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.
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.
She certainly looked so, and Dawson glanced after her as she left the shop with a very solemn expression of face. Just as she crossed the threshold she turned back to say:
“You will have another cheque instead of that as soon as the will is proved. You understand, of course, that there is a short delay always on account of those blessed lawyers when a death takes place,” said Mrs Shelf.
“Yes, madam, I quite understand that; and I think the best thing for me to do is to add the twenty pounds to my bill which you have asked me to send you.”
“Yes, perhaps you are right, Mr Dawson,” said Mrs Shelf, and she got soberly and laboriously back into the gig.
During her drive home Mrs Shelf did not utter a single word. To say that she was puzzled, amazed, frightened, would but inadequately explain the situation. Her heart beat with dull fear. Annie had cashed her uncle’s cheque – that cheque which had been drawn to pay the butcher’s bill. Annie had cashed it for herself and had not paid the bill. But, again, Annie had paid the bill two days later – not with the cheque, but with Bank of England notes. Really, the thing was too inexplicable. It did not look at all nice; Mrs Shelf, somehow, felt that it did not, but of course the child would explain. She would speak to her about it, and Annie would tell her. At present she could not understand it. Annie had taken twenty pounds of her uncle’s money; but then, again, Annie had restored it, and almost immediately.
“It’s enough to split anybody’s brain even to think the thing over,” was the good woman’s comment as, stiff and cold and tired and inexplicably saddened, she entered the desolate Rectory.
Rover, the watch-dog, had made no noise when Annie had slipped away. He was still in the yard, and ran joyfully to meet the old woman. She stopped for a minute to fondle him, but she had no heart to-night even to pet Rover.
She entered the house by the back-way, and immediately called Annie’s name. There was no response, and the chill and darkness of the house seemed to fall over her like a pall. A week ago, in very truth, peace had reigned here; but now peace had given way to tumults without and fears within. The very air seemed full of conflict.
Mrs Shelf called Annie’s name again. Then she set to work to light the lamps and stir up the kitchen fire. She put fresh coals on it and stood for a minute enjoying the pleasant warmth. She was not frightened – not yet at least – at Annie’s not responding to her cry. Annie Brooke was a queer creature, and as likely as not was in the garden. There was one thing certain, that if she had remained in the house she would have lit the lamps and made herself comfortable. She was the sort of girl who adored comfort. She liked the luxuries of life, and always chose the warmest corner and the snuggest seat in any room which she entered.
Mrs Shelf looked at the clock which ticked away solemnly in the corner, and was dismayed to find that it was very nearly eight. How stupid of her to stay such a long time at Dawson’s! No wonder Annie was tired at the lonely house. Dan came in after having done what was necessary for the horse, and asked Mrs Shelf if there was anything more he could do for her. Mrs Shelf said “No” in a testy voice. Dan was a clumsy youth, and she did not want him about the premises.
“You can go home,” she said. “Be here in time in the morning, for Mr John may want you to drive to the station early for him; there is no saying when he will be back. We will have a wire or a letter in the morning, though.”
Dan stumbled through the scullery and out into the yard. A minute or two afterwards the fastening of the yard gates was heard, and the sound of Dan’s footsteps dying away in the country lane.
“Poor child!” thought Mrs Shelf. “That story of Dawson’s is a caution, if ever there was one – to cash the cheque for herself and to bring the money back in two days. My word, she do beat creation! Nevertheless, poor lamb, she had best explain it her own way. I’d be the last to think hardly of her, who have had more or less the rearing of her – and she the light of that blessed saint’s eyes. She will explain it to me; it’s only one of her little, clever dodges for frightening people. She was always good at that; but, all the same, I wish she would come in. Goodness, it’s past eight! I’ll get her supper ready for her.”
Mrs Shelf prepared a very appetising meal. She laid the table in a cosy corner of the kitchen; then she went ponderously through the house, drawing down blinds and fastening shutters. After a time she returned to the kitchen. Still no Annie, and the supper was spoiling in the oven. To waste good food was a sore grief to Mrs Shelf’s honest heart.
“Drat the girl!” she said to herself impatiently; “why don’t she come out of the garden? Now I am feeling – what with nursing and grief – a touch of my old enemy the rheumatics, and I’ll have to go out in the damp and cold calling to her. But there, there! I mustn’t think of myself; he never did, bless him!”
The old woman wrapped a shawl about her head and shoulders, and opening the kitchen door, she passed through the yard into the beautiful garden. It was a moonlight night, and she could see across the lawns and over the flower-beds. The place looked ghostly and still and white, for there was a slight hoar-frost and the air was crisp and very chill.
“Annie, Annie, Annie!” called Mrs Shelf. “Come in, my dear; come in, my love. Your supper is waiting for you.”
No answer of any sort. Mrs Shelf went down the broad centre path and called again, “Annie, Annie, Annie!” But now echo took up her words, and “Annie, Annie, Annie!” came mockingly back on her ears. She felt a sudden sense of fright, and a swift and certain knowledge that Annie was not in the garden. She went back to the house, chilled to the bone and thoroughly frightened. As she did so she remembered John Saxon’s words, that she was to take very great and special care of Annie. Oh, how mad she had been to leave her alone for two hours and a half! And how queer and persistent of Annie to send her away! What did it mean? Did it mean anything or nothing at all?
“Oh God, help me!” thought the poor old woman. She sat down in a corner of the warm kitchen, clasping her hands on her knees and looking straight before her. Where was Annie? On the kitchen table she had laid a pile of the little things which she had bought at Rashleigh by Annie’s direction. Mechanically she remembered that she had supplied herself with some spools of cotton. She drew her work-box towards her, and opening it, prepared to drop them in. Lying just over a neatly folded piece of cambric which the old woman had been embroidering lay Annie’s note.
Mrs Shelf took it up, staggered towards the lamp, and read it. She read it once; she read it twice. She was alone in the house – absolutely alone – and no one knew, and – brave old lady – she never told any one to her dying day that after reading that note she had fainted dead away, and had lain motionless for a long time on the floor of the kitchen – that kitchen which Annie’s light footfall, as she firmly believed, would never enter again.
Chapter Twenty Seven
A Defender
When Annie left the “Beau Séjour” at Zermatt, Mabel felt herself in a state of distressing weakness and uncertainty. Annie had been her prop, and, as she had expressed it, she could not possibly go on being wicked without her. Accordingly, when the loss of the necklace was revealed to Lady Lushington on the following morning, Mabel let out a great deal more with regard to the loss of that treasure than Annie had intended her to do. She said nothing to deteriorate its value, but murmured so vaguely that she had certainly put it into the old trunk, and looked so sheepish when she was saying the words, that Lady Lushington began to suspect the truth.
“Now, Mabel,” she said, taking her niece’s hand and drawing her towards the light, “you are not at all good at concealing things; you have not the cleverness of your friend. I have for some time had my suspicions with regard to that quondam friend of yours, Annie Brooke. I don’t want you to betray her in any sense of the word, but I will know this: are you telling me the truth about the necklace? Did you put it into the lid of the trunk?”
Mabel prevaricated, stammered, blushed, and was forced to admit that she had not done so. On the top of this revelation, Lady Lushington was quick in pressing her niece to make a further one, and at last Mabel admitted that she thought, but was not at all sure, that Mr Manchuri, the old Jewish gentleman who had been staying at the Hotel Belle Vue, knew something about the necklace.
“It is quite safe; I am certain it is quite safe,” said Mabel; “but I think he knows about it. Had not we better write and ask Annie?”
“We will do nothing of the kind,” said Lady Lushington. “Mabel, I am disgusted with you. You can go away to your room. You are my niece, or I would never speak to you again; but if I do not get to the bottom of this mystery, and pretty quickly, too, my name is not Henrietta Lushington.”
“Oh dear,” thought poor Mabel, “what awful mischief I have done! Annie will be wild. Still, all is not known. I don’t think Aunt Henrietta can think the very worst of me even if she does learn the story of the necklace; that won’t tell her how I won the prize, and that won’t explain to her the true story of Mrs Priestley’s bill.”
As Mabel was leaving the room, very downcast and fearfully miserable, Lady Lushington called her back.
“I am disgusted with you,” she repeated. “Notwithstanding; justice is justice. I never wish you to have anything more to do with Annie Brooke; you never shall speak to her again, if I can help it. But in one thing she was right. I have received Mrs Priestley’s bill thin morning with all due apologies, and begging of me to forgive her for having, through a most gross error, and owing to the fault of one of her assistants, added another lady’s account to mine. Your bill for clothes, therefore, Mabel, only amounts to forty pounds, which is high, but allowable. As you are not going back to the school we shall never require Mrs Priestley’s services again. I will send her a cheque to-day for forty pounds, and that closes my transactions with the woman, whom, notwithstanding apologies, I do not consider too straight.”
Even this small consolation was better than nothing to Mabel. She went away to her room feeling very queer and trembling, and Lady Lushington took those immediate steps which she was fond of doing when really aroused. She did not know Mr Manchuri’s private address, but she was well aware that he was a wealthy Bond Street jeweller. She wrote, therefore, straight to his place of business, and her letter, when it reached him, electrified the good man to such an extent that he scarcely knew what he was doing. Fortunately for himself, he had not yet sold the necklace. Having read the letter, he sank down into a chair and gazed before him. Well did he remember the scene when Annie, looking sweet, innocent, and charming, had told him with a little pride of her knowledge with regard to gems, and had shown him with extreme diffidence the valuable necklace, and asked him what it was worth.
“What a fool I was to snap at it!” he said to himself. “I might have known that no honest girl of the class of Annie Brooke would have forty pounds to spend on jewellery. But just that hateful desire to make money came over me, and I grabbed at the thing. Now what is to be done?”
Mr Manchuri returned home early that day. Lady Lushington’s letter was burning a hole all the time in his pocket.
“What a comfort it is,” he said to himself, “that that dear, nice Priscilla is still in the house! She certainly told me nothing about the necklace. That little horror of an Annie Brooke begged and implored of me to keep the whole thing a secret. But the time has come, my young miss, when I fed absolutely absolved from my promise. I must consult Priscie. Priscie has as wise a head on her shoulders as even my own beloved Esther had.”
The old man entered the house; and Priscilla, who was busily reading in the library, hearing the click of the latch-key in the lock, ran out into the hall. Her face had improved during the last few days. The look of great anxiety had left it. She had, in short, made up her mind, but even Mr Manchuri did not quite know what Priscilla was going to do.
“You are in early,” she said, running to meet him and helping him off with his overcoat and putting his stick in the stand.
“Yes, Priscilla,” he answered; “and I am right glad you are in. The fact is, I came back to consult you, my dear.”
“You will have some tea first,” said Priscilla. “Now that is exactly what Esther would have said,” was the old man’s response. “What a fuss she did make about me, to be sure! And you are going to make a fool of me now. I was a young man when my Esther was there, and I am an old man now, but the difference seems bridged over, and I feel young once more with you so kind to me, Priscilla. But there, there, my child, there is no tea for me until I relieve my mind. Where were you sitting, my dear, when you heard me come into the house?”
“In the library. I had just discovered the most glorious edition of Don Quixote, and was revelling in it.”
“We will go back to the library, Priscilla, if you have no objection.”
Priscilla turned at once; Mr Manchuri followed her, and they entered the great library full of books of all sorts – rare editions, old folios, etc, – as well as a few really valuable pictures.
“Priscilla,” said Mr Manchuri, “you know all about Annie Brooke?”
“Yes,” said Priscilla, her face turning very pale. “I wanted to write to Annie; her dear uncle is dead.”
“You told me so a few days ago. You can write or not, just, as you please. In the meantime, can you explain this?”
As Mr Manchuri spoke he took Lady Lushington’s letter from his pocket and handed it to Priscilla. Priscilla read the following words:
“Dear Sir, – I regret to have to trouble you with regard to a small circumstance, but I have just to my unbounded astonishment, been informed by my niece, Mabel Lushington, that you can throw light on the disappearance of an old-fashioned pearl necklace set in silver which I bought for her at Interlaken the day before we left. I was assisted in the purchase by a girl who was of our party – a Miss Brooke. She professed to have a knowledge of gems, and took me to Zick’s shop in the High Street where I bought the trinket. I paid forty pounds for it, believing it to be a bargain of some value. At present the necklace is not forthcoming, and there has been an idea circulated in the hotel that it was stolen on our journey from Interlaken to Zermatt. My niece, however, now with great reluctance mentions your name, and says that she thinks you can explain the mystery. Will you be kind enough to do so without a moment’s loss of time? – Yours sincerely, Henrietta Lushington.”
When Priscilla had finished this letter she raised a white and startled face. Her eyes saw Mr Manchuri’s, who, on his part, was trying to read her through.
“What do you make of it?” he said.
“I never heard of the necklace,” she said.
“Well, perhaps you heard something else or you noticed something else. Were you sitting in the garden of the Hotel Belle Vue just before déjeuner on the day that you and I left Interlaken?”
“Yes,” said Priscilla.
“I remember quite well now,” considered the old man, “that I noticed you from where I myself was sitting on the terrace. I saw Miss Brooke go up to you, and presently you went away. Then I joined Miss Brooke.”
“Yes,” said Priscilla.
“You have not the least idea what occurred, have you, Priscilla, when Miss Brooke and I were alone?”
“I have not the faintest idea,” said Priscilla.
“Well, I will tell you,” said the old man.
He crossed the room as he spoke, opened the door, and went out, but presently returned with something in his hand. This something he laid on the table before Priscilla.
“Have you ever seen that before?”
“Never,” said Priscilla. “It is rather pretty.”
“It is a valuable old ornament,” said Mr Manchuri. “It was bought at Zick’s shop in the High Street at Interlaken. I gave Annie Brooke one hundred pounds for it.”
“Mr Manchuri!”
“She told me it was her own, and asked if I would buy it. I knew it was worth a good deal more than the sum I paid her; now it seems that she took me in, I have purchased Lady Lushington’s necklace; it never belonged to Annie Brooke. What is to be done?”
Priscilla sat, white as death, with her hands clasped before her.
“Did you ever,” she said at last after a very long pause, “notice in all your knowledge of mankind how from the beginning of a little act of deceit great and awful things take place? If I had not yielded to a temptation which was put before me at Mrs Lyttelton’s school, Annie would never have been a thief; there would have been no need – no need! Mr Manchuri, I feel that I am responsible for this.”
“Nothing of the kind, child. Please don’t take on in that way! It is too dreadful to hear you.”
Priscilla’s lips trembled.
“We must, we must save Annie Brooke,” she said. “She is in trouble. Her uncle is dead; she has no home any longer. Oh, Mr Manchuri, for the sake of your Esther, don’t be too hard on her!”
“I am just mad with rage,” said the old jeweller. “There are some things I can stand, but not deceit.”
“You can stand me,” said Priscilla very gently, “and yet I was deceitful.”
“You have repented, child; and you are going to do all in your power to show that your repentance is real. I will not have you and Annie Brooke spoken of on the same footing. I cannot bear it, Priscilla.”
“You will be kind to her,” repeated Priscilla.
“I must answer this good woman’s letter. I have got the necklace. I don’t choose to be at the loss of one hundred pounds. There are things I will not bear – I cannot and will not stand – even for you, Priscilla. I have been cheated by that girl, and have lost one hundred pounds on a trinket which I now cannot possibly sell. If Lady Lushington will send me that sum, she can have the necklace back; otherwise Miss Brooke herself must return the money.”