"Heaven give me strength to be patient and forbearing!" said Hazel
softly, as she left the cottage and went into the school, for it was
just upon two o'clock. "What am I to do? Will she have forgotten this
by night?"
Far from it, for as soon as Hazel returned Mrs Thorne began again with
fresh importunity, and in so strange a manner that her daughter grew
frightened, and hesitated as to whether she should send for medical
advice; but after a while the poor woman grew more calm, took out her
work and began knitting some unnecessary ornament with costly wool;
ending, to Hazel's great relief, by going off fast asleep.
She signed to the children to be quiet, and led them softly to bed
without waking the sleeper; after which, at liberty for the first time
that day, she sat down in her own room to think, previous to drawing up
a statement of the school pence ready for giving to the churchwarden
upon the following day.
Hazel's thoughts wandered far--to Archibald Graves, to Mr Geringer, and
then to the vicar, his sisters, and good-hearted, kindly Mr Burge, to
whom she felt that she could never be sufficiently grateful. Lastly,
she went over her mother's strange fit that day. Mrs Thorne had never
seemed settled at Plumton, and had always been full of repining, but had
never been so excited and importunate before.
"She will be better to-morrow," thought Hazel, "and perhaps revert to it
no more. I told her aright--it is impossible for us to go away from
here; and now--"
She had been speaking half aloud during the last few minutes; but she
said no more, only sat thinking deeply of the troubles she had had to
encounter since she had been at Plumton, and a pleasant smile came upon
her lip as she thought that the troubles had been more than balanced by
the kindliness and friendly ways of many there. Even the parents of the
children had a pleasant smile and a cheery word for her whenever she
went to inquire after some sick absentee.
"No," she thought to herself. "I should not like to leave my children
now." And she smiled as she recalled scenes with Ann Straggalls and
Feelier Potts. Then over the sunshine of her memories came clouds once
more, as the stiff, chilling presence of the Lambent sisters intruded
itself and changed the aspect of her workaday life. Then, as she sat
and thought there came back the scene of the school feast the enjoyment
of the children, and then--
A vivid blush came into Hazel Thorne's face, and she rose from her seat
angry with herself and ready to cry shame for the direction her thoughts
had taken, and that was towards George Canninge and the attentions he
had paid her.
She tried to drive these thoughts away, but they returned
pertinaciously, and, try how she would, she kept picturing his face, his
words, the quiet gentlemanly courtesy with which he had always treated
her.
"Oh, it is monstrous!" she cried aloud at last and taking her paper,
pen, and ink, she prepared to make out the statement ready to deliver
next day; but though she tried to keep her thoughts to the work, she
found it impossible, and at last the tears gathered in her eyes, and,
weary and low-spirited, she found herself thinking bitterly of her
position in life, and her want of strength of mind for allowing such
thoughts as these to intrude.
At last she began to master herself, and taking up her pen, she opened
her memorandum-book, copied out the various amounts received week by
week ever since her coming, cast them up, and found that she had a total
of twenty-three pounds seven shillings and fourpence, including nearly
six pounds that had been paid in for club money.
This done, she went down on tiptoe to see if Mrs Thorne had awakened;
but she was sleeping soundly, and after glancing at the children Hazel
returned to her task, though not to recommence, for once more the
thoughts of George Canninge, and his conduct towards her, came back,
till, blushing vividly for her folly, she made a stern effort and
resumed her work.
She had pretty well ended, but there was this to be done: she felt that
she ought to unfasten the little packets of money and count them over
and check them, ending by placing the whole of the silver in a stout
canvas-bag which she had provided for the purpose. Leaving her seat,
then, she opened the drawer and took out the heavy oaken box, placed it
upon the table, and unlocked it slowly, her thoughts wandering to George
Canninge all the time, but only to be rudely brought back by the box
before her.
She had not opened it before during many months, but in imagination she
had pictured its contends--a number of little white packets tied up with
cotton lying one upon the other in a sort of neat chaos. Instead of
this there were the pieces of paper certainly, but they had been opened,
and the scraps of cotton were lying about with the crumpled paper and a
number of pence.
It struck her as strange, that was all. She did not for the moment
remember placing pence in the box, but she must have done so once,
probably when she could not get them changed for silver. It was hard to
recall what she had done in the course of so many weeks, and after
trying for a few moments, she let the effort go, and picked up two or
three of the pieces of paper to read her memorandums on the outer side.
This one was six shillings and fivepence, that five and elevenpence,
then a heavier one that had held ten shillings and sixpence; and again
another, evidently when some arrears had been paid up, for it had
contained eleven shillings and ninepence.
Then the paper dropped from Hazel's hand, and, with lips parted and a
look of astonishment in her eyes, she hurriedly took out the heap of
pieces of paper, to find that, one and all, they had been emptied, and
that at the bottom of the box lay about five shillings' worth of
coppers, not a single silver coin remaining behind.
"Ah!" ejaculated Hazel, and a chill of horror ran through her, followed
by a peculiar sinking sensation of dread. Where was the money left in
her charge--where were the contents of those little packets which she
had so carefully tied up and entered? Not one remained untouched, for
the box had been opened, and she had been robbed!
No: it was impossible. Who could know of the existence of that money?
Strangers might know that she received the money weekly, but no one
would be aware of the fact that she placed it in that box, locked it,
and then locked the box in her drawer.
She must have made some mistake. It was impossible that she could have
been robbed. It was a mistake certainly, and she hurriedly turned out
the contents of the box upon the bed, and counted up the pence first--
four shillings and ninepence. Then there were the empty papers.
Hazel put her hand to her head, feeling bewildered, and wondering
whether she had not made some strange mistake. Did she know what she
was doing, or was her memory failing from over-study?
Making a determined effort to be cool, she took the papers, arranged
them by their dates, and checked them off by the statement which she had
drawn up, to find that they tallied exactly; but when she had done that
she was no further than before, and at last she stood there in a state
of helpless despair, face to face with the fact that she had at last
been called upon to give an account of her stewardship and the moneys
that should have been ready for handing over to the churchwarden were
gone.
Hazel sank down upon the floor with her hands clenched and her brain
dizzy, to try and think out the meaning of this strange problem.
She recalled that she had had other difficult questions to solve before
now--puzzles that had seemed perfectly insurmountable, but that they had
grown less formidable by degrees, and the difficulties had been
surmounted. Perhaps, then, this would prove less black after a time,
and she would make out how it was.
Had she paid anybody? taken any of the money? given change?
No; she could recollect nothing, and in place of growing clearer, the
problem grew momentarily more and more confused.
Her brow became full of wrinkles, her head more giddy, and as she
crouched upon the floor with the empty money-box upon the bed, and the
candle that stood upon the table surrounded by the empty wrappers, long
of snuff and mushroom topped, she began more and more to realise the
fact that at last she was face to face with a difficulty far greater
than any that she had yet been called upon to deal with since she had
been at Plumton.
It was horrible. She had to give up a heavy amount on the next day--a
sum that she held in trust--and it was missing.
What should she do? What could she do?
She could have sobbed in the agony of her heart; but she forced herself
to think--to try and make out where the money had gone.
The children would not have taken it; they did not know of its
existence. Then who could?
Percy?