At the best, therefore, Annie could not reach the Grand Hotel in Paris by Tuesday night, and at the worst she could not go at all. Was she, who had sinned so deeply in order to obtain her heart’s desire, to be balked of everything at the eleventh hour? Was Priscilla to have things to her liking? Was Mabel to have a great and royal time? And was Annie to be left alone—all alone—in the hideous Rectory, with one stupid woman to talk to her about preserves and pickles, and one stupid old man? Oh, well, he was not quite that; he was a dear old uncle, but nevertheless he was rather prosy, and she was young; she could not endure her life at the Rectory. Something must be done.
She was thinking these thoughts when she suddenly saw advancing to meet her a gig which contained no less a person than Dr Brett.
“Oh doctor!” cried the girl, riding up to him, “will you please call at the Rectory? How lucky it is that I should have met you! I was going to Rashleigh to leave you a message.”
“Welcome back from school, Miss Annie,” said Dr Brett, a stout, elderly man with a florid face. “Is anything wrong, my dear?” he added.
“I don’t think that there is; but Uncle Maurice is fanciful, and Mrs Shelf more so. Will you just look in and give uncle something to put him right?”
“Of course I will go at once. But, my dear Miss Annie, you are mistaken when you call the rector fanciful; I never knew any one less so. I have often told him that he overworks, and that he ought to be careful. It is in the head that the mischief lies; and he is an old man, my dear Miss Annie, and has led a strenuous life. I am glad that you met me; it will save time.”
The doctor drove away, and Annie’s first intention was to turn her pony’s steps back again in the direction of Rashleigh Rectory, but as she was about to do so her hand came in contact with the letter addressed to Dawson the butcher. She might as well take it on; anything was better than dawdling away her time at the dull Rectory. Then, too, she could post her letter herself to Mabel, adding something to it so as to assure her friend that the question of joining her was only postponed. Besides—but this was an afterthought—there were some things wanted at Dawson’s. Annie again touched the letter, and as she did so her eyes rested on the signature. It was in her uncle’s well-known hand. She was to give this letter to Dawson, and he was to give her a receipt. A receipt meant that he was to acknowledge some money.
Annie’s heart gave a sudden leap. Was it possible that there was money in the letter? She felt the crimson colour rushing to her cheeks; a suffocating feeling just for a minute visited her heart. Then, urging the pony forward, she rode as fast as she could in the direction of Rashleigh.