For several days now Annie had lain unconscious in Mrs Williams's
little bedroom; the kind-hearted woman could not find it in her heart to
send the sick child away. Her husband and the neighbours expostulated
with her, and said that Annie was only a poor little waif.
"She has no call on you," said Jane Allen, a hard-featured woman who
lived next door. "Why should you put yourself out just for a sick lass?
and she'll be much better on in the workhouse infirmary."
But Mrs Williams shook her head at her hard-featured and hard-hearted
neighbour, and resisted her husband's entreaties.
"Eh!" she said, "but the poor lamb needs a good bit of mothering, and I
misdoubt me she wouldn't get much of that in the infirmary."
So Annie stayed, and tossed from side to side of her little bed, and
murmured unintelligible words, and grew daily a little weaker and a
little more delirious. The parish doctor called, and shook his head
over her: he was not a particularly clever man, but he was the best the
Williamses could afford. While Annie suffered and went deeper into that
valley of humiliation and weakness which leads to the gate of the Valley
of the Shadow of Death, little Nan played with Peggy Williams, and
accustomed herself after the fashion of little children to all the ways
of her new and humble home.
It was on the eighth day of Annie's fever that the Misses Bruce
discovered her, and on the evening of that day Mrs Willis knelt by her
little favourite's bed. A better doctor had been called in, and all
that money could procure had been got now for poor Annie; but the second
doctor considered her case even more critical, and said that the close
air of the cottage was much against her recovery.
"I didn't make that caricature; I took the girls into the fairies'
field, but I never pasted that caricature into Cecil's book. I know you
don't believe me, Cecil; but do you think I would really do anything so
mean about one whom I love? No, no! I am innocent! God knows it.
Yes, I am glad of that--God knows it."
Over, and over in Mrs Willis's presence these piteous words would come
from the fever-stricken child, but always when she came to the little
sentence "God knows I am innocent," her voice would grow tranquil, and a
faint and sweet smile would play round her lips.
Late that night a carriage drew up at a little distance from the
cottage, and a moment or two afterwards Mrs Willis was called out of
the room to speak to Cecil Temple.
"I have found out the truth about Annie; I have come at once to tell
you," she said; and then she repeated the substance of Hester's and
Susan's story.
"God help me for having misjudged her," murmured the head-mistress; then
she bade Cecil "good-night," and returned to the sick-room.
The next time Annie broke out with her piteous wail, "They believe me
guilty--Mrs Willis does--they all do," the mistress laid her hand with
a firm and gentle pressure on the child's arm.
"Not now, my dear," she said, in a slow, clear, and emphatic voice.
"God has shown your governess the truth, and she believes in you."
The very carefully-uttered words pierced through the clouded brain; for
a moment Annie lay quite still, with her bright and lovely eyes fixed on
her teacher.
"Is that really you?" she asked.
"I am here, my darling."
"And you believe in me?"
"I do most absolutely."
"God does, too, you know," answered Annie--bringing out the words
quickly, and turning her head to the other side. The fever had once
more gained supremacy, and she rambled on unceasingly through the dreary
night.
Now, however, when the passionate words broke out, "They believe me
guilty," Mrs Willis always managed to quiet her by saying, "I know you
are innocent."
The next day at noon those girls who had not gone home--for many had
started by the morning train--were wandering aimlessly about the
grounds. Mr Everard had gone to see Annie, and had promised to bring
back the latest tidings about her.
Hester, holding little Nan's hand--for she could scarcely bear to have
her recovered treasure out of sight--had wandered away from the rest of
her companions, and had seated herself with Nan under a large oak-tree
which grew close to the entrance of the avenue. She had come here in
order to be the very first to see Mr Everard on his return. Nan had
climbed into Hester's lap, and Hester had buried her aching head in
little Nan's bright curls, when she started suddenly to her feet and ran
forward. Her quick ears had detected the sound of wheels.
How soon Mr Everard had returned; surely the news was bad! She flew to
the gate, and held it open in order to avoid the short delay which the
lodge-keeper might cause in coming to unfasten it. She flushed however,
vividly, and felt half inclined to retreat into the shade, when she saw
that the gentleman who was approaching was not Mr Everard, but a tall,
handsome, and foreign-looking man, who drove a light dog-cart himself.
The moment he saw Hester with little Nan clinging to her skirts he
stopped short.
"Is this Lavender House, little girl?"
"Yes, sir," replied Hester.
"And can you tell me--but of course you know--you are one of the young
ladies who live here, eh?"
Hester nodded.
"Then you can tell me if Mrs Willis is at home--but of course she is."
"No, sir," answered Hester; "I am sorry to tell you that Mrs Willis is
away. She has been called away on very, very sad business; she won't
come back to-night."
Something in Hester's tone caused the stranger to look at her
attentively; he jumped off the dog-cart and came to her side.
"See, here, Miss--"
"Thornton," put in Hester.
"Yes, Miss--Miss Thornton, perhaps you can manage for me as well as Mrs
Willis; after all I don't particularly want to see her. If you belong
to Lavender House, you, of course, know my--I mean you have a
school-mate here, a little, pretty gipsy rogue called Forest--little
Annie Forest. I want to see her--can you take me to her!"
"You are her father?" gasped Hester.
"Yes, my dear child, I am her father. Now you can take me to her at
once."
Hester covered her face.
"Oh, I cannot," she said--"I cannot take you to Annie. Oh, sir, if you
knew all, you would feel inclined to kill me. Don't ask me about
Annie--don't, don't."
The stranger looked fairly nonplussed and not a little alarmed. Just at
this moment Nan's tiny fingers touched his hand.
"Me'll lake 'oo to my Annie," she said--"mine poor Annie. Annie's vedy
sick, but me'll take 'oo."
The tall, foreign-looking man lifted Nan into his arms.
"Sick, is she?" he answered. "Look here young lady," he added, turning
to Hester, "whatever you have got to say, I am sure you will try and say
it; you will pity a father's anxiety and master your own feelings.
Where _is_ my little girl?"
Hester hastily dried her tears.
"She is in a cottage near Oakley, sir."
"Indeed! Oakley is some miles from here?"
"And she is very ill."
"What of?"
"Fever; they--they fear she may die."
"Take me to her," said the stranger. "If she is ill and dying she wants
me. Take me to her at once. Here, jump on the dog-cart; and, little
one, you shall come too."
So furiously did Captain Forest drive that in a very little over an
hour's time his panting horse stopped at a few steps from the cottage.
He called to a boy to hold him, and, accompanied by Hester, and carrying
Nan in his arms, he stood on the threshold of Mrs Williams' humble
little abode. Mr Everard was coming out.
"Hester," he said, "you here? I was coming for you."
"Oh, then she is worse?"
"She is conscious, and has asked for you. Yes, she is very, very ill."
"Mr Everard, this gentleman is Annie's father."
Mr Everard looked pityingly at Captain Forest.
"You have come back at a sad hour, sir," he said. "But no, it cannot
harm her to see you. Come with me."
Captain Forest went first into the sick-room; Hester waited outside.
She had the little kitchen to herself, for all the Williamses, with the
exception of the good mother, had moved for the time being to other
quarters. Surely Mr Everard would come for her in a moment? Surely
Captain Forest, who had gone into the sick-room with Nan in his arms,
would quickly return? There was no sound. All was absolute quiet. How
soon would Hester be summoned? Could she--could she bear to look at
Annie's dying face? Her agony drove her down on her knees.
"Oh, if you would only spare Annie!" she prayed to God. Then she wiped
her eyes. This terrible suspense seemed more than she could bear.
Suddenly the bedroom door was softly and silently opened, and Mr
Everard came out.
"She sleeps," he said; "there is a shadow of hope. Little Nan has done
it. Nan asked to lie down beside her and she said, `Poor Annie! poor
Annie!' and stroked her cheek; and in some way, I don't know how, the
two have gone to sleep together. Annie did not even glance at her
father; she was quite taken up with Nan. You can come to the door and
look at her, Hester."
Hester did so. A time had been when she could scarcely have borne that
sight without a pang of jealousy; now she turned to Mr Everard:
"I--I could even give her the heart of little Nan to keep her here," she
murmured.