Tom Reed gazed at her with the eyes of a man who might love a woman and have infinite patience with her, relegating his lack of understanding of her woman's nature to the background, as a thing of no consequence.
“Mighty little will do for me,” he said, “mighty little, Annie dear, if you will only tell a fellow you love him.”
Annie looked at him, and her thin, sweet face seemed to have a luminous quality, like a crescent moon. Her look was enough.
“Then you do?” said Tom Reed.
“You have never needed to ask,” said Annie. “You knew.”
“I haven't been so sure as you think,” said Tom. “Suppose you come over here and sit beside me. You look miles away.”
Annie laughed and blushed, but she obeyed. She sat beside Tom and let him put his arm around her. She sat up straight, by force of her instinctive maidenliness, but she kissed him back when he kissed her.
“I haven't been so sure,” repeated Tom. “Annie darling, why have I been unable to see more of you? I have fairly haunted your house, and seen the whole lot of your sisters, especially Imogen, but somehow or other you have been as slippery as an eel. I have always asked for you, but you were always out or busy.”
“I have been very busy,” said Annie, evasively. She loved this young man with all her heart, but she had an enduring loyalty to her own flesh and blood.
Tom was very literal. “Say, Annie,” he blurted out, “I begin to think you have had to do most of the work over there. Now, haven't you? Own up.”
Annie laughed sweetly. She was so happy that no sense of injury could possibly rankle within her. “Oh, well,” she said, lightly. “Perhaps. I don't know. I guess housekeeping comes rather easier to me than to the others. I like it, you know, and work is always easier when one likes it. The other girls don't take to it so naturally, and they get very tired, and it has seemed often that I was the one who could hurry the work through and not mind.”
“I wonder if you will stick up for me the way you do for your sisters when you are my wife?” said Tom, with a burst of love and admiration. Then he added: “Of course you are going to be my wife, Annie? You know what this means?”
“If you think I will make you as good a wife as you can find,” said Annie.
“As good a wife! Annie, do you really know what you are?”
“Just an ordinary girl, with no special talent for anything.”
“You are the most wonderful girl that ever walked the earth,” exclaimed Tom. “And as for talent, you have the best talent in the whole world; you can love people who are not worthy to tie your shoestrings, and think you are looking up when in reality you are looking down. That is what I call the best talent in the whole world for a woman.” Tom Reed was becoming almost subtle.
Annie only laughed happily again. “Well, you will have to wait and find out,” said she.
“I suppose,” said Tom, “that you came over here because you were tired out, this hot weather. I think you were sensible, but I don't think you ought to be here alone.”
“I am not alone,” replied Annie. “I have poor little Effie Hempstead with me.”
“That deaf-and-dumb child? I should think this heathen god would be about as much company.”
“Why, Tom, she is human, if she is deaf and dumb.”
Tom eyed her shrewdly. “What did you mean when you said you had broken your will?” he inquired.
“My will not to speak for a while,” said Annie, faintly.
“Not to speak—to any one?”
Annie nodded.
“Then you have broken your resolution by speaking to me?”
Annie nodded again.
“But why shouldn't you speak? I don't understand.”
“I wondered how little I could say, and have you satisfied,” Annie replied, sadly.
Tom tightened his arm around her. “You precious little soul,” he said. “I am satisfied. I know you have some good reason for not wanting to speak, but I am plaguey glad you spoke to me, for I should have been pretty well cast down if you hadn't, and to-morrow I have to go away.”
Annie leaned toward him. “Go away!”
“Yes; I have to go to California about that confounded Ames will case. And I don't know exactly where, on the Pacific coast, the parties I have to interview may be, and I may have to be away weeks, possibly months. Annie darling, it did seem to me a cruel state of things to have to go so far, and leave you here, living in such a queer fashion, and not know how you felt. Lord! but I'm glad you had sense enough to call me, Annie.”
“I couldn't let you go by, when it came to it, and Tom—”
“What, dear?”
“I did an awful mean thing: something I never was guilty of before. I—listened.”
“Well, I don't see what harm it did. You didn't hear much to your or your sisters' disadvantage, that I can remember. They kept calling you 'dear.'”
“Yes,” said Annie, quickly. Again, such was her love and thankfulness that a great wave of love and forgiveness for her sisters swept over her. Annie had a nature compounded of depths of sweetness; nobody could be mistaken with regard to that. What they did mistake was the possibility of even sweetness being at bay at times, and remaining there.
“You don't mean to speak to anybody else?” asked Tom.
“Not for a year, if I can avoid it without making comment which might hurt father.”
“Why, dear?”
“That is what I cannot tell you,” replied Annie, looking into his face with a troubled smile.
Tom looked at her in a puzzled way, then he kissed her.
“Oh, well, dear,” he said, “it is all right. I know perfectly well you would do nothing in which you were not justified, and you have spoken to me, anyway, and that is the main thing. I think if I had been obliged to start to-morrow without a word from you I shouldn't have cared a hang whether I ever came back or not. You are the only soul to hold me here; you know that, darling.”
“Yes,” replied Annie.
“You are the only one,” repeated Tom, “but it seems to me this minute as if you were a whole host, you dear little soul. But I don't quite like to leave you here living alone, except for Effie.”
“Oh, I am within a stone's-throw of father's,” said Annie, lightly.
“I admit that. Still, you are alone. Annie, when are you going to marry me?”
Annie regarded him with a clear, innocent look. She had lived such a busy life that her mind was unfilmed by dreams. “Whenever you like, after you come home,” said she.
“It can't be too soon for me. I want my wife and I want my home. What will you do while I am gone, dear?”
Annie laughed. “Oh, I shall do what I have seen other girls do—get ready to be married.”
“That means sewing, lots of hemming and tucking and stitching, doesn't it?”
“Of course.”
“Girls are so funny,” said Tom. “Now imagine a man sitting right down and sewing like mad on his collars and neckties and shirts the minute a girl said she'd marry him!”
“Girls like it.”
“Well, I suppose they do,” said Tom, and he looked down at Annie from a tender height of masculinity, and at the same time seemed to look up from the valley of one who cannot understand the subtle and poetical details in a woman's soul.
He did not stay long after that, for it was late. As he passed through the gate, after a tender farewell, Annie watched him with shining eyes. She was now to be all alone, but two things she had, her freedom and her love, and they would suffice.
The next morning Silas Hempstead, urged by his daughters, walked solemnly over to the next house, but he derived little satisfaction. Annie did not absolutely refuse to speak. She had begun to realize that carrying out her resolution to the extreme letter was impossible. But she said as little as she could.
“I have come over here to live for the present. I am of age, and have a right to consult my own wishes. My decision is unalterable.” Having said this much, Annie closed her mouth and said no more. Silas argued and pleaded. Annie sat placidly sewing beside one front window of the sunny sittingroom. Effie, with a bit of fancy-work, sat at another. Finally Silas went home defeated, with a last word, half condemnatory, half placative. Silas was not the sort to stand firm against such feminine strength as his daughter Annie's. However, he secretly held her dearer than all his other children.
After her father had gone, Annie sat taking even stitch after even stitch, but a few tears ran over her cheeks and fell upon the soft mass of muslin. Effie watched with shrewd, speculative silence, like a pet cat. Then suddenly she rose and went close to Annie, with her little arms around her neck, and the poor dumb mouth repeating her little speeches: “Thank you, I am very well, thank you, I am very well,” over and over.
Annie kissed her fondly, and was aware of a sense of comfort and of love for this poor little Effie. Still, after being nearly two months with the child, she was relieved when Felicia Hempstead came, the first of September, and wished to take Effie home with her. She had not gone to Europe, after all, but to the mountains, and upon her return had missed the little girl.
Effie went willingly enough, but Annie discovered that she too missed her. Now loneliness had her fairly in its grip. She had a telephone installed, and gave her orders over that. Sometimes the sound of a human voice made her emotional to tears. Besides the voices over the telephone, Annie had nobody, for Benny returned to college soon after Effie left. Benny had been in the habit of coming in to see Annie, and she had not had the heart to check him. She talked to him very little, and knew that he was no telltale as far as she was concerned, although he waxed most communicative with regard to the others. A few days before he left he came over and begged her to return.
“I know the girls have nagged you till you are fairly worn out,” he said. “I know they don't tell things straight, but I don't believe they know it, and I don't see why you can't come home, and insist upon your rights, and not work so hard.”
“If I come home now it will be as it was before,” said Annie.
“Can't you stand up for yourself and not have it the same?”
Annie shook her head.
“Seems as if you could,” said Benny. “I always thought a girl knew how to manage other girls. It is rather awful the way things go now over there. Father must be uncomfortable enough trying to eat the stuff they set before him and living in such a dirty house.”
Annie winced. “Is it so very dirty?”
Benny whistled.
“Is the food so bad?”
Benny whistled again.
“You advised me—or it amounted to the same thing—to take this stand,” said Annie.
“I know I did, but I didn't know how bad it would be. Guess I didn't half appreciate you myself, Annie. Well, you must do as you think best, but if you could look in over there your heart would ache.”
“My heart aches as it is,” said Annie, sadly.
Benny put an arm around her. “Poor girl!” he said. “It is a shame, but you are going to marry Tom. You ought not to have the heartache.”
“Marriage isn't everything,” said Annie, “and my heart does ache, but—I can't go back there, unless—I can't make it clear to you, Benny, but it seems to me as if I couldn't go back there until the year is up, or I shouldn't be myself, and it seems, too, as if I should not be doing right by the girls. There are things more important even than doing work for others. I have got it through my head that I can be dreadfully selfish being unselfish.”
“Well, I suppose you are right,” admitted Benny with a sigh.
Then he kissed Annie and went away, and the blackness of loneliness settled down upon her. She had wondered at first that none of the village people came to see her, although she did not wish to talk to them; then she no longer wondered. She heard, without hearing, just what her sisters had said about her.
That was a long winter for Annie Hempstead. Letters did not come very regularly from Tom Reed, for it was a season of heavy snowfalls and the mails were often delayed. The letters were all that she had for comfort and company. She had bought a canary-bird, adopted a stray kitten, and filled her sunny windows with plants. She sat beside them and sewed, and tried to be happy and content, but all the time there was a frightful uncertainty deep down within her heart as to whether or not she was doing right. She knew that her sisters were unworthy, and yet her love and longing for them waxed greater and greater. As for her father, she loved him as she had never loved him before. The struggle grew terrible. Many a time she dressed herself in outdoor array and started to go home, but something always held her back. It was a strange conflict that endured through the winter months, the conflict of a loving, self-effacing heart with its own instincts.
Toward the last of February her father came over at dusk. Annie ran to the door, and he entered. He looked unkempt and dejected. He did not say much, but sat down and looked about him with a half-angry, half-discouraged air. Annie went out into the kitchen and broiled some beefsteak, and creamed some potatoes, and made tea and toast. Then she called him into the sitting-room, and he ate like one famished.
“Your sister Susan does the best she can,” he said, when he had finished, “and lately Jane has been trying, but they don't seem to have the knack. I don't want to urge you, Annie, but—”
“You know when I am married you will have to get on without me,” Annie said, in a low voice.
“Yes, but in the mean time you might, if you were home, show Susan and Jane.”
“Father,” said Annie, “you know if I came home now it would be just the same as it was before. You know if I give in and break my word with myself to stay away a year what they will think and do.”
“I suppose they might take advantage,” admitted Silas, heavily. “I fear you have always given in to them too much for their own good.”
“Then I shall not give in now,” said Annie, and she shut her mouth tightly.
There came a peal of the cracked door-bell, and Silas started with a curious, guilty look. Annie regarded him sharply. “Who is it, father?”
“Well, I heard Imogen say to Eliza that she thought it was very foolish for them all to stay over there and have the extra care and expense, when you were here.”
“You mean that the girls—?”
“I think they did have a little idea that they might come here and make you a little visit—”
Annie was at the front door with a bound. The key turned in the lock and a bolt shot into place. Then she returned to her father, and her face was very white.
“You did not lock your door against your own sisters?” he gasped.
“God forgive me, I did.”
The bell pealed again. Annie stood still, her mouth quivering in a strange, rigid fashion. The curtains in the dining-room windows were not drawn. Suddenly one window showed full of her sisters' faces. It was Susan who spoke.
“Annie, you can't mean to lock us out?” Susan's face looked strange and wild, peering in out of the dark. Imogen's handsome face towered over her shoulder.
“We think it advisable to close our house and make you a visit,” she said, quite distinctly through the glass.
Then Jane said, with an inaudible sob, “Dear Annie, you can't mean to keep us out!”
Annie looked at them and said not a word. Their half-commanding, half-imploring voices continued a while. Then the faces disappeared.
Annie turned to her father. “God knows if I have done right,” she said, “but I am doing what you have taken me to account for not doing.”
“Yes, I know,” said Silas. He sat for a while silent. Then he rose, kissed Annie—something he had seldom done—and went home. After he had gone Annie sat down and cried. She did not go to bed that night. The cat jumped up in her lap, and she was glad of that soft, purring comfort. It seemed to her as if she had committed a great crime, and as if she had suffered martyrdom. She loved her father and her sisters with such intensity that her heart groaned with the weight of pure love. For the time it seemed to her that she loved them more than the man whom she was to marry. She sat there and held herself, as with chains of agony, from rushing out into the night, home to them all, and breaking her vow.
It was never quite so bad after that night, for Annie compromised. She baked bread and cake and pies, and carried them over after nightfall and left them at her father's door. She even, later on, made a pot of coffee, and hurried over with it in the dawn-light, always watching behind a corner of a curtain until she saw an arm reached out for it. All this comforted Annie, and, moreover, the time was drawing near when she could go home.
Tom Reed had been delayed much longer than he expected. He would not be home before early fall. They would not be married until November, and she would have several months at home first.
At last the day came. Out in Silas Hempstead's front yard the grass waved tall, dotted with disks of clover. Benny was home, and he had been over to see Annie every day since his return. That morning when Annie looked out of her window the first thing she saw was Benny waving a scythe in awkward sweep among the grass and clover. An immense pity seized her at the sight. She realized that he was doing this for her, conquering his indolence. She almost sobbed.
“Dear, dear boy, he will cut himself,” she thought. Then she conquered her own love and pity, even as her brother was conquering his sloth. She understood clearly that it was better for Benny to go on with his task even if he did cut himself.
The grass was laid low when she went home, and Benny stood, a conqueror in a battle-field of summer, leaning on his scythe.
“Only look, Annie,” he cried out, like a child. “I have cut all the grass.”
Annie wanted to hug him. Instead she laughed. “It was time to cut it,” she said. Her tone was cool, but her eyes were adoring.
Benny laid down his scythe, took her by the arm, and led her into the house. Silas and his other daughters were in the sitting-room, and the room was so orderly it was painful. The ornaments on the mantel-shelf stood as regularly as soldiers on parade, and it was the same with the chairs. Even the cushions on the sofa were arranged with one corner overlapping another. The curtains were drawn at exactly the same height from the sill. The carpet looked as if swept threadbare.
Annie's first feeling was of worried astonishment; then her eye caught a glimpse of Susan's kitchen apron tucked under a sofa pillow, and of layers of dust on the table, and she felt relieved. After all, what she had done had not completely changed the sisters, whom she loved, faults and all. Annie realized how horrible it would have been to find her loved ones completely changed, even for the better. They would have seemed like strange, aloof angels to her.
They all welcomed her with a slight stiffness, yet with cordiality. Then Silas made a little speech.
“Your father and your sisters are glad to welcome you home, dear Annie,” he said, “and your sisters wish me to say for them that they realize that possibly they may have underestimated your tasks and overestimated their own. In short, they may not have been—”
Silas hesitated, and Benny finished. “What the girls want you to know, Annie, is that they have found out they have been a parcel of pigs.”
“We fear we have been selfish without realizing it,” said Jane, and she kissed Annie, as did Susan and Eliza. Imogen, looking very handsome in her blue linen, with her embroidery in her hands, did not kiss her sister. She was not given to demonstrations, but she smiled complacently at her.
“We are all very glad to have dear Annie back, I am sure,” said she, “and now that it is all over, we all feel that it has been for the best, although it has seemed very singular, and made, I fear, considerable talk. But, of course, when one person in a family insists upon taking everything upon herself, it must result in making the others selfish.”
Annie did not hear one word that Imogen said. She was crying on Susan's shoulder.
“Oh, I am so glad to be home,” she sobbed.
And they all stood gathered about her, rejoicing and fond of her, but she was the one lover among them all who had been capable of hurting them and hurting herself for love's sake.