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"I PUT MY ARMS AROUND HER." _See Page 470._]
ANNE
A Novel
BYCONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
_ILLUSTRATED BY C. S. REINHART_
NEW YORKHARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, byHARPER & BROTHERS,In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
_All rights reserved._
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
"I PUT MY ARMS ROUND HER" _Frontispiece._
"THE GIRL PAUSED AND REFLECTED A MOMENT" _To face Page_ 18
"AS SHE BENT OVER THE OLD VOLUME" " 42
LOIS HINSDALE " 62
"AND IT ENDED IN THEIR RACING DOWN TOGETHER" " 84
"ALARMED, HE BENT OVER HER" " 104
"SHE SAT THERE HIGH IN THE AIR WHILE THE STEAMERBACKED OUT FROM THE PIERS" " 120
"YOU KNOW I TOO MUST GO FAR AWAY" " 132
TITA LISTENING " 136
"DEAR ME! WHAT CAN BE DONE WITH SUCHA YOUNG SAVAGE?" " 152
IN THE WOODS " 186
"HE TOOK HIS BEST COAT FROM HIS LEAN VALISE" " 208
"HE WAS MERELY NOTING THE EFFECT" " 226
"SHE BATHED HER FLUSHED CHEEKS" " 234
"SHE STARTED SLIGHTLY" " 254
"SHE BURIED HER FACE TREMBLINGLY IN HERHANDS" " 262
"ANNE DREW A CHAIR TO THE BEDSIDE, AND SATDOWN WITH HER BACK TO THE MOONLIGHT" " 284
"WHILE HER MAID WAS COILING HER FAIR HAIR" " 308
"IT IS, OR SHOULD BE, OVER THERE" " 328
"MISS LOIS SIGHED DEEPLY" " 350
"JULY WALKED IN FRONT, WITH HIS GUN OVERHIS SHOULDER" " 374
"SHE TRIED TO RISE, BUT HE HELD HER ARM WITHBOTH HANDS" " 386
"WEAK, HOLDING ON BY THE TREES" " 392
"SAW HER SLOWLY ASCEND THE HOUSE STEPS" " 408
"ANNE, STILL AS A STATUE" " 432
"HE ROSE, AND TOOK HER COLD HANDS IN HIS" " 460
"HE OBEYED WITHOUT COMMENT" " 498
"THE SECOND BOAT, WHICH WAS FARTHER UP THELAKE, CONTAINED A MAN" " 514
"HE REACHED THE WINDOWS, AND PEEPED THROUGHA CRACK IN THE OLD BLIND" " 530
ANNE.
CHAPTER I.
"Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy. The youth who daily farther from the East Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day."
--WORDSWORTH.
"It is but little we can do for each other. We accompany the youth with sympathy and manifold old sayings of the wise to the gate of the arena, but it is certain that not by strength of ours, or by the old sayings, but only on strength of his own, unknown to us or to any, he must stand or fall."--EMERSON.
"Does it look well, father?"
"What, child?"
"Does this look well?"
William Douglas stopped playing for a moment, and turned his head towardthe speaker, who, standing on a ladder, bent herself to one side, inorder that he might see the wreath of evergreen, studded with cones,which she had hung on the wall over one of the small arched windows.
"It is too compact, Anne, too heavy. There should be sprays falling fromit here and there, like a real vine. The greenery, dear, should beeither growing naturally upward or twining; large branches standing inthe corners like trees, or climbing vines. Stars, stiff circles, and setshapes should be avoided. That wreath looks as though it had been planedby a carpenter."
"Miss Lois made it."
"Ah," said William Douglas, something which made you think of a smile,although no smile was there, passing over his face, "it looks like herwork; it will last a long time. And there will be no need to remove itfor Ash-Wednesday, Anne; there is nothing joyous about it."
"I did not notice that it was ugly," said the girl, trying in her bentposture to look at the wreath, and bringing one eye and a portion ofanxious forehead to bear upon it.
"That is because Miss Lois made it," replied William Douglas, returningto his music.
Anne, standing straight again, surveyed the garland in silence. Then shechanged its position once or twice, studying the effect. Her figure,poised on the round of the ladder, high in the air, was, althoughunsupported, firm. With her arms raised above her head in a positionwhich few women could have endured for more than a moment, she appearedas unconcerned, and strong, and sure of her footing, as though she hadbeen standing on the floor. There was vigor about her and elasticity,combined unexpectedly with the soft curves and dimples of a child.Viewed from the floor, this was a young Diana, or a Greek maiden, as weimagine Greek maidens to have been. The rounded arms, visible throughthe close sleeves of the dark woollen dress, the finely moulded wristsbelow the heavy wreath, the lithe, natural waist, all belonged to ayoung goddess. But when Anne Douglas came down from her height, andturned toward you, the idea vanished. Here was no goddess, no Greek;only an American girl, with a skin like a peach. Anne Douglas's eyeswere violet-blue, wide open, and frank. She had not yet learned thatthere was any reason why she should not look at everything with the calmdirectness of childhood. Equally like a child was the unconsciousness ofher mouth, but the full lips were exquisitely curved. Her brown hair wasbraided in a heavy knot at the back of her head; but little rings androughened curly ends stood up round her forehead and on her temples, asthough defying restraint. This unwritten face, with its direct gaze, sofar neutralized the effect of the Diana-like form that the girl missedbeauty on both sides. The usual ideal of pretty, slender, unformedmaidenhood was not realized, and yet Anne Douglas's face was more likewhat is called a baby face than that of any other girl on the island.The adjective generally applied to her was "big." This big, soft-cheekedgirl now stood irresolutely looking at the condemned wreath.
The sun was setting, and poured a flood of clear yellow light throughthe little west windows; the man at the organ was playing a sober,steadfast German choral, without exultation, yet full of a resolutepurpose which defied even death and the grave. Out through the easternwindows stretched the frozen straits, the snow-covered islands, andbelow rang out the bugle. "It will be dark in a few moments," said Anneto herself; "I will do it."
She moved the ladder across to the chancel, mounted to its top again,and placed the wreath directly over the altar, connecting it deftly withthe numerous long lines of delicate wreathing woven in thread-like greenlace-work which hung there, waiting for their key-stone--a place ofhonor which the condemned wreath was to fill. It now crowned the whole.The little house of God was but an upper chamber, roughly finished andbarren; its only treasure was a small organ, a gift from a father whosedaughter, a stranger from the South, had died upon the island,requesting that her memorial might be music rather tha
n a cold stone.William Douglas had superintended the unpacking and placing of thisgift, and loved it almost as though it had been his own child. Indeed,it was a child, a musical child--one who comprehended his varying moodswhen no one else did, not even Anne.
"It makes no difference now," said Anne, aloud, carrying the laddertoward the door; "it is done and ended. Here is the ladder, Jones, andplease keep up the fires all night, unless you wish to see us frozenstiff to-morrow."
A man in common soldier's uniform touched his cap and took the ladder.Anne went back. "Now for one final look, father," she said, "and thenwe must go home; the children will be waiting."
William Douglas played a few more soft strains, and turned round. "Well,child," he said, stroking his thin gray beard with an irresolute motionhabitual with him, and looking at the small perspective of the chapelwith critical gaze, "so you have put Miss Lois's wreath up there?"
"Yes; it is the only thing she had time to make, and she took so muchpains with it I could not bear to have her disappointed. It will not bemuch noticed."
"Yes, it will."
"I am sorry, then; but it can not be moved. And to tell the truth,father, although I suppose you will laugh at me, _I_ think it lookswell."
"It looks better than anything else in the room, and crowns the whole,"said Douglas, rising and standing by his daughter's side. "It was astroke of genius to place it there, Anne."
"Was it?" said the girl, her face flushing with pleasure. "But I wasthinking only of Miss Lois."
"I am afraid you were," said Douglas, with his shadowy smile.
The rough walls and beams of the chapel were decorated with finespray-like lines of evergreen, all pointing toward the chancel; therewas not a solid spot upon which the eye could rest, no upright branchesin the corners, no massed bunches over the windows, no stars ofBethlehem, anchors, or nondescript Greek letters; the whole chapel wassimply outlined in light feathery lines of green, which reached thechancel, entered it, played about its walls, and finally came togetherunder the one massive wreath whose even circle and thick foliage heldthem all firmly in place, and ended their wanderings in a restful quietstrength. While the two stood gazing, the lemon-colored light faded, andalmost immediately it was night; the red glow shining out under thedoors of the large stoves alone illuminated the room, which grew into ashadowy place, the aromatic fragrance of the evergreens filling the warmair pungently, more perceptible, as fragrance always is, in thedarkness. William Douglas turned to the organ again, and began playingthe music of an old vigil.
"The bugle sounded long ago, father," said Anne. "It is quite dark now,and very cold; I know by the crackling noise the men's feet make acrossthe parade-ground."
But the father played on. "Come here, daughter," he said; "listen tothis waiting, watching, praying music. Do you not see the old monks inthe cloisters telling the hours through the long night, waiting for thedawn, the dawn of Christmas? Look round you; see this dim chapel, theair filled with fragrance like incense. These far-off chords, now; mightthey not be the angels, singing over the parapet of heaven?"
Anne stood by her father's side, and listened. "Yes," she said, "I canimagine it. And yet I could imagine it a great deal better if I did notknow where every bench was, and every darn in the chancel carpet, andevery mended pane in the windows. I am sorry I am so dull, father."
"Not dull, but unawakened."
"And when shall I waken?" pursued the girl, accustomed to carrying onlong conversations with this dreaming father, whom she loved devotedly.
"God knows! May He be with you at your wakening!"
"I would rather have you, father; that is, if it is not wicked to sayso. But I am very often wicked, I think," she added, remorsefully.
William Douglas smiled, closed the organ, and, throwing his arm roundhis tall young daughter, walked with her down the aisle toward the door.
"But you have forgotten your cloak," said Anne, running back to get it.She clasped it carefully round his throat, drew the peaked hood over hishead, and fastened it with straps of deer's hide. Her own fur cloak andcap were already on, and thus enveloped, the two descended the darkstairs, crossed the inner parade-ground, passed under the iron arch, andmade their way down the long sloping path, cut in the cliff-side, whichled from the little fort on the height to the village below. Thethermometer outside the commandant's door showed a temperature severaldegrees below zero; the dry old snow that covered the ground washardened into ice on the top, so that boys walked on its crust above thefences. Overhead the stars glittered keenly, like the sharp edges ofDamascus blades, and the white expanse of the ice-fields below gave outa strange pallid light which was neither like that of sun nor of moon,of dawn nor of twilight. The little village showed but few signs of lifeas they turned into its main street; the piers were sheets of ice.
Nothing wintered there; the summer fleets were laid up in the riversfarther south, where the large towns stood on the lower lakes. Theshutters of the few shops had been tightly closed at sunset, when allthe inhabited houses were tightly closed also; inside there werecurtains, sometimes a double set, woollen cloth, blankets, or skins,according to the wealth of the occupants. Thus housed, with great firesburning in their dark stoves, and one small lamp, the store-keeperswaited for custom until nine o'clock, after which time hardly any onestirred abroad, unless it was some warm-blooded youth, who defied theelements with the only power which can make us forget them.
At times, early in the evening, the door of one of these shops opened,and a figure entered through a narrow crack; for no islander opened adoor widely--it was giving too much advantage to the foe of his life,the weather. This figure, enveloped in furs or a blanket, came towardthe stove and warmed its hands with deliberation, the merchant meanwhileremaining calmly seated; then, after some moments, it threw back itshood, and disclosed the face of perhaps an Indian, perhaps a Frenchfisherman, perhaps an Irish soldier from the barracks. The customer nowmentioned his errand, and the merchant, rising in his turn, stretchedhimself like a shaggy dog loath to leave the fire, took his little lamp,and prepared to go in quest of the article desired, which lay, perhaps,beyond the circle of heat, somewhere in the outer darkness of the diminterior. It was an understood rule that no one should ask for nails orany kind of ironware in the evening: it was labor enough for themerchant to find and handle his lighter goods when the cold was sointense. There was not much bargaining in the winter; people kept theirbreath in their mouths. The merchants could have made money if they hadhad more customers or more energy; as it was, however, the smallpopulation and the cold kept them lethargically honest.
Anne and her father turned northward. The southern half of the littlevillage had two streets, one behind the other, and both were clogged andovershadowed by the irregular old buildings of the once-powerful furcompany. These ancient frames, empty and desolate, rose above the lowcottages of the islanders, sometimes three and four stories in height,with the old pulleys and hoisting apparatus still in place under theirpeaked roofs, like gallows ready for the old traders to hang themselvesupon, if they came back and saw the degeneracy of the furless times. Noone used these warehouses now, no one propped them up, no one pulledthem down; there they stood, closed and empty, their owners being but somany discouraged bones under the sod; for the Company had dissolved tothe four winds of heaven, leaving only far-off doubtful and quarrellingheirs. The little island could not have the buildings; neither could itpull them down. They were dogs in the manger, therefore, if the peoplehad looked upon them with progressive American eyes; but they did not.They were not progressive; they were hardly American. If they had anyglory, it was of that very past, the days when those buildings were fullof life. There was scarcely a family on the island that did not cherishits tradition of the merry fur-trading times, when "grandfather" was afactor, a superintendent, a clerk, a hunter; even a voyageur had hisimportance, now that there were no more voyageurs. Those were gay days,they said; they should never look upon their like again: unless, indeed,the past should come
back--a possibility which did not seem so unlikelyon the island as it does elsewhere, since the people were plainlyretrograding, and who knows but that they might some time even catch upwith the past?
North of the piers there was only one street, which ran along thewater's edge. On the land side first came the fort garden, wheresuccessive companies of soldiers had vainly fought the climate in anagricultural way, redcoats of England and blue-coats of the UnitedStates, with much the same results of partially ripened vegetables,nipped fruits, and pallid flowers; for the island summer was beautiful,but too short for lusciousness. Hardy plants grew well, but there wasalways a persistent preference for those that were not hardy--likedelicate beauties who are loved and cherished tenderly, while the strongbrown maids go by unnoticed. The officers' wives made catsup of thegreen tomatoes, and loved their weakling flowers for far-away home'ssake; and as the Indians brought in canoe-loads of fine full-jacketedpotatoes from their little farms on the mainland, the officers couldafford to let the soldiers do fancy-work in the government fields if itpleased the exiled ladies. Beyond the army garden was the old Agencyhouse. The Agency itself had long been removed farther westward,following the retreating, dwindling tribes of the red men farther towardthe Rocky Mountains; but the old house remained. On its door a brassplate was still fixed, bearing the words, "United States Agency." But itwas now the home of a plain, unimportant citizen, William Douglas.
Anne ran up the path toward the front door, thinking of the children andthe supper. She climbed the uneven snow-covered steps, turned the latch,and entered the dark hall. There was a line of light under the left-handdoor, and taking off her fur-lined overshoes, she went in. The room waslarge; its three windows were protected by shutters, and thick curtainsof red hue, faded but cheery; a great fire of logs was burning on thehearth, lighting up every corner with its flame and glow, and making thepoor furniture splendid. In its radiance the curtains were damask, theold carpet a Persian-hued luxury, and the preparations for cooking an_Arabian Nights'_ display. Three little boys ran forward to meet theirsister; a girl who was basking in the glow of the flame looked uplanguidly. They were odd children, with black eyes, coal-black hair,dark skins, and bold eagle outlines. The eldest, the girl, was small--astrange little creature, with braids of black hair hanging down behindalmost to her ankles, half-closed black eyes, little hands and feet, alow soft voice, and the grace of a young panther. The boys were larger,handsome little fellows of wild aspect. In fact, all four were of mixedblood, their mother having been a beautiful French quarter-breed, andtheir father--William Douglas.
"Annet, Annet, can't we have fried potatoes for supper, and bacon?"
"Annet, Annet, can't we have coffee?"
"It is a biting night, isn't it?" said Tita, coming to her sister's sideand stroking her cold hands gently. "I really think, Annet, that youought to have something substantielle. You see, _I_ think of you;whereas those howling piggish bears think only of themselves."
All this she delivered in a soft, even voice, while Anne removed theremainder of her wrappings.
"I have thought of something better still," said William Douglas'seldest daughter, kissing her little sister fondly, and then stepping outof the last covering, and lifting the heap from the floor--"battercakes!"
The boys gave a shout of delight, and danced up and down on the hearth;Tita went back to her corner and sat down, clasping her little brownhands round her ankles, like the embalmed monkeys of the Nile. Hercorner was made by an old secretary and the side of the great chimney;this space she had lined and carpeted with furs, and here she sat curledup with her book or her bead-work all through the long winter, refusingto leave the house unless absolutely ordered out by Anne, who filled theplace of mother to these motherless little ones. Tita was well satisfiedwith the prospect of batter cakes; she would probably eat two if Annebrowned them well, and they were light and tender. But as for thoseboys, those wolf-dogs, those beasts, they would probably swallow dozens."If you come any nearer, Louis, I shall lay open the side of yourhead," she announced, gently, as the boys danced too near her hermitage;they, accustomed alike to her decisions and her words, danced fartheraway without any discussion of the subject. Tita was an excellentplaymate sometimes; her little moccasined feet, and long braidsstreaming behind, formed the most exciting feature of their summerraces; her blue cloth skirt up in the tops of the tallest trees, theprovocative element in their summer climbing. She was a pallid littlecreature, while they were brown; small, while they were large; but shedomineered over them like a king, and wreaked a whole vocabulary ofroughest fisherman's terms upon them when they displeased her. One awfulvengeance she reserved as a last resort: when they had been unbearablytroublesome she stole into their room at night in her little whitenight-gown, with all her long thick black hair loose, combed over herface, and hanging down round her nearly to her feet. This was a ghostlyvisitation which the boys could not endure, for she left a lamp in thehall outside, so that they could dimly see her, and then she stood andswayed toward them slowly, backward and forward, without a sound, allthe time coming nearer and nearer, until they shrieked aloud in terror,and Anne, hurrying to the rescue, found only three frightened littlefellows cowering together in their broad bed, and the hairy ghost gone.
"How can you do such things, Tita?" she said.
"It is the only way by which I can keep the little devils in order,"replied Tita.
"Do not use such words, dear."
"Mother did," said the younger sister, in her soft calm voice.
This was true, and Tita knew that Anne never impugned the memory of thatmother.
"Who volunteers to help?" said Anne, lighting a candle in an ironcandlestick, and opening a door.
"I," said Louis.
"I," said Gabriel.
"Me too," said little Andre.
They followed her, hopping along together, with arms interlinked, whileher candle shed a light on the bare walls and floors of the roomsthrough which they passed, a series of little apartments, empty anddesolate, at the end of which was the kitchen, inhabited in the daytimeby an Irishwoman, a soldier's wife, who came in the morning beforebreakfast, and went home at dusk, the only servant William Douglas'sfast-thinning purse could afford. Anne might have had her kitchen nearerwhat Miss Lois called the "keeping-room"; any one of the five in theseries would have answered the purpose as well as the one she hadchosen. But she had a dream of furnishing them all some day according toa plan of her own, and it would have troubled her greatly to have usedher proposed china closet, pantry, store-room, preserve closet, orfruit-room for culinary purposes. How often had she gone over the wholein her mind, settling the position of every shelf, and deliberating overthe pattern of the cups! The Irishwoman had left some gleams of fire onthe hearth, and the boys immediately set themselves to work buryingpotatoes in the ashes, with the hot hearth-stone beneath. "For of courseyou are going to cook in the sitting-room, Annet," they said. "We madeall ready for you there; and, besides, this fire is out."
"You could easily have kept it up," said the sister, smiling. "However,as it is Christmas-eve, I will let you have your way."
The boys alertly loaded themselves with the articles she gave them, andwent hopping back into the sitting-room. They scorned to walk onChristmas-eve; the thing was to hop, and yet carry every dish steadily.They arranged the table, still in a sort of dancing step, and sangtogether in their shrill childish voices a tune of their own, withoutany words but "Ho! ho! ho!" Tita, in her corner, kept watch over theproceedings, and inhaled the aroma of the coffee with indolentanticipation. The tin pot stood on the hearth near her, surrounded bycoals; it was a battered old coffee-pot, grimy as a camp-kettle, butdear to all the household, and their principal comforter when theweather was bitter, provisions scarce, or the boys especiallytroublesome. For the boys said they did not enjoy being especiallytroublesome; they could not help it any more than they could help havingthe measles or the whooping-cough. They needed coffee, therefore, forthe conflict, when they felt it com
ing on, as much as any of thehousehold.
Poor Anne's cooking utensils were few and old; it was hard to makebatter cakes over an open fire without the proper hanging griddle. Butshe attempted it, nevertheless, and at length, with scarlet cheeks,placed a plateful of them, brown, light, and smoking, upon the table."Now, Louis, run out for the potatoes; and, Tita, call father."
This one thing Tita would do; she aspired to be her father's favorite.She went out with her noiseless step, and presently returned leading inthe tall, bent, gray-haired father, her small brown hand holding histightly, her dark eyes fixed upon him with a persistent steadiness, asif determined to isolate all his attention upon herself. William Douglaswas never thoroughly at ease with his youngest daughter; she had thishabit of watching him silently, which made him uncomfortable. The boyshe understood, and made allowances for their wildness; but this girl,with her soft still ways, perplexed and troubled him. She seemed toembody, as it were, his own mistakes, and he never looked at her littlepale face and diminutive figure without a vague feeling that she was aspirit dwelling on earth in elfish form, with a half-developedcontradictory nature, to remind him of his past weakness. Standing atthe head of the table, tall and straight, with her nobly poised head andclear Saxon eyes, his other daughter awaited him, and met his gaze witha bright smile; he always came back to her with a sense of comfort. ButTita jealously brought his attention to herself again by pulling hishand, and leading him to his chair, taking her own place close besidehim. He was a tall man, and her head did not reach his elbow, but sheruled him. The father now asked a blessing; he always hesitated on hisway through it, once or twice, as though he had forgotten what to say,but took up the thread again after an instant's pause, and went on.When he came to the end, and said "Amen," he always sat down with arelieved air. If you had asked him what he had said, he could not havetold you unless you started him at the beginning, when the old formulawould have rolled off his lips in the same vague, mechanical way. Themeal proceeded in comparative quiet; the boys no longer hummed andshuffled their feet; they were engaged with the cakes. Tita refrainedfrom remarks save once, when Gabriel having dropped buttered crumbs uponher dress, she succinctly threatened him with dismemberment. Douglasgazed at her helplessly, and sighed.
"She will be a woman soon," he said to his elder daughter, when, an houror two later, she joined him in his own apartment, and drew from itshiding-place her large sewing-basket, filled with Christmas presents.
"Oh no, father, she is but a child," answered Anne, cheerfully. "As shegrows older these little faults will vanish."
"How old is she?" said Douglas.
"Just thirteen."
The father played a bar of Mendelssohn noiselessly on the arm of hischair with his long thin fingers; he was thinking that he had marriedTita's mother when she was hardly three years older. Anne was absorbedin her presents.
"See, father, will not this be nice for Andre? And this for Gabriel? AndI have made such a pretty doll for Tita."
"Will she care for it, dear?"
"Of course she will. Did I not play with my own dear doll until I wasfourteen years old--yes, almost fifteen?" said the girl, with a littlelaugh and blush.
"And you are now--"
"I am over sixteen."
"A great age," said Douglas, smoothing her thick brown hair fondly, asshe sat near him, bending over her sewing.
The younger children were asleep up stairs in two old bedrooms withrattling dormer windows, and the father and elder daughter were in asmall room opposite the sitting-room, called the study, although nothingwas ever studied there, save the dreams of his own life, by the vague,irresolute, imaginative soul that dwelt therein, in a thin body of itsown, much the worse for wear. William Douglas was a New England man ofthe brooding type, sent by force of circumstances into the ranks ofUnited States army surgeons. He had married Anne's mother, who hadpassionately loved him, against the wishes of her family, and hadbrought the disinherited young bride out to this far Western island,where she had died, happy to the last--one of those rare natures to whomlove is all in all, and the whole world well lost for its dear and holysake. Grief over her death brought out all at once the latent doubts,hesitations, and strange perplexities of William Douglas's peculiarmind--perplexities which might have lain dormant in a happier life. Heresigned his position as army surgeon, and refused even practice in thevillage. Medical science was not exact, he said; there was much pretenseand presumption in it; he would no longer countenance deception, or playa part. He was then made postmaster, and dealt out letters through someseasons, until at last his mistakes roused the attention of the newofficers at the fort; for the villagers, good, easy-tempered people,would never have complained of such trifles as a forgotten mail-bag ortwo under the counter. Superseded, he then attended nominally to thehighways; but as the military authorities had for years done all thatwas to be done on the smooth roads, three in number, including the steepfort hill, the position was a sinecure, and the superintendent took longwalks across the island, studying the flora of the Northern woods,watching the birds, noticing the clouds and the winds, staying out lateto experiment with the flash of the two light-houses from theirdifferent distances, and then coming home to his lonely house, where thebaby Anne was tenderly cared for by Miss Lois Hinsdale, whosuperintended the nurse all day, watched her charge to bed, and thencame over early in the morning before she woke. Miss Lois adored thebaby; and she watched the lonely father from a distance, imagining allhis sadness. It was the poetry of her life. Who, therefore, can pictureher feelings when, at the end of three years, it was suddenly brought toher knowledge that Douglas was soon to marry again, and that his choicewas Angelique Lafontaine, a French quarter-breed girl!
Angelique was amiable, and good in her way; she was also very beautiful.But Miss Lois could have borne it better if she had been homely. The NewEngland woman wept bitter, bitter tears that night. A god had come downand showed himself flesh; an ideal was shattered. How long had she dweltupon the beautiful love of Dr. Douglas and his young wife, taking it asa perfect example of rare, sweet happiness which she herself had missed,of which she herself was not worthy! How many times had she gone up tothe little burial-ground on the height, and laid flowers from her gardenon the mound, whose stone bore only the inscription, "Alida, wife ofWilliam Douglas, aged twenty-two years." Miss Lois had wished to have atext engraved under this brief line, and a date, but Dr. Douglas gentlyrefused a text, and regarding a date he said: "Time is nothing. Thosewho love her will remember the date, and strangers need not know. But Ishould like the chance visitor to note that she was only twenty-two,and, as he stands there, think of her with kindly regret, as we allthink of the early dead, though why, Miss Lois, why, I can not tell,since in going hence early surely the dead lose nothing, for God wouldnot allow any injustice, I think--yes, I have about decided in my ownmind that He does not allow it."
Miss Lois, startled, looked at him questioningly. He was then a man ofthirty-four, tall, slight, still noticeable for the peculiar refineddelicacy of face and manner which had first won the interest of sweet,impulsive Alida Clanssen.
"I trust, doctor, that you accept the doctrines of Holy Scripture on allsuch subjects," said Miss Lois. Then she felt immediately that sheshould have said "of the Church"; for she was a comparatively newEpiscopalian, having been trained a New England Presbyterian of theseverest hue.
Dr. Douglas came back to practical life again in the troubled gaze ofthe New England woman's eyes. "Miss Lois," he said, turning the subject,"Alida loved and trusted you; will you sometimes think of her littledaughter?"
And then Miss Lois, the quick tears coming, forgot all about orthodoxy,gladly promised to watch over the baby, and kept her word. But now herlife was shaken, and all her romantic beliefs disturbed and shattered,by this overwhelming intelligence. She was wildly, furiously jealous,wildly, furiously angry--jealous for Alida's sake, for the baby's, forher own. It is easy to be humble when a greater is preferred; but whenan inferior is lifted high abov
e our heads, how can we bear it? And MissLois was most jealous of all for Douglas himself--that such a man shouldso stoop. She hardly knew herself that night as she harshly pulled downthe curtains, pushed a stool half across the room, slammed the door, andpurposely knocked over the fire-irons. Lois Hinsdale had never since herbirth given way to rage before (nor known the solace of it), and she wasnow forty-one years old. All her life afterward she remembered thatnight as something akin to a witch's revel on the Brocken, a horriblewild reign of passion which she trembled to recall, and for which shedid penance many times in tears. "It shows the devil there is in usall," she said to herself, and she never passed the fire-irons for along time afterward without an unpleasant consciousness.
The limited circle of island society suggested that Miss Lois had beenhunting the loon with a hand-net--a Northern way of phrasing the wearingof the willow; but if the New England woman loved William Douglas, shewas not conscious of it, but merged the feeling in her love for hischild, and for the memory of Alida. True, she was seven years older thanhe was: women of forty-one can answer whether that makes any difference.
On a brilliant, sparkling, clear June morning William Douglas went downto the little Roman Catholic church and married the French girl. As hehad resigned his position in the army some time before, and as there wasa new set of officers at the fort, his marriage made little impressionthere save on the mind of the chaplain, who had loved him well when hewas surgeon of the post, and had played many a game of chess with him.The whole French population of the island, however, came to themarriage. That was expected. But what was not expected was the presencethere of Miss Lois Hinsdale, sitting severely rigid in the first pew,accompanied by the doctor's child--a healthy, blue-eyed little girl, whokissed her new mamma obediently, and thought her very sweet andpretty--a belief which remained with her always, the careless, indolent,easy-tempered, beautiful young second wife having died when herstep-daughter was eleven years old, leaving four little ones, who,according to a common freak of nature, were more Indian than theirmother. The Douglas family grew poorer every year; but as every one waspoor there, poverty was respectable; and as all poverty is comparative,they always esteemed themselves comfortable. For they had the old Agencyfor a home, and it was in some respects the most dignified residence onthe island; and they had the remains of the furniture which the youngsurgeon had brought with him from the East when his Alida was a bride,and that was better than most of the furniture in use in the village.The little stone fort on the height was, of course, the castle of thetown, and its commandant by courtesy the leader of society; but theinfantry officers who succeeded each other at this distant Northern postbrought little with them, camping out, as it were, in theirlow-ceilinged quarters, knowing that another season might see them faraway. The Agency, therefore, preserved an air of dignity still, althoughits roof leaked, its shutters rattled, although its plastering was gonehere and there, and its floors were uneven and decayed. Two of itsmassive outside chimneys, clamped to the sides of the house, were halfdown, looking like broken columns, monuments of the past; but there werea number left. The Agency originally had bristled with chimneys, whichgave, on a small scale, a castellated air to its rambling outline.
Dr. Douglas's study was old, crowded, and comfortable; that is,comfortable to those who have consciousness in their finger-ends, and nouncertainty as to their feet; the great army of blunderers andstumblers, the handle-everything, knock-over-everything people, who cuta broad swath through the smaller furniture of a room whenever theymove, would have been troubled and troublesome there. The boys werenever admitted; but Tita, who stepped like a little cat, and Anne, whohad a deft direct aim in all her motions, were often present. Thecomfort of the place was due to Anne; she shook out and arranged thecurtains, darned the old carpet, re-covered the lounge, polished theandirons, and did all without disturbing the birds' wings, the shells,the arrow-heads, the skins, dried plants, wampum, nets, bits of rock,half-finished drawings, maps, books, and papers, which were scatteredabout, or suspended from the walls. William Douglas, knowing somethingof everything, was exact in nothing: now he stuffed birds, now he readGreek, now he botanized, now he played on the flute, now he went aboutin all weathers chipping the rocks with ardent zeal, now he smoked inhis room all day without a word or a look for anybody. He sketched well,but seldom finished a picture; he went out hunting when the larder wasempty, and forgot what he went for; he had a delicate mechanical skill,and made some curious bits of intricate work, but he never mended thehinges of the shutters, or repaired a single article which was in dailyuse in his household.
"THE GIRL PAUSED AND REFLECTED A MOMENT."]
By the careful attention of Anne he was present in the fort chapel everySunday morning, and, once there, he played the organ with delight, andbrought exquisite harmonies from its little pipes; but Anne stood therebeside him all the time, found the places, and kept him down to thework, borrowing his watch beforehand in order to touch him when thevoluntary was too long, or the chords between the hymn verses toobeautiful and intricate. Those were the days when the old buckram-backedrhymed versions of the psalms were steadfastly given out at everyservice, and Anne's rich voice sang, with earnest fervor, words likethese:
"His liberal favors he extends, To some he gives, to others lends; Yet when his charity impairs, He saves by prudence in affairs,"
while her father followed them with harmony fit for angels. Douglastaught his daughter music in the best sense of the phrase; she readnotes accurately, and knew nothing of inferior composers, the onlychange from the higher courts of melody being some of the old Frenchchansons of the voyageurs, which still lingered on the island, echoes ofthe past. She could not touch the ivory keys with any skill, her handswere too much busied with other work; but she practiced her singinglessons as she went about the house--music which would have seemed tothe world of New York as old-fashioned as Chaucer.
The fire of logs blazed on the hearth, the father sat looking at hisdaughter, who was sewing swiftly, her thoughts fixed upon her work. Theclock struck eleven.
"It is late, Anne."
"Yes, father, but I must finish. I have so little time during the day."
"My good child," said Douglas, slowly and fondly.
Anne looked up; his eyes were dim with tears.
"I have done nothing for you, dear," he said, as she dropped her workand knelt by his side. "I have kept you selfishly with me here, and madeyou a slave to those children."
"My own brothers and my own little sister, father."
"Do you feel so, Anne? Then may God bless you for it! But I should nothave kept you here."
"This is our home, papa."
"A poor one."
"Is it? It never seemed so to me."
"That is because you have known nothing better."
"But I like it, papa, just as it is. I have always been happy here."
"Really happy, Anne?"
The girl paused, and reflected a moment. "Yes," she said, looking intothe depths of the fire, with a smile, "I am happy all the time. I amnever anything but happy."
William Douglas looked at her. The fire-light shone on her face; sheturned her clear eyes toward him.
"Then you do not mind the children? They are not a burdensome weightupon you?"
"Never, papa; how can you suppose it? I love them dearly, next to you."
"And will you stand by them, Anne? Note my words: I do not urge it, Isimply ask."
"Of course I will stand by them, papa. I give a promise of my ownaccord. I will never forsake them as long as I can do anything for them,as long as I live. But why do you speak of it? Have I ever neglectedthem or been unkind to them?" said the girl, troubled, and very neartears.
"No, dear; you love them better than they or I deserve. I was thinkingof the future, and of a time when,"--he had intended to say, "when I amno longer with you," but the depth of love and trust in her eyes madehim hesitate, and finish his sentence differently--"a time when they maygive you trou
ble," he said.
"They are good boys--that is, they mean no harm, papa. When they areolder they will study more."
"Will they?"
"Certainly," said Anne, with confidence. "I did. And as for Tita, youyourself must see, papa, what a remarkable child she is."
Douglas shaded his face with his hand. The uneasy sense of trouble whichalways stirred within him when he thought of his second daughter wasrising to the surface now like a veiled, formless shape. "The sins ofthe fathers," he thought, and sighed heavily.
Anne threw her arms round his neck, and begged him to look at her."Papa, speak to me, please. What is it that troubles you so?"
"Stand by little Tita, child, no matter what she does. Do not expect toomuch of her, but remember always her--her Indian blood," said thetroubled father, in a low voice.
A flush crossed Anne's face. The cross of mixed blood in the youngerchildren was never alluded to in the family circle or among theiroutside friends. In truth, there had been many such mixtures on theisland in the old times, although comparatively few in the modern daysto which William Douglas's second marriage belonged.
"Tita is French," said Anne, speaking rapidly, almost angrily.
"She is more French than Indian. Still--one never knows." Then, after apause: "I have been a slothful father, Anne, and feel myself cowardlyalso in thus shifting upon your shoulders my own responsibilities.Still, what can I do? I can not re-live my life; and even if I could,perhaps I might do the same again. I do not know--I do not know. We areas we are, and tendencies dating generations back come out in us, andconfuse our actions."
He spoke dreamily. His eyes were assuming that vague look with which hischildren were familiar, and which betokened that his mind was far away.
"You could not do anything which was not right, father," said Anne.
She was standing by his side now, and in her young strength might havebeen his champion against the whole world. The fire-light shining outshowed a prematurely old man, whose thin form, bent drooping shoulders,and purposeless face were but Time's emphasis upon the slender, refined,dreamy youth, who, entering the domain of doubt with honest negationsand a definite desire, still wandered there, lost to the world, havingforgotten his first object, and loving the soft haze now for itselfalone.
Anne received no answer: her father's mind had passed away from her.After waiting a few moments in silence she saw that he was lost in oneof his reveries, and sitting down again she took up her work and went onsewing with rapid stitches. Poor Anne and her poor presents! How coarsethe little white shirts for Louis and Andre! how rough the jacket forGabriel! How forlorn the doll! How awkwardly fashioned the small clothslippers for Tita! The elder sister was obliged to make her Christmasgifts with her own hands; she had no money to spend for suchsuperfluities. The poor doll had a cloth face, with features painted ona flat surface, and a painful want of profile. A little before twelvethe last stitch was taken with happy content.
"Papa, it is nearly midnight; do not sit up very late," said thedaughter, bending to kiss the father's bent, brooding brow. WilliamDouglas's mind came back for an instant, and looked out through hisclouded eyes upon his favorite child. He kissed her, gave her his usualblessing, "May God help the soul He has created!" and then, almostbefore she had closed the door, he was far away again on one of thoselong journeyings which he took silently, only his following guardianangel knew whither. Anne went across the hall and entered thesitting-room; the fire was low, but she stirred the embers, and by theirlight filled the four stockings hanging near the chimney-piece. Firstshe put in little round cakes wrapped in papers; then home-made candies,not thoroughly successful in outline, but well-flavored and sweet; nextgingerbread elephants and camels, and an attempt at a fairy; lastly thecontents of her work-basket, which gave her much satisfaction as sheinspected them for the last time. Throwing a great knot, which wouldburn slowly all night, upon the bed of dying coals, she lighted a candleand went up to her own room.
As soon as she had disappeared, a door opened softly above, and a smallfigure stole out into the dark hall. After listening a moment, thislittle figure went silently down the stairs, paused at the line of lightunderneath the closed study door, listened again, and then, convincedthat all was safe, went into the sitting-room, took down the stockingsone by one, and deliberately inspected all their contents, sitting on alow stool before the fire. First came the stockings of the boys; eachparcel was unrolled, down to the last gingerbread camel, and as deftlyenwrapped again by the skillful little fingers. During this examinationthere was not so much an expression of interest as of jealous scrutiny.But when the turn of her own stocking came, the small face showed themost profound, almost weazened, solicitude. Package after package wasswiftly opened, and its contents spread upon the mat beside her. Thedoll was cast aside with contempt, the slippers examined and tried onwith critical care, and then when the candy and cake appeared andnothing else, the eyes snapped with anger.
The little brown hand felt down to the toe of the stocking: no, therewas nothing more. "It is my opinion," said Tita, in her French island_patois_, half aloud, "that Annet is one stupid beast."
She then replaced everything, hung the stockings on their nails, andstole back to her own room; here, by the light of a secreted candle-end,she manufactured the following epistle, with heavy labor of brains andhand: "Cher papa,--I hav dreemed that Sant Klos has hare-ribbans in hispak. Will you ask him for sum for your little Tita?" This not seemingsufficiently expressive, she inserted "trez affecsionay" before "Tita,"and then, folding the epistle, she went softly down the stairs again,and stealing round in the darkness through several unused rooms, sheentered her father's bedroom, which communicated with the study, and bysense of feeling pinned the paper carefully round his large pipe, whichlay in its usual place on the table. For William Douglas always begansmoking as soon as he rose, in this way nullifying, as it were, thefresh, vivifying effect of the morning, which smote painfully upon hiseyes and mind alike; in the afternoon and evening he did not smoke sosteadily, the falling shadows supplying of themselves the atmosphere heloved. Having accomplished her little manoeuvre, Tita went back up stairsto her own room like a small white ghost, and fell asleep with thesatisfaction of a successful diplomatist.
In the mean time Anne was brushing her brown hair, and thoughtfullygoing over in her own mind the morrow's dinner. Her room was a bare andcomfortless place; there was but a small fire on the hearth, and nocurtains over the windows; it took so much care and wood to keep thechildren's rooms warm that she neglected her own, and as for thefurniture, she had removed it piece by piece, exchanging it forbroken-backed worn-out articles from all parts of the house. One leg ofthe bedstead was gone, and its place supplied by a box which theold-fashioned valance only half concealed; the looking-glass wascracked, and distorted her image; the chairs were in hospital and out ofservice, the young mistress respecting their injuries, and using as herown seat an old wooden stool which stood near the hearth. Upon this shewas now seated, the rippling waves of her thick hair flowing over hershoulders. Having at last faithfully rehearsed the Christmas dinner inall its points, she drew a long breath of relief, rose, extinguished herlight, and going over to the window, stood there for a moment lookingout. The moonlight came gleaming in and touched her with silver, herpure youthful face and girlish form draped in white. "May God bless mydear father," she prayed, silently, looking up to the thick studdedstars; "and my dear mother too, wherever she is to-night, in one ofthose far bright worlds, perhaps." It will be seen from this prayer thatthe boundaries of Anne Douglas's faith were wide enough to include eventhe unknown.