Three Girls from School

“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.

Chapter Twenty Six

Dawson’s Shop

When Mrs Shelf arrived at Rashleigh she made haste to carry out her commissions. These she executed with her accustomed despatch, and would have been back at the Rectory some time before seven o’clock but for a little event which took place in no less a shop than Dawson the butcher’s.

Mrs Shelf, having bought the manuscript book and the other odds and ends which Annie required, suddenly thought that she might as well choose the meat and small dainties which would be necessary for the reduced family at the Rectory during the next few days.

Accordingly she desired Dan to take her to Dawson’s, and getting slowly and ponderously down out of the gig, she entered the shop.

Dawson himself was present, and came forward with much respect and alacrity to serve his well-known customer.

“Glad to see you out, Mrs Shelf,” he said. “The air will do you good, ma’am. The evenings are turning a bit nippy, aren’t they? Autumn coming on all too quickly. Ah, Mrs Shelf! and winter follows autumn just as death follows old age. We don’t know ourselves without the rector, Mrs Shelf. No wonder that you feel it – no wonder. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken of it. But you’ll come in now and have a cup of tea with my wife, won’t you, Mrs Shelf?”

“No, that I can’t,” said Mrs Shelf, quickly wiping away the tears which had sprung to her eyes at mention of the beloved name. “I must hurry back to Miss Annie; she is all alone, poor little thing! at the Rectory.”

“Is she, now?” said Dawson. “Well, now, and a sweetly pretty young lady she be. Of course you don’t want to leave her by herself. But isn’t that nice-looking young gentleman, her cousin, staying with you for a time?”

“Mr Saxon, you mean?” said Mrs Shelf. “So he be; but he had to go up to London on business this morning, no Miss Annie and I are by ourselves for the time. Now I want please, Mr Dawson, two pounds of your best rump-steak and a piece of kidney for a pudding, and a pound and a half of the best end of neck of mutton. That’s about all to-day. We sha’n’t be wanting as much meat as formerly; and perhaps, Mr Dawson, you wouldn’t mind sending in your account in the course of the next week or so, for Mr Saxon is anxious to square up everything for Miss Annie before he leaves for Australia.”

“I will see about the account,” said Dawson. “And now, that reminds me. I was going to speak about it before, only the dear rector was so ill, I couldn’t worrit him. But the fact is, I changed a cheque for twenty pounds for Miss Annie about a month ago; I can’t remember the exact date. The cheque was one of Mr Brooke’s, and as correct as possible. Miss Annie wanted it in gold, and I gave it to her; and the following Monday I sent Pearson, my foreman, round with it to the bank, and in some way the stupid fellow tore it so badly that they would not cash it, and said they must have a new cheque. Of course I would have gone to the rector, knowing that he would give it to me, but for his illness. Now, however, I should like to have my money back. Shall I add it to the account, or what would be the best way to manage it, Mrs Shelf?”

“But I can’t make out what you are driving at,” said Mrs Shelf. “Has Miss Annie asked you to cash a cheque for her – a cheque of the master’s for twenty pounds?”

“She certainly did. Let me see when the date was. It was a day or two after she came back from school, looking so bonny and bright; and, by the same token, Mr Brooke was taken ill that very day, and Miss Annie was sent into town in a hurry to get some things that you wanted for the master.”

“But,” said Mrs Shelf; then she checked herself. A queer beating came at her heart and a heaviness before her eyes. “Perhaps,” she said, sinking into a chair, “you would let me see the cheque that is so much torn that you can’t get it cashed.”

“I will, with pleasure, ma’am. I am sorry to worry you at all about it at the present moment but you seem the best person to talk to, being, so to speak, not exactly one of the family.”

“Show me the cheque and don’t worrit me with my exact relations to the family,” said Mrs Shelf with dignity.

Dawson accordingly went to his private safe, which he unlocked, and taking out a ponderous banker’s book, produced the cheque; which Mrs Shelf immediately recognised as one which Mr Brooke had written in order to pay the half-yearly meat-bill. The cheque had been badly torn, and was fastened together at the back with some stamp-paper.

“They won’t take it; they are mighty particular about these things,” said Dawson. “It has been a loss to me, lying out of my money; but I wouldn’t worry the dear old gentleman when he was ill for three times the amount.”

“And you say that Miss Annie brought you this. Didn’t she bring you an account or anything with it?”

“Not she. She asked me if I would cash it for her. You see it was made payable to bearer, not to me myself. Is there anything wrong about it, Mrs Shelf?”

“Not the least bit in the world,” said the bewildered woman, trying to keep back a rash of words from her lips. “The master thought the world of our dear Miss Annie, and doubtless gave it to her the day after she returned from school; for she has a pretty, coaxing way; and you know well, Mr Dawson, that young things like our Annie want their bits of finery.”

“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 last six months was met.”

“Bless you, madam! you may rest easy about that. It was Miss Annie herself brought me the money and asked me to give her a receipt for the bill. She brought it two days later in five-pound notes. You have the receipt, haven’t you?”

“To be sure – at least, I suppose so. I am all in a bewilderment!” said the good woman.