Chapter 26 Three Girls from School by L. T. Meade
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.