account, or what would be the best way to manage it, Mrs Shelf?”“But I can’t make out what you are driving at,” said Mrs Shelf. “Has Miss Annie asked you to cash a cheque for her—a cheque of the master’s for twenty pounds?”“She certainly did. Let me see when the date was. It was a day or two after she came back from school, looking so bonny and bright; and, by the same token, Mr Brooke was taken ill that very day, and Miss Annie was sent into town in a hurry to get some things that you wanted for the master.”“But,” said Mrs Shelf; then she checked herself. A queer beating came at her heart and a heaviness before her eyes. “Perhaps,” she said, sinking into a chair, “you would let me see the cheque that is so much torn that you can’t get it cashed.”“I will, with pleasure, ma’am. I am sorry to worry you at all about it at the present moment but you seem the best person to talk to, being, so to speak, not exactly one of the family.”“Show me the cheque and don’t worrit me with my exact relations to the family,” said Mrs Shelf with dignity.Dawson accordingly went to his private safe, which he unlocked, and taking out a ponderous banker’s book, produced the cheque; which Mrs Shelf immediately recognised as one which Mr Brooke had written in order to pay the half-yearly meat-bill. The cheque had been badly torn, and was fastened together at the back with some stamp-paper.“They won’t take it; they are mighty particular about these things,” said Dawson. “It has been a loss to me, lying out of my money; but I wouldn’t worry the dear old gentleman when he was ill for three times the amount.”“And you say that Miss Annie brought you this. Didn’t she bring you an account or anything with it?”“Not she. She asked me if I would cash it for her. You see it was made payable to bearer, not to me myself. Is there anything wrong about it, Mrs Shelf?”“Not the least bit in the world,” said the bewildered woman, trying to keep back a rash of words from her lips. “The master thought the world of our dear Miss Annie, and doubtless gave it to her the day after she returned from school; for she has a pretty, coaxing way; and you know well, Mr Dawson, that young things like our Annie want their bits of finery.”“To be sure,” said Dawson. “I gave her the money without a thought.”“But your bill—I was under the impression that your bill for the last six months was met.”“Bless you, madam! you may rest easy about that. It was Miss Annie herself brought me the money and asked me to give her a receipt for the bill. She brought it two days later in five-pound notes. You have the receipt, haven’t you?”“To be sure—at least, I suppose so. I am all in a bewilderment!” said the good woman.She certainly looked so, and Dawson glanced after her as she left the shop with a very solemn expression of face. Just as she crossed the threshold she turned back to say:“You will have another cheque instead of that as soon as the will is proved. You understand, of course, that there is a short delay always on account of those blessed lawyers when a death takes place,” said Mrs Shelf.“Yes, madam, I quite understand that; and I think the best thing for me to do is to add the twenty pounds to my bill which you have asked me to send you.”“Yes, perhaps you are right, Mr Dawson,” said Mrs Shelf, and she got soberly and laboriously back into the gig.During her drive home Mrs Shelf did not utter a single word. To say that she was puzzled, amazed, frightened, would but inadequately explain the situation. Her heart beat with dull fear. Annie had cashed her uncle’s cheque—that cheque which had been drawn to pay the butcher’s bill. Annie had cashed it for herself and had not paid the bill. But, again, Annie had paid the bill two days later—not with the cheque, but with Bank of England notes. Really, the thing was too inexplicable. It did not look at all nice; Mrs Shelf, somehow, felt that it did not, but of course the child would explain. She would speak to her about it, and Annie would tell her. At present she could not understand it. Annie had taken twenty pounds of her uncle’s money; but then, again, Annie had restored it, and almost immediately.“It’s enough to split anybody’s brain even to think the thing over,” was the good woman’s comment as, stiff and cold and tired and inexplicably saddened, she entered the desolate Rectory.Rover, the watch-dog, had made no noise when Annie had slipped away. He was still in the yard, and ran joyfully to meet the old woman. She stopped for a minute to fondle him, but she had no heart to-night even to pet Rover.She entered the house by the back-way, and immediately called Annie’s name. There was no response, and the chill and darkness of the house seemed to fall over her like a pall. A week ago, in very truth, peace had reigned here; but now peace had given way to tumults without and fears within. The very air seemed full of conflict.Mrs Shelf called Annie’s name again. Then she set to work to light the lamps and stir up the kitchen fire. She put fresh coals on it and stood for a minute enjoying the pleasant warmth. She was not frightened—not yet at least—at Annie’s not responding to her cry. Annie Brooke was a queer creature, and as likely as not was in the garden. There was one thing certain, that if she had remained in the house she would have lit the lamps and made herself comfortable. She was the sort of girl who adored comfort. She liked the luxuries of life, and always chose the warmest corner and the snuggest seat in any room which she entered.Mrs Shelf looked at the clock which ticked away solemnly in the corner, and was dismayed to find that it was very nearly eight. How stupid of her to stay such a long time at Dawson’s! No wonder Annie was tired at the lonely house. Dan came in after having done what was necessary for the horse, and asked Mrs Shelf if there was anything more he could do for her. Mrs Shelf said “No” in a testy voice. Dan was a clumsy youth, and she did not want him about the premises.“You can go home,” she said. “Be here in time in the morning, for Mr John may want you to drive to the station early for him; there is no saying when he will be back. We will have a wire or a letter in the morning, though.”Dan stumbled through the scullery and out into the yard. A minute or two afterwards the fastening of the yard gates was heard, and the sound of Dan’s footsteps dying away in the country lane.“Poor child!” thought Mrs Shelf. “That story of Dawson’s is a caution, if ever there was one—to cash the cheque for herself and to bring the money back in two days. My word, she do beat creation! Nevertheless, poor lamb, she had best explain it her own way. I’d be the last to think hardly of her, who have had more or less the rearing of her—and she the light of that blessed saint’s eyes. She will explain it to me; it’s only one of her little, clever dodges for frightening people. She was always good at that; but, all the same, I wish she would come in. Goodness, it’s past eight! I’ll get her supper ready for her.”Mrs Shelf prepared a very appetising meal. She laid the table in a cosy corner of the kitchen; then she went ponderously through the house, drawing down blinds and fastening shutters. After a time she returned to the kitchen. Still no Annie, and the supper was spoiling in the oven. To waste good food was a sore grief to Mrs Shelf’s honest heart.“Drat the girl!” she said to herself impatiently; “why don’t she come out of the garden? Now I am feeling—what with nursing and grief—a touch of my old enemy the rheumatics, and I’ll have to go out in the damp and cold calling to her. But there, there! I mustn’t think of myself;henever did, bless him!”The old woman wrapped a shawl about her head and shoulders, and opening the kitchen door, she passed through the yard into the beautiful garden. It was a moonlight night, and she could see across the lawns and over the flower-beds. The place looked ghostly and still and white, for there was a slight hoar-frost and the air was crisp and very chill.“Annie, Annie, Annie!” called Mrs Shelf. “Come in, my dear; come in, my love. Your supper is waiting for you.”No answer of any sort. Mrs Shelf went down the broad centre path and called again, “Annie, Annie, Annie!” But now echo took up her words, and “Annie, Annie, Annie!” came mockingly back on her ears. She felt a sudden sense of fright, and a swift and certain knowledge that Annie was not in the garden. She went back to the house, chilled to the bone and thoroughly frightened. As she did so she remembered John Saxon’s words, that she was to take very great and special care of Annie. Oh, how mad she had been to leave her alone for two hours and a half! And how queer and persistent of Annie to send her away! What did it mean? Did it mean anything or nothing at all?“Oh God, help me!” thought the poor old woman. She sat down in a corner of the warm kitchen, clasping her hands on her knees and looking straight before her. Where was Annie? On the kitchen table she had laid a pile of the little things which she had bought at Rashleigh by Annie’s direction. Mechanically she remembered that she had supplied herself with some spools of cotton. She drew her work-box towards her, and opening it, prepared to drop them in. Lying just over a neatly folded piece of cambric which the old woman had been embroidering lay Annie’s note.Mrs Shelf took it up, staggered towards the lamp, and read it. She read it once; she read it twice. She was alone in the house—absolutely alone—and no one knew, and—brave old lady—she never told any one to her dying day that after reading that note she had fainted dead away, and had lain motionless for a long time on the floor of the kitchen—that kitchen which Annie’s light footfall, as she firmly believed, would never enter again.

When Mrs Shelf arrived at Rashleigh she made haste to carry out her commissions. These she executed with her accustomed despatch, and would have been back at the Rectory some time before seven o’clock but for a little event which took place in no less a shop than Dawson the butcher’s.

Mrs Shelf, having bought the manuscript book and the other odds and ends which Annie required, suddenly thought that she might as well choose the meat and small dainties which would be necessary for the reduced family at the Rectory during the next few days.

Accordingly she desired Dan to take her to Dawson’s, and getting slowly and ponderously down out of the gig, she entered the shop.

Dawson himself was present, and came forward with much respect and alacrity to serve his well-known customer.

“Glad to see you out, Mrs Shelf,” he said. “The air will do you good, ma’am. The evenings are turning a bit nippy, aren’t they? Autumn coming on all too quickly. Ah, Mrs Shelf! and winter follows autumn just as death follows old age. We don’t know ourselves without the rector, Mrs Shelf. No wonder that you feel it—no wonder. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken of it. But you’ll come in now and have a cup of tea with my wife, won’t you, Mrs Shelf?”

“No, that I can’t,” said Mrs Shelf, quickly wiping away the tears which had sprung to her eyes at mention of the beloved name. “I must hurry back to Miss Annie; she is all alone, poor little thing! at the Rectory.”

“Is she, now?” said Dawson. “Well, now, and a sweetly pretty young lady she be. Of course you don’t want to leave her by herself. But isn’t that nice-looking young gentleman, her cousin, staying with you for a time?”

“Mr Saxon, you mean?” said Mrs Shelf. “So he be; but he had to go up to London on business this morning, no Miss Annie and I are by ourselves for the time. Now I want please, Mr Dawson, two pounds of your best rump-steak and a piece of kidney for a pudding, and a pound and a half of the best end of neck of mutton. That’s about all to-day. We sha’n’t be wanting as much meat as formerly; and perhaps, Mr Dawson, you wouldn’t mind sending in your account in the course of the next week or so, for Mr Saxon is anxious to square up everything for Miss Annie before he leaves for Australia.”

“I will see about the account,” said Dawson. “And now, that reminds me. I was going to speak about it before, only the dear rector was so ill, I couldn’t worrit him. But the fact is, I changed a cheque for twenty pounds for Miss Annie about a month ago; I can’t remember the exact date. The cheque was one of Mr Brooke’s, and as correct as possible. Miss Annie wanted it in gold, and I gave it to her; and the following Monday I sent Pearson, my foreman, round with it to the bank, and in some way the stupid fellow tore it so badly that they would not cash it, and said they must have a new cheque. Of course I would have gone to the rector, knowing that he would give it to me, but for his illness. Now, however, I should like to have my money back. Shall I add it to the account, or what would be the best way to manage it, Mrs Shelf?”

“But I can’t make out what you are driving at,” said Mrs Shelf. “Has Miss Annie asked you to cash a cheque for her—a cheque of the master’s for twenty pounds?”

“She certainly did. Let me see when the date was. It was a day or two after she came back from school, looking so bonny and bright; and, by the same token, Mr Brooke was taken ill that very day, and Miss Annie was sent into town in a hurry to get some things that you wanted for the master.”

“But,” said Mrs Shelf; then she checked herself. A queer beating came at her heart and a heaviness before her eyes. “Perhaps,” she said, sinking into a chair, “you would let me see the cheque that is so much torn that you can’t get it cashed.”

“I will, with pleasure, ma’am. I am sorry to worry you at all about it at the present moment but you seem the best person to talk to, being, so to speak, not exactly one of the family.”

“Show me the cheque and don’t worrit me with my exact relations to the family,” said Mrs Shelf with dignity.

Dawson accordingly went to his private safe, which he unlocked, and taking out a ponderous banker’s book, produced the cheque; which Mrs Shelf immediately recognised as one which Mr Brooke had written in order to pay the half-yearly meat-bill. The cheque had been badly torn, and was fastened together at the back with some stamp-paper.

“They won’t take it; they are mighty particular about these things,” said Dawson. “It has been a loss to me, lying out of my money; but I wouldn’t worry the dear old gentleman when he was ill for three times the amount.”

“And you say that Miss Annie brought you this. Didn’t she bring you an account or anything with it?”

“Not she. She asked me if I would cash it for her. You see it was made payable to bearer, not to me myself. Is there anything wrong about it, Mrs Shelf?”

“Not the least bit in the world,” said the bewildered woman, trying to keep back a rash of words from her lips. “The master thought the world of our dear Miss Annie, and doubtless gave it to her the day after she returned from school; for she has a pretty, coaxing way; and you know well, Mr Dawson, that young things like our Annie want their bits of finery.”

“To be sure,” said Dawson. “I gave her the money without a thought.”

“But your bill—I was under the impression that your bill for the last six months was met.”

“Bless you, madam! you may rest easy about that. It was Miss Annie herself brought me the money and asked me to give her a receipt for the bill. She brought it two days later in five-pound notes. You have the receipt, haven’t you?”

“To be sure—at least, I suppose so. I am all in a bewilderment!” said the good woman.

She certainly looked so, and Dawson glanced after her as she left the shop with a very solemn expression of face. Just as she crossed the threshold she turned back to say:

“You will have another cheque instead of that as soon as the will is proved. You understand, of course, that there is a short delay always on account of those blessed lawyers when a death takes place,” said Mrs Shelf.

“Yes, madam, I quite understand that; and I think the best thing for me to do is to add the twenty pounds to my bill which you have asked me to send you.”

“Yes, perhaps you are right, Mr Dawson,” said Mrs Shelf, and she got soberly and laboriously back into the gig.

During her drive home Mrs Shelf did not utter a single word. To say that she was puzzled, amazed, frightened, would but inadequately explain the situation. Her heart beat with dull fear. Annie had cashed her uncle’s cheque—that cheque which had been drawn to pay the butcher’s bill. Annie had cashed it for herself and had not paid the bill. But, again, Annie had paid the bill two days later—not with the cheque, but with Bank of England notes. Really, the thing was too inexplicable. It did not look at all nice; Mrs Shelf, somehow, felt that it did not, but of course the child would explain. She would speak to her about it, and Annie would tell her. At present she could not understand it. Annie had taken twenty pounds of her uncle’s money; but then, again, Annie had restored it, and almost immediately.

“It’s enough to split anybody’s brain even to think the thing over,” was the good woman’s comment as, stiff and cold and tired and inexplicably saddened, she entered the desolate Rectory.

Rover, the watch-dog, had made no noise when Annie had slipped away. He was still in the yard, and ran joyfully to meet the old woman. She stopped for a minute to fondle him, but she had no heart to-night even to pet Rover.

She entered the house by the back-way, and immediately called Annie’s name. There was no response, and the chill and darkness of the house seemed to fall over her like a pall. A week ago, in very truth, peace had reigned here; but now peace had given way to tumults without and fears within. The very air seemed full of conflict.

Mrs Shelf called Annie’s name again. Then she set to work to light the lamps and stir up the kitchen fire. She put fresh coals on it and stood for a minute enjoying the pleasant warmth. She was not frightened—not yet at least—at Annie’s not responding to her cry. Annie Brooke was a queer creature, and as likely as not was in the garden. There was one thing certain, that if she had remained in the house she would have lit the lamps and made herself comfortable. She was the sort of girl who adored comfort. She liked the luxuries of life, and always chose the warmest corner and the snuggest seat in any room which she entered.

Mrs Shelf looked at the clock which ticked away solemnly in the corner, and was dismayed to find that it was very nearly eight. How stupid of her to stay such a long time at Dawson’s! No wonder Annie was tired at the lonely house. Dan came in after having done what was necessary for the horse, and asked Mrs Shelf if there was anything more he could do for her. Mrs Shelf said “No” in a testy voice. Dan was a clumsy youth, and she did not want him about the premises.

“You can go home,” she said. “Be here in time in the morning, for Mr John may want you to drive to the station early for him; there is no saying when he will be back. We will have a wire or a letter in the morning, though.”

Dan stumbled through the scullery and out into the yard. A minute or two afterwards the fastening of the yard gates was heard, and the sound of Dan’s footsteps dying away in the country lane.

“Poor child!” thought Mrs Shelf. “That story of Dawson’s is a caution, if ever there was one—to cash the cheque for herself and to bring the money back in two days. My word, she do beat creation! Nevertheless, poor lamb, she had best explain it her own way. I’d be the last to think hardly of her, who have had more or less the rearing of her—and she the light of that blessed saint’s eyes. She will explain it to me; it’s only one of her little, clever dodges for frightening people. She was always good at that; but, all the same, I wish she would come in. Goodness, it’s past eight! I’ll get her supper ready for her.”

Mrs Shelf prepared a very appetising meal. She laid the table in a cosy corner of the kitchen; then she went ponderously through the house, drawing down blinds and fastening shutters. After a time she returned to the kitchen. Still no Annie, and the supper was spoiling in the oven. To waste good food was a sore grief to Mrs Shelf’s honest heart.

“Drat the girl!” she said to herself impatiently; “why don’t she come out of the garden? Now I am feeling—what with nursing and grief—a touch of my old enemy the rheumatics, and I’ll have to go out in the damp and cold calling to her. But there, there! I mustn’t think of myself;henever did, bless him!”

The old woman wrapped a shawl about her head and shoulders, and opening the kitchen door, she passed through the yard into the beautiful garden. It was a moonlight night, and she could see across the lawns and over the flower-beds. The place looked ghostly and still and white, for there was a slight hoar-frost and the air was crisp and very chill.

“Annie, Annie, Annie!” called Mrs Shelf. “Come in, my dear; come in, my love. Your supper is waiting for you.”

No answer of any sort. Mrs Shelf went down the broad centre path and called again, “Annie, Annie, Annie!” But now echo took up her words, and “Annie, Annie, Annie!” came mockingly back on her ears. She felt a sudden sense of fright, and a swift and certain knowledge that Annie was not in the garden. She went back to the house, chilled to the bone and thoroughly frightened. As she did so she remembered John Saxon’s words, that she was to take very great and special care of Annie. Oh, how mad she had been to leave her alone for two hours and a half! And how queer and persistent of Annie to send her away! What did it mean? Did it mean anything or nothing at all?

“Oh God, help me!” thought the poor old woman. She sat down in a corner of the warm kitchen, clasping her hands on her knees and looking straight before her. Where was Annie? On the kitchen table she had laid a pile of the little things which she had bought at Rashleigh by Annie’s direction. Mechanically she remembered that she had supplied herself with some spools of cotton. She drew her work-box towards her, and opening it, prepared to drop them in. Lying just over a neatly folded piece of cambric which the old woman had been embroidering lay Annie’s note.

Mrs Shelf took it up, staggered towards the lamp, and read it. She read it once; she read it twice. She was alone in the house—absolutely alone—and no one knew, and—brave old lady—she never told any one to her dying day that after reading that note she had fainted dead away, and had lain motionless for a long time on the floor of the kitchen—that kitchen which Annie’s light footfall, as she firmly believed, would never enter again.

Chapter Twenty Seven.A Defender.When Annie left the “Beau Séjour” at Zermatt, Mabel felt herself in a state of distressing weakness and uncertainty. Annie had been her prop, and, as she had expressed it, she could not possibly go on being wicked without her. Accordingly, when the loss of the necklace was revealed to Lady Lushington on the following morning, Mabel let out a great deal more with regard to the loss of that treasure than Annie had intended her to do. She said nothing to deteriorate its value, but murmured so vaguely that she had certainly put it into the old trunk, and looked so sheepish when she was saying the words, that Lady Lushington began to suspect the truth.“Now, Mabel,” she said, taking her niece’s hand and drawing her towards the light, “you are not at all good at concealing things; you have not the cleverness of your friend. I have for some time had my suspicions with regard to thatquondamfriend of yours, Annie Brooke. I don’t want you to betray her in any sense of the word, but I will know this: are you telling me the truth about the necklace? Did you put it into the lid of the trunk?”Mabel prevaricated, stammered, blushed, and was forced to admit that she had not done so. On the top of this revelation, Lady Lushington was quick in pressing her niece to make a further one, and at last Mabel admitted that she thought, but was not at all sure, that Mr Manchuri, the old Jewish gentleman who had been staying at the Hotel Belle Vue, knew something about the necklace.“It is quite safe; I am certain it is quite safe,” said Mabel; “but I think he knows about it. Had not we better write and ask Annie?”“We will do nothing of the kind,” said Lady Lushington. “Mabel, I am disgusted with you. You can go away to your room. You are my niece, or I would never speak to you again; but if I do not get to the bottom of this mystery, and pretty quickly, too, my name is not Henrietta Lushington.”“Oh dear,” thought poor Mabel, “what awful mischief I have done! Annie will be wild. Still, all is not known. I don’t think Aunt Henrietta can think the very worst of me even if she does learn the story of the necklace; that won’t tell her how I won the prize, and that won’t explain to her the true story of Mrs Priestley’s bill.”As Mabel was leaving the room, very downcast and fearfully miserable, Lady Lushington called her back.“I am disgusted with you,” she repeated. “Notwithstanding; justice is justice. I never wish you to have anything more to do with Annie Brooke; you never shall speak to her again, if I can help it. But in one thing she was right. I have received Mrs Priestley’s bill thin morning with all due apologies, and begging of me to forgive her for having, through a most gross error, and owing to the fault of one of her assistants, added another lady’s account to mine. Your bill for clothes, therefore, Mabel, only amounts to forty pounds, which is high, but allowable. As you are not going back to the school we shall never require Mrs Priestley’s services again. I will send her a cheque to-day for forty pounds, and that closes my transactions with the woman, whom, notwithstanding apologies, I do not consider too straight.”Even this small consolation was better than nothing to Mabel. She went away to her room feeling very queer and trembling, and Lady Lushington took those immediate steps which she was fond of doing when really aroused. She did not know Mr Manchuri’s private address, but she was well aware that he was a wealthy Bond Street jeweller. She wrote, therefore, straight to his place of business, and her letter, when it reached him, electrified the good man to such an extent that he scarcely knew what he was doing. Fortunately for himself, he had not yet sold the necklace. Having read the letter, he sank down into a chair and gazed before him. Well did he remember the scene when Annie, looking sweet, innocent, and charming, had told him with a little pride of her knowledge with regard to gems, and had shown him with extreme diffidence the valuable necklace, and asked him what it was worth.“What a fool I was to snap at it!” he said to himself. “I might have known that no honest girl of the class of Annie Brooke would have forty pounds to spend on jewellery. But just that hateful desire to make money came over me, and I grabbed at the thing. Now what is to be done?”Mr Manchuri returned home early that day. Lady Lushington’s letter was burning a hole all the time in his pocket.“What a comfort it is,” he said to himself, “that that dear, nice Priscilla is still in the house! She certainly told me nothing about the necklace. That little horror of an Annie Brooke begged and implored of me to keep the whole thing a secret. But the time has come, my young miss, when I fed absolutely absolved from my promise. I must consult Priscie. Priscie has as wise a head on her shoulders as even my own beloved Esther had.”The old man entered the house; and Priscilla, who was busily reading in the library, hearing the click of the latch-key in the lock, ran out into the hall. Her face had improved during the last few days. The look of great anxiety had left it. She had, in short, made up her mind, but even Mr Manchuri did not quite know what Priscilla was going to do.“You are in early,” she said, running to meet him and helping him off with his overcoat and putting his stick in the stand.“Yes, Priscilla,” he answered; “and I am right glad you are in. The fact is, I came back to consult you, my dear.”“You will have some tea first,” said Priscilla. “Now that is exactly what Esther would have said,” was the old man’s response. “What a fuss she did make about me, to be sure! And you are going to make a fool of me now. I was a young man when my Esther was there, and I am an old man now, but the difference seems bridged over, and I feel young once more with you so kind to me, Priscilla. But there, there, my child, there is no tea for me until I relieve my mind. Where were you sitting, my dear, when you heard me come into the house?”“In the library. I had just discovered the most glorious edition ofDon Quixote, and was revelling in it.”“We will go back to the library, Priscilla, if you have no objection.”Priscilla turned at once; Mr Manchuri followed her, and they entered the great library full of books of all sorts—rare editions, old folios, etc,—as well as a few really valuable pictures.“Priscilla,” said Mr Manchuri, “you know all about Annie Brooke?”“Yes,” said Priscilla, her face turningverypale. “I wanted to write to Annie; her dear uncle is dead.”“You told me so a few days ago. You can write or not, just, as you please. In the meantime, can you explain this?”As Mr Manchuri spoke he took Lady Lushington’s letter from his pocket and handed it to Priscilla. Priscilla read the following words:“Dear Sir,—I regret to have to trouble you with regard to a small circumstance, but I have just to my unbounded astonishment, been informed by my niece, Mabel Lushington, that you can throw light on the disappearance of an old-fashioned pearl necklace set in silver which I bought for her at Interlaken the day before we left. I was assisted in the purchase by a girl who was of our party—a Miss Brooke. She professed to have a knowledge of gems, and took me to Zick’s shop in the High Street where I bought the trinket. I paid forty pounds for it, believing it to be a bargain of some value. At present the necklace is not forthcoming, and there has been an idea circulated in the hotel that it was stolen on our journey from Interlaken to Zermatt. My niece, however, now with great reluctance mentions your name, and says that she thinks you can explain the mystery. Will you be kind enough to do so without a moment’s loss of time?—Yours sincerely, Henrietta Lushington.”When Priscilla had finished this letter she raised a white and startled face. Her eyes saw Mr Manchuri’s, who, on his part, was trying to read her through.“What do you make of it?” he said.“I never heard of the necklace,” she said.“Well, perhaps you heard something else or you noticed something else. Were you sitting in the garden of the Hotel Belle Vue just beforedéjeuneron the day that you and I left Interlaken?”“Yes,” said Priscilla.“I remember quite well now,” considered the old man, “that I noticed you from where I myself was sitting on the terrace. I saw Miss Brooke go up to you, and presently you went away. Then I joined Miss Brooke.”“Yes,” said Priscilla.“You have not the least idea what occurred, have you, Priscilla, when Miss Brooke and I were alone?”“I have not the faintest idea,” said Priscilla.“Well, I will tell you,” said the old man.He crossed the room as he spoke, opened the door, and went out, but presently returned with something in his hand. This something he laid on the table before Priscilla.“Have you ever seen that before?”“Never,” said Priscilla. “It is rather pretty.”“It is a valuable old ornament,” said Mr Manchuri. “It was bought at Zick’s shop in the High Street at Interlaken. I gave Annie Brooke one hundred pounds for it.”“Mr Manchuri!”“She told me it was her own, and asked if I would buy it. I knew it was worth a good deal more than the sum I paid her; now it seems that she took me in, I have purchased Lady Lushington’s necklace; it never belonged to Annie Brooke. What is to be done?”Priscilla sat, white as death, with her hands clasped before her.“Did you ever,” she said at last after a very long pause, “notice in all your knowledge of mankind how from the beginning of a little act of deceit great and awful things take place? If I had not yielded to a temptation which was put before me at Mrs Lyttelton’s school, Annie would never have been a thief; there would have been no need—no need! Mr Manchuri, I feel that I am responsible for this.”“Nothing of the kind, child. Please don’t take on in that way! It is too dreadful to hear you.”Priscilla’s lips trembled.“We must, we must save Annie Brooke,” she said. “She is in trouble. Her uncle is dead; she has no home any longer. Oh, Mr Manchuri, for the sake of your Esther, don’t be too hard on her!”“I am just mad with rage,” said the old jeweller. “There are some things I can stand, but not deceit.”“You can stand me,” said Priscilla very gently, “and yet I was deceitful.”“You have repented, child; and you are going to do all in your power to show that your repentance is real. I will not have you and Annie Brooke spoken of on the same footing. I cannot bear it, Priscilla.”“You will be kind to her,” repeated Priscilla.“I must answer this good woman’s letter. I have got the necklace. I don’t choose to be at the loss of one hundred pounds. There are things I will not bear—I cannot and will not stand—even for you, Priscilla. I have been cheated by that girl, and have lost one hundred pounds on a trinket which I now cannot possibly sell. If Lady Lushington will send me that sum, she can have the necklace back; otherwise Miss Brooke herself must return the money.”Priscilla was surprised and most distressed at the obduracy of the old man. In the and she could only persuade him to write to John Saxon, whose name she knew well. It would be better for him to be acquainted with this ghastly fact than for Lady Lushington’s just indignation to be turned on Annie’s devoted head.Accordingly John Saxon was written to, and thus the explanation of his sudden visit to London was arrived at Mr Manchuri had asked the young man to meet him at his house of business, and Saxon, much as he dreaded what might lie before him, little guessed the ghastly news which he was to hear. Mr Manchuri, affectionate as he was to Priscilla, nursed his wrath more and more against Annie during the hours which intervened between his receiving Lady Lushington’s letter and the arrival of John Saxon on the scene.“I am glad you have come, Mr Saxon,” he said when the young man entered the old jeweller’s private sitting-room, which was situated at the back of the business premises.“Yes; I came at once,” replied Saxon. “What is it you want with me, Mr Manchuri? You said you had something important to tell me with regard to my cousin, Miss Brooke.”“Something very ugly to tell you, sir. Now listen. What do you make of this story?”Saxon did listen while Mr Manchuri enlarged on Annie’s apparently innocent, wheedling ways, on her story with regard to the necklace, and on the fact that he had given her in exchange for it ten notes, each of the value of ten pounds.“A hundred pounds in all,” said the old jeweller; “and, to tell you the truth, Mr Saxon, cheap at the price, for I could sell that necklace to-morrow for two hundred and fifty pounds, or even three hundred. Mark you, my dear young sir, I could do it, but you could not, nor could she, sharp as she is; for I know the trade and you don’t, and she doesn’t, and Lady Lushington doesn’t. Therefore a hundred pounds is a very fair sum to pay for what only cost her ladyship forty. Now, will you read that?” he added, handing him Lady Lushington’s letter.John Saxon did so. He returned it and looked full into the face of Mr Manchuri.“Well, sir,” said the merchant, “what do you mean to do?”“What doyoumean to do, Mr Manchuri?”Mr Manchuri spread out his hands.“I,” he said—“I mean to take the law in this matter. I mean to write the simple and exact truth to Lady Lushington, and I mean to confront that precious Miss Brooke with the truth. That is what I mean to do. That sort of wickedness ought not to be permitted, sir. It ought to be nipped in the bud.”“I agree with you,” said Saxon. He spoke very slowly, and with pain. “It ought to be nipped in the bad, and I am,”—a lamp came to to his throat—“almost glad that you have made this discovery. There would be nothing quite so dreadful for my poor little cousin as that this thing should be hidden. Now it is known, soon a great deal more will be known—of that I am persuaded. But, sir, I want to plead with you on behalf of the guilty party. In the first place, the girl in question is only seventeen. Her exceeding youth, which ought to be the shield of innocence, has not proved sufficient to keep her from acting in the most crafty and guilty manner. But she was the beloved child of one of the beet of men, and for his sake I will not have her name dragged in the dust; if I can save her from the world’s knowledge of such a grave crime as this, I will. Mr Manchuri, you have lost one hundred pounds. Here is my cheque for the amount.”Here John Saxon took a cheque-book from his pocket.“Give me a pen and ink,” he said, “and I will fill it in for you. Having received this, will you return the necklace to Lady Lushington, telling her any story you please, but as far as possible shielding Annie Brooke from the worst consequences of her sin?”“This makes all the difference, sir,” said Mr Manchuri. “I am not appointed in any sense to be the guardian of Miss Annie Brooke. I wish never to see the young lady again. She has acted abominably. I will take your cheque, sir, and return the necklace to Lady Lushington.”“So far, so good. Then perhaps this ends our business,” said John Saxon.He took up his hat as he spoke.“Not quite sure there are not other things I wish to say. Will you sit down?”Saxon very unwillingly complied.“You have, perhaps,” continued Mr Manchuri, “heard Miss Brooke speak of a schoolfellow of the name of Priscilla Weir?”“I have. I believe the young lady was with her and Miss Lushington in Switzerland.”“That is true,” said Mr Manchuri; “and I had the privilege—I was, in short, the fortunate man to be allowed to escort Miss Weir back to England.”“Indeed?” said Saxon, who, terribly shocked at this story about poor Annie, could with difficulty bring himself to take the slightest interest in Priscilla.“You have told me, sir, that Miss Brooke’s uncle is dead?”Saxon bowed his head. Mr Manchuri gazed hard at the young man.“Your father was my good friend,” he said, a softer note coming into his voice, “and I have always thoroughly respected you. Your father and I have transacted business, and you yourself have shown me hospitality in a distant part of the world I would not be unkind to you, Mr Saxon, and I pity you very much indeed because of your relationship to Miss Brooke.”“Pray do not pity me,” said Saxon. “If a man of my age—I am eight-and-twenty—cannot do has beet for a lonely girl, almost a child, he must be a poor sort. I am Annie’s guardian, and will do my utmost as long as she lives to befriend her.”“Sir, I must speak the truth,” said Mr Manchuri. “You are straight as a die and honest and open as the day; but that girl is crafty, insincere, essentially untrue. You can never turn staff of that sort into true gold, however hard you try.”“I can at least protect a weak and erring girl,” said Saxon with feeling.“The best thing you can possibly do for her, sir, is to get her out of England and away from her old friends; for she must never return to Mrs Lyttelton’s school.”“Why so?” asked Saxon.“It was my privilege, Mr Saxon, to escort Priscilla Weir back to England. She had been very little noticed by me or by anyone else while at Interlaken. But I think, if I may dare to say the word, that God took care of her, and she alone of all that party really enjoyed the glories of nature. For her the Jungfrau showed some of its majesty, and for her the other great mountains spoke unutterable secrets. She is a queer girl, but has a heart of gold, Mr Saxon, a heart of gold. Now that girl first attracted my attention because the resembled a child of my own—a child who has long lived with the angels. I can scarcely tell you what I felt when I saw the likeness, and since then I have probed into Priscilla’s heart and found that in all respects it resembles the heart of my Esther. Sir, the girl was lonely; she was subjected to temptation, and she yielded to it. She has told me about it, and when Mrs Lyttelton’s school opens it will be Priscilla’s painful duty to tell her mistress something which implicates very seriously your cousin, Miss Brooke. It also implicates Miss Lushington. Priscilla, is a guest in my house now. What she will be eventually I have not yet disclosed to her. It is my impression that Esther sent her to me, and I am not going to let her go in a hurry.”“Yes, this is very interesting, and I am glad that a girl so worthy as Miss Weir should have found a friend in you,” was Saxon’s response. “But you have not explained what my cousin Annie has done.”“No, no; it is not within my province. But I can only assure you that that unfortunate young lady has got herself, as well as two more of her schoolfellows—namely, Priscilla Weir and Mabel Lushington—into the most horrible scrape. Priscilla’s conscience will not allow her to live any longer under the load of unconfessed sin, and it is her duty to inform Mrs Lyttelton.”“And me,” said Saxon in a determined voice.“You must be patient, sir. I will not tell you Priscilla’s secrets. They are her own. But I should advise you immediately to take steps to remove Miss Brooke from Mrs Lyttelton’s school.” Saxon said a few words more, and then took his leave. He had a good deal of business to attend to that day in connection with the late Mr Brooke’s affairs; the winding-up of his small property and the paying of a few trifling outstanding bills must be attended to as soon as possible. But Annie—what was to be done with her? Saxon himself intended to return to Australia within a month. His business called him there, and he did not think he ought to delay. But what was to become of Annie?She must not return to school; indeed, her circumstances forbade such a hurry. Would it be possible to settle her somewhere with Mrs Shelf? Saxon thought over this idea, but dismissed it. Annie was far too clever to be left in the hands of a person whom she could completely rule. The young man felt stunned at the depth of her wickedness. He spent a very anxious night, and returned by an early train on the following morning to Rashleigh. There he was met by the appalling information that Annie had gone.It was Dan who first told him at the station. Dan blurted out the words, almost sobbing as he spoke. Mrs Shelf was so bad that she couldn’t speak. She was lying in the kitchen, where a neighbour had found her when she had come in in the morning. The poor woman was moaning to herself in the most dreadful way. Dan knew no particulars except that Miss Annie was nowhere to be found and that Mrs Shelf was ill.“Really,” thought Saxon, “troubles thicken. I wonder when we shall see a gleam of daylight. Was there ever such a troublesome and terrible girl put into the world before?”But the very greatness of the emergency roused all that was strongest and best in the young man. He soon got the truth out of poor Mrs Shelf, who blamed herself almost more than Annie for having gone to Rashleigh. Having tried to assure the poor old woman that she was not in fault, and that he was wrong not to have insisted on taking Annie with him to London, he further soothed her by saying that he would soon find Annie; that it was absolutely impossible for a young girl like Annie Brooke to lose herself in these days of clever detectives and patient investigations.“We’ll have her back,” he said. “We’ll have her back, and you must get well. And now, I am going immediately—yes, immediately—to take steps. You must have a neighbour in to look after you, Mrs Shelf; and I will write you or send a telegram whenever I get news.”“But oh, sir! there is something else on my mind,” said Mrs Shelf; and she told him the story of Dawson and the cheque.“Oh, that is all right,” said Saxon in a cheery voice. “We will settle the matter with Dawson as soon as ever letters of administration have been taken out with regard to Mr Brooke’s will. Don’t fret any more about that and don’t blame poor little Annie more than you can help, Mrs Shelf.”Mrs Shelf burst into tears. It was a relief to her to hear the manly voice and to feel the confident pressure of the strong young hand. If John Saxon could be cheery and hopeful about Annie, why should she despair?When he was gone—and he left the house almost immediately afterwards—Mrs Shelf rose totteringly from the sofa in the old kitchen and began to potter about her work. All was not lost even for Annie Brooke, while John Saxon was there to defend and help her.

When Annie left the “Beau Séjour” at Zermatt, Mabel felt herself in a state of distressing weakness and uncertainty. Annie had been her prop, and, as she had expressed it, she could not possibly go on being wicked without her. Accordingly, when the loss of the necklace was revealed to Lady Lushington on the following morning, Mabel let out a great deal more with regard to the loss of that treasure than Annie had intended her to do. She said nothing to deteriorate its value, but murmured so vaguely that she had certainly put it into the old trunk, and looked so sheepish when she was saying the words, that Lady Lushington began to suspect the truth.

“Now, Mabel,” she said, taking her niece’s hand and drawing her towards the light, “you are not at all good at concealing things; you have not the cleverness of your friend. I have for some time had my suspicions with regard to thatquondamfriend of yours, Annie Brooke. I don’t want you to betray her in any sense of the word, but I will know this: are you telling me the truth about the necklace? Did you put it into the lid of the trunk?”

Mabel prevaricated, stammered, blushed, and was forced to admit that she had not done so. On the top of this revelation, Lady Lushington was quick in pressing her niece to make a further one, and at last Mabel admitted that she thought, but was not at all sure, that Mr Manchuri, the old Jewish gentleman who had been staying at the Hotel Belle Vue, knew something about the necklace.

“It is quite safe; I am certain it is quite safe,” said Mabel; “but I think he knows about it. Had not we better write and ask Annie?”

“We will do nothing of the kind,” said Lady Lushington. “Mabel, I am disgusted with you. You can go away to your room. You are my niece, or I would never speak to you again; but if I do not get to the bottom of this mystery, and pretty quickly, too, my name is not Henrietta Lushington.”

“Oh dear,” thought poor Mabel, “what awful mischief I have done! Annie will be wild. Still, all is not known. I don’t think Aunt Henrietta can think the very worst of me even if she does learn the story of the necklace; that won’t tell her how I won the prize, and that won’t explain to her the true story of Mrs Priestley’s bill.”

As Mabel was leaving the room, very downcast and fearfully miserable, Lady Lushington called her back.

“I am disgusted with you,” she repeated. “Notwithstanding; justice is justice. I never wish you to have anything more to do with Annie Brooke; you never shall speak to her again, if I can help it. But in one thing she was right. I have received Mrs Priestley’s bill thin morning with all due apologies, and begging of me to forgive her for having, through a most gross error, and owing to the fault of one of her assistants, added another lady’s account to mine. Your bill for clothes, therefore, Mabel, only amounts to forty pounds, which is high, but allowable. As you are not going back to the school we shall never require Mrs Priestley’s services again. I will send her a cheque to-day for forty pounds, and that closes my transactions with the woman, whom, notwithstanding apologies, I do not consider too straight.”

Even this small consolation was better than nothing to Mabel. She went away to her room feeling very queer and trembling, and Lady Lushington took those immediate steps which she was fond of doing when really aroused. She did not know Mr Manchuri’s private address, but she was well aware that he was a wealthy Bond Street jeweller. She wrote, therefore, straight to his place of business, and her letter, when it reached him, electrified the good man to such an extent that he scarcely knew what he was doing. Fortunately for himself, he had not yet sold the necklace. Having read the letter, he sank down into a chair and gazed before him. Well did he remember the scene when Annie, looking sweet, innocent, and charming, had told him with a little pride of her knowledge with regard to gems, and had shown him with extreme diffidence the valuable necklace, and asked him what it was worth.

“What a fool I was to snap at it!” he said to himself. “I might have known that no honest girl of the class of Annie Brooke would have forty pounds to spend on jewellery. But just that hateful desire to make money came over me, and I grabbed at the thing. Now what is to be done?”

Mr Manchuri returned home early that day. Lady Lushington’s letter was burning a hole all the time in his pocket.

“What a comfort it is,” he said to himself, “that that dear, nice Priscilla is still in the house! She certainly told me nothing about the necklace. That little horror of an Annie Brooke begged and implored of me to keep the whole thing a secret. But the time has come, my young miss, when I fed absolutely absolved from my promise. I must consult Priscie. Priscie has as wise a head on her shoulders as even my own beloved Esther had.”

The old man entered the house; and Priscilla, who was busily reading in the library, hearing the click of the latch-key in the lock, ran out into the hall. Her face had improved during the last few days. The look of great anxiety had left it. She had, in short, made up her mind, but even Mr Manchuri did not quite know what Priscilla was going to do.

“You are in early,” she said, running to meet him and helping him off with his overcoat and putting his stick in the stand.

“Yes, Priscilla,” he answered; “and I am right glad you are in. The fact is, I came back to consult you, my dear.”

“You will have some tea first,” said Priscilla. “Now that is exactly what Esther would have said,” was the old man’s response. “What a fuss she did make about me, to be sure! And you are going to make a fool of me now. I was a young man when my Esther was there, and I am an old man now, but the difference seems bridged over, and I feel young once more with you so kind to me, Priscilla. But there, there, my child, there is no tea for me until I relieve my mind. Where were you sitting, my dear, when you heard me come into the house?”

“In the library. I had just discovered the most glorious edition ofDon Quixote, and was revelling in it.”

“We will go back to the library, Priscilla, if you have no objection.”

Priscilla turned at once; Mr Manchuri followed her, and they entered the great library full of books of all sorts—rare editions, old folios, etc,—as well as a few really valuable pictures.

“Priscilla,” said Mr Manchuri, “you know all about Annie Brooke?”

“Yes,” said Priscilla, her face turningverypale. “I wanted to write to Annie; her dear uncle is dead.”

“You told me so a few days ago. You can write or not, just, as you please. In the meantime, can you explain this?”

As Mr Manchuri spoke he took Lady Lushington’s letter from his pocket and handed it to Priscilla. Priscilla read the following words:

“Dear Sir,—I regret to have to trouble you with regard to a small circumstance, but I have just to my unbounded astonishment, been informed by my niece, Mabel Lushington, that you can throw light on the disappearance of an old-fashioned pearl necklace set in silver which I bought for her at Interlaken the day before we left. I was assisted in the purchase by a girl who was of our party—a Miss Brooke. She professed to have a knowledge of gems, and took me to Zick’s shop in the High Street where I bought the trinket. I paid forty pounds for it, believing it to be a bargain of some value. At present the necklace is not forthcoming, and there has been an idea circulated in the hotel that it was stolen on our journey from Interlaken to Zermatt. My niece, however, now with great reluctance mentions your name, and says that she thinks you can explain the mystery. Will you be kind enough to do so without a moment’s loss of time?—Yours sincerely, Henrietta Lushington.”

When Priscilla had finished this letter she raised a white and startled face. Her eyes saw Mr Manchuri’s, who, on his part, was trying to read her through.

“What do you make of it?” he said.

“I never heard of the necklace,” she said.

“Well, perhaps you heard something else or you noticed something else. Were you sitting in the garden of the Hotel Belle Vue just beforedéjeuneron the day that you and I left Interlaken?”

“Yes,” said Priscilla.

“I remember quite well now,” considered the old man, “that I noticed you from where I myself was sitting on the terrace. I saw Miss Brooke go up to you, and presently you went away. Then I joined Miss Brooke.”

“Yes,” said Priscilla.

“You have not the least idea what occurred, have you, Priscilla, when Miss Brooke and I were alone?”

“I have not the faintest idea,” said Priscilla.

“Well, I will tell you,” said the old man.

He crossed the room as he spoke, opened the door, and went out, but presently returned with something in his hand. This something he laid on the table before Priscilla.

“Have you ever seen that before?”

“Never,” said Priscilla. “It is rather pretty.”

“It is a valuable old ornament,” said Mr Manchuri. “It was bought at Zick’s shop in the High Street at Interlaken. I gave Annie Brooke one hundred pounds for it.”

“Mr Manchuri!”

“She told me it was her own, and asked if I would buy it. I knew it was worth a good deal more than the sum I paid her; now it seems that she took me in, I have purchased Lady Lushington’s necklace; it never belonged to Annie Brooke. What is to be done?”

Priscilla sat, white as death, with her hands clasped before her.

“Did you ever,” she said at last after a very long pause, “notice in all your knowledge of mankind how from the beginning of a little act of deceit great and awful things take place? If I had not yielded to a temptation which was put before me at Mrs Lyttelton’s school, Annie would never have been a thief; there would have been no need—no need! Mr Manchuri, I feel that I am responsible for this.”

“Nothing of the kind, child. Please don’t take on in that way! It is too dreadful to hear you.”

Priscilla’s lips trembled.

“We must, we must save Annie Brooke,” she said. “She is in trouble. Her uncle is dead; she has no home any longer. Oh, Mr Manchuri, for the sake of your Esther, don’t be too hard on her!”

“I am just mad with rage,” said the old jeweller. “There are some things I can stand, but not deceit.”

“You can stand me,” said Priscilla very gently, “and yet I was deceitful.”

“You have repented, child; and you are going to do all in your power to show that your repentance is real. I will not have you and Annie Brooke spoken of on the same footing. I cannot bear it, Priscilla.”

“You will be kind to her,” repeated Priscilla.

“I must answer this good woman’s letter. I have got the necklace. I don’t choose to be at the loss of one hundred pounds. There are things I will not bear—I cannot and will not stand—even for you, Priscilla. I have been cheated by that girl, and have lost one hundred pounds on a trinket which I now cannot possibly sell. If Lady Lushington will send me that sum, she can have the necklace back; otherwise Miss Brooke herself must return the money.”

Priscilla was surprised and most distressed at the obduracy of the old man. In the and she could only persuade him to write to John Saxon, whose name she knew well. It would be better for him to be acquainted with this ghastly fact than for Lady Lushington’s just indignation to be turned on Annie’s devoted head.

Accordingly John Saxon was written to, and thus the explanation of his sudden visit to London was arrived at Mr Manchuri had asked the young man to meet him at his house of business, and Saxon, much as he dreaded what might lie before him, little guessed the ghastly news which he was to hear. Mr Manchuri, affectionate as he was to Priscilla, nursed his wrath more and more against Annie during the hours which intervened between his receiving Lady Lushington’s letter and the arrival of John Saxon on the scene.

“I am glad you have come, Mr Saxon,” he said when the young man entered the old jeweller’s private sitting-room, which was situated at the back of the business premises.

“Yes; I came at once,” replied Saxon. “What is it you want with me, Mr Manchuri? You said you had something important to tell me with regard to my cousin, Miss Brooke.”

“Something very ugly to tell you, sir. Now listen. What do you make of this story?”

Saxon did listen while Mr Manchuri enlarged on Annie’s apparently innocent, wheedling ways, on her story with regard to the necklace, and on the fact that he had given her in exchange for it ten notes, each of the value of ten pounds.

“A hundred pounds in all,” said the old jeweller; “and, to tell you the truth, Mr Saxon, cheap at the price, for I could sell that necklace to-morrow for two hundred and fifty pounds, or even three hundred. Mark you, my dear young sir, I could do it, but you could not, nor could she, sharp as she is; for I know the trade and you don’t, and she doesn’t, and Lady Lushington doesn’t. Therefore a hundred pounds is a very fair sum to pay for what only cost her ladyship forty. Now, will you read that?” he added, handing him Lady Lushington’s letter.

John Saxon did so. He returned it and looked full into the face of Mr Manchuri.

“Well, sir,” said the merchant, “what do you mean to do?”

“What doyoumean to do, Mr Manchuri?”

Mr Manchuri spread out his hands.

“I,” he said—“I mean to take the law in this matter. I mean to write the simple and exact truth to Lady Lushington, and I mean to confront that precious Miss Brooke with the truth. That is what I mean to do. That sort of wickedness ought not to be permitted, sir. It ought to be nipped in the bud.”

“I agree with you,” said Saxon. He spoke very slowly, and with pain. “It ought to be nipped in the bad, and I am,”—a lamp came to to his throat—“almost glad that you have made this discovery. There would be nothing quite so dreadful for my poor little cousin as that this thing should be hidden. Now it is known, soon a great deal more will be known—of that I am persuaded. But, sir, I want to plead with you on behalf of the guilty party. In the first place, the girl in question is only seventeen. Her exceeding youth, which ought to be the shield of innocence, has not proved sufficient to keep her from acting in the most crafty and guilty manner. But she was the beloved child of one of the beet of men, and for his sake I will not have her name dragged in the dust; if I can save her from the world’s knowledge of such a grave crime as this, I will. Mr Manchuri, you have lost one hundred pounds. Here is my cheque for the amount.”

Here John Saxon took a cheque-book from his pocket.

“Give me a pen and ink,” he said, “and I will fill it in for you. Having received this, will you return the necklace to Lady Lushington, telling her any story you please, but as far as possible shielding Annie Brooke from the worst consequences of her sin?”

“This makes all the difference, sir,” said Mr Manchuri. “I am not appointed in any sense to be the guardian of Miss Annie Brooke. I wish never to see the young lady again. She has acted abominably. I will take your cheque, sir, and return the necklace to Lady Lushington.”

“So far, so good. Then perhaps this ends our business,” said John Saxon.

He took up his hat as he spoke.

“Not quite sure there are not other things I wish to say. Will you sit down?”

Saxon very unwillingly complied.

“You have, perhaps,” continued Mr Manchuri, “heard Miss Brooke speak of a schoolfellow of the name of Priscilla Weir?”

“I have. I believe the young lady was with her and Miss Lushington in Switzerland.”

“That is true,” said Mr Manchuri; “and I had the privilege—I was, in short, the fortunate man to be allowed to escort Miss Weir back to England.”

“Indeed?” said Saxon, who, terribly shocked at this story about poor Annie, could with difficulty bring himself to take the slightest interest in Priscilla.

“You have told me, sir, that Miss Brooke’s uncle is dead?”

Saxon bowed his head. Mr Manchuri gazed hard at the young man.

“Your father was my good friend,” he said, a softer note coming into his voice, “and I have always thoroughly respected you. Your father and I have transacted business, and you yourself have shown me hospitality in a distant part of the world I would not be unkind to you, Mr Saxon, and I pity you very much indeed because of your relationship to Miss Brooke.”

“Pray do not pity me,” said Saxon. “If a man of my age—I am eight-and-twenty—cannot do has beet for a lonely girl, almost a child, he must be a poor sort. I am Annie’s guardian, and will do my utmost as long as she lives to befriend her.”

“Sir, I must speak the truth,” said Mr Manchuri. “You are straight as a die and honest and open as the day; but that girl is crafty, insincere, essentially untrue. You can never turn staff of that sort into true gold, however hard you try.”

“I can at least protect a weak and erring girl,” said Saxon with feeling.

“The best thing you can possibly do for her, sir, is to get her out of England and away from her old friends; for she must never return to Mrs Lyttelton’s school.”

“Why so?” asked Saxon.

“It was my privilege, Mr Saxon, to escort Priscilla Weir back to England. She had been very little noticed by me or by anyone else while at Interlaken. But I think, if I may dare to say the word, that God took care of her, and she alone of all that party really enjoyed the glories of nature. For her the Jungfrau showed some of its majesty, and for her the other great mountains spoke unutterable secrets. She is a queer girl, but has a heart of gold, Mr Saxon, a heart of gold. Now that girl first attracted my attention because the resembled a child of my own—a child who has long lived with the angels. I can scarcely tell you what I felt when I saw the likeness, and since then I have probed into Priscilla’s heart and found that in all respects it resembles the heart of my Esther. Sir, the girl was lonely; she was subjected to temptation, and she yielded to it. She has told me about it, and when Mrs Lyttelton’s school opens it will be Priscilla’s painful duty to tell her mistress something which implicates very seriously your cousin, Miss Brooke. It also implicates Miss Lushington. Priscilla, is a guest in my house now. What she will be eventually I have not yet disclosed to her. It is my impression that Esther sent her to me, and I am not going to let her go in a hurry.”

“Yes, this is very interesting, and I am glad that a girl so worthy as Miss Weir should have found a friend in you,” was Saxon’s response. “But you have not explained what my cousin Annie has done.”

“No, no; it is not within my province. But I can only assure you that that unfortunate young lady has got herself, as well as two more of her schoolfellows—namely, Priscilla Weir and Mabel Lushington—into the most horrible scrape. Priscilla’s conscience will not allow her to live any longer under the load of unconfessed sin, and it is her duty to inform Mrs Lyttelton.”

“And me,” said Saxon in a determined voice.

“You must be patient, sir. I will not tell you Priscilla’s secrets. They are her own. But I should advise you immediately to take steps to remove Miss Brooke from Mrs Lyttelton’s school.” Saxon said a few words more, and then took his leave. He had a good deal of business to attend to that day in connection with the late Mr Brooke’s affairs; the winding-up of his small property and the paying of a few trifling outstanding bills must be attended to as soon as possible. But Annie—what was to be done with her? Saxon himself intended to return to Australia within a month. His business called him there, and he did not think he ought to delay. But what was to become of Annie?

She must not return to school; indeed, her circumstances forbade such a hurry. Would it be possible to settle her somewhere with Mrs Shelf? Saxon thought over this idea, but dismissed it. Annie was far too clever to be left in the hands of a person whom she could completely rule. The young man felt stunned at the depth of her wickedness. He spent a very anxious night, and returned by an early train on the following morning to Rashleigh. There he was met by the appalling information that Annie had gone.

It was Dan who first told him at the station. Dan blurted out the words, almost sobbing as he spoke. Mrs Shelf was so bad that she couldn’t speak. She was lying in the kitchen, where a neighbour had found her when she had come in in the morning. The poor woman was moaning to herself in the most dreadful way. Dan knew no particulars except that Miss Annie was nowhere to be found and that Mrs Shelf was ill.

“Really,” thought Saxon, “troubles thicken. I wonder when we shall see a gleam of daylight. Was there ever such a troublesome and terrible girl put into the world before?”

But the very greatness of the emergency roused all that was strongest and best in the young man. He soon got the truth out of poor Mrs Shelf, who blamed herself almost more than Annie for having gone to Rashleigh. Having tried to assure the poor old woman that she was not in fault, and that he was wrong not to have insisted on taking Annie with him to London, he further soothed her by saying that he would soon find Annie; that it was absolutely impossible for a young girl like Annie Brooke to lose herself in these days of clever detectives and patient investigations.

“We’ll have her back,” he said. “We’ll have her back, and you must get well. And now, I am going immediately—yes, immediately—to take steps. You must have a neighbour in to look after you, Mrs Shelf; and I will write you or send a telegram whenever I get news.”

“But oh, sir! there is something else on my mind,” said Mrs Shelf; and she told him the story of Dawson and the cheque.

“Oh, that is all right,” said Saxon in a cheery voice. “We will settle the matter with Dawson as soon as ever letters of administration have been taken out with regard to Mr Brooke’s will. Don’t fret any more about that and don’t blame poor little Annie more than you can help, Mrs Shelf.”

Mrs Shelf burst into tears. It was a relief to her to hear the manly voice and to feel the confident pressure of the strong young hand. If John Saxon could be cheery and hopeful about Annie, why should she despair?

When he was gone—and he left the house almost immediately afterwards—Mrs Shelf rose totteringly from the sofa in the old kitchen and began to potter about her work. All was not lost even for Annie Brooke, while John Saxon was there to defend and help her.

Chapter Twenty Eight.Tilda Freeman.It was a very tired Annie Brooke who arrived laden with her little bag late on a certain evening at Norton Paget. The darkness had quite set in, and when she entered the tiny station and took a third-class ticket to London she was not recognised.There were two other girls of an inferior class to Annie going also to London by the train. She looked at them for a minute, but they did not know her; and when presently she found herself in the same carriage with, them, she felt a certain sense of repose in being in their company. But for the fact that these two girls were accompanying her to town, she would have given way to quite unreasoning terrors, for her nerves had been violently shaken by the events of the last fortnight. Those nerves had been weakened already by all the deceit through which she had lived now during long weeks. This final step, however, made her feel almost as though she had reached the breaking-point. She could have cried out in her fears. She hated the darkness; she hated the swift movement of the train. She wanted to reach London; and yet when she did get there she would not have the faintest idea where to go. With her money securely fastened about her little person, with her neat leather bag, she might have presented herself at any comfortable hotel and been sure of a good welcome, but somehow Annie felt afraid of grand hotels at that moment. She felt deep down, very deep in her heart that she was nothing more nor less than a runaway, a girl who had done something to be ashamed of, who was obliged to hide herself, and who was forced to leave her friends.She shivered once or twice with cold, and one of the girls who had got into the same carriage, and who had stared very hard at Annie from time to time, noticing her great dejection and pallor and her want of any wraps, suddenly bent forward and said:“If you please, miss, I have a cloak to spare, and if you’re taken with a chill I’d be very glad to lend it to you to wrap about you.”“Thank you,” said Annie instantly. Her small teeth were beginning to chatter, and she was really glad of the girl’s offer.A few minutes later she was wrapped up in the cloak, and feeling inexpressibly soothed and knowing that her disguise was now more effectual than ever, she dropped into an uneasy sleep. She slept for some time, and when she awoke again she found that the third-class compartment was full of people—a rough and motley crew—and that the two girls who had accompanied her into the carriage were both still present. One faced her; the other sat pressed up close to her side. It was the girl who had lent Annie the cloak who sat so near her.“Are you a bit better, miss?” she said when Annie had opened her startled blue eyes and tried to collect her scattered senses.“Oh yes,” said Annie; “but I am thirsty,” she added.“Suck an orange, then; do,” said the girl. “They are a bit sour yet, but I bought some to-day for the journey.”She immediately thrust her hand into a string bag and produced an unripe and very untempting-looking specimen of the orange tribe.Annie took it and said, “Thank you.”“Lor’ bless you,” said the girl, “but your ’ands is ’ot!”“No, I am not hot at all,” said Annie; “I am more cold than hot. Thank you so much for the orange. How kind you are!”The girl looked at Annie with great admiration and curiosity. Then she bent forward and whispered to her companion. They consulted together for a few minutes in low tones which could not possibly reach Annie’s ears owing to the swift-going motion of the train. Then the girl who was seated opposite to Annie bent towards her and said:“Ain’t you Miss Annie Brooke of Rashleigh Rectory?”This remark so took Annie by surprise and so completely upset her already tottering nerves that she gave a sudden cry and said in a sort of smothered voice:“Oh, please, please don’t betray me!”The girl now nodded to her companion, and the girl who was seated close to Annie said in a low, soothing tone:“We ain’t goin’ to tell on yer, miss. If yer want to go up to town unbeknown to them as has the charge o’ yer, ’tain’t no affair o’ ours. I’m Tilda Freeman, and that ’ere girl is Martha Jones. I am a Lunnon gel, and Lunnon bred, and I was down on a wisit to my friend Martha Jones. She’s comin’ up with me for a bit to see the big town. Be you acquainted with Lunnon, miss, and do you know its ways?”“No, I don’t know London very well,” said Annie. She had recovered some of her self-possession by this time. “You are mistaken in supposing,” she continued, trying to speak in as cheerful a tone as she could, “that I am—am going away privately from my friends. I have lost my dear uncle, and am obliged to go to London on business.”“Yes, miss,” said Martha Jones, “and you has peeled off yer mournin’. You was in black when we seed you at the funeral. And why has yer come up by the night train, and why has yer taken a third-class ticket? And why do you ask us not to betray you? Don’t you tell no lies, miss, and you’ll be told no stories. You’re runnin’ away, and there’s no sayin’ but that it ’ave somethin’ to do with Dawson the butcher.”“Dawson?” said Annie, her heart beginning to beat very hard.“Dawson’s in a rare way about a cheque which ’e cashed for yer, miss. ’E can’t get ’is money back. Now Mrs Dawson is own sister to my mother, and we know all about it. There, miss, Tilda and me, we don’t want to be ’ard on a young lady like you, and if you ’ud confide in us, you ’ud find us your good friends. There ain’t no manner o’ use, miss, in your doin’ anythin’ else, for we can soon send a bit o’ a letter to Aunt Jane Dawson, and then the fat’s in the fire.”“Oh, oh!” said Annie, “I—” She roused herself; she pushed back her hat; she pressed her hot hand to her hot cheek. “Do you think we might open a little bit of the window?” she said.Tilda immediately complied.“There now,” she said; “that’s better. Didn’t I say as you was ’ot?—and no wonder. You tell Martha and me, and we’ll do wot we can for yer.”“I don’t know what you mean about a cheque,” said Annie; “that is all nonsense—I mean—I am not going away on that account.”“Oh no, miss,” said Tilda, winking at Martha. “Who hever said you was?”“But you are right,” continued Annie; “I am going to town for a day or two, just—just—on a little business of my own.”“Ain’t we smart?” said Tilda, winking again at Martha. Martha bent forward, and once more whispered in her companion’s ear.“Look ’ere,” said Tilda, “when all’s said and done, you’re a gel, same as we two are gels, and although you is ’igh up in the social scale, and we, so to speak, low down, we are made with the same feelin’s, and souls and bodies, and all the rest o’ it; and it ain’t for Martha and me to be ’ard on yer, miss; we ’ud much more like to ’elp yer, miss. We won’t get to Lunnon until close on twelve—Lor’ bless yer! that ain’t a nice time for a young lady to come all alone to the metropolis; ’tain’t a nice time at all—but my brother Sam ’ull meet Martha and me, and take us straight off to Islington, where we lives; and there ’ull be a bit o’ ’ot supper, and our beds all warm and cosy; and wot I say is this: why mightn’t you come along with us too, and share our ’ot supper and the escort of my brother Sam, and ’ave a shakedown at Islington for the night? There’s no safer way to ’ide, miss—if it’s ’idin’ yer mean; for none o’ those grand folks as you belong to will look for yer out Islington way.”Annie considered this offer for some little time, and finally said in a grateful tone that she did not think that she could do better than accept it; whereupon the girls whispered and giggled a good deal together and left poor Annie more or less to her own reflections.It was twenty minutes to twelve when the great express entered the huge London terminus which was its destination; and Annie was indeed glad, when she found herself in the whirl of the great Paddington Station, to have Tilda’s arm to lean on, and to be accompanied at the other side by Martha Jones.Presently a large young man with a shock of red hair and a freckled face rushed up to the girls, clapped Tilda loudly on the shoulder, and nodded in a most familiar manner to Martha. At sight of Annie, however, he fell back breathless with astonishment and open-eyed admiration; for perhaps in all her life poor little Annie had never looked more absolutely beautiful than she did now. Her cheeks were slightly crimson with the first touch of fever. Her blue eyes were at once dark and bright, and her coral-red lips might have resembled a cherry, so rich was their colour. There was a fragility at the same time about the slim young girl, a sort of delicate refinement, which her pretty dress and golden hair accentuated, so that, compared to Tilda, who was loud and coarse and uncommonly like Sam himself, and Martha, who was a plain, dumpy girl with a cast in one eye, the looked like a being from a superior sphere.Sam had dreamed of creatures like Annie Brooke. He had believed that it was possible for some girls to look like that, but he had never been close to one of these adorable creatures before in the whole course of his life. His silly head swam; his round eyes became rounder than ever with admiration, and even his loud voice became hushed.“Who be she?” he said, plucking at Tilda’s sleeve, and his own great, rough voice shaking.“A friend o’ our’n,” said Tilda, who, not being so susceptible, felt her head very tightly screwed on her shoulders, and was not going to give herself away on Annie’s account. “A friend o’ our’n,” she continued, “a gel whose acquaintance we made in the country. She’s a-comin’ along ’ome with Martha and me; so you look after our trunks, Sam, and we’ll go on to the underground as quick as possible. Don’t stare yer eyes out, Sam, for goodness’ sake! She won’t bolt, beauty though she be.”“Oh! I can’t go with you; I really can’t,” said Annie. “There must be a hotel close to this, and I have plenty, plenty of money. Perhaps this—this—gentleman would take me to the hotel.”She looked appealingly at Sam, who would have died for her there and then.“I wull—if yer wish, miss,” he stammered.“Nothing of the kind,” said Tilda, who, having secured Annie, had no intention of letting her go. A girl with plenty of money who was running away was a treasure not to be found every day in the week. “You’ll come with us, miss, or that letter ’ull be writ to Mrs Dawson afore we goes to bed to-night.”“Oh yes,” said Sam, wondering more and more what could have happened. “We’ll take the greatest care o’ yer, miss.”“Her name’s Annie; you needn’t ‘miss’ her,” said Tilda, turning sharply to her brother. “Now then, do get our bits o’ duds, and be quick, can’t you?”The bewildered young man did see to his sister’s and friend’s luggage. He had already secured Annie’s bag, and he held it reverently, feeling certain that it belonged to one of a superior class. Why, the little, neat bag alone was something to reverence.By-and-by the whole party found themselves in a third-class compartment on their way to Islington, which place they in course of time reached, Sam indulging in a cab for Annie’s sake, because he saw that she was far too tired to walk the long mile which separated Tilda Freeman’s home from the railway station.This humble domicile was soon reached, and the whole party went indoors. A frowsy-looking woman with red hair like Tilda’s and Sam’s stood akimbo in the passage, awaiting the arrival of her son and daughter and visitor.“How late you be!” she cried. “But there’s yer supper in the kitchen, and yer beds ready.—How do, Martha Jones? It’s a dish o’ tripe an’ onions I ’as ready for yer. I know you’re partial to that sort o’ food. Why, a’ mercy! who on earth is this!”“A friend o’ mine,” said Tilda. “Her name’s Annie. She can sleep along o’ me to-night, mother.”“Oh no,” said Annie. “I must have a bed to myself.”“Then you can’t, my beauty,” said Mrs Freeman, “for there ain’t one for yer. Ef yer thinks Tilda good enough to wisit uninvited in the dead o’ night you must be satisfied with half her bed. And now I’m off to mine, for I ’ave to char early to-morrow mornin’ at Pearson’s house over the way.”Mrs Freeman disappeared, and the girls, accompanied by Sam, went into the kitchen. Annie, try as she would, could not touch the coarse supper; but Tilda, Martha, and even Sam enjoyed it mightily.Annie had removed her hat, and her hair looked like purest gold under the flaring gas-jet, which cast a garish light over the place. Sam ate in abundance, and cast adoring eyes at Annie. Annie’s head ached; her throat ached; she shivered; but nevertheless, dimly and in a queer sort of fashion, it was borne in upon her that Sam would be her true friend, and that the girls would not. She was in an evil plight, but she was already feeling too ill to care very much what happened to her. Nevertheless, she had still a sufficient amount of self-control to return Sam’s gaze, and once she gave him a timid smile.By-and-by the two girls went into the scullery to wash the plates and dishes, for great would have been Mrs Freeman’s wrath if she had found them dirty in the morning; and Sam and Annie were alone.Annie immediately seized the opportunity.“Sam,” she said, “I am in great trouble.”“I be that sorry,” murmured Sam.“I know you have a kind heart, Sam.”“For you, miss,” he managed to stammer.“And you are strong,” continued Annie.“I’d knock any chap down as wanted to injure a ’air o’ yer ’ead, miss. It’s that beautiful, yer ’air is miss, like—like the sunshine when we spends a day in the country.”“Do you think you would really help me, Sam?” said Annie.“You has but to ask, miss,” said the red-haired giant, placing a huge hand over his heart.“I don’t want your sister and her friend to know.”“Oh, lawks, miss! you’ll turn my ’ead entirely. A secret atween you and me! Well, I’m that obligated I don’t know ’ow to speak.”“I want to get away from here to-morrow morning,” said Annie. “I want to go down to the docks, Sam.”“My word!” said Sam.“And I don’t know the way,” continued Annie. “Do you think that you—you would come with me and find a ship that is going—a long way from England—where you would take a passage for me? A steerage passage, Sam; I can’t afford anything else.”“And lose sight on yer, miss, for ever and ever?”“Oh, but—Sam, you promised to help me.”“My word!—and I will,” said Sam.“They are coming back,” said Annie in a husky voice. “I’ll get up early—quite early. When do you get up, Sam?”“I am off to my work at five in the mornin’.”“How much do you earn a day?”“Five shullin’—and good wage, too.”“I will give you a whole sovereign if you will stay away from your work and help me to-morrow. Shall we meet outside this house—just outside—at five in the morning?”“Oh, my word, yus!” said Sam; “and there’s no talk o’ sovereigns. It ’ull be jest the greatest pleasure in my whole life to sarve yer, missie.” The girls bustled noisily into the kitchen, and Tilda conveyed Annie to her own tiny attic in the roof. Annie refused to undress, but lay down, just as she was, on the hard, uncomfortable bed. For long afterwards she could not quite remember what occurred that night. It was all a horrible nightmare. She was ill; she was dying. Her throat seemed to suffocate her. Every bone in her body ached. She was confronted by ghastly images; unknown and awful terrors pursued her. Something touched her. She screamed. She opened her eyes and recognised Tilda bending over her.“What—what do you want?” she said; for Tilda had just grasped the pocket where the money lay.“Nothing—nothing at all, miss,” said Tilda.“You leave that gel alone!” shouted a harsh voice from another attic close by.“My word!” said Tilda. She sank down, trembling. “And I didn’t mean to take her money. I am bad, but I ain’t as bad as that; only I wanted to see wot she ’as got. She might make a present to Martha and me; but ef Sam ’as took her up, there ain’t no chance for none o’ us.”Towards morning Tilda crept into the other side of the bed and fell into profound slumber. Annie also slept and dreamed and awakened, and slept and dreamed again.”‘Be sure your sin will find you out,’” she kept repeating under her breath; and then, all of a sudden, when she felt a little—just a little—calmer, a hand was laid on her shoulder, a great rough face bent over her, and a voice said:“I say, missie, it’s time for you and me to be off.”Annie looked up. The red-haired giant had entered the room and had summoned her. Trembling, shaking, her fever high, her throat almost too sore to allow her to speak, she rose from that horrible bed, tried to shake her tumbled clothes into some sort of order, took up her bag, and followed Sam downstairs. A minute or two later, to her infinite refreshment, they were both out of the house and in the open air. Sam was all alive and keen with interest but when they had walked a few steps he glanced at Annie and the expression of his face altered.“You be—my word!—you be real bad!” he said.“I am,” said Annie hoarsely. “I can scarcely speak. It is—my—sin, Sam—that has—found me out.”“Your sin!” said Sam. “You be a hangel o’ light.”Annie laid her little, white, burning hand on his.“I can’t go to the docks,” she said. “I can’t go anywhere—except—except—oh, I must be quick!—oh, my senses will go! Everything swims before me. Sam, I must tell you the truth. Sam, hold me for a minute.”He did so. The street in which they found themselves was quiet as yet. There were only a few passers-by, and these where hurrying off to their respective employments. Annie put her hand into the little pocket which contained her money. She took out her purse and gave Sam a five-pound note.“Go,” she said, “to-day to Rashleigh, the place where your sister has been. Go to the Rectory and tell them that I—Annie Brooke—have found out—the truth of one text: ‘Be sure your sin will find you out.’ Tell them that from me, and be quick—be very quick. Go at once. But first of all take me to the nearest hospital.”Before poor Sam could quite understand all Annie’s instructions the girl herself was quite delirious. There was nothing for it but to lift her into his strong arms and carry her to a large hospital in the neighbourhood of Islington. There she was instantly admitted, and, after a very brief delay, was conveyed to the fever ward.

It was a very tired Annie Brooke who arrived laden with her little bag late on a certain evening at Norton Paget. The darkness had quite set in, and when she entered the tiny station and took a third-class ticket to London she was not recognised.

There were two other girls of an inferior class to Annie going also to London by the train. She looked at them for a minute, but they did not know her; and when presently she found herself in the same carriage with, them, she felt a certain sense of repose in being in their company. But for the fact that these two girls were accompanying her to town, she would have given way to quite unreasoning terrors, for her nerves had been violently shaken by the events of the last fortnight. Those nerves had been weakened already by all the deceit through which she had lived now during long weeks. This final step, however, made her feel almost as though she had reached the breaking-point. She could have cried out in her fears. She hated the darkness; she hated the swift movement of the train. She wanted to reach London; and yet when she did get there she would not have the faintest idea where to go. With her money securely fastened about her little person, with her neat leather bag, she might have presented herself at any comfortable hotel and been sure of a good welcome, but somehow Annie felt afraid of grand hotels at that moment. She felt deep down, very deep in her heart that she was nothing more nor less than a runaway, a girl who had done something to be ashamed of, who was obliged to hide herself, and who was forced to leave her friends.

She shivered once or twice with cold, and one of the girls who had got into the same carriage, and who had stared very hard at Annie from time to time, noticing her great dejection and pallor and her want of any wraps, suddenly bent forward and said:

“If you please, miss, I have a cloak to spare, and if you’re taken with a chill I’d be very glad to lend it to you to wrap about you.”

“Thank you,” said Annie instantly. Her small teeth were beginning to chatter, and she was really glad of the girl’s offer.

A few minutes later she was wrapped up in the cloak, and feeling inexpressibly soothed and knowing that her disguise was now more effectual than ever, she dropped into an uneasy sleep. She slept for some time, and when she awoke again she found that the third-class compartment was full of people—a rough and motley crew—and that the two girls who had accompanied her into the carriage were both still present. One faced her; the other sat pressed up close to her side. It was the girl who had lent Annie the cloak who sat so near her.

“Are you a bit better, miss?” she said when Annie had opened her startled blue eyes and tried to collect her scattered senses.

“Oh yes,” said Annie; “but I am thirsty,” she added.

“Suck an orange, then; do,” said the girl. “They are a bit sour yet, but I bought some to-day for the journey.”

She immediately thrust her hand into a string bag and produced an unripe and very untempting-looking specimen of the orange tribe.

Annie took it and said, “Thank you.”

“Lor’ bless you,” said the girl, “but your ’ands is ’ot!”

“No, I am not hot at all,” said Annie; “I am more cold than hot. Thank you so much for the orange. How kind you are!”

The girl looked at Annie with great admiration and curiosity. Then she bent forward and whispered to her companion. They consulted together for a few minutes in low tones which could not possibly reach Annie’s ears owing to the swift-going motion of the train. Then the girl who was seated opposite to Annie bent towards her and said:

“Ain’t you Miss Annie Brooke of Rashleigh Rectory?”

This remark so took Annie by surprise and so completely upset her already tottering nerves that she gave a sudden cry and said in a sort of smothered voice:

“Oh, please, please don’t betray me!”

The girl now nodded to her companion, and the girl who was seated close to Annie said in a low, soothing tone:

“We ain’t goin’ to tell on yer, miss. If yer want to go up to town unbeknown to them as has the charge o’ yer, ’tain’t no affair o’ ours. I’m Tilda Freeman, and that ’ere girl is Martha Jones. I am a Lunnon gel, and Lunnon bred, and I was down on a wisit to my friend Martha Jones. She’s comin’ up with me for a bit to see the big town. Be you acquainted with Lunnon, miss, and do you know its ways?”

“No, I don’t know London very well,” said Annie. She had recovered some of her self-possession by this time. “You are mistaken in supposing,” she continued, trying to speak in as cheerful a tone as she could, “that I am—am going away privately from my friends. I have lost my dear uncle, and am obliged to go to London on business.”

“Yes, miss,” said Martha Jones, “and you has peeled off yer mournin’. You was in black when we seed you at the funeral. And why has yer come up by the night train, and why has yer taken a third-class ticket? And why do you ask us not to betray you? Don’t you tell no lies, miss, and you’ll be told no stories. You’re runnin’ away, and there’s no sayin’ but that it ’ave somethin’ to do with Dawson the butcher.”

“Dawson?” said Annie, her heart beginning to beat very hard.

“Dawson’s in a rare way about a cheque which ’e cashed for yer, miss. ’E can’t get ’is money back. Now Mrs Dawson is own sister to my mother, and we know all about it. There, miss, Tilda and me, we don’t want to be ’ard on a young lady like you, and if you ’ud confide in us, you ’ud find us your good friends. There ain’t no manner o’ use, miss, in your doin’ anythin’ else, for we can soon send a bit o’ a letter to Aunt Jane Dawson, and then the fat’s in the fire.”

“Oh, oh!” said Annie, “I—” She roused herself; she pushed back her hat; she pressed her hot hand to her hot cheek. “Do you think we might open a little bit of the window?” she said.

Tilda immediately complied.

“There now,” she said; “that’s better. Didn’t I say as you was ’ot?—and no wonder. You tell Martha and me, and we’ll do wot we can for yer.”

“I don’t know what you mean about a cheque,” said Annie; “that is all nonsense—I mean—I am not going away on that account.”

“Oh no, miss,” said Tilda, winking at Martha. “Who hever said you was?”

“But you are right,” continued Annie; “I am going to town for a day or two, just—just—on a little business of my own.”

“Ain’t we smart?” said Tilda, winking again at Martha. Martha bent forward, and once more whispered in her companion’s ear.

“Look ’ere,” said Tilda, “when all’s said and done, you’re a gel, same as we two are gels, and although you is ’igh up in the social scale, and we, so to speak, low down, we are made with the same feelin’s, and souls and bodies, and all the rest o’ it; and it ain’t for Martha and me to be ’ard on yer, miss; we ’ud much more like to ’elp yer, miss. We won’t get to Lunnon until close on twelve—Lor’ bless yer! that ain’t a nice time for a young lady to come all alone to the metropolis; ’tain’t a nice time at all—but my brother Sam ’ull meet Martha and me, and take us straight off to Islington, where we lives; and there ’ull be a bit o’ ’ot supper, and our beds all warm and cosy; and wot I say is this: why mightn’t you come along with us too, and share our ’ot supper and the escort of my brother Sam, and ’ave a shakedown at Islington for the night? There’s no safer way to ’ide, miss—if it’s ’idin’ yer mean; for none o’ those grand folks as you belong to will look for yer out Islington way.”

Annie considered this offer for some little time, and finally said in a grateful tone that she did not think that she could do better than accept it; whereupon the girls whispered and giggled a good deal together and left poor Annie more or less to her own reflections.

It was twenty minutes to twelve when the great express entered the huge London terminus which was its destination; and Annie was indeed glad, when she found herself in the whirl of the great Paddington Station, to have Tilda’s arm to lean on, and to be accompanied at the other side by Martha Jones.

Presently a large young man with a shock of red hair and a freckled face rushed up to the girls, clapped Tilda loudly on the shoulder, and nodded in a most familiar manner to Martha. At sight of Annie, however, he fell back breathless with astonishment and open-eyed admiration; for perhaps in all her life poor little Annie had never looked more absolutely beautiful than she did now. Her cheeks were slightly crimson with the first touch of fever. Her blue eyes were at once dark and bright, and her coral-red lips might have resembled a cherry, so rich was their colour. There was a fragility at the same time about the slim young girl, a sort of delicate refinement, which her pretty dress and golden hair accentuated, so that, compared to Tilda, who was loud and coarse and uncommonly like Sam himself, and Martha, who was a plain, dumpy girl with a cast in one eye, the looked like a being from a superior sphere.

Sam had dreamed of creatures like Annie Brooke. He had believed that it was possible for some girls to look like that, but he had never been close to one of these adorable creatures before in the whole course of his life. His silly head swam; his round eyes became rounder than ever with admiration, and even his loud voice became hushed.

“Who be she?” he said, plucking at Tilda’s sleeve, and his own great, rough voice shaking.

“A friend o’ our’n,” said Tilda, who, not being so susceptible, felt her head very tightly screwed on her shoulders, and was not going to give herself away on Annie’s account. “A friend o’ our’n,” she continued, “a gel whose acquaintance we made in the country. She’s a-comin’ along ’ome with Martha and me; so you look after our trunks, Sam, and we’ll go on to the underground as quick as possible. Don’t stare yer eyes out, Sam, for goodness’ sake! She won’t bolt, beauty though she be.”

“Oh! I can’t go with you; I really can’t,” said Annie. “There must be a hotel close to this, and I have plenty, plenty of money. Perhaps this—this—gentleman would take me to the hotel.”

She looked appealingly at Sam, who would have died for her there and then.

“I wull—if yer wish, miss,” he stammered.

“Nothing of the kind,” said Tilda, who, having secured Annie, had no intention of letting her go. A girl with plenty of money who was running away was a treasure not to be found every day in the week. “You’ll come with us, miss, or that letter ’ull be writ to Mrs Dawson afore we goes to bed to-night.”

“Oh yes,” said Sam, wondering more and more what could have happened. “We’ll take the greatest care o’ yer, miss.”

“Her name’s Annie; you needn’t ‘miss’ her,” said Tilda, turning sharply to her brother. “Now then, do get our bits o’ duds, and be quick, can’t you?”

The bewildered young man did see to his sister’s and friend’s luggage. He had already secured Annie’s bag, and he held it reverently, feeling certain that it belonged to one of a superior class. Why, the little, neat bag alone was something to reverence.

By-and-by the whole party found themselves in a third-class compartment on their way to Islington, which place they in course of time reached, Sam indulging in a cab for Annie’s sake, because he saw that she was far too tired to walk the long mile which separated Tilda Freeman’s home from the railway station.

This humble domicile was soon reached, and the whole party went indoors. A frowsy-looking woman with red hair like Tilda’s and Sam’s stood akimbo in the passage, awaiting the arrival of her son and daughter and visitor.

“How late you be!” she cried. “But there’s yer supper in the kitchen, and yer beds ready.—How do, Martha Jones? It’s a dish o’ tripe an’ onions I ’as ready for yer. I know you’re partial to that sort o’ food. Why, a’ mercy! who on earth is this!”

“A friend o’ mine,” said Tilda. “Her name’s Annie. She can sleep along o’ me to-night, mother.”

“Oh no,” said Annie. “I must have a bed to myself.”

“Then you can’t, my beauty,” said Mrs Freeman, “for there ain’t one for yer. Ef yer thinks Tilda good enough to wisit uninvited in the dead o’ night you must be satisfied with half her bed. And now I’m off to mine, for I ’ave to char early to-morrow mornin’ at Pearson’s house over the way.”

Mrs Freeman disappeared, and the girls, accompanied by Sam, went into the kitchen. Annie, try as she would, could not touch the coarse supper; but Tilda, Martha, and even Sam enjoyed it mightily.

Annie had removed her hat, and her hair looked like purest gold under the flaring gas-jet, which cast a garish light over the place. Sam ate in abundance, and cast adoring eyes at Annie. Annie’s head ached; her throat ached; she shivered; but nevertheless, dimly and in a queer sort of fashion, it was borne in upon her that Sam would be her true friend, and that the girls would not. She was in an evil plight, but she was already feeling too ill to care very much what happened to her. Nevertheless, she had still a sufficient amount of self-control to return Sam’s gaze, and once she gave him a timid smile.

By-and-by the two girls went into the scullery to wash the plates and dishes, for great would have been Mrs Freeman’s wrath if she had found them dirty in the morning; and Sam and Annie were alone.

Annie immediately seized the opportunity.

“Sam,” she said, “I am in great trouble.”

“I be that sorry,” murmured Sam.

“I know you have a kind heart, Sam.”

“For you, miss,” he managed to stammer.

“And you are strong,” continued Annie.

“I’d knock any chap down as wanted to injure a ’air o’ yer ’ead, miss. It’s that beautiful, yer ’air is miss, like—like the sunshine when we spends a day in the country.”

“Do you think you would really help me, Sam?” said Annie.

“You has but to ask, miss,” said the red-haired giant, placing a huge hand over his heart.

“I don’t want your sister and her friend to know.”

“Oh, lawks, miss! you’ll turn my ’ead entirely. A secret atween you and me! Well, I’m that obligated I don’t know ’ow to speak.”

“I want to get away from here to-morrow morning,” said Annie. “I want to go down to the docks, Sam.”

“My word!” said Sam.

“And I don’t know the way,” continued Annie. “Do you think that you—you would come with me and find a ship that is going—a long way from England—where you would take a passage for me? A steerage passage, Sam; I can’t afford anything else.”

“And lose sight on yer, miss, for ever and ever?”

“Oh, but—Sam, you promised to help me.”

“My word!—and I will,” said Sam.

“They are coming back,” said Annie in a husky voice. “I’ll get up early—quite early. When do you get up, Sam?”

“I am off to my work at five in the mornin’.”

“How much do you earn a day?”

“Five shullin’—and good wage, too.”

“I will give you a whole sovereign if you will stay away from your work and help me to-morrow. Shall we meet outside this house—just outside—at five in the morning?”

“Oh, my word, yus!” said Sam; “and there’s no talk o’ sovereigns. It ’ull be jest the greatest pleasure in my whole life to sarve yer, missie.” The girls bustled noisily into the kitchen, and Tilda conveyed Annie to her own tiny attic in the roof. Annie refused to undress, but lay down, just as she was, on the hard, uncomfortable bed. For long afterwards she could not quite remember what occurred that night. It was all a horrible nightmare. She was ill; she was dying. Her throat seemed to suffocate her. Every bone in her body ached. She was confronted by ghastly images; unknown and awful terrors pursued her. Something touched her. She screamed. She opened her eyes and recognised Tilda bending over her.

“What—what do you want?” she said; for Tilda had just grasped the pocket where the money lay.

“Nothing—nothing at all, miss,” said Tilda.

“You leave that gel alone!” shouted a harsh voice from another attic close by.

“My word!” said Tilda. She sank down, trembling. “And I didn’t mean to take her money. I am bad, but I ain’t as bad as that; only I wanted to see wot she ’as got. She might make a present to Martha and me; but ef Sam ’as took her up, there ain’t no chance for none o’ us.”

Towards morning Tilda crept into the other side of the bed and fell into profound slumber. Annie also slept and dreamed and awakened, and slept and dreamed again.

”‘Be sure your sin will find you out,’” she kept repeating under her breath; and then, all of a sudden, when she felt a little—just a little—calmer, a hand was laid on her shoulder, a great rough face bent over her, and a voice said:

“I say, missie, it’s time for you and me to be off.”

Annie looked up. The red-haired giant had entered the room and had summoned her. Trembling, shaking, her fever high, her throat almost too sore to allow her to speak, she rose from that horrible bed, tried to shake her tumbled clothes into some sort of order, took up her bag, and followed Sam downstairs. A minute or two later, to her infinite refreshment, they were both out of the house and in the open air. Sam was all alive and keen with interest but when they had walked a few steps he glanced at Annie and the expression of his face altered.

“You be—my word!—you be real bad!” he said.

“I am,” said Annie hoarsely. “I can scarcely speak. It is—my—sin, Sam—that has—found me out.”

“Your sin!” said Sam. “You be a hangel o’ light.”

Annie laid her little, white, burning hand on his.

“I can’t go to the docks,” she said. “I can’t go anywhere—except—except—oh, I must be quick!—oh, my senses will go! Everything swims before me. Sam, I must tell you the truth. Sam, hold me for a minute.”

He did so. The street in which they found themselves was quiet as yet. There were only a few passers-by, and these where hurrying off to their respective employments. Annie put her hand into the little pocket which contained her money. She took out her purse and gave Sam a five-pound note.

“Go,” she said, “to-day to Rashleigh, the place where your sister has been. Go to the Rectory and tell them that I—Annie Brooke—have found out—the truth of one text: ‘Be sure your sin will find you out.’ Tell them that from me, and be quick—be very quick. Go at once. But first of all take me to the nearest hospital.”

Before poor Sam could quite understand all Annie’s instructions the girl herself was quite delirious. There was nothing for it but to lift her into his strong arms and carry her to a large hospital in the neighbourhood of Islington. There she was instantly admitted, and, after a very brief delay, was conveyed to the fever ward.

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