Anne: A Novel

  CHAPTER XVI.

  "You who keep account Of crisis and transition in this life, Set down the first time Nature says plain 'no' To some 'yes' in you, and walks over you In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all begin By singing with the birds, and running fast With June days hand in hand; but, once for all, The birds must sing against us, and the sun Strike down upon us like a friend's sword, caught By an enemy to slay us, while we read The dear name on the blade which bites at us."

  --ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

  It is easy for the young to be happy before the deep feelings of theheart have been stirred. It is easy to be good when there has been nostrong temptation to be evil; easy to be unselfish when nothing isardently craved; easy to be faithful when faithfulness does not tear thesoul out of its abiding-place. Some persons pass through all of lifewithout strong temptations; not having deep feelings, they are likewiseexempt from deep sins. These pass for saints. But when one thinks of thecause of their faultlessness, one understands perhaps better the meaningof those words, otherwise mysterious, that "joy shall be in heaven overone sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons,which need no repentance."

  Anne went through that night her first real torture; heretofore she hadfelt only grief--a very different pain.

  Being a woman, her first feeling, even before the consciousness of whatit meant, was jealousy. What did Helen mean by speaking of him as thoughhe belonged to her? She had never spoken in that way before. Althoughshe--Anne--had mistaken the fictitious titles, still, even under thetitle, there had been no such open appropriation of the Knight-errant.What did she mean? And then into this burning jealous anger came thelow-voiced question, asked somewhere down in the depths of her being, asthough a judge was speaking, "What--is--it--to--you?" And again, "Whatis it to you?" She buried her face tremblingly in her hands, for all atonce she realized what it was, what it had been, unconsciously perhaps,but for a long time really, to her.

  She made no attempt at self-deception. Her strongest trait fromchildhood had been her sincerity, and now it would not let her go. Shehad begun to love Ward Heathcote unconsciously, but now she loved himconsciously. That was the bare fact. It confronted her, it loomed aboveher, a dark menacing shape, from whose presence she could not flee. Sheshivered, and her breath seemed to stop during the slow moment while thetruth made itself known to her. "O God!" she murmured, bursting intotears; and there was no irreverence in the cry. She recognized thefaithlessness which had taken possession of her--unawares, it is true,yet loyal hearts are not conquered so. She had been living in a dream,and had suddenly found the dream reality, and the actors flesh andblood--one of them at least, a poor wildly loving girl, with the mark ofJudas upon her brow. She tried to pray, but could think of no words. Forshe was false to Rast, she loved Heathcote, and hated Helen, yet couldnot bring herself to ask that any of these feelings should be otherwise.This was so new to her that she sank down upon the floor in utterdespair and self-abasement. She was bound to Rast; she was bound toHelen. Yet she had, in her heart at least, betrayed them both.

  Still, so complex is human nature that even here in the midst of herabasement the question stole in, whispering its way along as it came,"_Does_ he care for me?" And "he" was not Rast. She forgot all else toweigh every word and look of the weeks and days that had passed. Slowlyshe lived over in memory all their conversations, not forgetting themost trivial, and even raised her arm to get a pillow in order that shemight lie more easily; but the little action brought reality again, andher arm fell, while part of her consciousness drew off, and sat injudgment upon the other part. The sentence was scathing.

  "SHE BURIED HER FACE TREMBLINGLY IN HER HANDS."]

  Then jealousy seized her again. She had admired Helen so warmly as awoman, that even now she could not escape the feeling. She went over inquick, hot review all that the sweet voice and delicate lips had eversaid concerning the person veiled under the name of Knight-errant, andthe result was a miserable conviction that she had been mistaken; thatthere was a tie of some kind--slight, perhaps, yet still a tie. Andthen, as she crushed her hands together in impotent anger, she againrealized what she was thinking, and began to sob in her grief like achild. Poor Anne! she would never be a child again. Never again would behers that proud dauntless confidence of the untried, which makes alllife seem easy and secure. And here suddenly into her grief darted thisnew and withering thought: Had Heathcote perceived her feeling for him?and had he been playing upon it to amuse himself?

  Anne knew vaguely that people treated her as though she was hardly morethan a child. She was conscious of it, but did not dispute it, acceptingit humbly as something--some fault in herself--which she could notchange. But now the sleeping woman was aroused at last, and she blusheddeeply in the darkness at the thought that while she had remainedunconscious, this man of the world had perhaps detected the truthimmediately, and had acted as he had in consequence of it. This was thedeepest sting of all, and again hurriedly she went over all theirconversations a second time; and imagined that she found indications ofwhat she feared. She rose to her feet with the nervous idea of fleeingsomewhere, she did not know where.

  The night had passed. The sun had not yet risen, but the eastern sky waswaiting for his coming with all its banners aflame. Standing by thewindow, she watched the first gold rim appear. The small birds weretwittering in the near trees, the earth was awaking to another day, andfor the first time Anne realized the joy of that part of creation whichknows not sorrow or care; for the first time wished herself a flower ofthe field, or a sweet-voiced bird singing his happy morning anthem on aspray. There were three hours yet before breakfast, two before any onewould be stirring. She dressed herself, stole through the hall and downthe stairs, unbolted the side door, and went into the garden; she longedfor the freshness of the morning air. Her steps led her toward thearbor; she stopped, and turned in another direction--toward the bank ofthe little river. Here she began to walk to and fro from a pile ofdrift-wood to a bush covered with dew-drops, from the bush back to thedrift-wood again. Her feet were wet, her head ached dully, but she kepther mind down to the purpose before her. The nightmare of the darknesswas gone; she now faced her grief, and knew what it was, and had decidedupon her course. This course was to leave Caryl's. She hoped to returnto Mademoiselle at the half-house, and remain there until the schoolopened--if her grandaunt was willing. If her grandaunt waswilling--there came the difficulty. Yet why should she not be willing?The season was over; the summer flowers were gone; it was butanticipating departure by a week or two. Thus she reasoned with herself,yet felt all the time by intuition that Miss Vanhorn would refuse herconsent. And if she should so refuse, what then? It could make nodifference in the necessity for going, but it would make the going hard.She was considering this point when she heard a footstep. She looked up,and saw--Ward Heathcote. She had been there some time; it was now seveno'clock. They both heard the old clock in the office strike as theystood there looking at each other. In half an hour the early riserswould be coming into the garden.

  Anne did not move or speak; the great effort she had made to retain hercomposure, when she saw him, kept her motionless and dumb. Her firstdarting thought had been to show him that she was at ease andindifferent. But this required words, and she had not one ready; she wasafraid to speak, too, lest her voice should tremble. She saw, standingthere before her, the man who had made her forget Rast, who had made herjealous of Helen, who had played with her holiest feelings, who haddeceived and laughed at her, the man whom she--hated? No, no--whom sheloved, loved, loved: this was the desperate ending. She turned verywhite, standing motionless beside the dew-spangled bush.

  And Heathcote saw, standing there before him, a young girl with her fairface strangely pale and worn, her eyes fixed, her lips compressed; shewas trembling slightly and constantly, in spite of the rigidity of herattitude.

  He looked at her in silence for a moment; then, knocking down at oneblow all
the barriers she had erected, he came to her and took her coldhands in his. "What is it she has said to you?" he asked.

  She drew herself away without speaking.

  "What has Helen said to you? Has she told you that I have deceived you?That I have played a part?"

  But Anne did not answer; she turned, as if to pass him.

  "You shall not leave me," he said, barring the way. "Stay a moment,Anne; I promise not to keep you long. You will not? But you shall. Am_I_ nothing in all this? My feelings nothing? Let me tell you one thing:whatever Helen may have said, remember that it was all before Iknew--_you_."

  Anne's hands shook in his as he said this. "Let me go," she cried, withlow, quick utterance; she dared not say more, lest her voice shouldbreak into sobs.

  "I will not," said Heathcote, "until you hear me while I tell you that Ihave _not_ played a false part with you, Anne. I did begin it as anexperiment, I confess that I did; but I have ended by being inearnest--at least to a certain degree. Helen does not know me entirely;one side of me she has never even suspected."

  "Mrs. Lorrington has not spoken on the subject," murmured Anne, feelingcompelled to set him right, but not looking up.

  "Then what _has_ she said about me, that you should look as you do, mypoor child?"

  "You take too much upon yourself," replied the girl, with an effort tospeak scornfully. "Why should you suppose we have talked of you?"

  "I do not suppose it; I know it. I have not the heart to laugh at you,Anne: your white face hurts me like a sharp pain. Will you at least tellme that you do not believe I have been amusing myself at yourexpense--that you do not believe I have been insincere?"

  "I am glad to think that you were not wholly insincere."

  "And you will believe also that I like you--like you very, very much,with more than the ordinary liking?"

  "That is nothing to me."

  "Nothing to you? Look at me, Anne; you shall look once. Ah, my dearchild, do you not see that I can not help loving you? And that you--loveme also?" As he spoke he drew her close and looked down into her eyes,those startled violet eyes, that met his at last--for one half-moment.

  Then she sprang from him, and burst into tears. "Leave me," she said,brokenly. "You are cruel."

  "No; only human," answered Heathcote, not quite master of his words now."I have had your confession in that look, Anne, and you shall neverregret it."

  "I regret it already," she cried, passionately; "I shall regret it allmy life. Do you not comprehend? can you not understand? I amengaged--engaged to be married. I was engaged before we ever met."

  "_You_ engaged, when I thought you hardly more than a child!" He hadbeen dwelling only upon himself and his own course; possibilities on theother side had not occurred to him. They seldom do to much-admired men.

  "I can not help what you thought me," replied Anne. At this moment theyheard a step on the piazza; some one had come forth to try the morningair. Where they stood they were concealed, but from the garden walk theywould be plainly visible.

  "Leave me," she said, hurriedly.

  "I will; I will cross the field, and approach the house by the road, sothat you will be quite safe. But I shall see you again, Anne." He benthis head, and touched her hand with his lips, then sprang over the stonewall, and was gone, crossing the fields toward the distant turnpike.

  Anne returned to the house, exchanging greetings as she passed with thewell-preserved jaunty old gentleman who was walking up and down thepiazza twenty-five times before breakfast. She sought her own room,dressed herself anew, and then tapped at her grandaunt's door; theroutine of the day had her in its iron grasp, and she was obliged tofollow its law.

  Mrs. Lorrington came in to breakfast like a queen: it was a royalprogress. Miss Teller walked behind in amiable majesty, and gathered upthe overflow; that is, she shook hands cordially with those who couldnot reach Helen, and smiled especially upon those whom Helen disliked.Helen was robed in a soft white woollen material that clung closelyabout her; she had never seemed more slender. Her pale hair, wound roundher small head, conveyed the idea that, unbound, it would fall to thehem of her dress. She wore no ornaments, not even a ring on her smallfair hands. Her place was at some distance from Miss Vanhorn's table,but as soon as she was seated she bowed to Anne, and smiled with markedfriendliness. Anne returned the salutation, and wondered that people didnot cry out and ask her if she was dying. But life does not go out soeasily as miserable young girls imagine.

  "Eggs?" said the waiter.

  She took one.

  "I thought you did not like eggs," said Miss Vanhorn. She was in anill-humor that morning because Bessmer had upset the plant-dryingapparatus, composed of bricks and boards.

  "Yes, thanks," said Anne, vaguely. Mr. Dexter was bowing good-morning toher at that moment, and she returned the salutation. Miss Vanhorn,observing this, withheld her intended rebuke for inattention. Dexter hadbowed on his way across to Helen; he had finished his own breakfast, andnow took a seat beside Miss Teller and Mrs. Lorrington. At this instanta servant entered bearing a basket of flowers, not the old-fashionedcountry flowers of Caryl's, but the superb cream-colored roses of thecity, each on its long stalk, reposing on a bed of unmixed heliotrope,Helen's favorite flower. All eyes coveted the roses as they passed, andwatched to see their destination. They were presented to Mrs.Lorrington.

  Every one supposed that Dexter was the giver. The rich gift was likehim, and perhaps also the time of its presentation. But the time was amistake of the servant's; and was not Mrs. Lorrington bowing herthanks?--yes, she was bowing her thanks, with a little air ofconsciousness, yet with openness also, to Mr. Heathcote, who sat byhimself at the end of the long room. He bowed gravely in return, thusacknowledging himself the sender.

  "Well," said Miss Vanhorn, crossly, yet with a little shade of relieftoo in her voice, "of all systematic coquettes, Helen Lorrington is ourworst. I suppose that we shall have no peace, now that she has come.However, it will not last long."

  "You will go away soon, then, grandaunt?" said Anne, eagerly.

  Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass; the tone had betrayed something. "No,"she said, inspecting her niece coolly; "nothing of the sort. I shallremain through September, perhaps later."

  Anne's heart sank. She would be obliged, then, to go through the ordeal.She could eat nothing; a choking sensation had risen in her throat whenHeathcote bowed to Helen, acknowledging the flowers. "May I go,grandaunt?" she said. "I do not feel well this morning."

  "No; finish your breakfast like a Christian. I hate sensations. However,on second thoughts, you _may_ go," added the old woman, glancing atDexter and Helen. "You may as well be re-arranging those specimens thatBessmer stupidly knocked down. But do not let me find the Lorrington inmy parlor when I come up; do you hear?"

  "Yes," said Anne, escaping. She ran up stairs to her own room, lockedthe door, and then stood pressing her hands upon her heart, crying outin a whisper: "Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do! How can I bear it!"But she could not have even that moment unmolested: the day had begun,and its burdens she must bear. Bessmer knocked, and began at oncetremulously about the injured plants through the closed door.

  "Yes," said Anne, opening it, "I know about them. I came up tore-arrange them."

  "It wouldenter been so bad, miss, if it hadenter been asters. But Inever could make out asters; they all seem of a piece to me," saidBessmer, while Anne sorted the specimens, and replaced them within thedrying-sheets. "Every fall there's the same time with 'em. I just dreadasters, I do; not but what golden-rods is almost worse."

  "Anne," said a voice in the hall.

  Anne opened the door; it was Helen, with her roses.

  "These are the Grand Llama's apartments, I suppose," she said, peepingin. "I will not enter; merely gaze over the sacred threshold. Come to myroom, Crystal, for half an hour; I am going to drive at eleven."

  "I must finish arranging these plants."

  "Then come when you have finished. Do not fail; I shall wait for you."An
d the white robe floated off down the dark sidling hall, as MissVanhorn's heavy foot made itself heard ascending the stairs. WhenBessmer had gone to her breakfast, to collect what strength she couldfor another aster-day, Anne summoned her courage.

  "Grandaunt, I would like to speak to you," she said.

  "And I do not want to be spoken to; I have neuralgia in my cheek-bones."

  "But I would like to tell you--"

  "And I do not want to be told. You are always getting up sensations ofone kind or another, which amount to nothing in the end. Be ready todrive to Updegraff's glen at eleven; that is all I have to say to younow." She went into the inner room, and closed the door.

  "It does not make any difference," thought Anne, drearily; "I shall tellher at eleven."

  Then, nerving herself for another kind of ordeal, she went slowly towardHelen's apartments.

  But conventionality is a strong power: she passed the first fifteenminutes of conversation without faltering.

  Then Helen said: "You look pale, Crystal. What is the matter?"

  "I did not sleep well."

  "And there is some trouble besides! I see by the note-book that you havebeen with the Bishop almost constantly; confess that you like him!"

  "Yes, I like him."

  "Very much?"

  "Yes."

  "_Very_ much?"

  "You know, Helen, that I am engaged."

  "That! for your engagement," said Mrs. Lorrington, taking a rose andtossing it toward her. "I know you are engaged. But I thought that ifthe Bishop would only get into one of his dead-earnest moods--he iscapable of it--you would have to yield. For you are capable of it too."

  "Capable of what? Breaking a promise?"

  "Do not be disagreeable; I am complimenting you. No; I mean capable ofloving--really loving."

  "All women can love, can they not?"

  "Themselves! Yes. But rarely any one else. And now let me tell yousomething delightful--one of those irrelevant little inconsistencieswhich make society amusing: _I_ am going to drive with the Bishop thismorning, and not you at all."

  "I hope you will enjoy the drive."

  "You take it well," said Mrs. Lorrington, laughing merrily. "But I willnot tease you, Crystal. Only tell me one thing--you are always truthful.Has anything been said to you--anything that really _means_anything--since you have been here?"

  "By whom?" said Anne, almost in a whisper.

  "The Bishop, of course. Who else should it be?"

  "Oh, no, no," answered the girl, rising hurriedly, as if uncertain whatto do. "Why do you speak to me so constantly of Mr. Dexter? I have beenwith--with others too."

  "You have been with him more than with the 'others' you mention," saidHelen, mimicking her tone. "The note-book tells that. However, I willsay no more; merely observe. You are looking at my driving costume;jealous already? But I tell you frankly, Crystal, that regarding dressyou must yield to me. With millions you could not rival me; on thatground I am alone. Rachel looked positively black with envy when she sawme this morning; she is ugly in a second, you know, if she loses thatsoft Oriental expression which makes you think of the Nile. ImagineRachel in a Greek robe like this, loosely made, with a girdle! I shallcertainly look well this morning; but never fear, it shall be for yoursake. I shall talk of you, and make you doubly interesting by what I doand do not say; I shall give thrilling glimpses only."

  The maid entered, and Anne sat through the change of dress and therebraiding of the pale soft hair.

  "I do not forbid your peeping through the hall window to see us start,"said Mrs. Lorrington, gayly, as she drew on her gloves. "Good-by."

  Anne went to her own room. "Are they all mad?" she thought. "Or am I?Why do they all speak of Mr. Dexter so constantly, and not of--"

  "You are late," said Miss Vanhorn's voice. "I told you not to keep mewaiting. Get your hat and gloves, and come immediately; the carriage isthere."

  But it was not as strange in reality as it seemed to Anne that Helen,Miss Vanhorn, and others spoke of Mr. Dexter in connection with herself.Absorbed in a deeper current, she had forgotten that others judge by thesurface, and that Mr. Dexter had been with her openly, and evenconspicuously, during a portion of every day for several weeks. To herthe two hours or three with him had been but so many portions of timebefore she could see, or after she had seen, Heathcote. But time is notdivided as young people suppose; she forgot that ordinary eyes can notsee the invisible weights which make ten minutes--nay, five--with oneperson outbalance a whole day with another. In the brief diary which shehad kept for Helen, Dexter's name occurred far more frequently thanHeathcote's, and Helen had judged from that. Others did the same, withtheir eyes. If old Katharine had so far honored her niece as to questionher, she might have learned something more; but she did not question,she relied upon her own sagacity. It is a dispensation of Providencethat the old, no matter how crowded their own youth may have been,always forget. What old Katharine now forgot was this: if a man likeGregory Dexter is conspicuously devoted to one woman, but always in thepresence of others, making no attempt to secure her attention for a fewmoments alone here and there, it is probable that there is another womanfor whom he keeps those moments, and a hidden feeling stronger than theone openly displayed. Rachel never allowed observable devotion. This,however, did not forbid the unobserved.

  "Grandaunt," began Anne, as the carriage rolled along the country road.Her voice faltered a little, and she paused to steady it.

  "Wait a day," said Miss Vanhorn, with grim sarcasm; "then there will benothing to tell. It is always so with girls."

  It was her nearest approach to good-humor: Anne took courage. "Thesummer is nearly over, grandaunt--"

  "I have an almanac."

  "--and, as school will soon begin--"

  "In about three weeks."

  "--I should like to go back to Mademoiselle until then, if you do notobject."

  Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass, and looked at her niece; then shelaughed, sought for a caraway-seed, and by good luck found one, anddeposited it safely in the tight grasp of her glittering teeth. Shethought Anne was jealous of Mr. Dexter's attentions to Helen.

  "You need not be afraid, child," she said, still laughing. "If you havea rival, it is the Egyptian, and not that long white creature you callyour friend."

  "I am unhappy here, grandaunt. Please let me go."

  "Girls are always unhappy, or thinking themselves so. It is one of theirhabits. Of course you can not go; it would be too ridiculous giving wayto any such childish feeling. You will stay as long as I stay."

  "But I can not. I _must_ go."

  "And who holds the authority, pray?"

  "Dear grandaunt, do not compel me," said Anne, seizing the old woman'shands in hers. But Miss Vanhorn drew them away angrily.

  "What nonsense!" she said. "Do not let me hear another word. You willstay according to my pleasure (which should be yours also), or youforfeit your second winter at Moreau's and the children's allowance."She tapped on the glass, and signaled to the coachman to drive homeward."You have spoiled the drive with your obstinacy; I do not care to gonow. Spend the day in your own room. At five o'clock come to me."

  And at five Anne came.

  "Have you found your senses?" asked the elder woman, and more gently.

  "I have not changed my mind."

  Miss Vanhorn rose and locked the door. "You will now give me yourreasons," she said.

  "I can not."

  "You mean that you will not."

  Anne was silent, and Miss Vanhorn surveyed her for a moment beforeletting loose the dogs of war. In her trouble the girl looked mucholder; it was a grave, sad, but determined woman who was standing thereto receive her sentence, and suddenly the inquisitor changed her course.

  "There, there," she said; "never mind about it now. Go back to yourroom; Bessmer shall bring you some tea, and then you will let her dressyou precisely as I shall order. You will not, I trust, disobey me in sosmall a matter as that?"

  "And may I
go to-morrow?"

  "We will see. You can not go to-night, at any rate; so do as I bid you."

  Anne obeyed; but she was disappointed that all was not ended and thecontest over. For the young, to wait seems harder than to suffer.

  Miss Vanhorn thought that her niece was jealous of Helen in regard toDexter, and that this jealousy had opened her eyes for the first time toher own faithlessness; being conscientious, of course she was, betweenthe two feelings, made very wretched. And the old woman's solution ofthe difficulty was to give Dexter one more and perfect opportunity, ifshe, Katharine Vanhorn, could arrange it. And there was, in truth, verylittle that old Katharine could not arrange if she chose, since she wasa woman not afraid to use on occasion that which in society is theequivalent of force, namely, directness. She was capable of saying,openly, "Mr. Dexter, will you take Anne out on the piazza for a while?The air is close here," and then of smiling back upon Rachel, Isabel, orwhoever was left behind, with the malice of a Mazarin. Chance favoredold Katharine that night once and again.