CHAPTER XV.
"No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike. Times change, and people change; and if our hearts do not change as readily, so much the worse for us."--NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
"But, ah! who ever shunn'd by precedent The destined ills she must herself assay?"
--SHAKSPEARE.
When Miss Vanhorn and her niece entered the ball-room, late in theevening, heads were turned to look at them; for the old woman wore allher diamonds, fine stones in old-fashioned settings, and shone like alittle squat-figured East Indian god. Anne was beside her, clad in palelavender--an evening costume simply made, but more like full dress thananything she had yet worn. Dexter came forward instantly, and asked herto dance. He thought he had never seen her look so well--so much likethe other ladies; for heretofore there had been a marked difference--adifference which he had neither comprehended nor admired. Anne danced.New invitations came, and she accepted them. She was enjoying it allfrankly, when through a window she caught sight of Heathcote on thepiazza looking in. She happened to be dancing with Mr. Dexter, and atonce she felt nervous in the thought that he might at any moment ask hersome question about the day which she would find difficulty inanswering. But she had not thought of this until her eyes fell onHeathcote.
Dexter had seen Heathcote too, and he had also seen her suddennervousness. He was intensely vexed. Could Ward Heathcote, simply bylooking through a window, make a girl grow nervous in that way, and agirl with whom he, Dexter, was dancing? With inward angry determination,he immediately asked her to dance again. But he need not have fearedinterference; Heathcote did not enter the room during the evening.
From the moment Miss Vanhorn heard the story of that day her methodregarding her niece changed entirely; for Mr. Heathcote would never haveremained with her, storm or no storm, through four or five hours, unlesshe either admired her, had been entertained by her, or liked her forherself alone, as men will like occasionally a frank, natural younggirl.
According to old Katharine, Anne was not beautiful enough to excite hisadmiration, not amusing enough to entertain him; it must be, therefore,that he liked her to a certain degree for herself alone. Mr. Heathcotewas not a favorite of old Katharine's, yet none the less was hisapproval worth having, and none the less, also, was he an excellentsubject to rouse the jealousy of Gregory Dexter. For Dexter was notcoming forward as rapidly as old Katharine had decreed he should come.Old Katharine had decided that Anne was to marry Dexter; but if in themean time her girlish fancy was attracted toward Heathcote, so much thebetter. It would all the more surely eliminate the memory of that fatalname, Pronando. Of course Heathcote was only amusing himself, but hemust now be encouraged to continue to amuse himself. She ceased takingAnne to the woods every day; she made her sit among the groups of ladieson the piazza in the morning, with worsted, canvas, and a pattern, whichpuzzled poor Anne deeply, since she had not the gift of fancy-work, nora talent for tidies. She asked Heathcote to teach her niece to playbilliards, and she sent her to stroll on the river-bank at sunset withhim under a white silk parasol. At the same time, however, she continuedto summon Mr. Dexter to her side with the same dictatorial manner shehad assumed toward him from the first, and to talk to him, and encouragehim to talk to her through long half-hours of afternoon and evening. Theold woman, with her airs of patronage, her half-closed eyes, and frankimpertinence, amused him more than any one at Caryl's. With his ownwide, far-reaching plans and cares and enterprises all the time pushingeach other forward in his mind, it was like coming from a world ofgiants to one of Lilliputians to sit down and talk with limited,prejudiced, narrow old Katharine. She knew that he was amused; she waseven capable of understanding it, viewed from his own stand-point. Thatmade no difference with her own.
After three or four days of the chaperon's open arrangement, it grewinto a custom for Heathcote to meet Anne at sunset in the garden, andstroll up and down with her for half an hour. She was always there,because she was sent there. Heathcote never said he would come again; itwas supposed to be by chance. But one evening Anne remarked frankly thatshe was very glad he came; her grandaunt sent her out whether she wishedto come or not, and the resources of the small garden were soonexhausted. They were sitting in an arbor at the end of the serpentinewalk. Heathcote, his straw hat on the ground, was braiding three spearsof grass with elaborate care.
"You pay rather doubtful compliments," he said.
"I only mean that it is very kind to come so regularly."
"You will not let even that remain a chance?"
"But it is not, is it?"
"Well, no," he answered, after a short silence, "I can not say that itis." He dropped the grass blades, leaned back against the rustic seat,and looked at her. It was a great temptation; he was a finished adept inthe art of flirtation at its highest grade, and enjoyed the pastime. Buthe had not really opened that game with this young girl, and he said tohimself that he would not now. He leaned over, found his three spears ofgrass, and went on braiding. But although he thus restrained himself, hestill continued to meet her, as Miss Vanhorn, with equal pertinacity,continued to send her niece to meet him. They were not alone in thegarden, but their conversation was unheard.
One evening tableaux were given: Isabel, Rachel, and others had beenadmired in many varieties of costume and attitude, and Dexter had beeneverything from Richard the Lion-hearted to Aladdin. Heathcote hadrefused to take part. And now came a tableau in which Anne, as theGoddess of Liberty, was poised on a barrel mounted on three tables, oneabove the other. This airy elevation was considered necessary for thegoddess, and the three tables were occupied by symbolical groups of theSeasons, the Virtues, and the Nations, all gathered together under theprotection of Liberty on her barrel. Liberty, being in this case afinely poised young person, kept her position easily, flag in hand,while the merry groups were arranged on the tables below. When all wasready, the curtain was raised, lowered, then raised again for a secondview, Anne looking like a goddess indeed (although a very young one),her white-robed form outlined against a dark background, one armextended, her head thrown back, and her eyes fixed upon the outspreadflag. But at the instant the curtain began to rise for this second view,she had felt the barrel broaden slightly under her, and knew that a hoophad parted. At the same second came the feeling that her best course wasto stand perfectly motionless, in the hope that the staves would stillsupport her until she could be assisted down from her isolated height.For she was fifteen feet above the stage, and there was nothing withinreach which she could grasp. A chill ran over her; she tried not tobreathe. At the same moment, however, when the sensation of falling wascoming upon her, two firm hands were placed upon each side of her waistfrom behind, very slightly lifting her, as if to show her that she wassafe even if the support did give way beneath her. It was Heathcote,standing on the table below. He had been detailed as scene-shifter(Rachel, being behind the scenes herself, had arranged this), hadnoticed the barrel as it moved, and had sprung up unseen behind thedraperied pyramid to assist the goddess. No one saw him. When thecurtain reached the foot-lights again he was assisting all theallegorical personages to descend from their heights, and first of allLiberty, who was trembling. No one knew this, however, save himself.Rachel, gorgeous as Autumn, drew him away almost immediately, and Annehad no opportunity to thank him until the next afternoon.
"You do not know how frightful it was for the moment," she said. "I hadnever felt dizzy in my life before. I had nothing with which I couldsave myself, and I could not jump down on the tables below, becausethere was no footing: I should only have thrown down the others. Howquick you were, and how kind! But you are always kind."
"Few would agree with you there, Miss Douglas. Mr. Dexter has far moreof what is called kindness than I have," said Heathcote, carelessly.
They were sitting in the same arbor. Anne was silent a moment, as ifpondering. "Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "I believe you are right. Youare kind to a few; he is kind to all. It would be
better if you weremore like him."
"Thanks. But it is too late, I fear, to make a Dexter of me. I havealways been, if not exactly a grief to my friends, still by no meanstheir pride. Fortunately I have no father or mother to be disturbed bymy lacks; one does not mind being a grief to second cousins." He paused;then added, in another tone, "But life is lonely enough sometimes."
Two violet eyes met his as he spoke, gazing at him so earnestly,sincerely, and almost wistfully that for an instant he lost himself. Hebegan to speculate as to the best way of retaining that wistfulinterest; and then, suddenly, as a dam gives way in the night and letsout the flood, all his good resolutions crumbled, and his vagrant fancy,long indulged, asserted its command, and took its own way again. He knewthat he could not approach her to the ordinary degree and in theordinary way of flirtation; she would not understand or allow it. Withthe intuition which was his most dangerous gift he also knew that therewas a way of another kind. And he used it.
"SHE STARTED SLIGHTLY."]
His sudden change of purpose had taken but a moment. "Lonely enough," herepeated, "and bad enough. Do you think there is any use in trying tobe better?" He spoke as if half in earnest.
"We must all try," said the girl, gravely.
"But one needs help."
"It will be given."
He rose, walked to the door of the arbor, as if hesitating, then cameback abruptly. "_You_ could help me," he said, standing in front of her,with his eyes fixed upon her face.
She started slightly, and turned her eyes away, but did not speak. Nordid he. At last, as the silence grew oppressive, she said, in a lowvoice: "You are mistaken, I think. I can not."
He sat down again, and began slowly to excavate a hole in the sand withthe end of his cane, to the consternation of a colony of ants who livedin a thriving village under the opposite bench, but still in dangerousproximity to the approaching tunnel.
"I have never pretended to be anything but an idle, useless fellow," hesaid, his eyes intent upon his work. "But my life does not satisfy mealways, and at times I am seized by a horrible loneliness. I am not allbad, I hope. If any one cared enough--but no one has ever cared."
"You have many friends," said Anne, her eyes fixed upon the hues of thewestern sky.
"As you see them. The people here are examples of my friends."
"You must have others who are nearer."
"No, no one. I have never had a home." He looked up as he said this, andmet her eyes, withdrawn for a moment from the sunset; they expressed somuch pity that he felt ashamed of himself. For his entire freedom fromhome ties was almost the only thing for which he had felt profoundlygrateful in his idle life. Other boys had been obliged to bend to thepaternal will; other fellows had not been able to wander over the worldand enjoy themselves as he had wandered and enjoyed. But--he could nothelp going on now.
"I pretend to be indifferent, and all that. No doubt I succeed inappearing so--that is, to the outside world. But there come momentswhen I would give anything for some firm belief to anchor myself to,something higher and better than I am." (The tunnel was very near theants now.) "I believe, Miss Douglas, I can not help believing, that_you_ could tell me what that is."
"Oh no; I am very ignorant," said Anne, hurriedly, returning to thesunset with heightened color.
"But you believe. I will never make a spectacle of myself; I will neverask the conventional questions of conventional good people, whom I hate._You_ might influence me--But what right have I to ask you, Anne? Whyshould I think that you would care?"
"I do care," said the low voice, after a moment, as if forced to answer.
"Then help me."
"How can I help you?"
"Tell me what you believe. And make me believe it also."
"Surely, Mr. Heathcote, you believe in God?"
"I am not sure that I do."
She clasped her hands in distress. "How _can_ you live!" she cried,almost in tears.
Again Heathcote felt a touch of compunction. But he could not makehimself stop now; he was too sincerely interested.
"There is no use; I can not argue," Anne was saying. "If you do not_feel_ God, I can not make you believe in him."
"Tell me how _you_ feel; perhaps I can learn from you."
Poor Anne! she did not know how she felt, and had no words ready.Undeveloped, unused to analysis, she was asked to unfold her inmost soulin the broad garish light of day.
"I--I can not," she murmured, in deep trouble.
"Never mind, then," said Heathcote, with an excellent little assumptionof disappointment masked by affected carelessness. "Forget what I havesaid; it is of small consequence at best. Shall we go back to the house,Miss Douglas?"
But Anne was struggling with herself, making a desperate effort toconquer what seemed to her a selfish and unworthy timidity. "I will doanything I can," she said, hurriedly, in a low voice.
They had both risen. "Let me see you to-morrow, then."
"Yes."
"It is a beginning," he said. He offered his arm gravely, almostreverently, and in silence they returned to the house. It seemed to Annethat many long minutes passed as they walked through the garden, brushedby the roses on each side: in reality the minutes were three.
For that evening meteors had been appointed by the astronomers and thenewspapers. They were, when they came, few and faint; but they affordeda pretext for being out on the hill. Anne was there with Mr. Dexter, andother star-gazers were near. Heathcote and Rachel, however, were notvisible, and this disturbed Dexter. In spite of himself, he could neverbe quite content unless he knew where that dark-eyed woman was. But hisinward annoyance did not affect either his memory or the fine tones ofhis voice. No one on the hill that night quoted so well or so aptlygrand star-like sentences, or verses appropriate to the occasion.
"When standing alone on a hill-top during a clear night such as this,Miss Douglas," he said, "the roll of the earth eastward is almost apalpable movement. The sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide ofthe stars past earthly objects, or by the wind, or by the solitude; butwhatever be its origin, the impression of riding along is vivid andabiding. We are now watching our own stately progress through thestars."
"Hear Dexter quote," said Heathcote, in his lowest under-tone, toRachel. They were near the others, but, instead of standing, weresitting on the grass, with a large bush for background; in its shadowtheir figures were concealed, and the rustle of its leaves drowned theirwhispers.
"Hush! I like Mr. Dexter," said Rachel.
"I know you do. You will marry that man some day."
"Do _you_ say that, Ward?"
An hour later, Anne, in her own room, was timidly adding the same nameto her own petitions before she slept.
The next day, and the next, they met in the garden at sunset as before,and each time when they parted she was flushed and excited by the effortshe was making, and he was calm and content. On the third afternoon theydid not meet, for there was another picnic. But as the sun sank belowthe horizon, and the rich colors rose in the sky, Heathcote turned, and,across all the merry throng, looked at her as if in remembrance. Afterthat he did not see her alone for several days: chance obstacles stoodin the way, and he never forced anything. Then there was anotherunmolested hour in the arbor; then another. Anne was now deeplyinterested. How could she help being so, when the education of a soulwas placed in her hands? And Heathcote began to be fascinated too.
By his own conversion?
August was nearly over. The nights were cool, and the early morningsveiled in mist. The city idlers awakened reluctantly to the realizationthat summer was drawing to its close; and there was the same oldsurprise over the dampness of the yellow moonlight, the dull look of theforest; the same old discovery that the golden-rods and asters werebecoming prominent in the departure of the more delicate blossoms. Thelast four days of that August Anne remembered all her life.
On the 28th there occurred, by unexpected self-arrangement of smallevents, a long conversation of three h
ours with Heathcote.
On the 29th he quarrelled with her, and hotly, leaving her overwhelmedwith grief and surprise.
On the 30th he came back to her. They had but three minutes together onthe piazza, and then Mr. Dexter joined them. But in those minutes he hadasked forgiveness, and seemed also to yield all at once the points overwhich heretofore he had been immovable.
On the 31st Helen came.
It was late. Anne had gone to her room. She had not seen Heathcote thatday. She had extinguished the candle, and was looking at the brassy moonslowly rising above the trees, when a light tap sounded on her door.
"Who is it?" she said.
"Helen, of course," answered a sweet voice she knew. She drew back thebolt swiftly, and Mrs. Lorrington came in, dressed in travelling attire.She had just arrived. She kissed Anne, saying, gayly: "Are you not gladto see me? Grandfather has again recovered, and dismissed me. I spend mylife on the road. Are you well, Crystal? And how do you like Caryl's?No, do not light the candle; I can see you in the moonlight, all drapedin white. I shall stay half an hour--no longer. My maid is waiting, andI must not lose my beauty-sleep. But I wanted to see you first of all.Tell me about yourself, and everything. Did you put down what happenedin a note-book, as I asked you?"
"Yes; here it is. But the record is brief--only names and dates. Howglad I am to see you, Helen! How very, very glad! It seemed as if youwould never come." She took Helen's hands, and held them as she spoke.She was very deeply attached to her brilliant friend.
Helen laughed, kissed her again, and began asking questions. She wasfull of plans. "Heretofore they have not staid at Caryl's in theautumn," she said, "but this year I shall make them. September and partof October would be pleasant here, I know. Has any one spoken of going?"
"Mrs. Bannert has, I think."
"You mean my dearest friend Rachel. But she will stay now that _I_ havecome; that is, if I succeed in keeping--somebody else. The Bishop hasbeen devoted to her, of course, and likewise the Tenor; the Haunted Manand others skirmish on her borders. Even the Knight-errant is not, I amsorry to say, above suspicion. Who has it especially been?"
"I do not know; every one seems to admire her. I think she has notfavored one more than another."
"Oh, has she not?" said Mrs. Lorrington, laughing. "It is well I havecome, Crystal. You are too innocent to live." She tapped her cheek asshe spoke, and then turned her face to the moonlight. "And whom do youlike best?" she said. "Mr. Dexter?"
"Yes," said Anne; "I like him sincerely. And you will find his name veryoften there," she added, looking at the note-book by Helen's side.
"Yes, but the others too, I hope. What _I_ want to know, of course, isthe wicked career of the Knight-errant."
"But is not Mr. Dexter the Knight-errant?"
"By no means. Mr. Dexter is the Bishop; have you not discovered that?The Knight-errant is very decidedly some one else. And, by-the-way, howdo you like Some One Else--that is, Mr. Heathcote?"
"Mr. Heathcote!"
"It is not polite to repeat one's words, Crystal. But--I suppose you do_not_ like him; and half the time, I confess, he is detestable. However,now that I have come, he shall behave better, and I shall make you likeeach other, for my sake. There is just one question I wish to ask here:has he been much with Rachel?"
"No--yes--yes, I suppose he has," murmured Anne, sitting still as astatue in the shadow. The brassy moon had gone slowly and coldly behinda cloud, and the room was dim.
"You suppose? Do you not know?"
"Yes, I know he has." She stopped abruptly. She had never before thoughtwhether Heathcote was or was not with Rachel more than with others; butnow she began to recall. "Yes, he _has_ been with her," she said again,struck by a sudden pang.
"Very well; I shall see to it, now that I am here," said Helen, with asharp tone in her voice. "He will perhaps be sorry that I have arrivedjust at the end of the season--the time for grand climaxes, you know;but he will have to yield. My half-hour is over; I must go. How is theGrand Llama? Endurable?"
"She is helping the children; I am grateful to her," replied Anne'svoice, mechanically.
"Which means that she is worse than ever. What a dead-alive voice yousaid it in! Now that I am here, I will do battle for you, Crystal, neverfear. I must go. You shall see my triumphal entrance to-morrow atbreakfast. Our rooms are not far from yours. Good-night."
She was gone. The door was closed. Anne was alone.