IN THE FAIRIES' FIELD.
The moon had now come up brilliantly, and the little party were in the
highest possible spirits. They had got safely away from the house, and
there was now, comparatively speaking, little fear of discovery. The more
timid ones, who ventured to confess that their hearts were in their
mouths while Annie was unlocking the side door, now became the most
excited, and perhaps the boldest, under the reaction which set in. Even
the wood, which was comparatively dark, with only patches of moonlight
here and there, and queer weird shadows where the trees were thinnest,
could not affect their spirits.
The poor sleepy rabbits must have been astonished that night at the
shouts of the revelers, as they hurried past them, and the birds must
have taken their sleepy heads from under their downy wings, and wondered
if the morning had come some hours before its usual time.
More than one solemn old owl blinked at them, and hooted as they passed,
and told them in owl language what silly, naughty young things they were,
and how they would repent of this dissipation by-and-by. But if the girls
were to have an hour of remorse, it did not visit them then; their hearts
were like feathers, and by the time they reached the fields where the
fairies were supposed to play, their spirits had become almost
uncontrollable.
Luckily for them this small green field lay in a secluded hollow, and
more luckily for them no tramps were about to hear their merriment.
Rover, who constituted himself Annie's protector, now lay down by her
side, and as she was the real ringleader and queen of the occasion, she
ordered her subjects about pretty sharply.
"Now, girls, quick; open the basket. Yes, I'm going to rest. I have
organized the whole thing, and I'm fairly tired; so I'll just sit quietly
here, and Rover will take care of me while you set things straight. Ah!
good Betty; she did not even forget the white table-cloth."
Here one of the girls remarked casually that the grass was wet with dew,
and that it was well they had all put on their waterproofs.
Annie interrupted again in a petulant voice:
"Don't croak, Mary Morris. Out with the chickens, lay the ham in this
corner, and the cherries will make a picturesque pile in the middle.
Twelve meringues in all; that means a meringue and a half each. We shall
have some difficulty in dividing. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how hungry I am! I
was far too excited to eat anything at supper-time."
"So was I," said Phyllis, coming up and pressing close to Annie. "I do
think Miss Danesbury cuts the bread and butter too thick--don't you,
Annie? I could not eat mine at all to-night, and Cecil Temple asked me if
I was not well."
"Those who don't want chicken hold up their hands," here interrupted
Annie, who had tossed her brown cap on the grass, and between whose brows
a faint frown had passed for an instant at the mention of Cecil's name.
The feast now began in earnest and silence reigned for a short time,
broken only by the clatter of plates and such an occasional remark as
"Pass the salt, please," "Pepper this way, if you've no objection," "How
good chicken tastes in fairy-land," etc. At last the ginger-beer bottles
began to pop--the girls' first hunger was appeased. Rover gladly crunched
up all the bones, and conversation flowed once more, accompanied by the
delicate diversion of taking alternate bites at meringues and
cheesecakes.
"I wish the fairies would come out," said Annie.
"Oh, don't!" shivered Phyllis, looking round her nervously.
"Annie darling, do tell us a ghost story," cried several voices.
Annie laughed and commenced a series of nonsense tales, all of a slightly
eerie character, which she made up on the spot.
The moon riding high in the heavens looked down on the young giddy heads,
and their laughter, naughty as they were, sounded sweet in the night air.
Time flew quickly and the girls suddenly discovered that they must pack
up their table-cloth and remove all traces of the feast unless they
wished the bright light of morning to discover them. They rose hastily,
sighing and slightly depressed now that their fun was over. The white
table-cloth, no longer very white, was packed into the basket, the
ginger-beer bottles placed on top of it and the lid fastened down. Not a
crumb of the feast remained; Rover had demolished the bones and the eight
girls had made short work of everything else, with the exception of the
cherry-stones, which Phyllis carefully collected and popped into a little
hole in the ground.
The party then progressed slowly homeward and once more entered the dark
wood. They were much more silent now; the wood was darker, and the chill
which foretells the dawn was making itself felt in the air. Either the
sense of cold or a certain effect produced by Annie's ridiculous stories,
made many of the little party unduly nervous.
They had only taken a few steps through the wood when Phyllis suddenly
uttered a piercing shriek. This shriek was echoed by Nora and by Mary
Morris, and all their hearts seemed to leap into their mouths when they
saw something move among the trees. Rover uttered a growl, and, but for
Annie's detaining hand, would have sprung forward. The high-spirited girl
was not to be easily daunted.
"Behold, girls, the goblin of the woods," she exclaimed. "Quiet, Rover;
stand still."
The next instant the fears of the little party reached their culmination
when a tall, dark figure stood directly in their paths.
"If you don't let us pass at once," said Annie's voice, "I'll set Rover
at you."
The dog began to bark loudly and quivered from head to foot.
The figure moved a little to one side, and a rather deep and slightly
dramatic voice said:
"I mean you no harm, young ladies; I'm only a gypsy-mother from the tents
yonder. You are welcome to get back to Lavender House. I have then one
course plain before me."
"Come on, girls," said Annie, now considerably frightened, while Phyllis,
and Nora, and one or two more began to sob.
"Look here, young ladies," said the gypsy in a whining voice, "I don't
mean you no harm, my pretties, and it's no affair of mine telling the
good ladies at Lavender House what I've seen. You cross my hand, dears,
each of you, with a bit of silver, and all I'll do is to tell your pretty
fortunes, and mum is the word with the gypsy-mother as far as this
night's prank is concerned."
"We had better do it, Annie--we had better do it," here sobbed Phyllis.
"If this was found out by Mrs. Willis we might be expelled--we might,
indeed; and that horrid woman is sure to tell of us--I know she is."
"Quite sure to tell, dear," said the tall gypsy, dropping a courtesy in a
manner which looked frightfully sarcastic in the long shadows made by the
trees. "Quite sure to tell, and to be expelled is the very least that
could happen to such naughty little ladies. Here's a nice little bit of
clearing in the wood, and we'll all come over, and Mother Rachel will
tell your fortunes in a twinkling, and no one will be the wiser. Sixpence
apiece, my dears--only sixpence apiece."
"Oh, come; do, do come," said Nora, and the next moment they were all
standing in a circle round Mother Rachel, who pocketed her blackmail
eagerly, and repeated some gibberish over each little hand. Over Annie's
palm she lingered for a brief moment, and looked with her penetrating
eyes into the girl's face.
"You'll have suffering before you, miss; some suspicion, and danger even
to life itself. But you'll triumph, my dear, you'll triumph. You're a
plucky one, and you'll do a brave deed. There--good-night, young ladies;
you have nothing more to fear from Mother Rachel."
The tall dark figure disappeared into the blackest shadows of the wood,
and the girls, now like so many frightened hares, flew home. They
deposited their basket where Betty would find it, under the shadow of the
great laurel in the back avenue. They all bade Rover an affectionate
"good-night." Annie softly unlocked the side-door, and one by one, with
their shoes in their hands, they regained their bedrooms. They were all
very tired, and very cold, and a dull fear and sense of insecurity rested
over each little heart. Suppose Mother Rachel proved unfaithful,
notwithstanding the sixpences?