Mr Brooke's death was followed by total collapse on Annie's part. The
time between the death and the funeral was passed by the girl in a sort
of delirium, in which she was too restless to stay in bed, but too
feverish to go out. On the day of the funeral itself, however, she did
manage to follow her uncle to his last resting-place.
A pathetic little figure she looked in her deep mourning, with her
pretty face very pale and her golden hair showing in strong relief
against the sombre hue of her black dress.
Saxon and Annie were the only relations who followed the Rev Maurice
Brooke to the grave. Nevertheless the funeral was a large one, for the
dead man had during a long lifetime made friends and not one single
enemy. There was not a soul for miles round who did not know and love
and mourn for the Rev Maurice Brooke. All these friends, therefore,
young and old, made a point of attending his funeral, and he himself
might well have been there in spirit so near did his presence seem to
lonely Annie as she stood close to the graveside and saw the coffin
lowered to its last resting-place.
She and John Saxon then returned to the Rectory. Annie was better in
health now, but very restless and miserable in spirit. Saxon was
consistently kind to her. Her uncle's will was read, which left her all
that he possessed, but that all was exceedingly little, not even
amounting to sufficient to pay for Annie's school expenses at Mrs
Lyttelton's.
Saxon asked her what she would like to do with her future. Her reply
was almost inaudible--that she had no future, and did not care what
became of her. Saxon was too deeply sorry for her to say any harsh
words just then. Indeed, her grief touched him unspeakably, and he
almost reproached himself for blaming her so severely for not attending
to his first letter.
It was two or three days after the funeral, and Saxon was making
preparations to leave the old Rectory, where Annie herself could remain
for a few weeks longer under the care of Mrs Shelf, when one morning he
got a letter which startled him a good deal. Colour rose to his cheeks,
and he looked across at Annie, who was pouring out tea.
"Do you know from whom I have just heard?" he said.
"No," said Annie in a listless tone.
She did not much care whom her cousin heard from, as she said over and
over to herself, nothing ever need matter to her any more. But his next
words startled her, and she found that she had a heart and
susceptibilities, and that once again cruel, terrible fear could visit
her.
"This letter is from a man whom I happen to know exceedingly well; I
have met him several times in Australia. He is a certain Mr Manchuri."
"Yes," said Annie, her lips parted and the colour rushing into her
cheeks.
"He says he knows you--he met you at the Hotel Belle Vue at Interlaken--
and that, seeing your uncle's death in the paper, he has written for a
double purpose--to convey his condolences to all those who loved your
dear uncle, and to request me to meet him in town on important business
in connection with you."
"Oh!" said Annie. She had been standing; she almost fell into her seat.
"He says further," pursued Saxon, "that a great friend of yours, a Miss
Priscilla Weir, is staying with him."
"She told him, of course," said Annie.
"What did you say, Annie?" John Saxon looked at her, a puzzled
expression between his brows. Then he started to his feet. "I shall
run up to town," he said. "I will go to-day and see what this means.
It was through Miss Weir he learned that I was staying here. But for
that he says that he would have come himself to have an interview with
you; as it is, he thinks I can manage matters best."
"Don't go!" said Annie in a choked voice.
"Don't do what, my dear Annie?"
"Don't go; don't mind him. He means mischief."
"I don't want to be cross to you, dear Annie, but really this is silly.
Mr Manchuri is a most excellent man; I and my father before me have both
known him. My father has transacted some business with him from time to
time. He is a first-rate man of business, and straight, in every sense
of the word. Of course I shall go; I cannot possibly neglect your
affairs. Why, what is it, my dear?"
"You can go if you like," said Annie. "I--I don't feel well; that is
all."
She crept out of the room, tottering as she did so, and supporting
herself by catching hold of various articles of furniture. When she
disappeared John thought for a minute. Then he went into the kitchen,
where Mrs Shelf was busy.
"Mrs Shelf," he said, "I have just had a letter which obliges me to go
to London at once; I shall catch the next train. It is scarcely
possible for me to be back to-night, but I shall certainly come early
to-morrow. In the meantime you will look after Annie."
"You needn't doubt it, Mr John," said Mrs Shelf.
Saxon lowered his voice. "I don't quite like her appearance," he said.
"She is suffering a good deal; I think you ought to watch her. Don't
let her out of your sight."
"Oh, I will see to her, Mr John. The poor child is fretting; she has
found her true heart at long last. The death of my beloved master has
revealed many things to our Annie."
"Well, be careful of her," said the young man. "I will be back as soon
as I can." Shortly afterwards he started for town.
As soon as ever the sound of the horse's hoofs which was conveying John
Saxon to the railway station died away on the road, Annie, who had been
crouching rather than lying down in her room, ran to the window and
looked out. The semi-peaceful, semi-stunned expression on her face had
given way now to the old watchful, almost crafty look which used to
characterise it. She was quickly making up her mind. Mr Manchuri could
only want to see John Saxon on one subject--the necklace. Priscilla,
horrid Priscilla, had told him everything. He had given Annie one
hundred pounds for the necklace, seventy of which she had kept for
herself. In all probability, if Mr Manchuri carried things out to the
bitter end, she could be locked up for theft. She might even see the
inside of a prison. The terrified girl felt nearly mad. She paced up
and down her little chamber, fearing--she knew not what. She would have
prayed, but she did not dare. She would have cried to God, but as she
knew nothing would induce her to be good and to confess her sin, she was
equally certain that God would not listen to her.
She remembered her promise to her uncle that she would meet him. Of
course she never would. They were parted for ever and ever. But she
must not think of that now. She must think of the present, and there
was not a single minute to lose.
There was only one thing for Annie to do. She must go away. She had in
her possession at that moment seventy pounds. With seventy pounds she
could go a good way. She could leave England; there was nothing else
for it; she must be well out of the country before John Saxon returned
from London. He would probably come to Rashleigh Rectory accompanied by
Mr Manchuri and that horrible Priscilla, and then the whole story would
get out--the whole awful story--Annie's conduct with regard to the
prize, Annie's conduct with regard to Susan Martin's poems, Annie's
dreadful conduct with regard to Dawson and her uncle's cheque which she
had kept for herself.
John Saxon would remember how she had borrowed twenty pounds from him,
and that too would be told against her. But her last and very greatest
crime seemed to be in connection with the pearl and silver necklace.
Her theft was biggest here, her craftiness greater, her double dealing
more marked.
Oh yes; such a character ought only to be put in prison. But she would
not live in prison--she, the gay, the clever, the free, the bold. She
would not lose her liberty; it was worth a struggle to keep it. And she
had her stolen money; it should do something for her; it should help her
to keep the only thing left--the power to go where she pleased, to do
what she liked.
"Annie, my darling!" called Mrs Shelf's voice at the outside of the
locked door.
"Coming in a minute, Mrs Shelf," said Annie, making an effort to speak
cheerfully.
She knew well that if she was to carry out her project she must be very
wary, she must make her plans. Fortunately for herself, she now
believed that she was an experienced traveller, and that, once on the
Continent, she could easily baffle all attempts at discovering her.
She went to a glass and surveyed her little face. It had more colour
than it had the day before, for excitement and the imminence of her
peril brought back some of her old vivacity.
After a minute's pause she opened the door and ran downstairs. Mrs
Shelf was in the kitchen. She was engaged mournfully and with
considerable pain searching through cupboards and counting out all the
possessions of the late Rev Maurice Brooke which would now belong to
Annie. The poor housekeeper was sighing bitterly over her famous stores
of jam, over her incomparable jellies, over her pickles, her liqueurs,
her bottles of home-made wine. Not for her again would the trees in the
garden blossom and bear fruit; not for her would the strawberries redden
or the raspberry-canes yield of their abundance. Other people who could
not possibly understand the value of the dear old garden would possess
it; it would pass into the hands of strangers, and poor Mrs Shelf felt
perhaps as acutely as Annie herself that her life was over. Far more
than Annie, too, did this worthy soul love the good old man who had
passed away.
It was a tearful face, therefore, she turned upon the girl.
"Ah, my dearie!" she said, "the days are turning a bit nippy for the
time of year, and I thought you would be lonesome all by yourself in
your bedroom. Come along and sit by the fire for a bit, won't you,
lovy? and I'll warm you up a cup of good broth. I have some lovely and
tasty in the pantry. Then maybe you'd help me to make a list of the
glass and china and the old silver. There's a quantity of old silver,
and most beautiful it is; and it's all yours, dear. Whenever you start
a house of your own, you won't have to go far to seek for means of
making it pretty. There'll be the silver and the china, and that
magnificent Crown Derby dinner-set that your precious uncle took such
pride in; and there'll be the great branch candlesticks--old Sheffield
they are, and very valuable; and there'll be the beautiful house linen--
such linen as is not to be found anywhere else in the country-side. You
won't be so bad off when you settle down with your good man, Miss
Annie."
"I'll never have a good man," said Annie in a petulant tone. "Nothing
would induce me to marry. I hate the thought of it."
"Poor lamb!" said Mrs Shelf; "you are but a baby yet; but the time will
come--you mark my words."
Annie made no reply. She gazed drearily into the fire. She was
wondering how she could circumvent old Shelfy, who might, if she chose,
prove a sad hindrance to her getting away before Saxon's return.
"Shelfy," she said, "don't let's bother about the old things now. I
tell you what: I'll go into the dining-room and write some letters--oh
no! I couldn't go near his study. I'll just go into the dining-room
and stay there for an hour or two; and then, if you will give me some
lunch early, I will come and help you in the kitchen soon after that;
but I don't feel up to it this morning. When did John Saxon say he
would be back, Shelfy?"
"Not to-night, darling, but some time to-morrow for sure. He's a very
good young man, is Mr John."
"Well, Shelfy, you know I hate good young men," said Annie.
Instead of reproving her, Mrs Shelf laughed.
"I declare, now," she said, "that speech of yours, naughty as it is, is
more like your old self than anything I have heard you utter since you
came back. But you mustn't turn against Mr Saxon, lovy, for he is just
the best of the best, and sets store by you; any one can see that."
"Well, I will go into the dining-room now," said Annie; and she went out
of the kitchen.
Mrs Shelf, quite cheered and reassured about her, went busily on with
her duties, and Annie was presently able to go softly to her own
bedroom, where she made preparations. She fastened her precious notes
into her little pocket, which the placed in an inner petticoat, keeping
out enough small change for her immediate necessities. She then
carefully chose from her wardrobe some of the least smart dresses she
had worn when at Interlaken. She must not wear her black; that would
cause her to be discovered immediately. But the pretty print and
cambric frocks which she had looked so charming in while away from home
would not be recognised by any of those who might possibly think it
worth while to follow on her track. A dark-blue dress which she used to
wear when travelling with Lady Lushington would also come in handy. In
short her very modest little wardrobe was quickly selected and put into
a small travelling-bag which the could carry herself in one hand.
She could take this as far as the railway station; but that railway
station was not to be the one just outside Rashleigh village, but
another called Norton Paget, which was situated three miles farther down
the line. Not a soul would recognise Annie at Norton Paget in the
clothes Lady Lushington had given her. It would be easy to go from
Norton Paget to London by the night express, and once in London, she
would take an opportunity of getting as far away from England as her
means would permit.
Annie from time to time had been fond of reading detective stories, and
in these she had learned that there was no place so splendid for hiding
in as London itself. She did not know London very well, however, and
felt that she would be safest farther afield.
Having carefully packed her little bag, she hid it in a deep cupboard in
her room, locked the cupboard, and put the key in her pocket. She then
went downstairs.
Mrs Shelf coaxed her to come into the kitchen and share her dinner
there. The dinner was very good and nourishing and comforting, and
Annie ate quite heartily. She knew well that it was necessary to
husband her strength. How to get Mrs Shelf, however, away from the
Rectory for two or three hours towards nightfall was the problem which
exercised Annie's brain. Think and think as she would, she was puzzled
how to manage this. For if Mrs Shelf was in the house, Annie knew well
that she could not possibly leave it without being heard. If Mrs Shelf
missed her at once, the hue and cry would be raised, and she could not
possibly walk to Norton Paget with her somewhat heavy bag before being
discovered. It was, therefore, necessary to get both Mrs Shelf and Dan,
their one outside factotum, off the premises.
Almost immediately after lunch, the morning, which had been a bright and
sunny one, clouded over and the day became threatening. A few drops of
rain, too, fell at intervals, and there was a slight autumnal sound in
the wind.
Annie started up from her meal apparently quite excited and anxious to
begin those lists in which Mrs Shelf took so deep an interest. The
woman and the girl, therefore, began systematically to count over piles
of linen, stacks of china, quantities of glass, and then, when these
were done and they were both somewhat tired, to plunge into the
mysteries of the famous store cupboard. Annie jotted down items on
little scraps of paper.
All of a sudden, as the dusk was beginning to fall, she turned to her
companion.
"Now I tell you what it is, Mrs Shelf. We will make a clear list of all
these things before I go to bed to-night."
"Oh, nonsense, my dearie!" said Mrs Shelf. "You will be killed over
it."
"No, I won't. I should like to do it. I sleep very badly, and should
enjoy the work. Please take me when I am in the humour, Shelfy; you
know I am hard to control when I turn contrary."
"That you are, my love; but you have been very sweet since you returned
from Switzerland."
"Well, if you want me to go on being sweet you must do what I want."
"And what is that, dear?"
"You must just put the horse to the gig and get Dan to drive you in to
Rashleigh in order to buy a proper manuscript book for me to write my
list in."
"Oh, but must I do that to-night and leave you all alone?"
"You can go and come back within an hour and a half," said Annie; "and I
want some other things, too--lots of cottons and needles, and some black
lining for that new dress which I am going to make for you."
"Oh, my darling, you are kind!"
"And some oil for the sewing-machine; in fact, a whole list of things.
You may as well get them all while you are about it, Shelfy, do you
hear?"
"But I hate leaving you."
"And why should not I be left for an hour or an hour and a half, or even
two hours? Do go--do, dear--and get me the book. I want it dreadfully
badly."
Annie, after a great deal more coaxing, after a vast amount of arguments
and pretty smiles and pathetic gestures, had--as she knew she would
have--her own way. Mrs Shelf owned that her dear young lady's whim was
a just one; that there was no possible harm in leaving her for even a
couple of hours at the Rectory while she drove in to Rashleigh to get
the necessary things. It was scarcely four o'clock yet, and she could
be back certainly not later than seven o'clock. She could unfasten
Rover, the watch-dog and leave him loose in the yard; therefore Annie
would be quite safe even if any marauders did appear round the premises.
But as burglaries were things unknown in the peaceful parish of
Rashleigh, Mrs Shelf was not at all afraid of anything happening to
Annie in her solitude.
"If I must, I must," she said. "You are a very masterful young lady;
but I will own I shall rather enjoy a breath of the air this fine
evening. Only why should not you come with me, lovy? Why not? You
could drive, and Dan could look after the house. Now why not, Miss
Annie, dear? It would do you a sight of good."
"No, no, Shelfy; I couldn't bear it. You don't suppose I can see people
yet after my dear uncle's--"
Her voice trembled; her eyes filled with real tears.
"Very well, dear," said Mrs Shelf. "I am sorry I mentioned it my pet.
Well then, I will be off. You will be sure to give yourself a cosy tea,
Annie; and I'll be back, at the latest at seven, if not before."
Dan was summoned; the old horse was put to the old gig which had been
used so often by the rector, and Mrs Shelf and Dan drove smartly out of
the yard.
Annie was alone in the house.
"I have succeeded," she said to herself.
She did not know whether her pain at the thought of all that lay before
her and at the final severance of the ties of her entire life was as
keen as her pleasure at the thought of escaping from her greatest fears.
She knew she had very little time to spare. Mrs Shelf was a quick sort
of woman, not at all gossipy, and she would be certainly anxious at the
thought of Annie staying behind alone. But the girl, bad as she was,
felt that she could not go away for ever without doing one last thing;
and a moment later, in her black dress, with her fair hair tumbling
loosely about her neck and shoulders--for she had let it down while
helping Shelfy in the kitchen--she ran into the garden, and picking a
great quantity of large white lilies, pursued her way along a narrow
path until she reached a wicket gate which led into the old churchyard.
Soon the girl in her black dress, with her fair face and her lovely
golden hair, was kneeling by a newly-made grave.
She laid the lilies on the grave, pressed her lips, not once, but many
times, against the fragrant flowers, and said in a choked, husky,
agonised voice:
"Good-bye, Uncle Maurice; good-bye for ever and ever. Ask God to tell
you everything. Good-bye, Uncle Maurice;" and then she came back to the
house.
There was now nothing more to be done except to write a letter to Mrs
Shelf.
"Dear Shelfy," wrote Annie on a piece of black-edged paper, "I have gone
away. I sent you to Rashleigh on purpose. You won't ever find me
again, for I am going to a part of the world where no one will know me.
I shall lead my own life and perhaps be happy. Please forget me,
Shelfy, and tell John Saxon to do the same; and when you hear all the
wicked, wicked, dreadful stories that you will hear about me, try to
believe that--that I am sorry now, and would be different if I could--
but I can't. Try, too, to believe that I will never forget Uncle
Maurice nor--nor the old place. Good-bye, Shelfy, darling. Annie."
This letter was not left where it could be immediately discovered, but
was put with great discrimination and craft by Annie in Mrs Shelf's
work-box, which she knew the old lady would be scarcely likely to open
that night, but would most assuredly look into on the following day.
Thus she would have a longer time to escape; for when Mrs Shelf came
back and found that Annie was not in the house, she would naturally wait
for a little before she began to search for her at all. For Annie all
her life had been fond of prowling about in the dusk. Thus her escape
was practically assured.