Alec Forbes of Howglen | Page 6

from the
king. Nor did Andrew make further remark of any sort with regard to
the fate of Annie or the duty of Bruce, for he saw that his companion
wanted no advice--only some talk, and possibly some sympathy with
his perplexity as to what the world might think of him. But with this
perplexity Andrew could accord him very little sympathy indeed; for he
could not take much interest in the buttressing of a reputation which he
knew to be already quite undermined by widely-reported acts of petty
meanness and selfishness. Nor was this fact much to be wondered at, if
his principles were really those which he had so openly advocated.
Indeed, Andrew knew well that it would be a bad day for poor Annie
when she came under Bruce's roof, and therefore sincerely hoped that
Auntie Meg might find some way of managing so as to avoid parting
with the child; for he knew, too, that, though her aunt was fierce and
hard, she had yet a warm spot somewhere about her heart.
Margaret Anderson had known perfectly well for some time that she
and Annie must part before long. The lease of the farm would expire at
the close of the autumn of next year; and as it had been rather a losing

affair for some time, she had no inclination to request a renewal. When
her brother's debts should be paid, there would not remain, even after
the sale of the stock, more than a hundred and fifty pounds. For herself,
she believed she must go into service--which would hurt her pride more
than it would alter her position, for her hands had done far more of the
necessary labour than those of the maid who assisted her. Indeed, in her
proudest mood, she would have welcomed death rather than idleness.
What was to become of Annie she did not yet see.
Meantime there remained for the child just a year more of the native
farm, with all the varieties of life which had been so dear to her. Auntie
Meg did not spare to put her in mind of the coming change; but it
seemed to Annie so long in coming that it never would come. The
impression was worn off by the daily attempt to deepen it, she gave
herself up to the childish pleasures within her reach, without thinking
of their approaching loss.
CHAPTER V.
And why should Annie think of the future? The future was not: the
present was--and full of delights. If she did not receive much
tenderness from auntie, at least she was not afraid of her. The pungency
of her temper was but as the salt and vinegar which brought out the true
flavour of the other numberless pleasures around her. Were her
excursions far afield, perched aloft on Dowie's shoulder, and holding
on by the top of his head, or clinging to his back with her arms round
his neck, at all the less delightful that auntie was scolding at home?
They would have been less delightful if she had thought of the future;
but she thought only of the present joy; or rather she took it as it came,
and let it play upon her, without thinking about it at all. And if she was
late for one of her meals, for Annie had no very correct sense of the
lapse of time, and auntie had declared she should go fasting, it was yet
not without her connivance that rosy-faced Betty got the child the best
of everything that was at hand, and put cream in her milk, and butter on
her oat cake, Annie managing to consume everything with satisfaction,
notwithstanding the hurdy-gurdy accompaniment of her aunt's audible
reflections. And Brownie was always friendly; ever ready on any

serious emergency, when auntie's temper was still less placid than usual,
to yield a corner of her manger for a refuge to the child. And the cocks
and hens, even the peacock and the turkey-cock, knew her perfectly,
and would come when she called them, if not altogether out of affection
for her, at least out of hope in her bounty; and she had not yet arrived at
the painful wisdom of beginning to question motives--a wisdom which
misleads more than it guides. She loved them, and that was enough for
her. And she would ride the horses to water, sitting sideways on their
broad backs like a barefooted lady; for Dowie had such respect for his
little mistress, as he called her, that he would never let her get astride
"like a laddie," however much she wanted to do so. And when the
morning was wet, and the sound of the flails came to her from the barn,
she would watch for the moment when her aunt's back