During all this time, Annie had seen scarcely anything of her aunt
Margaret Anderson. Ever since Bruce had offended her, on the occasion
of her first visit, she had taken her custom elsewhere, and had never
even called to see her niece. Annie had met her several times in the
street, and that was all. Hence, on one of the fine afternoons of that
unusually fine summer, and partly, perhaps, from missing the kindness
of Mrs Forbes, Annie took a longing to see her old aunt, and set out
for Clippenstrae to visit her. It was a walk of two miles, chiefly
along the high road, bordered in part by accessible plantation. Through
this she loitered along, enjoying the few wild flowers and the many
lights and shadows, so that it was almost evening before she reached
her destination.
"Preserve 's a'! Annie Anderson, what brings ye here this time o'
nicht?" exclaimed her aunt.
"It's a lang time sin I saw ye, auntie, and I wantit to see ye."
"Weel, come butt the hoose. Ye're growin' a great muckle quean," said
her aunt, inclined to a favourable consideration of her by her growth.
Margaret "didna like bairns--menseless craturs--aye wantin' ither fowk
to do for them!" But growth was a kind of regenerating process in her
eyes, and when a girl began to look like a woman, she regarded it as an
outward sign of conversion, or something equally valuable.--So she
conducted her into the presence of her uncle, a little old man, worn
and bent, with gray locks peeping out from under a Highland bonnet.
"This is my brither Jeames's bairn," she said.
The old man received her kindly, called her his dawtie, and made her
sit down by him on a three-legged _creepie_, talking to her as if she
had been quite a child, while she, capable of high converse as she was,
replied in corresponding terms. Her great-aunt was confined to her bed
with rheumatism. Supper was preparing, and Annie was not sorry to have
a share, for indeed, during the summer, her meals were often scanty
enough. While they ate, the old man kept helping her to the best,
talking to her all the time.
"Will ye no come and bide wi' me, dawtie?" he said, meaning little by
the question.
"Na, na," answered Margaret for her. "She's at the schule, ye ken,
uncle, and we maunna interfere wi' her schoolin.'--Hoo does that leein'
ted, Robert Bruce, carry himsel' to ye, bairn?"
"Ow! I jist never min' him," answered Annie.
"Weel, it's a' he deserves at your han'. But gin I war you, I wad let
him ken that gin he saws your corn ye hae a richt to raither mair nor
his gleanins."
"I dinna ken what ye mean," answered Annie.
"Ow! na; I daursay no. But ye may jist as weel ken noo, that that ted,
Robert Bruce, has twa hunner poun' odd o' yer ain, lassie; and gin he
doesna use ye weel, ye can jist tell him 'at I telt ye sae."
This piece of news had not the overpowering effect upon Annie which,
perhaps, her aunt had expected. No doubt the money seemed in her eyes a
limitless fortune; but then Bruce had it. She might as soon think of
robbing a bear of her whelps as getting her own from Bruce. Besides,
what could she do with it if she had it? And she had not yet acquired
the faculty of loving money for its own sake. When she rose to take her
leave, she felt little richer than when she entered, save for the kind
words of John Peterson.
"It's ower late for ye to gang hame yer lane, dawtie," said the old
man.
"I'm nae that fleyt," answered Annie.
"Weel, gin ye walk wi' Him, the mirk'll be licht aboot ye," said he,
taking off his Highland bonnet, and looking up with a silent
recognition of the care of _Him_. "Be a gude lass," he resumed,
replacing his bonnet, "an' rin hame as fest's ye can. Gude nicht to ye,
dawtie."
Rejoicing as if she had found her long-lost home, Annie went out into
the deep gloamin feeling it impossible she should be frightened at
anything. But when she came to the part of the road bordered with
trees, she could not help fancying she saw a figure flitting along from
tree to tree just within the deeper dusk of the wood, and as she
hurried on, fancy grew to fear. Presently she heard awful sounds, like
the subdued growling of wild beasts. She would have taken to her heels
in terror, but she reflected that thereby she would only insure
pursuit, whereas she might slip away unperceived. As she reached a
stile leading into the wood, however, a dusky figure came bounding over
it, and advanced towards her. To her relief it went on two legs; and
when it came nearer she thought she recognized some traits of old
acquaintance about it. When it was within a couple of yards of her, as
she still pursued her way towards Glamerton, she stopped and cried out
joyfully:
"Curly!"--for it was her old vice-champion.
"Annie!" was the equally joyful response.
"I thocht ye was a wild beast!" said Annie.
"I was only growlin' for fun to mysel'," answered Curly, who would have
done it all the more if he had known there was any one on the road. "I
didna ken 'at I was fleggin' onybody. An' hoo are ye, Annie? An' hoo's
Blister Bruce?"
For Curly was dreadfully prolific in nicknames.
Annie had not seen him for six months. He had continued to show himself
so full of mischief, though of a comparatively innocent sort, that his
father thought it better at last to send him to a town at some distance
to learn the trade of a saddler, for which he had shown a preference.
This was his first visit to his home. Hitherto his father had received
no complaints of his behaviour, and had now begged a holiday.
"Ye're grown sair, Annie," he said.
"Sae are ye, Curly," answered Annie.
"An' hoo's Alec?"
"He's verra weel."
Whereupon much talk followed, which need not be recorded. At length
Curly said:
"And hoo's the rottans?"
"Ower weel and thrivin'."
"Jist pit yer han' i' my coat-pooch, and see what I hae broucht ye."
Knowing Curly's propensities, Annie refused.
"It's a wild beast," said Curly. "I'll lat it oot upo' ye. It was it
'at made a' that roarin' i' the plantin'."
So saying, he pulled out of his pocket the most delicate tortoiseshell
kitten, not half the beauty of which could be perceived in the gloamin,
which is all the northern summer night. He threw it at Annie, but she
had seen enough not to be afraid to catch it in her hands.
"Did ye fess this a' the road frae Spinnie to me, Curly?"
"Ay did I, Annie. Ye see I dinna like rottans. But ye maun haud it oot
o' their gait for a feow weeks, or they'll rive't a' to bits. It'll
sune be a match for them though, I s' warran'. She comes o' a killin'
breed."
Annie took the kitten home, and it shared her bed that night.
"What's that meowlin?" asked Bruce the next morning, the moment he rose
from the genuflexion of morning prayers.
"It's my kittlin'," answered Annie. "I'll lat ye see't."
"We hae ower mony mou's i' the hoose already," said Bruce, as she
returned with the little peering baby-animal in her arms. "We hae nae
room for mair. Here, Rob, tak the cratur, an' pit a tow aboot its neck,
an' a stane to the tow, an' fling't into the Glamour."
Annie, not waiting to parley, darted from the house with the kitten.
"Rin efter her, Rob," said Bruce, "an' tak' it frae her, and droon't.
We canna hae the hoose swarmin'."
Bob bolted after her, delighted with his commission. But instead of
finding her at the door, as he had expected, he saw her already a long
way up the street, flying like the wind. He started in keen pursuit. He
was now a great lumbering boy, and although Annie's wind was not equal
to his, she was more fleet. She took the direct road to Howglen, and
Rob kept floundering after her. Before she reached the footbridge she
was nearly breathless, and he was gaining fast upon her. Just as she
turned the corner of the road, leading up on the other side of the
water, she met Alec and Kate. Unable to speak, she passed without
appeal. But there was no need to ask the cause of her pale agonized
face, for there was young Bruce at her heels. Alec collared him
instantly.
"What are you up to?" he asked.
"Naething," answered the panting pursuer.
"Gin ye be efter naething, ye'll fin' that nearer hame," retorted Alec,
twisting him round in that direction, and giving him a kick to expedite
his return. "Lat me hear o' you troublin' Annie Anderson, an' I'll gar
ye loup oot o' yer skin the neist time I lay han's upo' ye. Gang hame."
Rob obeyed like a frightened dog, while Annie pursued her course to
Howglen, as if her enemy had been still on her track. Rushing into the
parlour, she fell on the floor before Mrs Forbes, unable to utter a
word. The kitten sprung mewing out of her arms, and took refuge under
the sofa.
"Mem, mem," she gasped at length, "tak' care o' my kittlin'. They want
to droon't. It's my ain. Curly gied it to me."
Mrs Forbes comforted her, and readily undertook the tutelage. Annie was
very late for school, for Mrs Forbes made her have another breakfast
before she went. But Mr Malison was in a good humour that day, and said
nothing. Rob Bruce looked devils at her. What he had told his father I
do not know; but whatever it was, it was all written down in Bruce's
mental books to the debit of Alexander Forbes of Howglen.
Mrs Forbes's heart smote her when she found to what persecution her
little friend was exposed during those times when her favour was
practically although not really withdrawn; but she did not see how she
could well remedy it. She was herself in the power of Bruce, and
expostulation from her would be worth little; while to have Annie to
the house as before would involve consequences unpleasant to all
concerned. She resolved to make up for it by being kinder to her than
ever as soon as Alec should have followed Kate to the precincts of the
university; while for the present she comforted both herself and Annie
by telling her to be sure to come to her when she found herself in any
trouble.
But Annie was not one to apply to her friends except she was in great
need of their help. The present case had been one of life and death.
She found no further occasion to visit Mrs Forbes before Kate and Alec
were both gone.