CHAPTER XlX.—(Continued.)

Otago Witness, Issue 2401, 8 March 1900, Page 53

CHAPTER XlX.— (Continued.)

DMEE/SET glanced at the paper and Avent pale as death : then he lurr.ed AA'ildlv to Bess, avlio a\ as Aveeping silently. " She says she Avill never come back," he cried. " What do you think she has done? H-is she gone back to that man?"'

"I think so, sir," ans veered Bes's, " unless — unless "' She paused, sobbing, and then added. " You don't know Annie, sir, as I knoAv her ! She's like a mad girl sometimes Avhen the fit is on her, and I thought last night that her heart was broken. She may not haA'e gone to her husband after all. She may haA'e done worse than that, sir!"

"Killed herself, do you mean?" asked Somerset.

"1 don'L knoAV, I don't knoAv!" sobbed Bess. " She Avas so miserable !"

Somerset sank inlo a chair, and covered his face Avith his hands. His bodA" shook convulsively, and presently they saAV tears stealing through his tremulous lingers. Touched to the quick by the exhibition of soitoav, Leroy stepped fonvard and placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.

" Don't gh*c way, old chap," he said, gently. " Perhaps things are not so bad as you fancy. We shall haA'e neAvs about her soon — perhaps it Avill be good neAvs." Somerset sprang up, and, dishing the tears from, his eyes, cried in a broken voice, looking wildly at Bufton :

'" You Avere right, Billy ; I acted like a csd ! I ought to haA r e faced the music ! IE you knew hoAv I hale xnvself for it all ! IVe killed her ! IYe broken her heart ! Oh, Avhat a fool I Avas to let her go !"

CHAPTER XX.— SEAWARD ONCE MORE.

On parting with Somerset at the studio, Annie walked out into the streets with the look of a woman who has received her death sentence. Her eyes were blank and despairing, her cheeks ashen grey, her bloodless lips pressed tight together, as she walked rapidly on, glancing neither to the right nor the left, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, not knowing whither she was going, but instinctively moving onward, and avoiding the few pedestrians she met on the way. In a little while she found herself in the Euston road, moving mechanically Avestward, as on the previous day, close to the southern gates of Regent's Park. Then for the first time &he realised that she had been drawn involuntarily towards the place where Matt Watson would be waiting for her, and, turning suddenly as if she had received a blow, she fled back along the track of her own footsteps, eastward, never resting or jmusing until she was close to St. Pancras railway station.

By this time her resolve was taken, never % to meet her husband again nor to return to the place where Bess was wailing for lier. She had no home iioav, she said to herself ; and, without thinking or caring what was to become of her, bhe decided to escape from London. Had .'-he been able to reason more calmly s-lil vould have realised that the great city A\ab the very place in which she ought to have remained, if she wished to efface herself from both friends and enemies, and alto-

gether avoid pursuit ; but she did not reason, any more than a panic-stricken creature reasons Avhen flying from some deadly peril.

She Avas sufficient mistress of herself, hoAvover, *„ fe? 1 . that it would be both Avise and kind to f-end some sort of message to poor Bess, a~-lio Avould be looking for her so anxioiisly in Bloomsbiuy. So she entered a small stationer's shop', and, procuring a sheet of paper, A^rote doAvn in pencil the message Avith which the reader is already familiar, and, placing it in an envelope, addressed it to Bess at Tenterden's Hotel. Then, sallying forth again into the street, she found a ragged neAvsboy, Avho leapt at the chance of earning a shilling by running with the letter to the hotel, Avhich Avas little more than half a mile aAvay. Then, ha\ T ing despatched her message, she hastened onward, up the City road.

Fortunately, she was not in debt at Tenterden's, her weekly account having been settled on the prerions day, and she knew, moreover, that Bess had a little money of her oavii. She had about a guinea in her pocket — half a sovereign in gold and the re&t in silver. Even this, she reflected Avith a shudder, Avas his money, for in all the aa orld she had not a farthing of her own. Well, she would keep this, since it Avas impossible to return it ; some day, perhaps, she might be able to rep'iy it. She mu&t keep, also, the clothes she wore, Avhich al?-o. indeed, belonged to him, but that Avas all. All the re&t of the money in the bank, the clothes and trinkets Avhich she had bought Avith her supposed inheritance, she had left behind her, utterly indifferent us to Avhat became of. them, all her thought being how to escape from the life of shameful luxury AvhicL she had lately led.

H<?d the actual and A'isible form of Death been before her, beckoning to her from the distance, she Avould have only flown along more rapidly. Indeed, she felt Avithin her a dim and confused instinct thai, it Avas to her grave she Avas going, since there Avas no longer any peace or happiness for her under the sun. Her yearning iioav Avas> for silence, for solitude, for the open country far beyord the city : tho crowded ihoroughrares seemed hateful, and the roar of the traffic stunned and stupefied her, and fche had Avithin. her a vague terror that she might be arre&ted and seized and dragged back by force to Matt 4 Watson, who was legally her master. This terror made her shrink away nervously Avhcnever she came face to face with the police.

Despite her despairing agitation. lioav-evc-r, she was outwardly calm, and seemed to a careless eye only a pretty girl hurrying to some appointment. A closer and shreAvdsr inspection would, of course, have told o different tale.

Hours had passed away, and she was still upon her feet, rambling up and down the /crowded thoroughfares. Late in the afternoon rain began to fall, but she did not ,even put up the umbrella which ;:he carried. Sometimes she halted »i a shop, looking quietly in at the windows, but in reality she 1 saw nothing real — only Matt Watson's Avild and angry face, glaring tit her Avith hungry eyes. Night had quite fallen when she found -herself on the platform at Liverpool Street Station. Someone, a porter or a guard, asked her where she Aras going. She glanced at a train which was about to depart, and inquired its destination. " Enfield," the man told her, and she gaA-e him the money to run and get her a third-clafcs ticket. He did so, and when he brought it s>he gave him a feAV pence for himself. He hurried her into a- croAvded compartment, just as the train Avas beginning to move awoy. As the train sped onward through the darkness she sat in silence among her felloav passengers — artisans returning from Avork, clerks from the city, women and girls and children. They glanced at heY curiously, and not unsuspiciously, for her dress Avas above the common, and she looked like a fashionably-attired lady ; but she Avas far too full of her oAvn thoughts to heed or care.

After stopping again and again at small stations on the way, the train arrived at Enfield. Leaving tiie platform and delivering uy her picket, she found herself in tlie dark street of a small suburban village. The rain was now falling heavily. Such few shops as the place possessed Avere closed, and the street Avas almost deserted.

How dark and quiet it seemed after the roar and turmoil of the great city. Everything was quite still, save for the patter of the rain and the moaning of the wind which drove the cold drops against her face. The silence and the darkness were grateful to her, and for the fir&t time that day she felt as if she were safe.

Wandering on, she found herself on a small bridge spanning the waters of a dark canal. Beyond were the lights of a few scattered houses ; and still further beyond, the signal lights of some railway. She halted on the bridge and bending over its arch, looked down on the black sluggish water, glistening dimly in the darkness.

Had she come there to die? Had God drawn her there in, her desolation to find rest? She had not hitherto thought of suicide ; but her impulse now was to leap over and let the water swallow her up. She looked round furtively ; no one seemed near ; it would be easy, she thought, to die that way. But in spite of her utter misery, the blood of her young life ran strong within her, and she shrank from the thought of dying. No, she would live on, at least for a little ; perhaps she would be able to find some quiet country place, where she could abide till she had thought out her future destiny, and decided whether to die or live. She was standing in silence looking down at the canal, when she felt a strong hand gripping her. arm, and involuntarily she uttered a cry of terror.

" Hullo, my girl," said a gruff voice. "What are you doing here?"

Flic turned and found herself face to face with a niugh-bcfirded man, who looked like an artihan. Re ]>«d gripped her firmly and was, leaning forward to look at her. Without aiibHeiim,' .she tried to free herself, but (■be was held -is in a vice.

"Who arc you?" demanded the man. "You don't bslong hereabouts, I think."

" No," replied Annie. " I come from JLon* don."

'"Ye come from London?" repeated the man. " You're not the fir«t, neither, v as I've found her looking at the canal, or fished out o' that there water. Init you don't look like most on 'em. They don't Avear sealskin jackets, like yours."

"Ple-«se let me go," said Annie, quietly. " You'ro hurting my 3"m. Did you think I AAY.s going to droAvn myself? " she added, Avith a forced laugh, as he released liar. " I doubt you Avere thinking aboub it, my girl. WhaVs the matter? Are ye ir trouble? "

" No particular trouble," ansAvered Annie. " I came from London this evening by the train, and Avalked along AvithouL thinkingtill I found myself here." "Nice night for a Avalk, ain't it? Why, you're soaking Avet." " Oh, I'm not sugor, and shan't melt," Annie cried. " Good-night." " Here, stop a bit/ cried the man, folloAving her as she wss Avalking on. " Where might ye be bound for?"

" I want to find an inn, or a coflee house of some kind, Avhere I can shelter till the

morning.

" There ain't no respectable inn hereabouts, and no coffee house," an^vered the man.

"Is there no place Avhere I can find a lodging?'' inquired Annie, for the man's manner, though bluff, Avas honest and kindly, and she felt that he Avas to be trusted.

'' Come along AA r ith me and speak to my missis," he said. "P'raps she can put you up."

So paying, he led the Avay across the bridge in the direction of a group of cottages adjoining the canal. Annie folloAve-1 him listlessly. As they Avalked on, the man said :

'" When I first saw you, mhsie ; I thoxigb.fi you Avas going to jump down into the Avater. P'raps ye Avere, ard p'raps ye Avasn't ; that's your business. But any ways, it Avas lucky I came by." " Do people often come to that place tc — to put an end to their trouble?"' asked Annie, glancing back at the gloomy canal. "No mistake ; and what's more singular, the}- comes from all parrs. Somethink in tho Avater seems to draw them like. Sometimes it's a mill girl who's got into trouble ; sometimes it's a Avorkman's Avifo gone mad Avilh drirtk ; sometimes it's a flash girl from London. Since I come here a year ago I've fHied out three, and tAvo on 'em was stone cX d."

Annie shuddered and looked b?ck again. She had had no serious thought of suicide, and yet, perhaps, if the man had not appeared so opportunely she, too, might have been draAvn by the black Avater to her doatb. Better, perhaps, she thought, if she had been : for by that time her troubles AVuiild haA r e been all OA*er.

They reached a row of \vhitevras.h' i d cottages, aud the man, approaching one of them, and opening the door, led the Avay inlo a small silting room in which a cosy, fire Avas burning. The room Avas very plain and poorly furnished ; * but looked quite cheerful and clean. 3y the fire sat a avoman whose hair was almost Avhite, although" her face shoAved no r-ign of age. It, Avas a very sad face lit Avith very wistful and gentle eyes. '" Here, mother,"' said the man, " I've brought ye a young miss Avho Arants a night's lodging. " The AA'oman rose, looking Avonderingly at Annie. She was evidently astonished, as Avail she might be ; for seen in the bright light of the room, Annie looked a lady to the finger tips. "It's only a poor place, ma'am," said the Avcman, doubtfully, " and I'm afraid " She hesitated, looking nervously at the man.

" If you'll let me rest by the fire a bit," Annie said. " I'm a little tired ! " and she Avalked over to the fireplace and crouched doAvn, holding her hands over the gIoAV. Her dress was dripping with the rain, and her hair had fallen loose over her shoulders.

The man and Avoman whispered together, glancing from time to time curiously at their A'isitor, whose appearance seemed to impress them not unfavourably. Then the man left the room, and the Avoman quietly approaching Annie, and looking down at her, said gently :

" My husband tells me you're a stranger, and that he thinks you're in some sort of trouble? I don't want ye to tell me nothing about it unless ye want to, but I'd like to be of service to you if I can. We live all alone noAV, my husband _and me ; but there's a little bedroom upstairs you can have and Avelcome, if you'd like to slay."

The tone Avas so SAveet and kindly, the expression of the woman's sad face so SA rmpathetic, that Annie was deeply touched and in danger for a moment of losing her self-control. She turned her eA'es aAvay and murmured her thanks.

"You see, miss,"' said the woman, 'Ve'd a dear daughter of our OAvn, and if she Avas Avith us now she'd be about your age. It's her room upstairs as I can give you. No one has slept in it s : ncc she Avent away." " Ts she dead? " asked Annie.

The Avoman's A"oice broke as she replied

" No. miss ; she's hVing. Perhaps it Avould be better if she Avas dead : though I nan never bring myself to think that. She's liAnng somcAvhere in London, and sometimes Are sets a line from her, but not often. She Avas apprenticed to the dressmaking, and had a srood place ; but aftenvards — ah, well, miss, I'd rather not speak about it, but I'm in hones she'll come back to us some day. There's ahvays a home for her here, miss, for she was our only child.

In spite of herself Annie was deenly moved by the woman's patient sorrow. For the first time since she had fled from the studio her own tears began to fall, and when the woman sat, doAvn beside her. and placed a uentle motherly hand upon her head, the. kind touch seemed to dissolve the last icy band around her heart, and she began to sob hysterically.

Presently she greAv calmer, and told the Avoman something of her story, just enousrh to surest that she had a potent reason for escaping from London. They Avere soon talking together freerv. and exchanging womanly confidences, and Avhcn the man reUirnpd, he found them sitiincr side by sida by the fire, holding each other's hands.

Fortunately for Annie, in her deep despair and isolation, she had fallen among sympathetic surroundings. The man and woman were worthy folk, of a type not too common among the Jingii&h lower classes. The man worked at the canal Jock hard by, Tvhile the Truman kept the house, and both waited anxiously for the day when they would again clasp the emuit daughter to then 1 hearts.

Annie slept there that night, a heivy dreamless sleep, for despite her youth and strength, she was worn out. When she .woke, long after daylight, she found her clothes carefully dried and placed beside her bed, and the woman brought her up a cup oi tea. "My man's gone off to Avork,"' said the •woman. " But he bade me say that you can bide here with us a bit longer, my dear, if you've a mind to stay. We're only poor folk, but you're welcome for the sake of our poor girl." But Annie, grown calmer and clearer, now had time to think over her plans, and at last determined what to do. As scon as she had dressed herself, therefore, she told the good woman that she was compelled to go away. - "I have friends down yonder in Essax," she said, '" and i shall go to them and ask their advice. They'll help me if they can, I know."

The woman looked at her sadly.

"But you'll promise me, won't you, my dear, never to think of doing what maybe you were tlimkin t of kst night, no matter now great your trouble? " " You needn't bs airaid," answered Annie. "I am too fond of my life, though God knows what will become of inc."

The Avoman kissed her on the forehead.

Before she went away she tried to force her kind hostess to take payment for the night's lodging, but the woman -would not take a farthing. Annie was only too welcome, she said, for the sake oi her own dear daughter. So they parted, and never in. this world did Annie see. the woman again

Tiis rain of the previous clay had passed, and the wintry sun was shining brightly, as Annie walked rapidly along the highway, and leaving Enfield behind her, approached the . neighbourhood of Epping Forest. She 3iad now determined to make her way to (Raleigh, and to take counsel of her old friends, the vicar's daughters, who might 'be able perhaps to shelter her, and to put ler in the way of some honest work. R&y■leigh, she gathered, was at least 40 miles away ; but she meant to wander thither on foot' instead of again taking the Lrain. She vras a good walker, and she loved the freedom of the quiet road. She shrank still from observation, with a nervous dread of heing recognised and pursued. Early in the afternoon, alter a long walk through the forest, she reached the little village of Chigwell, on the high road to Chelmsford. Here she rested ior, a short time outside a small wayside inn, and ate a- little bread and cheese ;. for thanks to ths gresh air and exercise, Nature was rapidly asserting her needs, and she was quite hungry. When she fared forward again her eyes were brighter, her tread stronger and firmer en the ground. She began lor the first tims to feel like herself, with the pulse of her young life beating powerfully within her. She felt herself a girl again, careless, 'strong, and free. There was a faint flush on ber cheek, a flash of pride and determination in her eye. The highway was very quiet, and she encountered very few -geo-ple. Now and then r waggon passed, or the cart of some farmer 'driving to the neighbouring market town ; and from time to time she met a tramp on his way to the great city^ or a gipsy loafing by the' wayside. No one, however, moles)fced her, though more than one passer-by looked at her in surprise, and gave her a greeting to which she carelessly responded. Chit there in the open country, to which ehe had been accustomed all her life, she was no timid maiden, afraid of being rudely dealt with. The roughest man she met inspired her with no fear. It was the great world behind her, and the one solitary figure, that she dreaded : and from these the was escaping, as she thought, for ever.