"YOU ARE WELCOME TO TELL."
Annie continued her walk. The circumstances of the last two months had
combined to do for her what nothing had hitherto effected. When a little
child she had known hardship and privation, she had passed through that
experience which is metaphorically spoken of as "going down hill." As a
baby little Annie had been surrounded by comforts and luxuries, and her
father and mother had lived in a large house, and kept a carriage, and
Annie had two nurses to wait on herself alone. These were in the days
before she could remember anything. With her first early memories came
the recollection of a much smaller house, of much fewer servants, of her
mother often in tears, and her father often away. Then there was no house
at all that the Forests could call their own, only rooms of a tolerably
cheerful character--and Annie's nurse went away, and she took her daily
walks by her mother's side and slept in a little cot in her mother's
room. Then came a very, very sad day, when her mother lay cold and still
and fainting on her bed, and her tall and handsome father caught Annie in
his arms and pressed her to his heart, and told her to be a good child
and to keep up her spirits, and, above all things, to take care of
mother. Then her father had gone away; and though Annie expected him
back, he did not come, and she and her mother went into poorer and
shabbier lodgings, and her mother began to try her tear-dimmed eyes by
working at church embroidery, and Annie used to notice that she coughed a
good deal as she worked. Then there was another move, and this time Mrs.
Forest and her little daughter found themselves in one bedroom, and
things began to grow very gloomy, and food even was scarce. At last there
was a change. One day a lady came into the dingy little room, and all on
a sudden it seemed as if the sun had come out again. This lady brought
comforts with her--toys and books for the child, good, brave words of
cheer for the mother. At last Annie's mother died, and she went away to
Lavender House to live with this good friend who had made her mother's
dying hours easy.
"Annie, Annie," said the dying mother, "I owe everything to Mrs. Willis;
we knew each other long ago when we were girls, and she has come to me
now and made everything easy. When I am gone she will take care of you.
Oh, my child, I cannot repay her; but will you try?"
"Yes, mother," said little Annie, gazing full into her mother's face with
her sweet bright eyes, "I'll--I'll love her, mother; I'll give her lots
and lots of love."
Annie had gone to Lavender House, and kept her word, for she had almost
worshiped the good mistress who was so true and kind to her, and who had
so befriended her mother. Through all the vicissitudes of her short
existence Annie had, however, never lost one precious gift. Hers was an
affectionate, but also a wonderfully bright, nature. It was as impossible
for Annie to turn away from laughter and merriment as it would be for a
flower to keep its head determinately turned from the sun. In their
darkest days Annie had managed to make her mother laugh; her little face
was a sunbeam, her very naughtinesses were of a laughable character.
Her mother died--her father was still away, but Annie retained her brave
and cheerful spirit, for she gave and received love. Mrs. Willis loved
her--she bestowed upon her among all her girls the tenderest glances, the
most motherly caresses. The teachers undoubtedly corrected and even
scolded her, but they could not help liking her, and even her worst
scrapes made them smile. Annie's companions adored her; the little
children would do anything for their own Annie, and even the servants in
the school said that there was no young lady in Lavender House fit to
hold a candle to Miss Forest.
During the last half-year, however, things had been different. Suspicion
and mistrust began to dog the footsteps of the bright young girl; she was
no longer a universal favorite--some of the girls even openly expressed
their dislike of her.
All this Annie could have borne, but for the fact that Mrs. Willis joined
in the universal suspicion. The old glance now never came to her eyes,
nor the old tone to her voice. For the first time Annie's spirits utterly
flagged; she could not bear this universal coldness, this universal
chill. She began to droop physically as well as mentally.
She was pacing up and down the walk, thinking very sadly, wondering
vaguely, if her father would ever return, and conscious of a feeling of
more or less indifference to everything and every one, when she was
suddenly roused from her meditation by the patter of small feet and by a
very eager little exclamation:
"Me tumming--me tumming, Annie!" and then Nan raised her charming face
and placed her cool baby hand in Annie's.
There was delicious comfort in the clasp of the little hand, and in the
look of love and pleasure which lit up the small face.
"Me yiding from naughty nurse--me 'tay with you, Annie--me love 'oo,
Annie."
Annie stooped down, kissed the little one, and lifted her into her arms.
"Why ky?" said Nan, who saw with consternation two big tears in Annie's
eyes; "dere, poor ickle Annie--me love 'oo--me buy 'oo a new doll."
"Dearest little darling," said Annie in a voice of almost passionate
pain; then, with that wonderful instinct which made her in touch with all
little children, she cheered up, wiped away her tears, and allowed
laughter once more to wreathe her lips and fill her eyes. "Come, Nan,"
she said, "you and I will have such a race."
She placed the child on her shoulder, clasped the little hands securely
round her neck, and ran to the sound of Nan's shouts down the shady walk.
At the farther end Nan suddenly tightened her clasp, drew herself up,
ceased to laugh, and said with some fright in her voice:
"Who dat?"
Annie, too, stood still with a sudden start, for the gypsy woman, Mother
Rachel, was standing directly in their path.
"Go 'way, naughty woman," said Nan, shaking her small hand imperiously.
The gypsy dropped a low courtesy, and spoke in a slightly mocking tone.
"A pretty little dear," she said. "Yes, truly now, a pretty little
winsome dear; and oh, what shoes! and little open-work socks! and I don't
doubt real lace trimming on all her little garments--I don't doubt it a
bit."
"Go 'way--me don't like 'oo," said Nan. "Let's wun back--gee, gee," she
said, addressing Annie, whom she had constituted into a horse for the
time being.
"Yes, Nan; in one minute," said Annie. "Please, Mother Rachel, what are
you doing here?"
"Only waiting to see you, pretty missie," replied the tall gypsy. "You
are the dear little lady who crossed my hand with silver that night in
the wood. Eh, but it was a bonny night, with a bonny bright moon, and
none of the dear little ladies meant any harm--no, no, Mother Rachel
knows that."
"Look here," said Annie, "I'm not going to be afraid of you. I have no
more silver to give you. If you like, you may go up to the house and tell
what you have seen. I am very unhappy, and whether you tell or not can
make very little difference to me now. Good-night; I am not the least
afraid of you--you can do just as you please about telling Mrs. Willis."
"Eh, my dear?" said the gypsy; "do you think I'd work you any harm--you,
and the seven other dear little ladies? No, not for the world, my
dear--not for the world. You don't know Mother Rachel when you think
she'd be that mean."
"Well, don't come here again," said Annie. "Good-night."
She turned on her heel, and Nan shouted back:
"Go way, naughty woman--Nan don't love 'oo, 'tall, 'tall."
The gypsy stood still for a moment with a frown knitting her brows; then
she slowly turned, and, creeping on all-fours through the underwood,
climbed the hedge into the field beyond.
"Oh, no," she laughed, after a moment; "the little missy thinks she ain't
afraid of me; but she be. Trust Mother Rachel for knowing that much. I
make no doubt," she added after a pause, "that the little one's clothes
are trimmed with real lace. Well, little Missie Annie Forest, I can see
with half an eye that you set store by that baby-girl. You had better not
cross Mother Rachel's whims, or she can punish you in a way you don't
think of."