wrong about it,Mrs Shelf?"
"Not the least bit in the world," said the bewildered woman, trying tokeep back a rash of words from her lips. "The master thought the worldof our dear Miss Annie, and doubtless gave it to her the day after shereturned from school; for she has a pretty, coaxing way; and you knowwell, Mr Dawson, that young things like our Annie want their bits offinery."
"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 lastsix months was met."
"Bless you, madam! you may rest easy about that. It was Miss Annieherself brought me the money and asked me to give her a receipt for thebill. She brought it two days later in five-pound notes. You have thereceipt, haven't you?"
"To be sure--at least, I suppose so. I am all in a bewilderment!" saidthe good woman.
She certainly looked so, and Dawson glanced after her as she left theshop with a very solemn expression of face. Just as she crossed thethreshold she turned back to say:
"You will have another cheque instead of that as soon as the will isproved. You understand, of course, that there is a short delay alwayson account of those blessed lawyers when a death takes place," said MrsShelf.
"Yes, madam, I quite understand that; and I think the best thing for meto do is to add the twenty pounds to my bill which you have asked me tosend you."
"Yes, perhaps you are right, Mr Dawson," said Mrs Shelf, and she gotsoberly and laboriously back into the gig.
During her drive home Mrs Shelf did not utter a single word. To saythat she was puzzled, amazed, frightened, would but inadequately explainthe situation. Her heart beat with dull fear. Annie had cashed heruncle's cheque--that cheque which had been drawn to pay the butcher'sbill. 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, butwith Bank of England notes. Really, the thing was too inexplicable. Itdid not look at all nice; Mrs Shelf, somehow, felt that it did not, butof course the child would explain. She would speak to her about it, andAnnie would tell her. At present she could not understand it. Anniehad taken twenty pounds of her uncle's money; but then, again, Annie hadrestored it, and almost immediately.
"It's enough to split anybody's brain even to think the thing over," wasthe good woman's comment as, stiff and cold and tired and inexplicablysaddened, she entered the desolate Rectory.
Rover, the watch-dog, had made no noise when Annie had slipped away. Hewas still in the yard, and ran joyfully to meet the old woman. Shestopped for a minute to fondle him, but she had no heart to-night evento pet Rover.
She entered the house by the back-way, and immediately called Annie'sname. There was no response, and the chill and darkness of the houseseemed to fall over her like a pall. A week ago, in very truth, peacehad reigned here; but now peace had given way to tumults without andfears within. The very air seemed full of conflict.
Mrs Shelf called Annie's name again. Then she set to work to light thelamps and stir up the kitchen fire. She put fresh coals on it and stoodfor a minute enjoying the pleasant warmth. She was not frightened--notyet at least--at Annie's not responding to her cry. Annie Brooke was aqueer creature, and as likely as not was in the garden. There was onething certain, that if she had remained in the house she would have litthe lamps and made herself comfortable. She was the sort of girl whoadored comfort. She liked the luxuries of life, and always chose thewarmest 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 ofher to stay such a long time at Dawson's! No wonder Annie was tired atthe lonely house. Dan came in after having done what was necessary forthe horse, and asked Mrs Shelf if there was anything more he could dofor 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 MrJohn may want you to drive to the station early for him; there is nosaying when he will be back. We will have a wire or a letter in themorning, though."
Dan stumbled through the scullery and out into the yard. A minute ortwo afterwards the fastening of the yard gates was heard, and the soundof 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 themoney 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 tothink hardly of her, who have had more or less the rearing of her--andshe 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. Shewas 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 cosycorner of the kitchen; then she went ponderously through the house,drawing down blinds and fastening shutters. After a time she returnedto the kitchen. Still no Annie, and the supper was spoiling in theoven. 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 comeout of the garden? Now I am feeling--what with nursing and grief--atouch of my old enemy the rheumatics, and I'll have to go out in thedamp and cold calling to her. But there, there! I mustn't think ofmyself; _he_ never did, bless him!"
The old woman wrapped a shawl about her head and shoulders, and openingthe kitchen door, she passed through the yard into the beautiful garden.It was a moonlight night, and she could see across the lawns and overthe flower-beds. The place looked ghostly and still and white, forthere 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, mylove. Your supper is waiting for you."
No answer of any sort. Mrs Shelf went down the broad centre path andcalled again, "Annie, Annie, Annie!" But now echo took up her words,and "Annie, Annie, Annie!" came mockingly back on her ears. She felt asudden sense of fright, and a swift and certain knowledge that Annie wasnot in the garden. She went back to the house, chilled to the bone andthoroughly 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 madshe had been to leave her alone for two hours and a half! And how queerand persistent of Annie to send her away! What did it mean? Did itmean anything or nothing at all?
"Oh God, help me!" thought the poor old woman. She sat down in a cornerof the warm kitchen, clasping her hands on her knees and lookingstraight before her. Where was Annie? On the kitchen table she hadlaid a pile of the little things which she had bought at Rashleigh byAnnie's direction. Mechanically she remembered that she had suppliedherself with some spools of cotton. She drew her work-box towards her,and opening it, prepared to drop them in. Lying just over a neatlyfolded piece of cambric which the old woman had been embroidering layAnnie's note.
Mrs Shelf took it up, staggered towards the lamp, and read it. She readit once; she read it twice. She was alone in the house--absolutelyalone--and no one knew, and--brave old lady--she never told any one toher 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, wouldnever enter again.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
A DEFENDER.
When Annie left the "Beau Sejour" at Zermatt, Mabel felt herself in astate of distressing weakness and uncertainty. Annie had been her prop,and, as she had expressed it, she could not possibly go on being wickedwithout her. Accordingly, when the loss of the necklace was revealed toLady Lushington on the following morning, Mabel let out a great dealmore with regard to the loss of that treasure than Annie had intendedher to do. She said noth
ing to deteriorate its value, but murmured sovaguely that she had certainly put it into the old trunk, and looked sosheepish when she was saying the words, that Lady Lushington began tosuspect the truth.
"Now, Mabel," she said, taking her niece's hand and drawing her towardsthe light, "you are not at all good at concealing things; you have notthe cleverness of your friend. I have for some time had my suspicionswith regard to that _quondam_ friend of yours, Annie Brooke. I don'twant 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 intothe lid of the trunk?"
Mabel prevaricated, stammered, blushed, and was forced to admit that shehad not done so.