want your bone. Takeus out the other way, good Tiger--the other way, dear dog."
She moved instantly toward the little passage; the dog followed her.
"The other way," she said, and she turned her back on the long narrowpassage, and took a step or two into complete darkness. The dog beganto whine, caught hold of her dress, and tried to pull her back.
"Quite right, Tiger, we won't go that way," said Annie instantly. Shereturned into the dimly-lighted room.
"Find a way--And a way out, Tiger," she said.
The dog evidently understood her; he moved restlessly about the room.Finally he got up on the bed, pulled and scratched and tore away thestraw at the upper end, then, wagging his tail, flew to Annie's side.She came back with him. Beneath the straw was a tiny, tiny trap-door.
"Oh, Tiger!" said the girl; she went down on her knees, and, finding shecould not stir it, wondered if this also was kept in its place by asystem of balancing. She was right; after a very little pressing thedoor moved aside, and Annie saw four or five rudely carved steps.
"Come, Nan," she said joyfully, "Tiger has saved us; these steps mustlead us out."
The dog, with a joyful whine, went down first, and Annie, clasping Nantightly in her arms, followed him. Four, five, six steps they wentdown; then, to Annie's great joy, she found that the next step began toascend. Up and up she went, cheered by a welcome shaft of light.Finally she, Nan, and the dog found themselves emerging into the openair, through a hole which might have been taken for a large rabbitburrow.
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.
RESCUED.
The girl, the child, and the dog found themselves in a comparativelystrange country--Annie had completely lost her bearings. She lookedaround her for some sign of the gipsies' encampment; but whether she hadreally gone a greater distance than she imagined in those undergroundvaults, or whether the tents were hidden in some hollow of the ground,she did not know; she was only conscious that she was in a strangecountry, that Nan was clinging to her and crying for her breakfast, andthat Tiger was sniffing the air anxiously. Annie guessed that Tigercould take them back to the camp, but this was by no means her wish.When she emerged out of the underground passage she was conscious forthe first time of a strange and unknown experience. Absolute terrorseized the brave child: she trembled from head to foot, her head achedviolently, and the ground on which she stood seemed to reel, and the skyto turn round. She sat down for a moment on the green grass. Whatailed her? where was she? how could she get home? Nan's little piteouswail, "Me want my bekfas', me want my nursie, me want Hetty," almostirritated her.
"Oh, Nan," she said at last piteously, "have you not got your own Annie?Oh, Nan, dear little Nan, Annie feels so ill!"
Nan had the biggest and softest of baby hearts--breakfast, nurse, Hetty,were all forgotten in the crowning desire to comfort Annie. She climbedon her knee and stroked her face and kissed her lips.
"'Oo better now?" she said in a tone of baby inquiry.
Annie roused herself with a great effort.
"Yes, darling," she said; "we will try and get home. Come, Tiger.Tiger, dear, I don't want to go back to the gipsies; take me the otherway--take me to Oakley."
Tiger again sniffed the air, looked anxiously at Annie, and trotted onin front. Little Nan in her ragged gipsy clothes walked sedately byAnnie's side.
"Where 'oo s'oes?" she said, pointing to the girl's bare feet.
"Gone, Nan--gone. Never mind, I've got you. My little treasure, mylittle love, you're safe at last."
As Annie tottered, rather than walked, down a narrow path which leddirectly through a field of standing corn, she was startled by thesudden apparition of a bright-eyed girl, who appeared so suddenly in herpath that she might have been supposed to have risen out of the veryground.
The girl stared hard at Annie, fixed her eyes inquiringly on Nan andTiger, and then, turning on her heel, dashed up the path, went through aturn-stile, across the road, and into a cottage.
"Mother," she exclaimed, "I said she warn't a real gipsy: she's a-comingback, and her face is all streaked like, and she has a little 'un alongwith her, and a dawg, and the only one as is gipsy is the dawg. Comeand look at her, mother; oh, she is a fine take-in!"
The round-faced, good-humoured looking mother, whose name was MrsWilliams, had been washing and putting away the breakfast things whenher daughter entered. She now wiped her hands hastily and came to thecottage door.
"Cross the road, and come to the stile, mother," said the energeticPeggy--"oh, there she be a-creeping along--oh, ain't she a take-in?"
"'Sakes alive!" ejaculated Mrs Williams, "the girl is ill! why, shecan't keep herself steady! There! I knew she'd fall; ah! poor littlething--poor little thing."
It did not take Mrs Williams an instant to reach Annie's side; and inanother moment she had lifted her in her strong arms and carried herinto the cottage, Peggy lifting Nan and following in the rear, whileTiger walked by their sides.
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.
DARK DAYS.
A whole week had passed, and there were no tidings whatever of littleNan or of Annie Forest. No one at Lavender House had heard a word aboutthem; the police came and went, detectives even arrived from London, butthere were no traces whatever of the missing children.
The Midsummer holiday was now close at hand, but no one spoke of it orthought of it. Mrs Willis told the teachers that the prizes should bedistributed, but she said she could invite no guests and could allow ofno special festivities. Miss Danesbury and Miss Good repeated her wordsto the school-girls, who answered without hesitation that they did notwish for feasting and merriment; they would rather the day passedunnoticed. In truth, the fact that their baby was gone, that theirfavourite and prettiest and brightest school-mate had also disappeared,caused such gloom, such distress, such apprehension that even the mostthoughtless of those girls could scarcely have laughed or been merry.School-hours were still kept after a fashion, but there was no life inthe lessons. In truth, it seemed as if the sun would never shine againat Lavender House.
Hester was ill; not very ill--she had no fever, she had no cold; shehad, as the good doctor explained it, nothing at all wrong, except thather nervous system had got a shock.
"When the little one is found, Miss Hetty will be quite well again,"said the good doctor: but the little one had not been found yet, andHester had completely broken down. She lay on her bed, saying little ornothing, eating scarcely anything, sleeping not at all. All the girlswere kind to her, and each one in the school took turns in trying tocomfort her; but no one could win a smile from Hester, and even MrsWillis failed utterly to reach or touch her heart.
Mr Everard came once to see her, but he had scarcely spoken many wordswhen Hester broke into an agony of weeping, and begged him to go away.He shook his head when he left her, and said sadly to himself--
"That girl has got something on her mind; she is grieving for more thanthe loss of her little sister."
The twentieth of June came at last, and the girls sat about in groups inthe pleasant, shady garden, and talked of the very sad breaking-up daythey were to have on the morrow, and wondered if, when they returned toschool again, Annie and little Nan would have been found. Cecil Temple,Dora Russell, and one or two others were sitting together, andwhispering in low voices. Mary Price joined them, and said anxiously--
"I don't think the doctor is satisfied about Hester. Perhaps I oughtnot to have listened, but I heard him talking to Miss Danesbury justnow; he said she must be got to sleep somehow, and she is to have acomposing draught to-night."
"I wish poor Hetty would not turn away from us all," said Cecil; "I wishshe would not quite give up hope; I do feel sure that Nan and Annie willbe found yet."
"Have you been praying about it, Cecil?" asked Mary, kneeling on thegrass, laying her elbows on Cecil's knees, and looking into her face."Do you say this because you have faith?"
"I have prayed, and I have faith," replied Cecil in her simple, earnestway. "Why,
Dora, what is the matter?"
"Only that it's horrid to leave like this," said Dora; "I--I thought mylast day at school would have been so different, and somehow I am sorryI spoke so much against that poor little Annie."
Here Cecil suddenly rose from her seat, and, going up to Dora, claspedher arms round her neck.
"Thank you, Dora," she said with fervour; "I love you for those words."
"Here comes Susy," remarked Mary Price. "I really don't think_anything_ would move Susy; she's just as stolid and indifferent asever. Ah, Susy, here's a place for you--oh, what _is_ the matter withPhyllis? see how she's rushing toward us! Phyllis, my dear, don't breakyour neck."
Susan, with her usual nonchalance, seated herself by Dora Russell'sside. Phyllis burst excitedly into the group.
"I think," she exclaimed, "I really, really do think that news has comeof Annie's father. Nora said that Janet told her that a foreign lettercame this morning to Mrs Willis, and somebody saw Mrs Willis talkingto Miss Danesbury--oh, I forgot, only I know that the girls of theschool are whispering the news that Mrs Willis cried, and MissDanesbury said, `After waiting for him four years, and now, when hecomes back, he won't find her!' Oh, dear, oh, dear! there is Danesbury.Cecil, darling love, go to her, and find out the truth."
Cecil rose at once, went across the lawn, said a few words to MissDanesbury, and came back to the other girls.
"It is true," she said sadly; "there came a letter this morning fromCaptain Forest; he will be at Lavender House in a week. Miss Danesburysays it is a wonderful letter, and he has been shipwrecked, and on anisland by himself for ever so long; but he is safe now, and will soon bein England. Miss Danesbury says Mrs Willis can scarcely speak aboutthat letter; she is in great, great trouble, and Miss Danesburyconfesses that they are all more anxious than they dare to admit aboutAnnie and little Nan."
At this moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard on the drive, andSusan, peering forward to see who was arriving, remarked in her usualnonchalant manner--
"Only the little Misses Bruce in their basket-carriage--whatdull-looking women they are!"
Nobody commented, however, on her observation, and gradually the littlegroup of girls sank into absolute silence.
From where they sat they could see the basket-carriage waiting at thefront entrance--the little ladies had gone inside, all was perfectsilence and stillness.
Suddenly on the stillness a sound broke--the sound of a girl runningquickly; nearer and nearer came the steps, and the four or five who sattogether under the oak-tree noticed the quick panting breath, and felteven before a word was uttered that evil tidings were coming to them.They all started to their feet, however; they all uttered a cry ofhorror and distress when Hester herself broke into their midst. She wassupposed to be lying down in a darkened room, she was supposed to bevery ill--what was she doing here?
"Hetty!" exclaimed Cecil.
Hester pushed past her; she rushed up to Susan Drummond, and seized herarm.
"News has come!" she panted; "news--news at last! Nan is found!--andAnnie--they are both found--but Annie is dying. Come, Susan, come thismoment; we must both tell what we know now."
By her impetuosity, by the intense fire of her passion and agony, evenSusan was electrified into leaving her seat and going with her.
CHAPTER FORTY NINE.
TWO CONFESSIONS.
Hester dragged her startled and rather unwilling companion in throughthe front entrance, past some agitated-looking servants who stood aboutin the hall, and through the velvet curtains into Mrs Willis's boudoir.
The Misses Bruce were there, and Mrs Willis in her bonnet and cloak washastily packing some things into a basket.
"I--I must speak to you," said Hester, going up to her governess."Susan and I have got something to say, and we must say it here, now atonce?"
"No, not now, Hester," replied Mrs Willis, looking for a moment intoher pupil's agitated face. "Whatever you and Susan Drummond have totell cannot be listened to by me at this moment. I have not an instantto lose."
"You are going to Annie?" asked Hester.
"Yes; don't keep me. Good-bye, my dears; good-bye."
Mrs Willis moved toward the door. Hester, who felt almost besideherself, rushed after her, and caught her arm.
"Take us with you, take Susy and me with you--we must we must see Anniebefore she dies."
"Hush, my child," said Mrs Willis very quietly; "try to calm yourself.Whatever you have got to say shall be listened to later on--now momentsare precious, and I cannot attend to you. Calm yourself, Hester, andthank God for your dear little sister's safety. Prepare yourself toreceive her, for the carriage which takes me to Annie will bring littleNan home."
Mrs Willis left the room, and Hester threw herself on hen knees andcovered her face with her trembling hands. Presently she was aroused bya light touch on her arm; it was Susan Drummond.
"I may go now, I suppose, Hester? You are not quite determined to makea fool of me, are you?"
"I have determined to expose you, you coward, you mean, mean girl!"answered Hester, springing to her feet. "Come, I have no idea ofletting you go. Mrs Willis won't listen--we will find Mr Everard."
Whether Susan would really have gone with Hester remains to be proved,but just at that moment all possibility of retreat was cut away from herby Miss Agnes Bruce, who quietly entered Mrs Willis's privatesitting-room, followed by the very man Hester was about to seek.
"I thought it best, my dear," she said, turning apologetically toHester, "to go at once for our good clergyman; you can tell him all thatis in your heart, and I will leave you. Before I go, however. I shouldlike to tell you how I found Annie and little Nan."
Hester made no answer; just for a brief moment she raised her eyes toMiss Agnes's kind face, then they sought the floor.
"The story can be told in a few words, dear," said the little lady. "Awork-woman of the name of Williams, whom my sister and I have employedfor years, and who lives near Oakley, called on us this morning toapologise for not being able to finish some needlework. She told usthat she had a sick child, and also a little girl of three, in herhouse. She said she had found the child, in ragged gipsy garments,fainting in a field. She took her into her house, and, on undressingher, found that she was no true gipsy, but that her face and hands andarms had been dyed; she said the little one had been treated in asimilar manner. Jane's suspicions and mine were instantly roused, andwe went back with the woman to Oakley, and round, as we had anticipated,that the children were little Nan and Annie. The sad thing is thatAnnie is in high fever, and knows no one. We waited there until thedoctor arrived, who spoke very, very seriously of her case. Little Nanis well, and asked for you."
With these last words Miss Agnes Bruce softly left the room, closing thedoor after her.
"Now, Susan," said Hester, without an instant's pause; "come, let ustell Mr Everard of our wickedness. Oh, sir," she added, raising hereyes to the clergyman's face, "if Annie dies I shall go mad. Oh, Icannot, cannot bear life if Annie dies!"
"Tell me what is wrong, my poor child," said Mr Everard. He laid hishand on her shoulder, and gradually and skillfully drew from theagitated and miserable girl the story of her sin, of her cowardice, andof her deep, though until now unavailing repentance. How from the firstshe had hated and disliked Annie; how unjustly she had felt toward her;how she had longed and hoped Annie was guilty; and how, when at last theclew was put into her hands to prove Annie's absolute innocence, she haddetermined not to use it.
"From the day Nan was lost," continued Hester, "it has been all agonyand all repentance; but, oh, I was too proud to tell! I was too proudto humble myself to the very dust!"
"But not now," said the clergyman very gently.
"No, no; not now. I care for nothing now in all the world except thatAnnie may live."
"You don't mind the fact that Mrs Willis and all your school-fellowsmust know of this, and must--must judge you accordingly?"
"They
can't think worse of me than I think of myself. I only want Annieto live."
"No, Hester," answered Mr Everard, "you want more than that--you wantfar more than that. It may be that God will take Annie Forest away. Wecannot tell. With Him alone are the issues of life or death. What youreally want, my child, is the forgiveness of the little girl you havewronged, and the forgiveness of your Father in heaven." Hester began tosob wildly.
"If--if she dies--may I see her first?" she gasped.
"Yes; I will try and promise you that. Now, will you go to your room?I must speak to Miss Drummond alone; she is a far worse culprit thanyou."
Mr Everard opened the door for Hester, who went silently out.
"Meet me in the chapel to-night," he whispered low in her car, "I willtalk with you and pray with you there."
He closed the door, and came back to Susan.
All throughout this interview his manner had been very gentle to Hester;but the clergyman could be stern, and there was a gleam of veryrighteous anger in his eyes as he turned to the sullen girl who leanedheavily against the table.
"This narrative of Hester Thornton's is, of course, quite true, MissDrummond?"
"Oh, yes; there seems to be no use in denying that," said Susan.
"I must insist on your telling me the exact story of your sin. There isno use in your attempting to deny