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: