"That which is not allotted, the hand can not reach, and what is allotted will find you wherever you may be. You have heard with what toil Secunder penetrated to the land of darkness, and that, after all, he did not taste the water of immortality."—Saadi.
"That which is not allotted, the hand can not reach, and what is allotted will find you wherever you may be. You have heard with what toil Secunder penetrated to the land of darkness, and that, after all, he did not taste the water of immortality."—Saadi.
"When a woman hath ceased to be quite the same to us, it matters little how different she becomes."—Walter Savage Landor.
"When a woman hath ceased to be quite the same to us, it matters little how different she becomes."—Walter Savage Landor.
The last dance of the season had been appointed for the evening, and Mrs. Lorrington's arrival had stimulated the others to ordain "full dress"; they all had one costume in reserve, and it was an occasion to bring all the banners upon the field, and the lance also, in a last tournament. Other contests, other rivalries, had existed, other stories besides this story of Anne; it never happens in real life that one woman usurps everything. That this dance should occur on this particular evening was one of the chances vouchsafed to old Katharine and her strategy.
For the fairest costume ordered for Anne had not been worn, and at ten o'clock Bessmer with delight was asking a white-robed figure to look at itself in the glass, while on her knees she spread out the cloud of fleecy drapery that trailed softly over the floor behind. The robe was ofwhite lace, and simple. But nothing could have brought out so strongly the rich, noble beauty of this young face and form. There was not an ornament to break the outline of the round white throat, or the beautiful arms, bared from the shoulder. For the first time the thick brown hair was released from its school-girl simplicity, and Anne's face wore a new aspect, as young faces will under such changes. For one may be sorrowful, and even despairing, yet at eighteen a few waving locks will make a fair face fairer than ever, even in spite of one's own determined opposition.
When they entered the ball-room, the second chance vouchsafed to old Katharine came to meet them, and no strategy was necessary. For Mr. Dexter, with an unwonted color on his face, offered his arm to Anne immediately, asking for that dance, and "as many dances besides as you can give me, Miss Douglas."
All who were near heard his words; among them Rachel. She looked at him with soft deprecation in her eyes. But he returned her gaze directly and haughtily, and bore Anne away. They danced once, and then went out on the piazza. It was a cool evening, and presently Miss Vanhorn came to the window. "It is too damp for you here, child," she said. "If you do not care to dance, take Mr. Dexter up to see the flowers in our parlor; and when you come down, bring my shawl."
"Mr. Dexter does not care about flowers, I think," answered Anne, too absorbed in her own troubles to be concerned about her grandaunt's open manœuvre. She spoke mechanically.
"On the contrary, I am very fond of flowers," said Dexter, rising immediately. "And I particularly thank you, Miss Vanhorn, for giving me this opportunity to—admire them." He spoke with emphasis, and bowed as he spoke. The old lady gave him a stately inclination in return. They understood each other; the higher powers were agreed.
When Anne, still self-absorbed and unconscious, entered the little parlor, she was surprised to find it brightly lighted and prepared, as if for their reception. The redcurtains were closed, a small fire crackled on the hearth, the rich perfume of the flowers filled the warm air; in the damp September evening the room was a picture of comfort, and in the ruddy light her own figure, in its white lace dress, was clearly outlined and radiant. "Here are the flowers," she said, going toward the table. Dexter had closed the door; he now came forward, and looked at the blossoms a moment absently. Then he turned toward the sofa, which was covered with the same red chintz which hung over the windows to the floor.
"Shall we sit here awhile? The room is pleasant, if you are in no hurry to return."
"No, I am in no hurry," replied Anne. She was glad to be quiet and away from the dancers; she feared to meet Heathcote. Mr. Dexter always talked; she would not be obliged to think of new subjects, or to make long replies.
But to-night Mr. Dexter was unusually silent. She leaned back against the red cushions, and looked at the point of her slipper; she was asking herself how long this evening would last.
"Miss Douglas," began Dexter at length, and somewhat abruptly, "I do not know in what light you regard me, or what degree of estimation you have conferred upon me; but—" Here he paused.
"It is of no consequence," said Anne.
"What?"
"I mean," she said, rousing herself from her abstraction, "that it does not matter one way or the other. I am going away to-morrow, Mr. Dexter. I see now that I ought never to have come. But—how could I know?"
"Why do you go?" said her companion, pausing a moment also, in his own train of thought.
"I have duties elsewhere," she began; then stopped. "But that is not the real reason," she added.
"You are unhappy, Miss Douglas; I can always read your face. I will not obtrude questions now, although most desirous to lift the burdens which are resting upon you. For I have something to ask you. Will you listen to me for a few moments?"
"Oh yes," said Anne, falling back into apathy, her eyes still on the point of her slipper.
"It is considered egotistical to talk of one's self," began Dexter, after a short silence; "but, under the circumstances, I trust I may be pardoned." He took an easier attitude, and folded his arms. "I was born in New Hampshire." (Here Anne tried to pay attention; from this beginning, she felt that she must attend. But she only succeeded in repeating, vaguely, the word "New Hampshire?" as though she had reasons for thinking it might be Maine.)
"Yes, New Hampshire. My father was a farmer there; but when I was five years old he died, and my mother died during the following year. A rich relative, a cousin, living in Illinois, befriended me, homeless as I was, and gave me that best gift in America, a good education. I went through college, and then—found myself penniless. My cousin had died without a will, and others had inherited his estate. Since then, Miss Douglas, I have led a life of effort, hard, hard work, and bitter fluctuations. I have taught school; I have dug in the mines; I have driven a stage; I have been lost in the desert, and have lived for days upon moss and berries. Once I had a hundred thousand dollars—the result of intensest labor and vigilance through ten long years—and I lost it in an hour. Then for three days, shovel in hand, I worked on an embankment. I tell you all this plainly, so that if it, or any part of it, ever comes up, you will not feel that you have been deceived. The leading power of my whole life has been action; whether for good or for ill—action. I am now thirty-eight years old, and I think I may say that I—am no worse than other men. The struggle is now over; I am rich. I will even tell you the amount of my fortune—"
"Oh no," said Anne, hurriedly.
"I prefer to do so," replied Dexter, with a formal gesture. "I wish you to understand clearly the whole position, both as regards myself and all my affairs."
"Myself and all my affairs," repeated itself buzzingly in Anne's brain.
"My property is now estimated at a little more than a million, and without doubt it will increase in value, as it consists largely of land, and especially mines."
He paused. He was conscious that he had not succeeded in controlling a certain pride in the tone of his voice, and he stopped to remedy it. In truth, hewasproud. No one but the man who has struggled and labored for that sum, unaided and alone, knows how hard it is to win it, and how rare and splendid has been his own success. He has seen others go down on all sides of him like grain before the scythe, while he stood upright. He knows of disappointed hopes, of bitter effort ended in the grave; of men, strong and fearless as himself, who have striven desperately, and as desperately failed. He was silent for a moment, thinking of these things.
"It must be pleasant to have so much money," said Anne, sighing a little, and turning her slipper point slightly, as though to survey it in profile.
Dexter went on with his tale. He was as much for the moment absorbed in himself as she was in herself; they were like two persons shut up in closely walled towers side by side.
"For some years I have lived at the East, and have been much in what is called society in New York and Washington," he continued, "and I have had no cause to be dissatisfied with the reception accorded to me. I have seen many beautiful faces, and they have not entirely withheld their kindness from me. But—Miss Douglas, young girls like romance, and I have, unfortunately, little that I can express, although I believe that I have at heart more true chivalry toward women than twenty of the idleblasémen about here. But that had been better left unsaid. What I wish to say to you is this: will you be my wife? Anne, dear child, will you marry me?" He had ended abruptly, and even to himself unexpectedly, as though his usually fluent speech had failed him. He took her hand, and waited for her answer, his face showing signs of emotion, which seemed to be more his own than roused by anything in her.
Anne had started back in surprise; she drew her handfrom his. They were both gloved; only the kid-skins had touched each other. "You are making a mistake," she said, rising. "You think I am Mrs. Lorrington."
Dexter had risen also; an involuntary smile passed over his face at her words. He took her hand again, and held it firmly.
"Do you not suppose I know to whom I am talking?" he said, "I am talking to you, Anne, and thinking only of you. I ask you again, will you be my wife?"
"Of course not. You do not love me in the least, and I do not love you. Of what are you dreaming, Mr. Dexter?" She walked across the little room, and stood between the windows, the red light full upon her. A brightness had risen in her eyes; she looked very beautiful in her youthful scorn.
Dexter gazed at her, but without moving. "You are mistaken," he said, gravely. "I do love you."
"Since when?" asked the sweet voice, with a touch of sarcasm. Anne was now using the powers of concealment which nature gives to all women, even the youngest, as a defense. Mr. Dexter should know nothing, should not be vouchsafed even a glimpse, of her inner feelings; she would simply refuse him, as girls did in books. And she tried to think what they said.
But the man opposite her was not like a man in a book. "Since six o'clock this evening," he answered, quietly.
Anne looked at him in wonder.
"Do you wish to hear the whole?" he asked.
"No; it is nothing to me. Since you only began at six, probably you can stop at twelve," she answered, still with her girlish scorn perceptible in her voice.
But Dexter paid no attention to her sarcasm. "I will tell you the whole when you are my wife," he said. "Let it suffice now that at the hour named I became aware of the worthlessness and faithlessness of women; and—I speak God's truth, Anne—even at that bitter moment I fell back upon the thought ofyouas a safeguard—a safeguard against total disbelief in the possibility of woman's fidelity. I knew then that I had revered youwith my better self all the while—that, young as you are, I had believed in you. I believe in you now. Be my wife; and from this instant I will devote all the love in me—and I have more than you think—to you alone." He had crossed the room, and was standing beside her.
Anne felt at once the touch of real feeling. "I am very sorry," she said, gently, looking up into his face. "I should have said it at first, but that I did not think you were in earnest until now. I am engaged, Mr. Dexter; I was engaged before I came here."
"But," said Dexter, "Miss Vanhorn—"
"Yes, I know. Grandaunt does not approve of it, and will not countenance it. But that, of course, makes no difference."
He looked at her, puzzled by her manner. In truth, poor Anne, while immovably determined to keep her promise to Rast, even cherishing the purpose, also, of hastening the marriage if he wished it, was yet so inefficient an actress that she trembled as she spoke, and returned his gaze through a mist of tears.
"Youwishto marry this man, I suppose—I am ignorant of his name?" he asked, watching her with attention.
"His name is Erastus Pronando; we were children together on the island," she answered, in a low voice, with downcast eyes.
"And you wish to marry him?"
"I do."
Gregory Dexter put another disappointment down upon the tablets of his memory—a disappointment and a surprise; he had not once doubted his success.
In this certainty he had been deceived partly by Miss Vanhorn, and partly by Anne herself; by her unstudied frankness. He knew that she liked him, but he had mistaken the nature of her regard. He could always control himself, however, and he now turned to her kindly. He thought she was afraid of her aunt. "Sit down for a few minutes more," he said, "and tell me about it. Why does Miss Vanhorn disapprove?"
"I do not know," replied Anne; "or, rather, I do know, but can not tell you. Never mind about me, Mr. Dexter. I am unhappy; but no one can help me. I must help myself."
"Mr. Pronando should esteem it his dearest privilege to do so," said Dexter, who felt himself growing old and cynical under this revelation of fresh young love.
"Yes," murmured Anne, then stopped. "If you will leave me now," she said, after a moment, "it would be very kind."
"I will go, of course, if you desire it; but first let me say one word. Your aunt objects to this engagement, and you have neither father nor mother to take your part. I have a true regard for you, which is not altered by the personal disappointment I am at present feeling; it is founded upon a belief in you which can not change. Can I not help you, then, as a friend? For instance, could I not help Mr. Pronando—merely as a friend? I know what it is to have to make one's own way in the world unaided. I feel for such boys—I mean young men. What does he intend to do? Give me his address."
"No," said Anne, touched by this prompt kindness. "But I feel your generosity, Mr. Dexter; I shall never forget it." Her eyes filled with tears, but she brushed them away. "Will you leave me now?" she said.
"Would it not be better if we returned together? I mean, would not Miss Vanhorn notice it less? You could excuse yourself soon afterward."
"You are right. I will go down with you. But first, do I not show—" she went toward the mirror.
"Show what?" said Dexter, following her, and standing by her side. "That you are one of the loveliest young girls in the world—as you look to-night, the loveliest?" He smiled at her reflection in the mirror as he spoke, and then turned toward the reality. "You show nothing," he said, kindly; "and my eyes are very observant."
They went toward the door; as they reached it, he bent over her. "If this engagement should by any chance be broken, then could you not love me a little,Anne—only a little?" he murmured, looking into her eyes questioningly.
"I wish I could," she answered, gravely. "You are a generous man. I would like to love you."
"But you could not?"
"I can not."
He pressed her hand in silence, opened the door, and led the way down to the hall-room. They had been absent one hour.
Blum, who was standing disconsolately near the entrance, watching Helen, came up and asked Anne to dance. Reluctant to go to her grandaunt before it was necessary, she consented. She glanced nervously up and down the long room as they took their places, but Heathcote was not present. Her gaze then rested upon another figure moving through the dance at some distance down the hall. Mrs. Lorrington in her costume that evening challenged criticism. She did this occasionally—it was one of her amusements. Her dress was of almost the same shade of color as her hair, the hue unbroken from head to foot, the few ornaments being little stars of topaz. Her shoulders and arms were uncovered; and here also she challenged criticism, since she was so slight that in profile view she looked like a swaying reed. But as there was not an angle visible anywhere, her fair slenderness seemed a new kind of beauty, which all, in spite of sculptor's rules, must now admire. Rachel called her, smilingly, "the amber witch." But Isabel said, "No; witch-hazel; because it is so beautiful, and yellow, and sweet." Rachel, Isabel, and Helen always said charming things about each other in public: they had done this unflinchingly for years.
Miss Vanhorn was watching her niece from her comfortable seat on the other side of the room, and watching with some impatience. But the Haunted Man was now asking Anne to dance, and Anne was accepting. After that dance she went out on the piazza for a few moments; when she returned, Heathcote was in the room, and waltzing with Helen.
All her courage left her before she could grasp it, andhardly knowing what she was doing, she went directly across the floor to Miss Vanhorn, and asked if she might go to her room.
Miss Vanhorn formed one of a majestic phalanx of old ladies. "Are you tired?" she asked.
"Very tired," said Anne, not raising her eyes higher than the stout waist before her, clad in shining black satin.
"She does look pale," remarked old Mrs. Bannert, sympathizingly.
"Anne is always sleepy at eight or nine, like a baby," replied Miss Vanhorn, well aware that the dark-eyed Rachel was decidedly a night-bird, and seldom appeared at breakfast at all; "and she has also a barbarous way of getting up at dawn. Go to bed, child, if you wish; your bowl of bread and milk will be ready in the morning." Then, as Anne turned, she added: "You will be asleep when I come up; I will not disturb you. Take a good rest." Which Anne interpreted, "I give you that amount of time: think well before you act." The last respite was accorded.
But even a minute is precious to the man doomed to death. Anne left the ball-room almost with a light heart: she had the night. She shut herself in her room, took off the lace dress, loosened her hair, and sat down by the window to think. The late moon was rising; a white fog filled the valley and lay thickly over the river; but she left the sash open—the cool damp air seemed to soothe her troubled thoughts. For she knew—and despised herself in the knowledge—that the strongest feeling in her heart now was jealousy, jealousy of Helen dancing with Heathcote below. Time passed unheeded; she had not stirred hand or foot when, two hours later, there was a tap on her door. It was Helen.
"Do not speak," she whispered, entering swiftly and softly, and closing the door; "the Grand Llama is coming up the stairs. I wanted to see you, and I knew that if I did not slip in before she passed, I could not get in without disturbing her. Do not stir; she will stop at your door and listen."
They stood motionless; Miss Vanhorn's step came alongthe hall, and, as Helen had predicted, paused at Anne's door. There was no light within, and no sound; after a moment it passed on, entered the parlor, and then the bedroom beyond.
"If Bessmer would only close the bedroom door," whispered Helen, "we should be quite safe." At this moment the maid did close the door; Helen gave a sigh of relief. "I never could whisper well," she said. "Only cat-women whisper nicely. Isabel is a cat-woman. Now when it comes to a murmur—a faint, clear, sweet murmur, I am an adept. I wonder if Isabel will subdue her widower? You have been here long enough to have an opinion. Will she?"
"I do not know," said Anne, wondering at her own ability to speak the words.
"And I—do not care! I am tired, Crystal: may I lie on your bed? Do close that deathly window, and come over here, so that we can talk comfortably," said Helen, throwing herself down on the white coverlet—a long slender shape, with its white arms clasped under its head. The small room was in shadow. Anne drew a chair to the bedside and sat down, with her back to the moonlight.
"This is a miserable world," began Mrs. Lorrington. Her companion, sitting with folded arms and downcast eyes, mentally agreed with her.
"Of courseyoudo not think so," continued Helen, "and perhaps, being such a crystal-innocent, you will never find it out. There are such souls. There are also others; and it is quite decided that I hate—Rachel Bannert, who is one of them."
Anne had moved nervously, but at that name she fell back into stillness again.
"Rachel is the kind of woman I dread more than any other," continued Helen. "Her strength is feeling. Feeling! I tell you, Crystal, that you and I are capable of loving, and suffering for the one we love, through long years of pain, where Rachel would not wet the sole of her slipper. Yet men believe in her! The truth is, men are fools: one sigh deceives them."
"Then sigh," said the figure in the chair.
"ANNE DREW A CHAIR TO THE BEDSIDE AND SAT DOWN, WITH HER BACK TO THE MOONLIGHT.""ANNE DREW A CHAIR TO THE BEDSIDE AND SAT DOWN, WITH HER BACK TO THE MOONLIGHT."
"No; that is not my talent: I must continue to be myself. ButIsaw her on the piazza with Ward to-night; and I detest her."
"With—Mr. Heathcote?"
"Yes. Of course nothing would be so much to her disadvantage as to marry Ward, and she knows it; he has no fortune, and she has none. But she loves to make me wretched. I made the greatest mistake of my life when I let her see once, more than a year ago, how things were."
"How things were?" repeated Anne—that commonplace phrase which carries deep meanings safely because unexpressed.
"Of course there is no necessity to tellyou, Crystal, what you must already know—that Ward and I are in a certain way betrothed. It is an old affair: we have known each other always."
"Yes," said the other voice, affirmatively and steadily.
"Some day we shall be married, I suppose: we like each other. But there is no haste at present: I think we both like to be free. Heigh-ho! Do you admire this dress, Crystal?"
"It is very beautiful."
"And yet he only came in and danced with me once!"
"Perhaps he does not care for dancing," said Anne. She was accomplishing each one of her sentences slowly and carefully, like answers in a lesson.
"Yes, he does. Do not be deceived by his indolent manner, Crystal; he is full of all sorts of unexpected strong likings and feelings, in spite of his lazy look. Do you think I should be likely to fall in love with a stick?"
Anne made no reply.
"Doyou?" said Helen, insistently, stretching out her arms, and adjusting the chains of topaz stars that decked their slenderness.
Anne leaned forward and drew down her friend's hands, holding them closely in her own. "Helen," she said, "tell me: do you love Mr. Heathcote?"
"What is love?" said Mrs. Lorrington, lightly.
"Tell me, Helen."
"Why do you wish to know?"
"Idowish to know."
"Ward Heathcote is not worth my love."
"Is he worth Rachel Bannert's, then?" said Anne, touching the spring by which she had seen the other stirred.
"Rachel Bannert!" repeated Helen, with a tone of bitter scorn. Then she paused. "Anne, you are a true-hearted child, and Iwilltell you. I love Ward Heathcote with my whole heart and soul."
She spoke in clear tones, and did not turn away or hide her face; she lay looking up at the moonlight on the rough white wall. It was Anne who turned, shivering, and shading her eyes with her hand.
"I love him so much," Helen continued, "that if he should leave me, I believe I should die. Not suddenly, or with any sensation, of course. I only mean that I should not be able to live."
Again there was silence. Then the clear soft voice went on.
"I have always loved him. Ever since I can remember. Do not be shocked, but I loved him even when I married Richard. I was very young, and did it in a sort of desperate revenge because he did not, would not, care for me. I was not punished for my madness, for Richard loved me dearly, and died so soon, poor fellow, that he never discovered the truth. And then it all began over again. Onlythistime Ward was—different."
Another silence followed. Anne did not move or speak.
"Do not be unhappy about me, child," said Helen at last, turning on her arm to look at her companion; "all will come right in time. It was only that I was vexed about this evening. For he has not seemed quite himself lately, and of course I attribute it to Rachel: her deadly sweetness is like that of nightshade and tube-roses combined. Now tell me about yourself: how comes on the quarrel with the Llama?"
"I hardly know."
"I saw you stealing away in your white lace with Gregory Dexter this evening," pursued Helen. "He wasas agreeable as ever this morning. However, there it is again; just before six, Nightshade strolled off toward the ravine 'to see the sunset' (one sees the sunset so well from there, you know, facing the east), and Dexter seemed also to have forgotten the points of the compass, for—he followed her."
"Then it was Mrs. Bannert," said Anne, half unconsciously.
"It is always Mrs. Bannert. I do not in the least know what you mean, but—it is always Mrs. Bannert. What did he say about her?"
"Of course I can not tell you, Helen. But—I really thought it was you."
"What shouldIhave to do with it? How you play at cross-purposes, Crystal! Is it possible that during all this time you have not discovered how infatuated our Gregory is with Rachel? Ward is only amusing himself; but Gregory is, in one sense, carried away. However, I doubt if it lasts, and I really think he has a warm regard for you, a serious one. It is a pity you could not—"
Anne stopped the sentence with a gesture.
"Yes, I see that little ring," said Helen. "But the world is a puzzle, and we often follow several paths before we find the right one. How cold your hands are! The nights are no longer like summer, and the moon is Medusa. The autumn moon is a cruel moon always, reminding us of the broken hopes and promises of the lost summer. I must go, Crystal. You are pale and weary; the summer with the Llama has been too hard. I believe you will be glad to be safely back at Moreau's again. But I can not come over now and tell you romances, can I? You know the personages, and the charm will be gone. To-morrow I am going to ride. You have not seen me in my habit? I assure you even a mermaid can not compare with me. Do you know, I should be happy for life if I could but induce Rachel to show herself once on horseback by my side: on horseback Rachel looks—excuse the word, but it expresses it—sploshy. The trouble is that she knows it, and will not go; she prefers moonlight, apiazza, and sylphide roses in her hair, with the background of fluffy white shawl."
Then, with a little more light nonsense, Helen went away—went at last. Anne bolted the door, threw herself down upon her knees beside the bed, with her arms stretched out and her face hidden. There had been but this wanting to her misery, and now it was added: Helen loved him.
For she was not deceived by the flippant phrases which had surrounded the avowal: Helen would talk flippantly on her death-bed. None the less was she in earnest when she spoke those few words. In such matters a woman can read a woman: there is a tone of voice which can not be counterfeited. It tells all.
"What is this that thou hast been fretting and fuming and lamenting and self-tormenting on account of? Say it in a word: is it not because thou art nothappy? Foolish soul! what act of Legislature was there thatthoushouldst be happy? There is in Man a higher than Happiness; he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessedness. This is the everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved."—Carlyle.
"What is this that thou hast been fretting and fuming and lamenting and self-tormenting on account of? Say it in a word: is it not because thou art nothappy? Foolish soul! what act of Legislature was there thatthoushouldst be happy? There is in Man a higher than Happiness; he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessedness. This is the everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved."—Carlyle.
After an hour of mute suffering, Anne sought the blessed oblivion of sleep. She had conquered herself; she was exhausted. She would try to gain strength for the effort of the coming day. But nothing avails against that fever, strong as life and sad as death, which we call Love, and which, in spite of the crowd of shallower feelings that masquerade under and mock its name, still remains the master-power of our human existence. Anne had no sooner laid her head upon the pillow than there rose within her, and ten times stronger than before, her love and her jealousy. She would stay and contest the matter with Helen. Had he not said, had he not looked—And then she caught herself back in an agony of self-reproach. For it is always hard for the young to learn the lesson of human weakness. It is strange andhumiliating to them to discover that there are powers within them stronger than their own wills. The old know this so well that they excuse each other silently; but, loath to shake the ignorant faith of innocence, they leave the young to find it out for themselves. The whole night with Anne was but a repetition of efforts and lapses, followed toward morning, however, by a struggling return to self-control. For years of faithfulness even as a child are not thrown away, but yield, thank Heaven! a strength at last in times of trial; else might we all go drown ourselves. At dawn, with tear-stained cheeks, she fell asleep, waking with a start when Bessmer knocked and inquired if she was ill. Miss Vanhorn had gone down to breakfast.
"Please send me some coffee," said Anne, without opening the door. "I do not care for anything else. I will be ready soon."
She dressed herself slowly, swallowing the coffee. But youth is strong; the cold bath and the fresh white morning dress made her look as fair as ever. Miss Vanhorn was waiting for her in the little parlor. Bessmer was sent away, and the door closed. The girl remained standing, and took hold of the back of a chair to nerve herself for the first step along the hard, lonely road stretching out before her like a desert.
"Anne," began Miss Vanhorn, in a magisterial voice, "what did Mr. Dexter say to you last evening?"
"He asked me to be his wife."
"I hardly expected it so soon, although I knew it would come in time," said the old woman, with a swallow of satisfaction. "Sit down. And don't be an idiot. You will now listen tome. Mr. Dexter is a rich man; he is what is called a rising man (if any one wants to rise); he is a good enough man also, as men go. He has no claim as regards family; neither have you. He is a thorough and undiluted American; so are you. He will be a kind husband, and one far higher in the world than you had any right to expect. On the other hand, you will do very well as his wife, for you have fair ability and a pretty face (it is of course your pink and whitebeauty that has won him), and principles enough for both. Like all people who have made money rapidly, he is lavish, and will deny you nothing; he will even allow you, I presume, to help one and all of that colony of children, priests, old maids, and dogs, up on that island. See what power will be put into your hands! You might labor all your life, and not accomplish one-hundredth part of that which, as Gregory Dexter's wife, you could do in one day.
"As to your probable objection—the boy-and-girl engagement in which you were foolish enough to entangle yourself—I will simply say, leave it to time; it will break itself. How do you know that it is not, in fact, broken already? The Pronando blood is faithless in its very essence," added the old woman, bitterly. "Mr. Dexter is a man of the world. I will explain it to him myself; he will understand, and will not urge you at present. He will wait, as I shall, for the natural solution of time. But in the mean while you must not offend him; he is not at all a man whom a woman can offend with impunity. He is vain, and has a singularly mistaken idea of his own importance. Agree to what I propose—which is simple quiescence for the present—and you shall go back to Moreau's, and the allowance for the children shall be continued. I have never before in my life made so many concessions; it is because you have had at times lately a look that brings back—Alida."
Anne's lips trembled; a sudden weakness came over her at this allusion to her mother.
"Well?" said Miss Vanhorn, expectantly.
There was a pause. Then a girl's voice answered: "I can not, grandaunt. I must go."
"Youmaygo, I tell you, back to Moreau's on the 1st of October."
"I mean that I can not marry Mr. Dexter."
"No one asks you to marry him now."
"I can never marry him."
"Why?" said Miss Vanhorn, with rising color. "Be careful what you say. No lies."
"I—I am engaged to Rast."
"Lie number one. Look at me. If your engagement was ended,thenwould you marry Mr. Dexter?"
Anne half rose, as if to escape, but sank back again. "I could not marry him, because I do not love him," she answered.
"And whom do you love, that you know so much about it, and have your 'do not' and 'can not' so promptly ready? Never tell me that it is that boy upon the island who has taught you all these new ways, this faltering and fear of looking in my face, of which you knew nothing when you came. Do you wish me to tell you what I think of you?"
"No," cried the girl, rushing forward, and falling on her knees beside the arm-chair; "tell me nothing. Only let me go away. I can not, can not stay here; I am too wretched, too weak. You can not have a lower opinion of me than I have of myself at this moment. If you have any compassion for me—for the memory of my mother—say no more, and let me go." She bowed her head upon the arm of the chair and sobbed aloud.
But Miss Vanhorn rose and walked away. "I know what this means," she said, standing in the centre of the room. "Like mother, like daughter. Only Alida ran after a man who loved her, although her inferior, while you have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is simply laughing at you. Don't you know, you fool, that Ward Heathcote will marry Helen Lorrington—the woman you pretend to be grateful to, and call your dearest friend? Helen Lorrington will be in every way a suitable wife for him. It has long been generally understood. The idea ofyourtrying to thrust yourself between them is preposterous—I may say a maniac's folly."
"I am not trying: only let me go," sobbed Anne, still kneeling by the chair.
"You think I have not seen," continued Miss Vanhorn, her wrath rising with every bitter word; "but I have. Only I never dreamed that it was as bad as this. I never dreamed that Alida's daughter could be bold andimmodest—worse than her mother, who was only love-mad."
Anne started to her feet. "Miss Vanhorn," she said, "I will not hear this, either of myself or my mother. It is not true."
"As to not hearing it, you are right; you will not hear my voice often in the future. I wash my hands of you. You are an ungrateful girl, and will come to an evil end. When I think of the enormous selfishness you now show in thus throwing away, for a mere matter of personal obstinacy, the bread of your sister and brothers, and leaving them to starve, I stand appalled. What do you expect?"
"Nothing—save to go."
"And youshallgo."
"To-day?"
"This afternoon, at three." As she said this, Miss Vanhorn seated herself with her back toward Anne, and took up a book, as though there was no one in the room.
"Do you want me any longer, grandaunt?"
"Never call me by that name again. Go to your room; Bessmer will attend to you. At two o'clock I will see you for a moment before you go."
Without a reply, Anne obeyed. Her tears were dried as if by fever; words had been spoken which could not be forgiven. Inaction was impossible; she began to pack. Then, remembering who had given her all these clothes, she paused, uncertain what to do. After reflection, she decided to take with her only those she had brought from the half-house; and in this she was not actuated by any spirit of retaliation, her idea was that her grandaunt would demand the gifts in any case. Miss Vanhorn was not generous. She worked steadily; she did not wish to think; yet still the crowding feelings pursued her, caught up with her, and then went along with her, thrusting their faces close to hers, and forcing recognition. Was she, as Miss Vanhorn had said, enormously selfish in thus sacrificing the new comfort of the pinched household on the island to her own obstinacy? But, as she folded the plain garments brought from that home, she knew that itwas not selfishness; as she replaced the filmy ball dress in its box, she said to herself that she could not deceive Mr. Dexter by so much even as a silence. Then, as she wrapped the white parasol in its coverings, the old burning, throbbing misery rolled over her, followed by the hot jealousy which she thought she had conquered; she seized the two dresses given by Helen, and added them to those left behind. But the action brought shame, and she replaced them. And now all the clothes faced her from the open trunks; those from the island, those which Rast had seen, murmured, "Faithless!" Helen's gifts whispered, "Ingratitude!" and those of her grandaunt called more loudly, "Fool!" She closed the lids, and turned toward the window; she tried to busy her mind with the future: surely thought and plans were needed. She was no longer confident, as she had been when she first left her Northern island; she knew now how wide the world was, and how cold. She could not apply at the doors of schools without letters or recommendations; she could not live alone. Her one hope began and ended in Jeanne-Armande. She dressed herself in travelling garb and sat down to wait. It was nearly noon, probably she would not see Helen, as she always slept through the morning after a ball, preserving by this changeless care the smooth fairness of her delicate complexion. She decided to write a note of farewell, and leave it with Bessmer; but again and again she tore up her beginnings, until the floor was strewn with fragments. She had so very much not to say. At last she succeeded in putting together a few sentences, which told nothing, save that she was going away; she bade her good-by, and thanked her for all her kindness, signing, without any preliminary phrases (for was she "affectionately" or "sincerely" Helen's "friend"?), merely her name, Anne Douglas.
At one o'clock Bessmer entered with luncheon. Evidently she had received orders to enter into no conversation with the prisoner; but she took the note, and promised to deliver it with her own hands. At two the door opened, and Miss Vanhorn came in.
The old woman's eye took in at a glance the closed trunks and the travelling dress. She had meant to try her niece, to punish her; but even then she could not believe that the girl would really throw away forever all the advantages she had placed within her grasp. She sat down, and after waiting a moment, closed her eyes. "Anne Douglas," she began, "daughter of my misguided niece Alida Clanssen, I have come for a final decision. Answer my questions. First, have you, or have you not, one hundred dollars in the world?"
"I have not."
"Have you, or have you not, three brothers and one sister wholly dependent upon you?"
"I have."
"Is it just or honorable to leave them longer to the charity of a woman who is poor herself, and not even a relative?"
"It is neither."
"Have I, or have I not, assisted you, offered also to continue the pension which makes them comfortable?"
"You have."
"Then," said the old woman, still with her eyes closed, "why persist in this idiotic stubbornness? In offending me, are you not aware that you are offending the only person on earth who can assist you? I make no promises as to the future; but I am an old woman now, one to whom you could at least be dutiful. There—I want no fine words. Show your fineness by obeying my wishes."
"I will stay withyou, grandaunt, willingly, gladly, gratefully, if you will take me away from this place."
"No conditions," said Miss Vanhorn. "Come here; kneel down in front of me, so that I can look at you. Will you stay with mehere, if I yield everything concerning Mr. Dexter?" She held her firmly, with her small keen eyes searching her face.
Anne was silent. Like the panorama which is said to pass before the eyes of the drowning man, the days and hours at Caryl's as they would be, must be, unrolled themselves before her. But there only followed thesame desperate realization of the impossibility of remaining; the misery, the jealousy; worse than all, the self-doubt. The misery, the jealousy, she could perhaps bear, deep as they were. But what appalled her was this new doubt of herself, this new knowledge, that, in spite of all her determination, she might, if tried, yield to this love which had taken possession of her unawares, yield to certain words which he might speak, to certain tones of his voice, and thus become even more faithless to Rast, to Helen, and to herself, than she already was. If he would go away—but she knew that he would not. No,shemust go. Consciousness came slowly back to her eyes, which had been meeting Miss Vanhorn's blankly.
"I can not stay," she said.
Miss Vanhorn thrust her away violently. "I am well paid for having had anything to do with Douglas blood," she cried, her voice trembling with anger. "Get back into the wilderness from whence you came! I will never hear your name on earth again." She left the room.
In a few moments Bessmer appeared, her eyes reddened by tears, and announced that the wagon was waiting. It was at a side door. At this hour there was no one on the piazzas, and Anne's trunk was carried down, and she herself followed with Bessmer, without being seen by any one save the servants and old John Caryl.
"I am not to say anything to you, Miss Douglas, if you please, but just the ordinary things, if you please," said Bessmer, as the wagon bore them away. "You are to take the three o'clock train, and go—wherever you please, she said. I was to tell you."
"Yes, Bessmer; do not be troubled. I know what to do. Will you tell grandaunt, when you return, that I beg her to forgive what has seemed obstinacy, but was only sad necessity. Can you remember it?"
"Yes, miss; only sad necessity," repeated Bessmer, with dropping tears. She was a meek woman, with a comfortable convexity of person, which, however, did not seem to give her confidence.
"I was not to know, miss, if you please, where you bought tickets to," she said, as the wagon stopped at thelittle station. "I was to give you this, and then go right back."
She handed Anne an envelope containing a fifty-dollar note. Anne looked at it a moment. "I will not take this, I think; you can tell grandaunt that I have money enough for the present," she said, returning it. She gave her hand kindly to the weeping maid, who was then driven away in the wagon, her sun-umbrella held askew over her respectable brown bonnet, her broad shoulders shaken with her sincere grief. A turn in the road soon hid even this poor friend of hers from view. Anne was alone.
The station-keeper was not there; his house was near by, but hidden by a grove of maples, and Anne, standing on the platform, seemed all alone, the two shining rails stretching north and south having the peculiarly solitary aspect which a one-track railway always has among green fields, with no sign of life in sight. No train has passed, or ever will pass. It is all a dream. She walked to and fro. She could see into the waiting-room, which was adorned with three framed texts, and another placard not religiously intended, but referring, on the contrary, to steamboats, which might yet be so interpreted, namely, "Take the Providence Line." She noted the drearily ugly round stove, faded below to white, planted in a sand-filled box; she saw the bench, railed off into single seats by iron elbows, and remembered that during her journey eastward, two, if not three, of these places were generally filled with the packages of some solitary female of middle age, clad in half-mourning, who remained stonily unobservant of the longing glances cast upon the space she occupied. These thoughts came to her mechanically. When a decision has finally been made, and for the present nothing more can be done, the mind goes wandering off on trivial errands; the flight of a bird, the passage of the fairy car of thistle-down, are sufficient to set it in motion. It seemed to her that she had been there a long time, when a step came through the grove: Hosea Plympton—or, as he was called in the neighborhood, Hosy Plim—was unlocking the station door. Annebought her ticket, and had her trunk checked; she hoped to reach the half-house before midnight.
Hosy having attended to his official business with dignity, now came out to converse unofficially with his one passenger. "From Caryl's, ain't you?"
"Yes," replied Anne.
"Goin' to New York?"
"Yes."
"I haven't yet ben to that me-tropo-lis," said Hosy. "On some accounts I should admire to go, on others not. Ben long at Caryl's?"
"Yes, some time."
"My wife's cousin helps over there; Mirandy's her name. And she tells me, Mirandy does, that the heap of washing over to that house is a sight to see. She tells me, Mirandy does, that they don't especial dress up for the Sabbath over there, not so much even as on other days."
"That is true, I believe."
"Sing'lar," said the little man, "what folks 'll do as has the money! They don't seem to be capable of enj'ying themselves exactly; and p'r'aps that's what Providence intends. We haven't had city folks at Caryl's until lately, miss, you see; and I confess they've ben a continooal study to me ever since. 'Tis amazin' the ways the Lord'll take to make us contented with our lot. Till Isee'em, I thought 'em most downright and all everlastin' to be envied. ButnowI feel the ba'm of comfort and innard strengthenin' when I see how little they knowhowto enj'y themselves, after all. Here's the train, miss."
In another moment Anne felt herself borne away—away from the solitary station, with its shining lines of rails; from the green hills which encircled Caryl's; from the mountain-peaks beyond. She had started on her journey into the wide world.
In darkness, but in safety, she arrived at the half-house, in the station-keeper's wagon, a few minutes before midnight. A light was still burning, and in response to her knock Jeanne-Armande herself openedthe door, clad in a wrapper, with a wonderful flannel cap on her head. She was much astonished to see her pupil, but received her cordially, ordered the trunk brought in, and herself attended to the beating down of the station-keeper's boy to a proper price for his services. She remarked upon his audacity and plainly criminal tendencies; she thoroughly sifted the physical qualities of the horse; she objected to the shape of the wagon; and finally, she had noted his manner of bringing in the trunk, and shaving its edges as well as her doorway, and she felt that she must go over to the station herself early in the morning, and lodge a complaint against him. What did he mean by— But here the boy succumbed, and departed with half-price, and Jeanne-Armande took breath, and closed the door in triumph.
"You see that I have come back to you, mademoiselle," said Anne, with a faint smile. "Shall I tell you why?"
"Yes; but no, not now. You are very weary, my child; you look pale and worn. Would you like some coffee?"
"Yes," said Anne, who felt a faint exhaustion stealing over her. "But the fast-day coffee will do." For there was one package of coffee in the store-room which went by that name, and which old Nora was instructed to use on Fridays. Not that Jeanne-Armande followed strict rules and discipline; but she had bought that coffee at an auction sale in the city for a very low price, and it proved indeed so low in quality that they could not drink it more than once a week. Certainly, therefore, Friday was the appropriate day.
"No," said the hostess, "you shall have a little of the other, child. Come to the kitchen. Nora has gone to bed, but I will arrange a little supper for you with my own hands."
They went to the bare little room, where a mouse would have starved. But mademoiselle was not without resources, and keys. Soon she "arranged" a brisk little fire and a cheery little stew, while the pint coffee-pot sent forth a delicious fragrance. Sitting there in a wooden chair beside the little stove, Anne felt more ofhome comfort than she had ever known at Caryl's, and the thin miserly teacher was kinder than her grandaunt had ever been. She ate and drank, and was warmed; then, sitting by the dying coals, she told her story, or rather as much of it as it was necessary mademoiselle should know.
"It is a pity," said Jeanne-Armande, "and especially since she has no relative, this grandaunt, nearer than yourself. Could nothing be done in the way of renewal, as to heart-strings?"
"Not at present. I must rely upon you, mademoiselle; in this, even Tante can not help me."
"That is true; she can not. She even disapproved of my own going forth into the provinces," said Jeanne-Armande, with the air of an explorer. "We have different views of life, Hortense Moreau and I; but there!—we respect each other. Of how much money can you dispose at present, my child?"
Anne told the sum.
"If it is so little as that," said Jeanne-Armande, "it will be better for you to go westward with me immediately. I start earlier than usual this year; you can take the journey with me, and share expenses; in this way we shall both be able to save. Now as to chances: there is sometimes a subordinate employed under me, when there is a press of new scholars. This is the autumn term: theremaybe a press. I must prepare you, however, for the lowest of low salaries," said the teacher, her voice changing suddenly to a dry sharpness. "I shall present you as a novice, to whom the privilege of entering the institution is an equivalent of money."
"I expect but little," said Anne. "A beginner must take the lowest place."
On the second day they started. Jeanne-Armande was journeying to Weston this time by a roundabout way. By means of excursion tickets to Valley City, offered for low rates for three days, she had found that she could (in time) reach Westonviâthe former city, and effect a saving of one dollar and ten cents. With the aid of her basket, no additional meals would be required, and themoney saved, therefore, would be pure gain. There was only one point undecided, namely, should she go through to Valley City, or change at a junction twenty miles this side for the northern road? What would be the saving, if any, by going on? What by changing? No one could tell her; the complication of excursion rates to Valley City for the person who was not going there, and the method of night travel for a person who would neither take a sleeping-car, nor travel in a day car, combined themselves to render more impassive still the ticket-sellers, safely protected in their official round towers from the rabble of buyers outside. Regarding the main lines between New York and Weston, and all their connections, it would be safe to say that mademoiselle knew more than the officials themselves. The remainder of the continent was an unknown wilderness in her mind, but these lines of rails, over which she was obliged to purchase her way year after year, she understood thoroughly. She had tried all the routes, and once she had gone through Canada; she had looked at canal-boats meditatively. She was haunted by a vision that some day she might find a clean captain and captain's wife who would receive her as passenger, and allow her to cook her own little meals along shore. Once, she explained to Anne, a Sunday-school camp-meeting had reduced the rates, she being apparently on her way thither. She had always regretted that the season of State fairs was a month later: she felt herself capable of being on her way to all of them.
"But now, whether to go on to Valley City, or to leave the train at Stringhampton Junction, is the question I can not decide," she said, with irritation, having returned discomfited from another encounter with a ticket-seller.
"We reach Weston by both routes, do we not?" said Anne.
"Of course; that follows without saying. Evidently you do not comprehend the considerations which are weighing upon me. However, I will get it out of the ticket agent at New Macedonia," said mademoiselle, rising. "Come, the train is ready."
They were going only as far as New Macedonia that night; mademoiselle had slept there twice, and intended to sleep there again. Once, in her decorous maiden life, she had passed a night in a sleeping-car, and never again would her foot "cross the threshold of one of those outrageous inventions." She remembered even now with a shudder the processions of persons in muffled drapery going to the wash-rooms in the early morning. New Macedonia existed only to give suppers and breakfasts; it had but two narrow sleeping apartments over its abnormal development of dining-room below. But the military genius of Jeanne-Armande selected it on this very account; for sleeping-rooms where no one ever slept, half-price could in conscience alone be charged. All night Anne was wakened at intervals by the rushing sound of passing trains. Once she stole softly to the uncurtained window and looked out; clouds covered the sky, no star was visible, but down the valley shone a spark which grew and grew, and then turned white and intense, as, with a glare and a thundering sound, a locomotive rushed by, with its long line of dimly lighted sleeping-cars swiftly and softly following with their unconscious human freight, the line ending in two red eyes looking back as the train vanished round a curve.
"Ten hours' sleep," said mademoiselle, awaking with satisfaction in the morning. "I now think we can sit up to-night in the Valley City waiting-room, and save the price of lodgings. Until twelve they would think we were waiting for the midnight train; after that, the night porter, who comes on duty then, would suppose it was the early morning express."
"Then you have decided to go through to Valley City?" asked Anne.
"Yes, since by this arrangement we can do it without expense."
Two trains stopped at New Macedonia for breakfast, one eastward bound from over the Alleghanies, the other westward bound from New York. Jeanne-Armande's strategy was to enter the latter while its passengers were at breakfast, and take bodily possession of a good seat,removing, if necessary, a masculine bag or two left there as tokens of ownership; for the American man never makes war where the gentler sex is concerned, but retreats to another seat, or even to the smoking-car, with silent generosity.
Breakfast was now over; the train-boy was exchanging a few witticisms with the pea-nut vender of the station, a brakeman sparred playfully with the baggage porter, and a pallid telegraph operator looked on from his window with interest. Meanwhile the conductor, in his stiff official cap, pared a small apple with the same air of fixed melancholy and inward sarcasm which he gave to all his duties, large and small; when it was eaten, he threw the core with careful precision at a passing pig, looked at his watch, and called out, suddenly and sternly, "All aboard!" The train moved on.
It was nine o'clock. At ten there came into the car a figure Anne knew—Ward Heathcote.