"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 look 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 of 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
worshipped 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 determinedly 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 amongst 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 favourite--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 everyone, 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 'oo, 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 curtsey, 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."