Part 38 (1/2)

Bernard Temple and Antonia and that dreadful, sleepy Susy. You are so full of tact and so bright, Annie, that you generally make matters go off fairly well. But to-night there won't be anyone to stem the current.

Oh, dear, I do trust that Antonia won't talk _too_ much high art.”

As Hester spoke, she looked at her friend with an expression of great anxiety on her face. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances this look would have completely overmastered Annie, who would immediately have yielded up her own wishes to please Hester, but now she remained quite obdurate.

”I am sure you will manage very well,” she said, in an almost hard voice for her. ”You know, Hetty, you won't always have me, and you will have Mrs. Bernard Temple and Antonia.”

”It is too dreadful,” sighed Hester. ”When my father thought of marrying again, why did he not think of someone more congenial?”

”I suppose Mrs. Bernard Temple is congenial to him,” replied Annie, ”and that he doubtless considers of the first importance. After all, Hetty, I'm sure she will let you have your own way in everything, and I don't really think that Antonia is half bad. If I were you I would try and make friends with her.”

”It is not in my nature to make friends easily,” replied Hester.

She was standing in her pretty bedroom as she spoke, and Annie was leaning by the open window, swinging her garden hat in her hand.

”Hester,” she said, suddenly, ”forgive me if I ask you rather a rude question. Is your father a very rich man?”

Hester looked surprised.

”I suppose so,” she answered; ”to tell the truth, I have never thought about it. Oh, yes, I conclude that he is quite well off.”

”But I want him to be more than well off. Is he rich--very rich? so rich that he would not miss a lot of money if he had suddenly to--to lose it?”

”What a very queer question to ask me, Annie,” replied Hester. ”I am really afraid I cannot reply to it. I think my father must be rich, but I don't know if he is rich enough to be able to afford to lose a lot of money--I don't think anyone is rich enough for that.”

”Oh, yes, some people are,” answered Annie. ”Well, good-bye, Hetty, keep up your heart. I'll be back early to-morrow morning.”

”I must get that question of Sir John Thornton's wealth clearly answered somehow or other,” thought Annie, ”for there is no manner of use in Antonia stirring up a lot of mischief if there is no money to be found.

I wonder if nursey could help me. I think I'll just have a word with her before I go to the Towers.”

Mrs. Martin was alone when Annie entered the room.

”Well, my dear, and why ain't you at dinner?” asked the old woman. She was still fond of Annie, whom she invariably spoke of as ”a winsome young body,” but recent events had soured her considerably, and as she herself expressed it, the keenest pleasure now left to her in life was to ”mope and mutter.”

”Moping and muttering eases the mind,” she said; ”it's a wonderful relief not to have to sit up straight and smiling when you feel crooked and all of a frown.”

Accordingly Mrs. Martin received Annie Forest with brief displeasure.

”I have no heart for dinner,” said Annie, who took her cue at once from the old woman's face. ”I know you are miserable, Nurse Martin, but you need not look at me so scornfully, for I am trying to mend matters.”

”You,” exclaimed nurse, ”a child like you! Now, Miss Annie, I would try and talk sensibly, I would, really.”

”Well, I'm going off to the Towers for the night,” said Annie, ”and if you weren't so cross I'd like to say good-bye and give you a kiss before I started.”

”Eh, dear,” replied nurse, her countenance visibly softening however; ”kisses, however sweet they be, don't heal sore places.”

”But you'll take one, won't you, nursey?”

”Eh, my bairn, you have a winsome way, but don't you come canoodling me now, when my heart is like to break about my own dear children; and the young ladies at the Towers, too, in such a muck of trouble.”

”Dear nursey,” exclaimed Annie; ”dear, loving, faithful, true-hearted nursey.”