UNDER THE HEDGE.
It is one thing to talk of the delights of sleeping under a hedgerow, and
another to realize them. A hayfield is a very charming place, but in the
middle of the night, with the dew clinging to everything, it is apt to
prove but a chilly bed; the most familiar objects put on strange and
unreal forms, the most familiar sounds become loud and alarming. Annie
slept for about an hour soundly; then she awoke, trembling with cold in
every limb, startled, and almost terrified by the oppressive loneliness
of the night, sure that the insect life which surrounded her, and which
would keep up successions of chirps, and croaks, and buzzes, was
something mysterious and terrifying. Annie was a brave child, but even
brave little girls may be allowed to possess nerves under her present
conditions, and when a spider ran across her face she started up with a
scream of terror. At this moment she almost regretted the close and dirty
lodgings which she might have obtained for a few pence at Oakley. The hay
in the field which she had selected was partly cut and partly standing.
The cut portion had been piled up into little cocks and hillocks, and
these, with the night shadows round them, appeared to the frightened
child to assume large and half-human proportions. She found she could not
sleep any longer. She wrapped her shawl tightly round her, and, crouching
into the hedgerow, waited for the dawn.
That watched-for dawn seemed to the tired child as if it would never
come; but at last her solitary vigil came to an end, the cold grew
greater, a little gentle breeze stirred the uncut grass, and up in the
sky overhead the stars became fainter and the atmosphere clearer. Then
came a little faint flush of pink, then a brighter light, and then all in
a moment the birds burst into a perfect jubilee of song, the insects
talked and chirped and buzzed in new tones, the hay-cocks became simply
hay-cocks, the dew sparkled on the wet grass, the sun had risen, and the
new day had begun.
Annie sat up and rubbed her tired eyes. With the sunshine and brightness
her versatile spirits revived; she buckled on her courage like an armor,
and almost laughed at the miseries of the past few hours. Once more she
believed that success and victory would be hers, once more in her small
way she was ready to do or die. She believed absolutely in the holiness
of her mission. Love--love alone, simple and pure, was guiding her. She
gave no thought to after-consequences, she gave no memory to past events:
her object now was to rescue Nan, and she herself was nothing.
Annie had a fellow-feeling, a rare sympathy with every little child; but
no child had ever come to take Nan's place with her. The child she had
first begun to notice simply out of a naughty spirit of revenge, had
twined herself round her heart, and Annie loved Nan all the more dearly
because she had long ago repented of stealing her affections from Hester,
and would gladly have restored her to her old place next to Hetty's
heart. Her love for Nan, therefore, had the purity and greatness which
all love that calls forth self-sacrifice must possess. Annie had denied
herself, and kept away from Nan of late. Now, indeed, she was going to
rescue her; but if she thought of herself at all, it was with the
certainty that for this present act of disobedience Mrs. Willis would
dismiss her from the school, and she would not see little Nan again.
Never mind that, if Nan herself was saved. Annie was disobedient, but on
this occasion she was not unhappy; she had none of that remorse which
troubled her so much after her wild picnic in the fairies' field. On the
contrary, she had a strange sense of peace and even guidance; she had
confessed this sin to Mrs. Willis, and, though she was suspected of far
worse, her own innocence kept her heart untroubled. The verse which had
occurred to her two mornings before still rang in her ears:
"A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again."
The impulsive, eager child was possessed just now of something which men
call True Courage; it was founded on the knowledge that God would help
her, and was accordingly calm and strengthening.
Annie rose from her damp bed, and looked around her for a little stream
where she might wash her face and hands; suddenly she remembered that
face and hands were dyed, and that she would do best to leave them alone.
She smoothed out as best she could the ragged elf-locks which the gypsy
maid had left on her curly head, and then covering her face with her
hands, said simply and earnestly:
"Please, my Father in heaven, help me to find little Nan;" then she set
off through the cornfields in the direction of the gypsies' encampment.