Anne: A Novel

  CHAPTER XI.

  "Those who honestly make their own way without the aid of fortunate circumstances and by the force of their own intelligence. This includes the great multitude of Americans."

  --GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

  "He is a good fellow, spoiled. Whether he can be unspoiled, is doubtful. It might be accomplished by the Blessing we call Sorrow."

  When the two travellers arrived at Caryl's, Helen was gone. Anothertelegraphic dispatch had again summoned her to her frequently dyinggrandfather.

  "You are disappointed," said Miss Vanhorn.

  "Yes, grandaunt."

  "You will have all the more time to devote to me," said the old woman,with her dry little laugh.

  Caryl's was a summer resort of an especial kind. Persons who dislikecrowds, persons who seek novelty, and, above all, persons who spendtheir lives in carefully avoiding every thing and place which can evenremotely be called popular, combine to make such nooks, and give them abrief fame--a fame which by its very nature must die as suddenly as itis born. Caryl's was originally a stage inn, or "tarvern," in thedialect of the district. But the stage ran no longer, and as the railwaywas several miles distant, the house had become as isolated as the oldroad before its door, which went literally nowhere, the bridge which hadonce spanned the river having fallen into ruin. Some young men belongingto those New York families designated by Tante as "Neeker-bokers"discovered Caryl's by chance, and established themselves there as aplace free from new people, with some shooting, and a few trout. Thenext summer they brought their friends, and from this beginning hadswiftly grown the present state of things, namely, two hundred personsoccupying the old building and hastily erected cottages, in rooms whichtheir city servants would have refused with scorn.

  The crowd of summer travellers could not find Caryl's; Caryl's was notadvertised. It was not on the road to anywhere. It was a mysteriousspot. The vogue of such places changes as fantastically as it iscreated; the people who make it take flight suddenly, and never return.If it exist at all, it falls into the hands of another class; and thereis a great deal of wondering (deservedly) over what was ever foundattractive in it. The nobler ocean beaches, grand mountains, andbounteous springs will always be, must always be, popular; it isNature's ironical method, perhaps, of forcing the would-be exclusives tocontent themselves with her second best, after all.

  Caryl's, now at the height of its transient fame, was merely a quietnook in the green country, with no more attractions than a hundredothers; but the old piazza was paced by the little high-heeled shoes offashionable women, the uneven floors swept by their trailing skirts.French maids and little bare-legged children sported in theold-fashioned garden, and young men made up their shooting parties inthe bare office, and danced in the evening--yes, really danced, notleaving it superciliously to the boys--in the rackety bowling-alley,which, refloored, did duty as a ball-room. There was a certain woody,uncloying flavor about Caryl's (so it was asserted), which could notexist amid the gilding of Saratoga. All this Miss Vanhorn related to herniece on the day of their arrival. "I do not expect you to understandit," she said; "but pray make no comment; ask no question. Accepteverything, and then you will pass."

  Aunt and niece had spent a few days in New York, _en route_. The oldlady was eccentric about her own attire; she knew that she could affordto be eccentric. But for her niece she purchased a sufficient althoughsimple supply of summer costumes, so that the young girl made herappearance among the others without attracting especial attention.Helen was not there; no one identified Miss Douglas as the _rara avis_of her fantastic narrations. And there was no surface sparkle aboutAnne, none of the usual girlish wish to attract attention, which makesthe eyes brighten, the color rise, and the breath quicken when enteringa new circle.

  That old woman of the world, Katharine Vanhorn, took no step to attractnotice to her niece. She knew that Anne's beauty was of the kind thatcould afford to wait; people would discover it for themselves. Anneremained, therefore, quietly by her side through several days, whileshe, not unwilling at heart to have so fresh a listener, talked on andinstructed her. Miss Vanhorn was not naturally brilliant, but she wasone of those society women who, in the course of years of fashionablelife, have selected and retained for their own use excellent bits ofphrasing not original with themselves, idiomatic epithets, a way ofneatly describing a person in a word or two as though you had ticketedhim, until the listener really takes for brilliancy what is no more thana thread-and-needle shop of other people's wares.

  "Any man," she said, as they sat in the transformed bowling-alley--"anyman, no matter how insignificant and unattractive, can be made tobelieve that any woman, no matter how beautiful or brilliant, is in lovewith him, at the expense of two looks and one sigh."

  "But who cares to make him believe?" said Anne, with the unaffected,cheerful indifference which belonged to her, and which had alreadyquieted Miss Vanhorn's fears as to any awkward self-consciousness.

  "Most women."

  "Why?"

  "To swell their trains," replied the old woman. "Isabel Varce, overthere in blue, and Rachel Bannert, the one in black, care for nothingelse."

  "Mrs. Bannert is very ugly," said Anne, with the calm certainty ofgirlhood.

  "Oh, is she?" said Miss Vanhorn, laughing shortly. "You will change yourmind, my Phyllis; you will learn that a dark skin and half-open eyes aresuperb."

  "If _Helen_ was here, people would see real beauty," answered Anne, withsome scorn.

  "They are a contrast, I admit; opposite types. But we must not benarrow, Phyllis; you will find that people continue to look at Mrs.Bannert, no matter who is by. Here is some one who seems to know you."

  "Mr. Dexter," said Anne, as the tall form drew near. "He is a friend ofHelen's."

  "Helen has a great many friends. However, I happen to have heard of thisMr. Dexter. You may present him to me--I hope you know how."

  All Madame Moreau's pupils knew how. Anne performed her task properly,and Dexter, bringing forward one of the old broken-backed chairs (whichformed part of the "woody and uncloying flavor" of Caryl's), sat downbeside them.

  "I am surprised that you remembered me, Mr. Dexter," said the girl. "Yousaw me but once, and on New-Year's Day too, among so many."

  "But you remembered me, Miss Douglas."

  "That is different. You were kind to me--about the singing. It isnatural that I should remember."

  "And why not as natural that I should remember the singing?"

  "Because it was not good enough to have made any especial impression,"replied Anne, looking at him calmly with her clear violet eyes.

  "It was at least new--I mean the simplicity of the little ballad," saidDexter, ceasing to compliment, and speaking only the truth.

  "Simplicity!" said Miss Vanhorn: "I am tired of it. I hope, Anne, youwill not sing any simplicity songs here; those ridiculous things aboutbringing an ivy leaf, only an ivy leaf, and that it was but a littlefaded flower. They show an extremely miserly spirit, I think. If you cannot give your friends a whole blossom or a fresh one, you had better notgive them any at all."

  "Who was it who said that he was sated with poetry about flowers, andthat if the Muses must come in everywhere, he wished they would notalways come as green-grocers?" said Dexter, who knew perfectly the homeof this as of every other quotation, but always placed it in that way togive people an opportunity of saying, "Charles Lamb, wasn't it?" or"Sheridan?" It made conversation flowing.

  "The flowers do not need the Muses," said Miss Vanhorn--"slatternlycreatures, with no fit to their gowns. And that reminds me of what Annewas saying as you came up, Mr. Dexter; she was calmly and decisivelyobserving that Mrs. Bannert was very ugly."

  A smile crossed Dexter's face in answer to the old woman's short drylaugh.

  "I added that if Mrs. Lorrington was here, people would see realbeauty," said Anne, distressed by this betrayal, but standing by herguns.

  Miss Vanhorn laughed again. "Mr. Dexter particu
larly admires Mrs.Bannert, child," she said, cheerfully, having had the unexpectedamusement of two good laughs in an evening.

  But Anne, instead of showing embarrassment, turned her eyes towardDexter, as if in honest inquiry.

  "Mrs. Bannert represents the Oriental type of beauty," he answered,smiling, as he perceived her frank want of agreement.

  "Say creole," said Miss Vanhorn. "It is a novelty, child, which has madeits appearance lately; a reaction after the narrow-chested type whichhas so long in America held undisputed sway. We absolutely take aquadroon to get away from the consumptive, blue-eyed saint, of whom weare all desperately tired."

  "New York city is now developing a type of its own, I think," saidDexter. "You can tell a New York girl at a glance when you meet her inthe West or the South. Women walk more in the city than they doelsewhere, and that has given them a firm step and bearing, which arenoticeable."

  "To think of comparisons between different parts of this raw land ofours, as though they had especial characteristics of their own!" saidMiss Vanhorn, looking for a seed.

  "You have not traveled much in this country, I presume," said Dexter.

  "No, man, no. When I travel, I go abroad."

  "I have never been abroad," answered Dexter, quietly. "But I can see adifference between the people of Massachusetts and the people of SouthCarolina, the people of Philadelphia and the people of San Francisco,which is marked and of the soil. I even think that I can tell aBaltimore, Buffalo, Chicago, Louisville, or St. Louis family at sight."

  "You go to all those places?" said Miss Vanhorn, half closing her eyes,and speaking in a languid voice, as if the subject was too remote forclose attention.

  "Yes. You are not aware that I am a business man."

  "Ah? What is it you do?" said the old woman, who knew perfectly Dexter'sentire history, but wanted to hear his own account of himself.

  "I am interested in iron; that is, I have iron mills, and--otherthings."

  "Exactly; as you say--other things. Does that mean politics?"

  "Partly," said Dexter, smiling.

  "And oil?"

  "No. I have never had any opportunity to coin gold with the Aladdin'slamp found in Pennsylvania. There is no magic in any of my occupations;they are all regular and commonplace."

  "Are you in Congress now?"

  "No; I was only there one term."

  "A bore, isn't it?"

  "Not to me."

  "Congress is always a riot," said Miss Vanhorn, still with her eyesclosed.

  "I can not agree with you," said Dexter, his face taking on one of itsresolute expressions. "I have small patience with those Americans whoaffect to be above any interest in the government of the country inwhich they live. It _is_ their country, and they can no more alter thatfact than they can change their plain grandfathers into foreignnoblemen."

  "Dear me! dear me!" said Miss Vanborn, carelessly. "You talk to me as ifI were a mass-meeting."

  "I beg your pardon," said Dexter, his former manner returning. "I forgotfor the moment that no one is in earnest at Caryl's."

  "By-the-way, how did _you_ ever get in here?" said Miss Vanhorn, withfrank impertinence.

  "I came because I like to see all sides of society," he replied, smilingdown upon her with amused eyes.

  "Give me your arm. You amount to something," said the old woman, rising."We will walk up and down for a few moments; and, Anne, you can cometoo."

  "I am almost sure that he is Helen's Knight-errant," thought Anne. "AndI like him _very_ much."

  A niece of Miss Vanhorn's could not of course be slighted. The next dayIsabel Varce came up and talked a while; later, Mrs. Bannert and theothers followed. Gregory Dexter was with aunt and niece frequently; andMiss Vanhorn was pleased to be very gracious. She talked to him herselfmost of the time, while Anne watched the current of the new life roundher. Other men had been presented to her; and among them she thought sherecognized the Chanting Tenor and the Poet of Helen's narratives. Shecould not write to Helen; the eccentric grandfather objected to letters."Fools and women clog the mails," was one of his favorite assertions.But although Anne could not write, Helen could smuggle lettersoccasionally into the outgoing mail-bags, and when she learned that Annewas at Caryl's, she wrote immediately. "Have you seen Isabel Varce yet?"ran the letter. "And Rachel Bannert? The former is my dearest rival, thelatter my deadliest friend. Use your eyes, I beg. What amusement I shallhave hearing your descriptions when I come! For of course you will makethe blindest mistakes. However, a blind man has been known to seesometimes what other people have never discovered. How is the GrandLlama? I conquered her at last, as I told you I should. With a highpressure of magnanimity. But it was all for my own sake; and now,behold, I am here! But you can study the Bishop, the Poet, the Tenor,and the Knight-errant in the flesh; how do you like the Knight?"

  "This place is a prison," wrote Helen, again; "and I am in the mean timeconsumed with curiosity to know _what_ is going on at Caryl's. Pleaseanswer my letters, and put the answers away until I come; it is the onlymethod I can think of by which I can get the aroma of each day. Or,rather, not the aroma, but the facts; you do not know much of aromas. Iffacts were 'a divine thing' to Frederick the Great (Mr. Dexter told methat, of course), they are certainly extremely solemn to you. Tell me,then, what everybody is doing. And particularly the Bishop and theKnight-errant."

  And Anne answered the letters faithfully, telling everything shenoticed, especially as to Dexter. Who the Bishop was she had not beenable to decide.

  In addition to the others, Ward Heathcote had now arrived at Caryl's,also Mr. Blum.

  In the mean time Miss Vanhorn had tested without delay her niece's newknowledge of botany. Her face was flushed and her hand fairly trembledwith eagerness as she gave Anne her first wild flower, and ordered herto analyze it. Would she blunder, or show herself dull and incompetent?One thing was certain: no pretended zeal could deceive oldKatharine--she knew the reality too well.

  But there was no pretense. Anne, honest as usual, analyzed the flowerwith some mistakes, but with real interest; and the keen black eyesrecognized the genuine hue of the feeling, as far as it went. After thatinitiation, every morning they drove to the woods, and Anne searched inall directions, coming back loaded down with spoil. Every afternoonthere followed analyzing, pressing, drying, and labelling, for hours.

  "Pray leave the foundations of our bridge intact," called Isabel Varce,passing on horseback, accompanied by Ward Heathcote, and looking down atAnne digging up something on the bank below, while at a little distanceMiss Vanhorn's coupe was waiting, with the old lady's hard face lookingout through the closed window.

  Anne laughed, and turned her face, glowing with rose-color, upward tolook at them.

  "Do you like that sort of thing?" said Isabel, pausing, having noted ata glance that the young girl was attired in old clothes, and appeared inevery way at a disadvantage. She had no especial malice toward Anne inthis; she merely acted on general principles as applied to all of herown sex. But even the most acute feminine minds make mistakes on onesubject, namely, they forget that to a man dress is not the woman. Anne,in her faded gown, down on the muddy bank, with her hat off, her bootsbegrimed, and her zeal for the root she was digging up, seemed to WardHeathcote a new and striking creature. The wind ruffled her thick brownhair and blew it into little rings and curls about her face, her eyes,unflinching in the brilliant sunshine, laughed back at them as theylooked over the railing; the lines of her shoulder and extended armswere of noble beauty. To a woman's eyes a perfect sleeve is of thehighest importance; it did not occur to Isabel that through the ugly,baggy, out-of-date sleeve down there on the bank, the wind, sturdilyblowing, was revealing an arm whose outline silk and lace could neverrival. Satisfied with her manoeuvre, she rode on: Anne certainly lookedwhat all women would have called "a fright."

  Yet that very evening Heathcote approached, recalled himself to MissVanhorn's short memory, and, after a few moments of conversation, satdown beside Anne, who rec
eived him with the same frank predisposition tobe pleased which she gave to all alike. Heathcote was not a talker likeDexter; he seemed to have little to say at any time. He was one of asmall and unimportant class in the United States, which would be veryoffensive to citizens at large if it came in contact with them; but itseldom does. To this class there is no city in America save New York,and New York itself is only partially endurable. National reputationsare nothing, politics nothing. Money is necessary, and ought to beprovided in some way; and generally it is, since without it this classcould not exist in a purely democratic land. But it is inherited, notmade. It may be said that simply the large landed estates acquired at anearly date in the vicinity of the city, and immensely increased in valueby the growth of the metropolis, have produced this class, which,however, having no barriers, can never be permanent, or make to itselflaws. Heathcote's great-grandfather was a landed proprietor inWestchester County; he had lived well, and died at a good old age, to besucceeded by his son, who also lived well, and died not so well, andpoorer than his father. The grandson increased the ratio in both cases,leaving to his little boy, Ward, but a small portion of the originalfortune, and departing from the custom of the house in that he diedearly. The boy, without father, mother, brother, or sister, grew upunder the care of guardians, and, upon coming of age, took possession ofthe remnant left to him. A good portion of this he himself had lost, notso much from extravagance, however, as carelessness. He had been abroad,of course, and had adopted English ways, but not with any violence. Heleft that to others. He passed for good-natured in the main; he was notrestless. He was quite willing that other men should have more luxuriesthan he had--a yacht, for instance, or fine horses; he felt noirritation on the subject. On the other hand, he would have been muchsurprised to learn that any one longed to take him out and knock himdown, simply as an insufferable object. Yet Gregory Dexter had thatlonging at times so strongly that his hand fairly quivered.

  Heathcote was slightly above middle height, and well built, but his gaitwas indolent and careless. Good features unlighted by animation, a brownskin, brown eyes ordinarily rather lethargic, thick brown hair andmustache, and heavy eyebrows standing out prominently from the face inprofile view, were the items ordinarily given in a general description.He had a low-toned voice and slow manner, in which, however, there wasno affectation. What was the use of doing anything with any particulareffort? He had no antipathy for persons of other habits; the world waslarge. It was noticed, however (or rather it was _not_ noticed), that hegenerally got away from them as soon as he quietly could. He had livedto be thirty-two years old, and had on the whole enjoyed life so far,although he was neither especially important, handsome, nor rich. Thesecret of this lay in one fact: women liked him.

  What was it that they found to like in him? This was the question askedoften in irritation by his brother man. And naturally. For the womenthemselves could not give a reasonable reason. The corresponding side oflife is not the same, since men admire with a reason; the woman isplainly beautiful, or brilliant, or fascinating round whom they gather.At Caryl's seven or eight men were handsomer than Heathcote; a numberwere more brilliant; many were richer. Yet almost all of these haddiscovered, at one time or another, that the eyes they were talking towere following Heathcote furtively; and they had seen attempts that madethem tingle with anger--all the more so because they were soinfinitesimally delicate and fine, as became the actions of well-bredwomen. One or two, who had married, had had explained to themelaborately by their wives what it was they (in their free days, ofcourse) had liked in Heathcote--elaborately, if not clearly. Thehusbands gathered generally that it was only a way he had, a manner; theliking was half imaginative, after all. Now Heathcote was not in theleast imaginative. But the women were.

  Manly qualities, good hearts, handsome faces, and greater wealth heldtheir own in fact against him. Marriages took place in his circle,wedding chimes pealed, and brides were happy under their veils in spiteof him. Yet, as histories of lives go, there was a decided balance inhis favor of feminine regard, and no one could deny it.

  He had now but a small income, and had been obliged to come down to avery simple manner of life. Those who disliked him said that of coursehe would marry money. As yet, however, he had shown no signs offulfilling his destiny in this respect. He seldom took the trouble toexpress his opinions, and therefore passed as having none; but those whowere clear-sighted knew better. Dexter was one of these, and thisentire absence of self-assertion in Ward Heathcote stung him. For Dexteralways asserted himself; he could not help it. He came in at thismoment, and noted Heathcote's position near Anne. Obeying an impulse, hecrossed the room immediately, and began a counter-conversation with MissVanhorn, the chaperon.

  "Trying to interest that child," he thought, as he listened to thegrandaunt with the air of deferential attention she liked so well. Witheyes that apparently never once glanced in their direction, he keptclose watch of the two beyond. "She is no match for him," he thought,with indignation; "she has had no experience. It ought not to beallowed."

  But Dexter always mistook Heathcote; he gave him credit for plans andtheories of which Heathcote never dreamed. In fact, he judged him byhimself. Heathcote was merely talking to Anne now in the absence ofother entertainment, having felt some slight curiosity about her becauseshe had looked so bright and contented on the mud-bank under the bridge.He tried to recall his impression of her on New-Year's Day, anddetermined to refresh his memory by Blum; but, in the mean time,outwardly, his manner was as though, silently of course, but none theless deeply, he had dwelt upon her image ever since. It was thisimpalpable manner which made Dexter indignant. He knew it so well! Hesaid to himself that it was a lie. And, generally speaking, it was. Butpossibly in this case (as in others) it was not so much the falsity ofthe manner as its success which annoyed the other man.

  He could not hear what was said; and the words, in truth, were not manyor brilliant. But he knew the sort of quiet glance with which they werebeing accompanied. Yet Dexter, quick and suspicious as he was, wouldnever have discovered that glance unaided. He had learned it fromanother, and that other, of course, a woman. For once in a while ithappens that a woman, when roused to fury, will pour out the whole storyof her wrongs to some man who happens to be near. No man does this. Hehas not the same need of expression; and, besides, he will never showhimself at such a disadvantage voluntarily, even for the sake ofcomfort. He would rather remain uncomforted. But women of strongfeelings often, when excited, cast wisdom to the winds, and even seem tofind a desperate satisfaction in the most hazardous imprudences, whichcan injure only themselves. In a mood of this kind, some one had pouredout to Gregory Dexter bitter testimony against Heathcote, one-sided,perhaps, but photographically accurate in all the details, which are somuch to women. Dexter had listened with inward anger and contempt; buthe had listened. And he had recognized, besides, the accent of truth inevery word. The narrator was now in Austria with a new and foreignhusband, apparently as happy as the day is long. But the listener hadnever forgotten or forgiven her account of Heathcote's method andmanner. He said to himself that he despised it, and he did despise it.Still, in some occult way, one may be jealous of results attained evenby ways and means for which one feels a righteous contempt; and the moreso when one has a firm confidence in his own abilities, which have notyet, however, been openly recognized in that field. In all other fieldsGregory Dexter was a marked type of American success.

  As the days moved slowly on, he kept watch of Heathcote. It was more adetermination to foil him than interest in Anne which made him addhimself as a third whenever he could unobtrusively; which was not often,since Miss Vanhorn liked to talk to him herself, and Anne knew no morehow to aid him than a nun. After a while Heathcote became conscious ofthis watchfulness, and it amused him. His idea of Dexter was "a cleversort of fellow, who has made money, and is ambitious. Goes in forpolitics, and that sort of thing. Talks well, but too much. Tiresome."He began to devote himself to Anne now in a different way; h
itherto hehad been only entertaining himself (and rather languidly) by a study ofher fresh naive truthfulness. He had drawn out her history; he, too,knew of the island, the fort, and the dog trains. Poor Anne was alwayseloquent on these subjects. Her color rose, her words came quickly.

  "You are fond of the island," he said, one evening, as they sat on thepiazza in the moonlight, Dexter within three feet of them, but unable tohear their murmured words. For Heathcote had a way of interposing hisshoulder between listeners and the person to whom he was talking, whichmade the breadth of woollen cloth as much a barrier as a stone wall; hedid this more frequently now that he had discovered Dexter'swatchfulness.

  "Yes," said Anne, in as low a voice as his own. Then suddenly, plainlyvisible to him in the moonlight, tears welled up and dropped upon hercheeks.

  She had been homesick all day. Sometimes Miss Vanhorn was hard and coldas a bronze statue in winter; sometimes she was as quick and fiery as ifcharged with electricity. Sometimes she veered between the two. To-dayhad been one of the veering days, and Anne had worked over the driedplants five hours in a close room, now a mark for sarcastic darts ofridicule, now enduring an icy silence, until her lot seemed too heavy tobear. She had learned to understand the old woman's moods, butunderstanding pain does not make it lighter. Released at last, a greatwave of homesickness had swept over her, which did not, however, breakbounds until Heathcote's words touched the spring; then the gates openedand the tears came.

  They had no sooner dropped upon her cheeks, one, two, three, than shewas overwhelmed with hot shame at having allowed them to fall, and withfear lest any one should notice them. Mr. Heathcote had seen them, thatwas hopelessly certain; but if only she could keep them from hergrandaunt! Yet she did not dare to lift her handkerchief lest its whiteshould attract attention.

  But Heathcote knew what to do.

  As soon as he saw the tears (to him, of course, totally unexpected; butgirls are so), he raised his straw hat, which lay on his knee, and,holding it by the crown, began elaborately to explain some peculiarityin the lining (he called it South American) invented for the occasion,at the same time, by the motion, screening her face completely fromobservation on the other side. But Anne could not check herself; thevery shelter brought thicker drops. He could not hold his hat in thatposition forever, even to look at Brazilian linings. He rose suddenly,and standing in front so as to screen her, he cried, "A bat! a bat!" atthe same time making a pass with his hat as though he saw it in the air.

  Every one on the piazza rose, darted aside hither and thither, theladies covering their heads with their fans and handkerchiefs, the menmaking passes with their hats, as usual on bat occasions; every one wassure the noxious creature flew by. For a number of minutes confusionreigned. When it was over, Anne's cheeks were dry, and a little cobwebtie had been formed between herself and Heathcote. It was too slight tobe noticed, but it was there.