ANNIE GETS THE BEST OF IT
[Illustration: 246.jpg Illustrated Capital]
I had long outgrown unwholesome feeling as to my father's death, and
so had Annie; though Lizzie (who must have loved him least) still
entertained some evil will, and longing for a punishment. Therefore I
was surprised (and indeed, startled would not be too much to say,
the moon being somewhat fleecy), to see our Annie sitting there as
motionless as the tombstone, and with all her best fallals upon her,
after stowing away the dishes.
My nerves, however, are good and strong, except at least in love
matters, wherein they always fail me, and when I meet with witches; and
therefore I went up to Annie, although she looked so white and pure;
for I had seen her before with those things on, and it struck me who she
was.
“What are you doing here, Annie?” I inquired rather sternly, being vexed
with her for having gone so very near to frighten me.
“Nothing at all,” said our Annie shortly. And indeed it was truth enough
for a woman. Not that I dare to believe that women are such liars as men
say; only that I mean they often see things round the corner, and know
not which is which of it. And indeed I never have known a woman
(though right enough in their meaning) purely and perfectly true and
transparent, except only my Lorna; and even so, I might not have loved
her, if she had been ugly.
“Why, how so?” said I; “Miss Annie, what business have you here, doing
nothing at this time of night? And leaving me with all the trouble to
entertain our guests!”
“You seem not to me to be doing it, John,” Annie answered softly; “what
business have you here doing nothing, at this time of night?”
I was taken so aback with this, and the extreme impertinence of it, from
a mere young girl like Annie, that I turned round to march away and
have nothing more to say to her. But she jumped up, and caught me by the
hand, and threw herself upon my bosom, with her face all wet with tears.
“Oh, John, I will tell you. I will tell you. Only don't be angry, John.”
“Angry! no indeed,” said I; “what right have I to be angry with you,
because you have your secrets? Every chit of a girl thinks now that she
has a right to her secrets.”
“And you have none of your own, John; of course you have none of your
own? All your going out at night--”
“We will not quarrel here, poor Annie,” I answered, with some loftiness;
“there are many things upon my mind, which girls can have no notion of.”
“And so there are upon mine, John. Oh, John, I will tell you everything,
if you will look at me kindly, and promise to forgive me. Oh, I am so
miserable!”
Now this, though she was behaving so badly, moved me much towards her;
especially as I longed to know what she had to tell me. Therefore I
allowed her to coax me, and to kiss me, and to lead me away a little, as
far as the old yew-tree; for she would not tell me where she was.
But even in the shadow there, she was very long before beginning, and
seemed to have two minds about it, or rather perhaps a dozen; and she
laid her cheek against the tree, and sobbed till it was pitiful; and I
knew what mother would say to her for spoiling her best frock so.
“Now will you stop?” I said at last, harder than I meant it, for I knew
that she would go on all night, if any one encouraged her: and though
not well acquainted with women, I understood my sisters; or else I must
be a born fool--except, of course, that I never professed to understand
Eliza.
“Yes, I will stop,” said Annie, panting; “you are very hard on me, John;
but I know you mean it for the best. If somebody else--I am sure I don't
know who, and have no right to know, no doubt, but she must be a wicked
thing--if somebody else had been taken so with a pain all round the
heart, John, and no power of telling it, perhaps you would have coaxed,
and kissed her, and come a little nearer, and made opportunity to be
very loving.”
Now this was so exactly what I had tried to do to Lorna, that my breath
was almost taken away at Annie's so describing it. For a while I could
not say a word, but wondered if she were a witch, which had never been
in our family: and then, all of a sudden, I saw the way to beat her,
with the devil at my elbow.
“From your knowledge of these things, Annie, you must have had them done
to you. I demand to know this very moment who has taken such liberties.”
“Then, John, you shall never know, if you ask in that manner. Besides,
it was no liberty in the least at all, Cousins have a right to do
things--and when they are one's godfather--” Here Annie stopped quite
suddenly having so betrayed herself; but met me in the full moonlight,
being resolved to face it out, with a good face put upon it.
“Alas, I feared it would come to this,” I answered very sadly; “I know
he has been here many a time, without showing himself to me. There is
nothing meaner than for a man to sneak, and steal a young maid's heart,
without her people knowing it.”
“You are not doing anything of that sort yourself then, dear John, are
you?”
“Only a common highwayman!” I answered, without heeding her; “a man
without an acre of his own, and liable to hang upon any common, and no
other right of common over it--”
“John,” said my sister, “are the Doones privileged not to be hanged upon
common land?”
At this I was so thunderstruck, that I leaped in the air like a shot
rabbit, and rushed as hard as I could through the gate and across the
yard, and back into the kitchen; and there I asked Farmer Nicholas Snowe
to give me some tobacco, and to lend me a spare pipe.
[Illustration: 248.jpg Spare Pipe]
This he did with a grateful manner, being now some five-fourths gone;
and so I smoked the very first pipe that ever had entered my lips till
then; and beyond a doubt it did me good, and spread my heart at leisure.
Meanwhile the reapers were mostly gone, to be up betimes in the morning;
and some were led by their wives; and some had to lead their wives
themselves, according to the capacity of man and wife respectively. But
Betty was as lively as ever, bustling about with every one, and looking
out for the chance of groats, which the better off might be free with.
And over the kneading-pan next day, she dropped three and sixpence out
of her pocket; and Lizzie could not tell for her life how much more
might have been in it.
Now by this time I had almost finished smoking that pipe of tobacco, and
wondering at myself for having so despised it hitherto, and making up my
mind to have another trial to-morrow night, it began to occur to me that
although dear Annie had behaved so very badly and rudely, and almost
taken my breath away with the suddenness of her allusion, yet it was not
kind of me to leave her out there at that time of night, all alone, and
in such distress. Any of the reapers going home might be gotten so far
beyond fear of ghosts as to venture into the churchyard; and although
they would know a great deal better than to insult a sister of mine when
sober, there was no telling what they might do in their present state of
rejoicing. Moreover, it was only right that I should learn, for Lorna's
sake, how far Annie, or any one else, had penetrated our secret.
Therefore, I went forth at once, bearing my pipe in a skilful manner, as
I had seen Farmer Nicholas do; and marking, with a new kind of pleasure,
how the rings and wreaths of smoke hovered and fluttered in the
moonlight, like a lark upon his carol. Poor Annie was gone back again
to our father's grave, and there she sat upon the turf, sobbing very
gently, and not wishing to trouble any one. So I raised her tenderly,
and made much of her, and consoled her, for I could not scold her there;
and perhaps after all she was not to be blamed so much as Tom Faggus
himself was. Annie was very grateful to me, and kissed me many times,
and begged my pardon ever so often for her rudeness to me. And then
having gone so far with it, and finding me so complaisant, she must
needs try to go a little further, and to lead me away from her own
affairs, and into mine concerning Lorna. But although it was clever
enough of her she was not deep enough for me there; and I soon
discovered that she knew nothing, not even the name of my darling; but
only suspected from things she had seen, and put together like a woman.
Upon this I brought her back again to Tom Faggus and his doings.
“My poor Annie, have you really promised him to be his wife?”
“Then after all you have no reason, John, no particular reason, I mean,
for slighting poor Sally Snowe so?”
“Without even asking mother or me! Oh, Annie, it was wrong of you!”
“But, darling, you know that mother wishes you so much to marry Sally;
and I am sure you could have her to-morrow. She dotes on the very
ground--”
“I dare say he tells you that, Annie, that he dotes on the ground you
walk upon--but did you believe him, child?”
“You may believe me, I assure you, John, and half the farm to be settled
upon her, after the old man's time; and though she gives herself little
airs, it is only done to entice you; she has the very best hand in the
dairy John, and the lightest at a turn-over cake--”
“Now, Annie, don't talk nonsense so. I wish just to know the truth about
you and Tom Faggus. Do you mean to marry him?”
“I to marry before my brother, and leave him with none to take care of
him! Who can do him a red deer collop, except Sally herself, as I can?
Come home, dear, at once, and I will do you one; for you never ate a
morsel of supper, with all the people you had to attend upon.”
This was true enough; and seeing no chance of anything more than cross
questions and crooked purposes, at which a girl was sure to beat me,
I even allowed her to lead me home, with the thoughts of the collop
uppermost. But I never counted upon being beaten so thoroughly as I was;
for knowing me now to be off my guard, the young hussy stopped at
the farmyard gate, as if with a brier entangling her, and while I
was stooping to take it away, she looked me full in the face by the
moonlight, and jerked out quite suddenly,--
“Can your love do a collop, John?”
“No, I should hope not,” I answered rashly; “she is not a mere cook-maid
I should hope.”
“She is not half so pretty as Sally Snowe; I will answer for that,” said
Annie.
“She is ten thousand times as pretty as ten thousand Sally Snowes,” I
replied with great indignation.
“Oh, but look at Sally's eyes!” cried my sister rapturously.
“Look at Lorna Doone's,” said I; “and you would never look again at
Sally's.”
“Oh Lorna Doone. Lorna Doone!” exclaimed our Annie half-frightened, yet
clapping her hands with triumph, at having found me out so: “Lorna Doone
is the lovely maiden, who has stolen poor somebody's heart so. Ah, I
shall remember it; because it is so queer a name. But stop, I had better
write it down. Lend me your hat, poor boy, to write on.”
“I have a great mind to lend you a box on the ear,” I answered her in
my vexation, “and I would, if you had not been crying so, you sly
good-for-nothing baggage. As it is, I shall keep it for Master Faggus,
and add interest for keeping.”
“Oh no, John; oh no, John,” she begged me earnestly, being sobered in
a moment. “Your hand is so terribly heavy, John; and he never would
forgive you; although he is so good-hearted, he cannot put up with an
insult. Promise me, dear John, that you will not strike him; and I will
promise you faithfully to keep your secret, even from mother, and even
from Cousin Tom himself.”
“And from Lizzie; most of all, from Lizzie,” I answered very eagerly,
knowing too well which of my relations would be hardest with me.
“Of course from little Lizzie,” said Annie, with some contempt; “a
young thing like her cannot be kept too long, in my opinion, from the
knowledge of such subjects. And besides, I should be very sorry if
Lizzie had the right to know your secrets, as I have, dearest John. Not
a soul shall be the wiser for your having trusted me, John; although
I shall be very wretched when you are late away at night, among those
dreadful people.”
“Well,” I replied, “it is no use crying over spilt milk Annie. You have
my secret, and I have yours; and I scarcely know which of the two is
likely to have the worst time of it, when it comes to mother's ears. I
could put up with perpetual scolding but not with mother's sad silence.”
“That is exactly how I feel, John.” and as Annie said it she brightened
up, and her soft eyes shone upon me; “but now I shall be much happier,
dear; because I shall try to help you. No doubt the young lady deserves
it, John. She is not after the farm, I hope?”
“She!” I exclaimed; and that was enough, there was so much scorn in my
voice and face.
“Then, I am sure, I am very glad,” Annie always made the best of things;
“for I do believe that Sally Snowe has taken a fancy to our dairy-place,
and the pattern of our cream-pans; and she asked so much about our
meadows, and the colour of the milk--”
“Then, after all, you were right, dear Annie; it is the ground she dotes
upon.”
“And the things that walk upon it,” she answered me with another kiss;
“Sally has taken a wonderful fancy to our best cow, 'Nipple-pins.' But
she never shall have her now; what a consolation!”
We entered the house quite gently thus, and found Farmer Nicholas Snowe
asleep, little dreaming how his plans had been overset between us. And
then Annie said to me very slyly, between a smile and a blush,--
“Don't you wish Lorna Doone was here, John, in the parlour along with
mother; instead of those two fashionable milkmaids, as Uncle Ben will
call them, and poor stupid Mistress Kebby?”
“That indeed I do, Annie. I must kiss you for only thinking of it. Dear
me, it seems as if you had known all about us for a twelvemonth.”
“She loves you, with all her heart, John. No doubt about that of
course.” And Annie looked up at me, as much as to say she would like to
know who could help it.
“That's the very thing she won't do,” said I, knowing that Annie would
love me all the more for it, “she is only beginning to like me, Annie;
and as for loving, she is so young that she only loves her grandfather.
But I hope she will come to it by-and-by.”
“Of course she must,” replied my sister, “it will be impossible for her
to help it.”
“Ah well! I don't know,” for I wanted more assurance of it. “Maidens are
such wondrous things!”
[Illustration: 253.jpg Maidens are such wondrous things]
“Not a bit of it,” said Annie, casting her bright eyes downwards: “love
is as simple as milking, when people know how to do it. But you must not
let her alone too long; that is my advice to you. What a simpleton you
must have been not to tell me long ago. I would have made Lorna wild
about you, long before this time, Johnny. But now you go into the
parlour, dear, while I do your collop. Faith Snowe is not come, but
Polly and Sally. Sally has made up her mind to conquer you this very
blessed evening, John. Only look what a thing of a scarf she has on; I
should be quite ashamed to wear it. But you won't strike poor Tom, will
you?”
“Not I, my darling, for your sweet sake.”
And so dear Annie, having grown quite brave, gave me a little push into
the parlour, where I was quite abashed to enter after all I had heard
about Sally. And I made up my mind to examine her well, and try a little
courting with her, if she should lead me on, that I might be in practice
for Lorna. But when I perceived how grandly and richly both the
young damsels were apparelled; and how, in their curtseys to me, they
retreated, as if I were making up to them, in a way they had learned
from Exeter; and how they began to talk of the Court, as if they had
been there all their lives, and the latest mode of the Duchess of this,
and the profile of the Countess of that, and the last good saying of my
Lord something; instead of butter, and cream, and eggs, and things
which they understood; I knew there must be somebody in the room besides
Jasper Kebby to talk at.
And so there was; for behind the curtain drawn across the window-seat no
less a man than Uncle Ben was sitting half asleep and weary; and by his
side a little girl very quiet and very watchful. My mother led me to
Uncle Ben, and he took my hand without rising, muttering something not
over-polite, about my being bigger than ever. I asked him heartily how
he was, and he said, “Well enough, for that matter; but none the better
for the noise you great clods have been making.”
“I am sorry if we have disturbed you, sir,” I answered very civilly;
“but I knew not that you were here even; and you must allow for harvest
time.”
“So it seems,” he replied; “and allow a great deal, including waste
and drunkenness. Now (if you can see so small a thing, after emptying
flagons much larger) this is my granddaughter, and my heiress”--here he
glanced at mother--“my heiress, little Ruth Huckaback.”
“I am very glad to see you, Ruth,” I answered, offering her my hand,
which she seemed afraid to take, “welcome to Plover's Barrows, my good
cousin Ruth.”
However, my good cousin Ruth only arose, and made me a curtsey, and
lifted her great brown eyes at me, more in fear, as I thought, than
kinship. And if ever any one looked unlike the heiress to great
property, it was the little girl before me.
“Come out to the kitchen, dear, and let me chuck you to the ceiling,” I
said, just to encourage her; “I always do it to little girls; and then
they can see the hams and bacon.” But Uncle Reuben burst out laughing;
and Ruth turned away with a deep rich colour.
“Do you know how old she is, you numskull?” said Uncle Ben, in his
dryest drawl; “she was seventeen last July, sir.”
“On the first of July, grandfather,” Ruth whispered, with her back still
to me; “but many people will not believe it.”
Here mother came up to my rescue, as she always loved to do; and she
said, “If my son may not dance Miss Ruth, at any rate he may dance with
her. We have only been waiting for you, dear John, to have a little
harvest dance, with the kitchen door thrown open. You take Ruth; Uncle
Ben take Sally; Master Debby pair off with Polly; and neighbour Nicholas
will be good enough, if I can awake him, to stand up with fair Mistress
Kebby. Lizzie will play us the virginal. Won't you, Lizzie dear?”
“But who is to dance with you, madam?” Uncle Ben asked, very politely.
“I think you must rearrange your figure. I have not danced for a score
of years; and I will not dance now, while the mistress and the owner of
the harvest sits aside neglected.”
“Nay, Master Huckaback,” cried Sally Snowe, with a saucy toss of her
hair; “Mistress Ridd is too kind a great deal, in handing you over to
me. You take her; and I will fetch Annie to be my partner this evening.
I like dancing very much better with girls, for they never squeeze and
rumple one. Oh, it is so much nicer!”
“Have no fear for me, my dears,” our mother answered smiling: “Parson
Bowden promised to come back again; I expect him every minute; and he
intends to lead me off, and to bring a partner for Annie too, a very
pretty young gentleman. Now begin; and I will join you.”
There was no disobeying her, without rudeness; and indeed the girls'
feet were already jigging; and Lizzie giving herself wonderful airs with
a roll of learned music; and even while Annie was doing my collop,
her pretty round instep was arching itself, as I could see from the
parlour-door. So I took little Ruth, and I spun her around, as the sound
of the music came lively and ringing; and after us came all the rest
with much laughter, begging me not to jump over her; and anon my grave
partner began to smile sweetly, and look up at me with the brightest of
eyes, and drop me the prettiest curtseys; till I thought what a great
stupe I must have been to dream of putting her in the cheese-rack. But
one thing I could not at all understand; why mother, who used to do
all in her power to throw me across Sally Snowe, should now do the very
opposite; for she would not allow me one moment with Sally, not even to
cross in the dance, or whisper, or go anywhere near a corner (which as I
said, I intended to do, just by way of practice), while she kept me, all
the evening, as close as possible with Ruth Huckaback, and came up
and praised me so to Ruth, times and again, that I declare I was quite
ashamed. Although of course I knew that I deserved it all, but I could
not well say that.
Then Annie came sailing down the dance, with her beautiful hair flowing
round her; the lightest figure in all the room, and the sweetest, and
the loveliest. She was blushing, with her fair cheeks red beneath
her dear blue eyes, as she met my glance of surprise and grief at the
partner she was leaning on. It was Squire Marwood de Whichehalse. I
would sooner have seen her with Tom Faggus, as indeed I had expected,
when I heard of Parson Bowden. And to me it seemed that she had no
right to be dancing so with any other; and to this effect I contrived to
whisper; but she only said, “See to yourself, John. No, but let us both
enjoy ourselves. You are not dancing with Lorna, John. But you seem
uncommonly happy.”
“Tush,” I said; “could I flip about so, if I had my love with me?”