she has no home any longer. Oh, Mr Manchuri, for thesake of your Esther, don't be too hard on her!"
"I am just mad with rage," said the old jeweller. "There are somethings I can stand, but not deceit."
"You can stand me," said Priscilla very gently, "and yet I wasdeceitful."
"You have repented, child; and you are going to do all in your power toshow that your repentance is real. I will not have you and Annie Brookespoken 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. Idon't choose to be at the loss of one hundred pounds. There are thingsI 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 atrinket which I now cannot possibly sell. If Lady Lushington will sendme that sum, she can have the necklace back; otherwise Miss Brookeherself must return the money."
Priscilla was surprised and most distressed at the obduracy of the oldman. 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 acquaintedwith this ghastly fact than for Lady Lushington's just indignation to beturned on Annie's devoted head.
Accordingly John Saxon was written to, and thus the explanation of hissudden visit to London was arrived at Mr Manchuri had asked the youngman to meet him at his house of business, and Saxon, much as he dreadedwhat might lie before him, little guessed the ghastly news which he wasto hear. Mr Manchuri, affectionate as he was to Priscilla, nursed hiswrath more and more against Annie during the hours which intervenedbetween his receiving Lady Lushington's letter and the arrival of JohnSaxon on the scene.
"I am glad you have come, Mr Saxon," he said when the young man enteredthe old jeweller's private sitting-room, which was situated at the backof the business premises.
"Yes; I came at once," replied Saxon. "What is it you want with me, MrManchuri? You said you had something important to tell me with regardto my cousin, Miss Brooke."
"Something very ugly to tell you, sir. Now listen. What do you make ofthis story?"
Saxon did listen while Mr Manchuri enlarged on Annie's apparentlyinnocent, wheedling ways, on her story with regard to the necklace, andon the fact that he had given her in exchange for it ten notes, each ofthe value of ten pounds.
"A hundred pounds in all," said the old jeweller; "and, to tell you thetruth, Mr Saxon, cheap at the price, for I could sell that necklaceto-morrow for two hundred and fifty pounds, or even three hundred. Markyou, 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 fairsum to pay for what only cost her ladyship forty. Now, will you readthat?" he added, handing him Lady Lushington's letter.
John Saxon did so. He returned it and looked full into the face of MrManchuri.
"Well, sir," said the merchant, "what do you mean to do?"
"What do _you_ mean 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 writethe simple and exact truth to Lady Lushington, and I mean to confrontthat 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 benipped 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 histhroat--"almost glad that you have made this discovery. There would benothing quite so dreadful for my poor little cousin as that this thingshould be hidden. Now it is known, soon a great deal more will beknown--of that I am persuaded. But, sir, I want to plead with you onbehalf of the guilty party. In the first place, the girl in question isonly seventeen. Her exceeding youth, which ought to be the shield ofinnocence, has not proved sufficient to keep her from acting in the mostcrafty and guilty manner. But she was the beloved child of one of thebeet of men, and for his sake I will not have her name dragged in thedust; if I can save her from the world's knowledge of such a grave crimeas this, I will. Mr Manchuri, you have lost one hundred pounds. Hereis 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 AnnieBrooke from the worst consequences of her sin?"
"This makes all the difference, sir," said Mr Manchuri. "I am notappointed in any sense to be the guardian of Miss Annie Brooke. I wishnever to see the young lady again. She has acted abominably. I willtake your cheque, sir, and return the necklace to Lady Lushington."
"So far, so good. Then perhaps this ends our business," said JohnSaxon.
He took up his hat as he spoke.
"Not quite sure there are not other things I wish to say. Will you sitdown?"
Saxon very unwillingly complied.
"You have, perhaps," continued Mr Manchuri, "heard Miss Brooke speak ofa schoolfellow of the name of Priscilla Weir?"
"I have. I believe the young lady was with her and Miss Lushington inSwitzerland."
"That is true," said Mr Manchuri; "and I had the privilege--I was, inshort, the fortunate man to be allowed to escort Miss Weir back toEngland."
"Indeed?" said Saxon, who, terribly shocked at this story about poorAnnie, could with difficulty bring himself to take the slightestinterest 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 hisvoice, "and I have always thoroughly respected you. Your father and Ihave transacted business, and you yourself have shown me hospitality ina distant part of the world I would not be unkind to you, Mr Saxon, andI pity you very much indeed because of your relationship to MissBrooke."
"Pray do not pity me," said Saxon. "If a man of my age--I ameight-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 aslong as she lives to befriend her."
"Sir, I must speak the truth," said Mr Manchuri. "You are straight as adie and honest and open as the day; but that girl is crafty, insincere,essentially untrue. You can never turn staff of that sort into truegold, however hard you try."
"I can at least protect a weak and erring girl," said Saxon withfeeling.
"The best thing you can possibly do for her, sir, is to get her out ofEngland and away from her old friends; for she must never return to MrsLyttelton's school."
"Why so?" asked Saxon.
"It was my privilege, Mr Saxon, to escort Priscilla Weir back toEngland. She had been very little noticed by me or by anyone else whileat Interlaken. But I think, if I may dare to say the word, that Godtook care of her, and she alone of all that party really enjoyed theglories of nature. For her the Jungfrau showed some of its majesty, andfor her the other great mountains spoke unutterable secrets. She is aqueer girl, but has a heart of gold, Mr Saxon, a heart of gold. Nowthat girl first attracted my attention because the resembled a child ofmy own--a child who has long lived with the angels. I can scarcely tellyou what I felt when I saw the likeness, and since then I have probedinto Priscilla's heart and found that in all respects it resembles theheart of my Esther. Sir, the girl was lonely; she was subjected totemptation, and she yielded to it. She has told me about it, and whenMrs Lyttelton's school opens it will be Priscilla's painful duty to tellher mistress something which implicates very seriously your cousin, MissBrooke. It also implicates Miss Lushington. Priscilla, is a guest inmy house now. What she will be eventually I have not yet disclosed toher. It is my impression that Esther sent her to me, and I am not goingto let her go in a hurry."
"Yes, thi
s is very interesting, and I am glad that a girl so worthy asMiss 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 thatthat unfortunate young lady has got herself, as well as two more of herschoolfellows--namely, Priscilla Weir and Mabel Lushington--into themost horrible scrape. Priscilla's conscience will not allow her to liveany longer under the load of unconfessed sin, and it is her duty toinform 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 toremove Miss Brooke from Mrs Lyttelton's school." Saxon said a few wordsmore, and then took his leave. He had a good deal of business to attendto that day in connection with the late Mr Brooke's affairs; thewinding-up of his small property and the paying of a few triflingoutstanding bills must be attended to as soon as possible. But Annie--what was to be done with her? Saxon himself intended to return toAustralia within a month. His business called him there, and he did notthink he ought to delay. But what was to become of Annie?
She must not return to school; indeed, her circumstances forbade such ahurry. Would it be possible to settle her somewhere with Mrs Shelf?Saxon thought over this idea, but dismissed it. Annie was far tooclever to be left in the hands of a person whom she could completelyrule. The young man felt stunned at the depth of her wickedness. Hespent a very anxious night, and returned by an early train on thefollowing morning to Rashleigh. There he was met by the appallinginformation that Annie had gone.
It was Dan who first told him at the station. Dan blurted out thewords, almost sobbing as he spoke. Mrs Shelf was so bad that shecouldn't speak. She was lying in the kitchen, where a neighbour hadfound her when she had come in in the morning. The poor woman wasmoaning to herself in the most dreadful way. Dan knew no particularsexcept that Miss Annie was nowhere to be found and that Mrs Shelf wasill.
"Really," thought Saxon, "troubles thicken. I wonder when we shall seea gleam of daylight. Was there ever such a troublesome and terriblegirl put into the world before?"
But the very greatness of the emergency roused all that was strongestand 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, andthat he was wrong not to have insisted on taking Annie with him toLondon, he further soothed her by saying that he would soon find Annie;that it was absolutely impossible for a young girl like Annie Brooke tolose herself in these days of clever detectives and patientinvestigations.
"We'll have her back," he said. "We'll have her back, and you must getwell. 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 willwrite you or send a telegram whenever I get news."
"But oh, sir! there is something else on my mind," said Mrs Shelf; andshe told him the story of Dawson and the cheque.
"Oh, that is all right," said Saxon in a cheery voice. "We will settlethe matter with Dawson as soon as ever letters of administration havebeen taken out with regard to Mr Brooke's will. Don't fret any moreabout that and don't blame poor little Annie more than you can help, MrsShelf."
Mrs Shelf burst into tears. It was a relief to her to hear the manlyvoice and to feel the confident pressure of the strong young hand. IfJohn Saxon could be cheery and hopeful about Annie, why should shedespair?
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 topotter about her work. All was not lost even for Annie Brooke, whileJohn 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 baglate on a certain evening at Norton Paget. The darkness had quite setin, and when she entered the tiny station and took a third-class ticketto London she was not recognised.
There were two other girls of an inferior class to Annie going also toLondon by the train. She looked at them for a minute, but they did notknow her; and when presently she found herself in the same carriagewith, them, she felt a certain sense of repose in being in theircompany. But for the fact that these two girls were accompanying her totown, she would have given way to quite unreasoning terrors, for hernerves had been violently shaken by the events of the last fortnight.Those nerves had been weakened already by all the deceit through whichshe had lived now during long weeks. This final step, however, made herfeel almost as though she had reached the breaking-point. She couldhave cried out in her fears. She hated the darkness; she hated theswift movement of the train. She wanted to reach London; and yet whenshe did get there she would not have the faintest idea where to go.With her money securely fastened about her little person, with her neatleather bag, she might have presented herself at any comfortable hoteland been sure of a good welcome, but somehow Annie felt afraid of grandhotels at that moment. She felt deep down, very deep in her heart thatshe was nothing more nor less than a runaway, a girl who had donesomething to be ashamed of, who was obliged to hide herself, and who wasforced to leave her friends.
She shivered once or twice with cold, and one of the girls who had gotinto the same carriage, and who had stared very hard at Annie from timeto time, noticing her great dejection and pallor and her want of anywraps, suddenly bent forward and said:
"If you please, miss, I have a cloak to spare, and if you're taken witha 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 tochatter, and she was really glad of the girl's offer.
A few minutes later she was wrapped up in the cloak, and feelinginexpressibly soothed and knowing that her disguise was now moreeffectual than ever, she dropped into an uneasy sleep. She slept forsome time, and when she awoke again she found that the third-classcompartment was full of people--a rough and motley crew--and that thetwo girls who had accompanied her into the carriage were both stillpresent. One faced her; the other sat pressed up close to her side. Itwas 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 herstartled 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 unripeand 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. Thankyou so much for the orange. How kind you are!"
The girl looked at Annie with great admiration and curiosity. Then shebent forward and whispered to her companion. They consulted togetherfor a few minutes in low tones which could not possibly reach Annie'sears owing to the swift-going motion of the train. Then the girl whowas 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 heralready tottering nerves that she gave a sudden cry and said in a sortof smothered voice:
"Oh, please, please don't betray me!"
The girl now nodded to her companion, and the girl who was seated closeto Annie said in a low, soothing tone:
"We ain't goin' to tell on yer, miss. If yer want to go up to townunbeknown 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 Lunnongel, and Lunnon bred, and I was down on a wisit to my friend MarthaJones. She's comin' up with me fo
r a bit to see the big town. Be youacquainted with Lunnon, miss, and do you know its ways?"
"No, I don't know London very well," said Annie. She had recovered someof her self-possession by this time. "You are mistaken in supposing,"she continued, trying to speak in as cheerful a tone as she could, "thatI am--am going away privately from my friends. I have lost my dearuncle, 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 comeup by the night train, and why has yer taken a third-class ticket? Andwhy do you ask us not to betray you? Don't you tell no lies, miss, andyou'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 tobe 'ard on a young lady like you, and if you 'ud confide in us, you 'udfind us your good friends. There ain't no manner o' use, miss,