It is one thing to talk of the delights of sleeping under a hedge-row
and another to realise 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 hedge-row, 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 armour, 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 gipsy 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 gipsies' encampment.