Anne was amazed at herself for the annoyance, the resentment, the resistance to which she felt herself moved. It was simple perversity, she felt, for in her heart she wanted to move, perhaps more than they did—and she had a reason for her wish—but they had none. It was mere wanton desire for change on their part. She was angry, though she saw how foolish it was to be angry. ‘It was extremely kind of Heathcote to make such a proposal,’ she said.
‘I don’t say it was not kind, Anne—but he feels that he cannot keep it up. He does not like the idea of leaving the place all dismantled and uninhabited. You may tell him I will leave the furniture; I should not think of taking it away, just at present. I think we should look about us,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘before we settle anywhere; and select a really good place—which Mount would never be,’ she added, with a little shaking out of her crape, ‘for us, in our changed circumstances. It may be very kind of Heathcote—but I don’t see that we can do it. It would be too much to expect.’
And Anne was silenced, not knowing what pleas to bring forward for the defeat of the cause which was her own cause; but she was angry that they should presume to think so too. What was town to them? They had no one in it to make that great wilderness feel like home. They had no inducement that she knew of. She felt reluctant to be happy by such unreasonable means.
Keziah, the little maid to whom Anne had, during the interval since she was last mentioned, imparted a great deal of very energetic advice as to the duty of holding fast to her lover, and taking no thought of interest, had red eyes that night when she came to put her mistress’s things away. Anne was very independent. She did not require much actual service. It was Rose who benefited by Keziah’s services in this respect. But when she was dismissed by Rose she came into the room where Anne sat writing, and instead of doing her work as usual with noiseless speed, and taking herself away, she hovered about for a long time, poking the fire, arranging things that had no particular need of arranging, and crossing and re-crossing Anne’s point of view. She had red eyes, but there was in her little person an air of decision that was but seldom apparent there. This Anne perceived, when, attracted at length by these manœuvres, she put away her writing and looked up. ‘Keziah,’ she said, ‘how are things going? I can’t help thinking you have something to say to me to-night.’
‘Yes, Miss Anne,’ said the girl, very composedly: ‘I have got something to say—I wanted you to know, as you’ve always been so kind and taken an interest—people has the same sort of feelings, I suppose, whether they’re quality or whether they’re common folks——’
‘That is very true, Keziah. I suspect we are all of the same flesh and blood.’
‘Don’t you laugh at me, Miss Anne. Miss Anne, I would like to tell you as I’ve made up my mind to-night.’
‘I hope you have made a right decision, Keziah,’ said Anne, with some anxiety, feeling suspicious of the red eyes.
‘Oh, I’m not afraid of its being right, Miss Anne. If it wasn’t right,’ said the little girl, with a wan smile, ‘I don’t think as it would be as hard. I’d have settled sooner if it hadn’t been for thinking what Jim would say,’ she added, a tear or two coming to dilate her eyes; ‘it wasn’t for myself. If you do your duty, Miss Anne, you can’t do no more.’
‘Then, Keziah, you have been talked over,’ said Anne, with some indignation, rising up from her desk. ‘Worth has been worrying you, and you have not been able to resist her. Why did you not tell her, as I told you, to come and have it out with me?’