Priscilla was surprised and most distressed at the obduracy of the old man. In the and she could only persuade him to write to John Saxon, whose name she knew well. It would be better for him to be acquainted with this ghastly fact than for Lady Lushington’s just indignation to be turned on Annie’s devoted head.
Accordingly John Saxon was written to, and thus the explanation of his sudden visit to London was arrived at Mr Manchuri had asked the young man to meet him at his house of business, and Saxon, much as he dreaded what might lie before him, little guessed the ghastly news which he was to hear. Mr Manchuri, affectionate as he was to Priscilla, nursed his wrath more and more against Annie during the hours which intervened between his receiving Lady Lushington’s letter and the arrival of John Saxon on the scene.
“I am glad you have come, Mr Saxon,” he said when the young man entered the old jeweller’s private sitting-room, which was situated at the back of the business premises.
“Yes; I came at once,” replied Saxon. “What is it you want with me, Mr Manchuri? You said you had something important to tell me with regard to my cousin, Miss Brooke.”
“Something very ugly to tell you, sir. Now listen. What do you make of this story?”
Saxon did listen while Mr Manchuri enlarged on Annie’s apparently innocent, wheedling ways, on her story with regard to the necklace, and on the fact that he had given her in exchange for it ten notes, each of the value of ten pounds.
“A hundred pounds in all,” said the old jeweller; “and, to tell you the truth, Mr Saxon, cheap at the price, for I could sell that necklace to-morrow for two hundred and fifty pounds, or even three hundred. Mark you, my dear young sir, I could do it, but you could not, nor could she, sharp as she is; for I know the trade and you don’t, and she doesn’t, and Lady Lushington doesn’t. Therefore a hundred pounds is a very fair sum to pay for what only cost her ladyship forty. Now, will you read that?” he added, handing him Lady Lushington’s letter.
John Saxon did so. He returned it and looked full into the face of Mr Manchuri.
“Well, sir,” said the merchant, “what do you mean to do?”
“What do you mean to do, Mr Manchuri?”
Mr Manchuri spread out his hands.
“I,” he said – “I mean to take the law in this matter. I mean to write the simple and exact truth to Lady Lushington, and I mean to confront that precious Miss Brooke with the truth. That is what I mean to do. That sort of wickedness ought not to be permitted, sir. It ought to be nipped in the bud.”
“I agree with you,” said Saxon. He spoke very slowly, and with pain. “It ought to be nipped in the bad, and I am,” – a lamp came to to his throat – “almost glad that you have made this discovery. There would be nothing quite so dreadful for my poor little cousin as that this thing should be hidden. Now it is known, soon a great deal more will be known – of that I am persuaded. But, sir, I want to plead with you on behalf of the guilty party. In the first place, the girl in question is only seventeen. Her exceeding youth, which ought to be the shield of innocence, has not proved sufficient to keep her from acting in the most crafty and guilty manner. But she was the beloved child of one of the beet of men, and for his sake I will not have her name dragged in the dust; if I can save her from the world’s knowledge of such a grave crime as this, I will. Mr Manchuri, you have lost one hundred pounds. Here is my cheque for the amount.”
Here John Saxon took a cheque-book from his pocket.
“Give me a pen and ink,” he said, “and I will fill it in for you. Having received this, will you return the necklace to Lady Lushington, telling her any story you please, but as far as possible shielding Annie Brooke from the worst consequences of her sin?”
“This makes all the difference, sir,” said Mr Manchuri. “I am not appointed in any sense to be the guardian of Miss Annie Brooke. I wish never to see the young lady again. She has acted abominably. I will take your cheque, sir, and return the necklace to Lady Lushington.”
“So far, so good. Then perhaps this ends our business,” said John Saxon.
He took up his hat as he spoke.
“Not quite sure there are not other things I wish to say. Will you sit down?”
Saxon very unwillingly complied.
“You have, perhaps,” continued Mr Manchuri, “heard Miss Brooke speak of a schoolfellow of the name of Priscilla Weir?”
“I have. I believe the young lady was with her and Miss Lushington in Switzerland.”
“That is true,” said Mr Manchuri; “and I had the privilege – I was, in short, the fortunate man to be allowed to escort Miss Weir back to England.”
“Indeed?” said Saxon, who, terribly shocked at this story about poor Annie, could with difficulty bring himself to take the slightest interest in Priscilla.
“You have told me, sir, that Miss Brooke’s uncle is dead?”
Saxon bowed his head. Mr Manchuri gazed hard at the young man.
“Your father was my good friend,” he said, a softer note coming into his voice, “and I have always thoroughly respected you. Your father and I have transacted business, and you yourself have shown me hospitality in a distant part of the world I would not be unkind to you, Mr Saxon, and I pity you very much indeed because of your relationship to Miss Brooke.”
“Pray do not pity me,” said Saxon. “If a man of my age – I am eight-and-twenty – cannot do has beet for a lonely girl, almost a child, he must be a poor sort. I am Annie’s guardian, and will do my utmost as long as she lives to befriend her.”
“Sir, I must speak the truth,” said Mr Manchuri. “You are straight as a die and honest and open as the day; but that girl is crafty, insincere, essentially untrue. You can never turn staff of that sort into true gold, however hard you try.”
“I can at least protect a weak and erring girl,” said Saxon with feeling.
“The best thing you can possibly do for her, sir, is to get her out of England and away from her old friends; for she must never return to Mrs Lyttelton’s school.”
“Why so?” asked Saxon.
“It was my privilege, Mr Saxon, to escort Priscilla Weir back to England. She had been very little noticed by me or by anyone else while at Interlaken. But I think, if I may dare to say the word, that God took care of her, and she alone of all that party really enjoyed the glories of nature. For her the Jungfrau showed some of its majesty, and for her the other great mountains spoke unutterable secrets. She is a queer girl, but has a heart of gold, Mr Saxon, a heart of gold. Now that girl first attracted my attention because the resembled a child of my own – a child who has long lived with the angels. I can scarcely tell you what I felt when I saw the likeness, and since then I have probed into Priscilla’s heart and found that in all respects it resembles the heart of my Esther. Sir, the girl was lonely; she was subjected to temptation, and she yielded to it. She has told me about it, and when Mrs Lyttelton’s school opens it will be Priscilla’s painful duty to tell her mistress something which implicates very seriously your cousin, Miss Brooke. It also implicates Miss Lushington. Priscilla, is a guest in my house now. What she will be eventually I have not yet disclosed to her. It is my impression that Esther sent her to me, and I am not going to let her go in a hurry.”
“Yes, this is very interesting, and I am glad that a girl so worthy as Miss Weir should have found a friend in you,” was Saxon’s response. “But you have not explained what my cousin Annie has done.”
“No, no; it is not within my province. But I can only assure you that that unfortunate young lady has got herself, as well as two more of her schoolfellows – namely, Priscilla Weir and Mabel Lushington – into the most horrible scrape. Priscilla’s conscience will not allow her to live any longer under the load of unconfessed sin, and it is her duty to inform Mrs Lyttelton.”
“And me,” said Saxon in a determined voice.
“You must be patient, sir. I will not tell you Priscilla’s secrets. They are her own. But I should advise you immediately to take steps to remove Miss Brooke from Mrs Lyttelton’s school.” Saxon said a few words more, and then took his leave. He had a good deal of business to attend to that day in connection with the late Mr Brooke’s affairs; the winding-up of his small property and the paying of a few trifling outstanding bills must be attended to as soon as possible. But Annie – what was to be done with her? Saxon himself intended to return to Australia within a month. His business called him there, and he did not think he ought to delay. But what was to become of Annie?
She must not return to school; indeed, her circumstances forbade such a hurry. Would it be possible to settle her somewhere with Mrs Shelf? Saxon thought over this idea, but dismissed it. Annie was far too clever to be left in the hands of a person whom she could completely rule. The young man felt stunned at the depth of her wickedness. He spent a very anxious night, and returned by an early train on the following morning to Rashleigh. There he was met by the appalling information that Annie had gone.
It was Dan who first told him at the station. Dan blurted out the words, almost sobbing as he spoke. Mrs Shelf was so bad that she couldn’t speak. She was lying in the kitchen, where a neighbour had found her when she had come in in the morning. The poor woman was moaning to herself in the most dreadful way. Dan knew no particulars except that Miss Annie was nowhere to be found and that Mrs Shelf was ill.
“Really,” thought Saxon, “troubles thicken. I wonder when we shall see a gleam of daylight. Was there ever such a troublesome and terrible girl put into the world before?”
But the very greatness of the emergency roused all that was strongest and best in the young man. He soon got the truth out of poor Mrs Shelf, who blamed herself almost more than Annie for having gone to Rashleigh. Having tried to assure the poor old woman that she was not in fault, and that he was wrong not to have insisted on taking Annie with him to London, he further soothed her by saying that he would soon find Annie; that it was absolutely impossible for a young girl like Annie Brooke to lose herself in these days of clever detectives and patient investigations.
“We’ll have her back,” he said. “We’ll have her back, and you must get well. And now, I am going immediately – yes, immediately – to take steps. You must have a neighbour in to look after you, Mrs Shelf; and I will write you or send a telegram whenever I get news.”
“But oh, sir! there is something else on my mind,” said Mrs Shelf; and she told him the story of Dawson and the cheque.
“Oh, that is all right,” said Saxon in a cheery voice. “We will settle the matter with Dawson as soon as ever letters of administration have been taken out with regard to Mr Brooke’s will. Don’t fret any more about that and don’t blame poor little Annie more than you can help, Mrs Shelf.”
Mrs Shelf burst into tears. It was a relief to her to hear the manly voice and to feel the confident pressure of the strong young hand. If John Saxon could be cheery and hopeful about Annie, why should she despair?
When he was gone – and he left the house almost immediately afterwards – Mrs Shelf rose totteringly from the sofa in the old kitchen and began to potter about her work. All was not lost even for Annie Brooke, while John Saxon was there to defend and help her.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Tilda Freeman
It was a very tired Annie Brooke who arrived laden with her little bag late on a certain evening at Norton Paget. The darkness had quite set in, and when she entered the tiny station and took a third-class ticket to London she was not recognised.
There were two other girls of an inferior class to Annie going also to London by the train. She looked at them for a minute, but they did not know her; and when presently she found herself in the same carriage with, them, she felt a certain sense of repose in being in their company. But for the fact that these two girls were accompanying her to town, she would have given way to quite unreasoning terrors, for her nerves had been violently shaken by the events of the last fortnight. Those nerves had been weakened already by all the deceit through which she had lived now during long weeks. This final step, however, made her feel almost as though she had reached the breaking-point. She could have cried out in her fears. She hated the darkness; she hated the swift movement of the train. She wanted to reach London; and yet when she did get there she would not have the faintest idea where to go. With her money securely fastened about her little person, with her neat leather bag, she might have presented herself at any comfortable hotel and been sure of a good welcome, but somehow Annie felt afraid of grand hotels at that moment. She felt deep down, very deep in her heart that she was nothing more nor less than a runaway, a girl who had done something to be ashamed of, who was obliged to hide herself, and who was forced to leave her friends.
She shivered once or twice with cold, and one of the girls who had got into the same carriage, and who had stared very hard at Annie from time to time, noticing her great dejection and pallor and her want of any wraps, suddenly bent forward and said:
“If you please, miss, I have a cloak to spare, and if you’re taken with a chill I’d be very glad to lend it to you to wrap about you.”
“Thank you,” said Annie instantly. Her small teeth were beginning to chatter, and she was really glad of the girl’s offer.
A few minutes later she was wrapped up in the cloak, and feeling inexpressibly soothed and knowing that her disguise was now more effectual than ever, she dropped into an uneasy sleep. She slept for some time, and when she awoke again she found that the third-class compartment was full of people – a rough and motley crew – and that the two girls who had accompanied her into the carriage were both still present. One faced her; the other sat pressed up close to her side. It was the girl who had lent Annie the cloak who sat so near her.
“Are you a bit better, miss?” she said when Annie had opened her startled blue eyes and tried to collect her scattered senses.
“Oh yes,” said Annie; “but I am thirsty,” she added.
“Suck an orange, then; do,” said the girl. “They are a bit sour yet, but I bought some to-day for the journey.”
She immediately thrust her hand into a string bag and produced an unripe and very untempting-looking specimen of the orange tribe.
Annie took it and said, “Thank you.”
“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.