"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. Thank
you so much for the orange. How kind you are!"
The girl looked at Annie with great admiration and curiosity. Then she
bent forward and whispered to her companion. They consulted together
for a few minutes in low tones which could not possibly reach Annie's
ears owing to the swift-going motion of the train. Then the girl who
was 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 her
already tottering nerves that she gave a sudden cry and said in a sort
of smothered voice:
"Oh, please, please don't betray me!"
The girl now nodded to her companion, and the girl who was seated close
to Annie said in a low, soothing tone:
"We ain't goin' to tell on yer, miss. If yer want to go up to town
unbeknown 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 Lunnon
gel, and Lunnon bred, and I was down on a wisit to my friend Martha
Jones. She's comin' up with me for a bit to see the big town. Be you
acquainted with Lunnon, miss, and do you know its ways?"
"No, I don't know London very well," said Annie. She had recovered some
of her self-possession by this time. "You are mistaken in supposing,"
she continued, trying to speak in as cheerful a tone as she could, "that
I am--am going away privately from my friends. I have lost my dear
uncle, 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 come
up by the night train, and why has yer taken a third-class ticket? And
why do you ask us not to betray you? Don't you tell no lies, miss, and
you'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 to
be 'ard on a young lady like you, and if you 'ud confide in us, you 'ud
find us your good friends. There ain't no manner o' use, miss, in your
doin' anythin' else, for we can soon send a bit o' a letter to Aunt Jane
Dawson, and then the fat's in the fire."
"Oh, oh!" said Annie, "I--" She roused herself; she pushed back her hat;
she pressed her hot hand to her hot cheek. "Do you think we might open
a little bit of the window?" she said.
Tilda immediately complied.
"There now," she said; "that's better. Didn't I say as you was 'ot?--
and no wonder. You tell Martha and me, and we'll do wot we can for
yer."
"I don't know what you mean about a cheque," said Annie; "that is all
nonsense--I mean--I am not going away on that account."
"Oh no, miss," said Tilda, winking at Martha. "Who hever said you was?"
"But you are right," continued Annie; "I am going to town for a day or
two, just--just--on a little business of my own."
"Ain't we smart?" said Tilda, winking again at Martha. Martha bent
forward, and once more whispered in her companion's ear.
"Look 'ere," said Tilda, "when all's said and done, you're a gel, same
as we two are gels, and although you is 'igh up in the social scale, and
we, so to speak, low down, we are made with the same feelin's, and souls
and bodies, and all the rest o' it; and it ain't for Martha and me to be
'ard on yer, miss; we 'ud much more like to 'elp yer, miss. We won't
get to Lunnon until close on twelve--Lor' bless yer! that ain't a nice
time for a young lady to come all alone to the metropolis; 'tain't a
nice time at all--but my brother Sam 'ull meet Martha and me, and take
us straight off to Islington, where we lives; and there 'ull be a bit o'
'ot supper, and our beds all warm and cosy; and wot I say is this: why
mightn't you come along with us too, and share our 'ot supper and the
escort of my brother Sam, and 'ave a shakedown at Islington for the
night? There's no safer way to 'ide, miss--if it's 'idin' yer mean; for
none o' those grand folks as you belong to will look for yer out
Islington way."
Annie considered this offer for some little time, and finally said in a
grateful tone that she did not think that she could do better than
accept it; whereupon the girls whispered and giggled a good deal
together and left poor Annie more or less to her own reflections.
It was twenty minutes to twelve when the great express entered the huge
London terminus which was its destination; and Annie was indeed glad,
when she found herself in the whirl of the great Paddington Station, to
have Tilda's arm to lean on, and to be accompanied at the other side by
Martha Jones.
Presently a large young man with a shock of red hair and a freckled face
rushed up to the girls, clapped Tilda loudly on the shoulder, and nodded
in a most familiar manner to Martha. At sight of Annie, however, he
fell back breathless with astonishment and open-eyed admiration; for
perhaps in all her life poor little Annie had never looked more
absolutely beautiful than she did now. Her cheeks were slightly crimson
with the first touch of fever. Her blue eyes were at once dark and
bright, and her coral-red lips might have resembled a cherry, so rich
was their colour. There was a fragility at the same time about the slim
young girl, a sort of delicate refinement, which her pretty dress and
golden hair accentuated, so that, compared to Tilda, who was loud and
coarse and uncommonly like Sam himself, and Martha, who was a plain,
dumpy girl with a cast in one eye, the looked like a being from a
superior sphere.
Sam had dreamed of creatures like Annie Brooke. He had believed that it
was possible for some girls to look like that, but he had never been
close to one of these adorable creatures before in the whole course of
his life. His silly head swam; his round eyes became rounder than ever
with admiration, and even his loud voice became hushed.
"Who be she?" he said, plucking at Tilda's sleeve, and his own great,
rough voice shaking.
"A friend o' our'n," said Tilda, who, not being so susceptible, felt her
head very tightly screwed on her shoulders, and was not going to give
herself away on Annie's account. "A friend o' our'n," she continued, "a
gel whose acquaintance we made in the country. She's a-comin' along
'ome with Martha and me; so you look after our trunks, Sam, and we'll go
on to the underground as quick as possible. Don't stare yer eyes out,
Sam, for goodness' sake! She won't bolt, beauty though she be."
"Oh! I can't go with you; I really can't," said Annie. "There must be
a hotel close to this, and I have plenty, plenty of money. Perhaps
this--this--gentleman would take me to the hotel."
She looked appealingly at Sam, who would have died for her there and
then.
"I wull--if yer wish, miss," he stammered.
"Nothing of the kind," said Tilda, who, having secured Annie, had no
intention of letting her go. A girl with plenty of money who was
running away was a treasure not to be found every day in the week.
"You'll come with us, miss, or that letter 'ull be writ to Mrs Dawson
afore we goes to bed to-night."
"Oh yes," said Sam, wondering more and more what could have happened.
"We'll take the greatest care o' yer, miss."
"Her name's Annie; you needn't `miss' her," said Tilda, turning sharply
to her brother. "Now then, do get our bits o' duds, and be quick, can't
you?"
The bewildered young man did see to his sister's and friend's luggage.
He had already secured Annie's bag, and he held it reverently, feeling
certain that it belonged to one of a superior class. Why, the little,
neat bag alone was something to reverence.
By-and-by the whole party found themselves in a third-class compartment
on their way to Islington, which place they in course of time reached,
Sam indulging in a cab for Annie's sake, because he saw that she was far
too tired to walk the long mile which separated Tilda Freeman's home
from the railway station.
This humble domicile was soon reached, and the whole party went indoors.
A frowsy-looking woman with red hair like Tilda's and Sam's stood
akimbo in the passage, awaiting the arrival of her son and daughter and
visitor.
"How late you be!" she cried. "But there's yer supper in the kitchen,
and yer beds ready.--How do, Martha Jones? It's a dish o' tripe an'
onions I 'as ready for yer. I know you're partial to that sort o' food.
Why, a' mercy! who on earth is this!"
"A friend o' mine," said Tilda. "Her name's Annie. She can sleep along
o' me to-night, mother."
"Oh no," said Annie. "I must have a bed to myself."
"Then you can't, my beauty," said Mrs Freeman, "for there ain't one for
yer. Ef yer thinks Tilda good enough to wisit uninvited in the dead o'
night you must be satisfied with half her bed. And now I'm off to mine,
for I 'ave to char early to-morrow mornin' at Pearson's house over the
way."
Mrs Freeman disappeared, and the girls, accompanied by Sam, went into
the kitchen. Annie, try as she would, could not touch the coarse
supper; but Tilda, Martha, and even Sam enjoyed it mightily.
Annie had removed her hat, and her hair looked like purest gold under
the flaring gas-jet, which cast a garish light over the place. Sam ate
in abundance, and cast adoring eyes at Annie. Annie's head ached; her
throat ached; she shivered; but nevertheless, dimly and in a queer sort
of fashion, it was borne in upon her that Sam would be her true friend,
and that the girls would not. She was in an evil plight, but she was
already feeling too ill to care very much what happened to her.
Nevertheless, she had still a sufficient amount of self-control to
return Sam's gaze, and once she gave him a timid smile.
By-and-by the two girls went into the scullery to wash the plates and
dishes, for great would have been Mrs Freeman's wrath if she had found
them dirty in the morning; and Sam and Annie were alone.
Annie immediately seized the opportunity.
"Sam," she said, "I am in great trouble."
"I be that sorry," murmured Sam.
"I know you have a kind heart, Sam."
"For you, miss," he managed to stammer.
"And you are strong," continued Annie.
"I'd knock any chap down as wanted to injure a 'air o' yer 'ead, miss.
It's that beautiful, yer 'air is miss, like--like the sunshine when we
spends a day in the country."
"Do you think you would really help me, Sam?" said Annie.
"You has but to ask, miss," said the red-haired giant, placing a huge
hand over his heart.
"I don't want your sister and her friend to know."
"Oh, lawks, miss! you'll turn my 'ead entirely. A secret atween you and
me! Well, I'm that obligated I don't know 'ow to speak."
"I want to get away from here to-morrow morning," said Annie. "I want
to go down to the docks, Sam."
"My word!" said Sam.
"And I don't know the way," continued Annie. "Do you think that you--
you would come with me and find a ship that is going--a long way from
England--where you would take a passage for me? A steerage passage,
Sam; I can't afford anything else."
"And lose sight on yer, miss, for ever and ever?"
"Oh, but--Sam, you promised to help me."
"My word!--and I will," said Sam.
"They are coming back," said Annie in a husky voice. "I'll get up
early--quite early. When do you get up, Sam?"
"I am off to my work at five in the mornin'."
"How much do you earn a day?"
"Five shullin'--and good wage, too."
"I will give you a whole sovereign if you will stay away from your work
and help me to-morrow. Shall we meet outside this house--just outside--
at five in the morning?"
"Oh, my word, yus!" said Sam; "and there's no talk o' sovereigns. It
'ull be jest the greatest pleasure in my whole life to sarve yer,
missie." The girls bustled noisily into the kitchen, and Tilda conveyed
Annie to her own tiny attic in the roof. Annie refused to undress, but
lay down, just as she was, on the hard, uncomfortable bed. For long
afterwards she could not quite remember what occurred that night. It
was all a horrible nightmare. She was ill; she was dying. Her throat
seemed to suffocate her. Every bone in her body ached. She was
confronted by ghastly images; unknown and awful terrors pursued her.
Something touched her. She screamed. She opened her eyes and
recognised Tilda bending over her.
"What--what do you want?" she said; for Tilda had just grasped the
pocket where the money lay.
"Nothing--nothing at all, miss," said Tilda.
"You leave that gel alone!" shouted a harsh voice from another attic
close by.
"My word!" said Tilda. She sank down, trembling. "And I didn't mean to
take her money. I am bad, but I ain't as bad as that; only I wanted to
see wot she 'as got. She might make a present to Martha and me; but ef
Sam 'as took her up, there ain't no chance for none o' us."
Towards morning Tilda crept into the other side of the bed and fell into
profound slumber. Annie also slept and dreamed and awakened, and slept
and dreamed again.
"`Be sure your sin will find you out,'" she kept repeating under her
breath; and then, all of a sudden, when she felt a little--just a
little--calmer, a hand was laid on her shoulder, a great rough face bent
over her, and a voice said:
"I say, missie, it's time for you and me to be off."
Annie looked up. The red-haired giant had entered the room and had
summoned her. Trembling, shaking, her fever high, her throat almost too
sore to allow her to speak, she rose from that horrible bed, tried to
shake her tumbled clothes into some sort of order, took up her bag, and
followed Sam downstairs. A minute or two later, to her infinite
refreshment, they were both out of the house and in the open air. Sam
was all alive and keen with interest but when they had walked a few
steps he glanced at Annie and the expression of his face altered.
"You be--my word!--you be real bad!" he said.
"I am," said Annie hoarsely. "I can scarcely speak. It is--my--sin,
Sam--that has--found me out."
"Your sin!" said Sam. "You be a hangel o' light."
Annie laid her little, white, burning hand on his.
"I can't go to the docks," she said. "I can't go anywhere--except--
except--oh, I must be quick!--oh, my senses will go! Everything swims
before me. Sam, I must tell you the truth. Sam, hold me for a minute."
He did so. The street in which they found themselves was quiet as yet.
There were only a few passers-by, and these where hurrying off to their
respective employments. Annie put her hand into the little pocket which
contained her money. She took out her purse and gave Sam a five-pound
note.
"Go," she said, "to-day to Rashleigh, the place where your sister has
been. Go to the Rectory and tell them that I--Annie Brooke--have found
out--the truth of one text: `Be sure your sin will find you out.' Tell
them that from me, and be quick--be very quick. Go at once. But first
of all take me to the nearest hospital."
Before poor Sam could quite understand all Annie's instructions the girl
herself was quite delirious. There was nothing for it but to lift her
into his strong arms and carry her to a large hospital in the
neighbourhood of Islington. There she was instantly admitted, and,
after a very brief delay, was conveyed to the fever ward.