CHAPTER XVIII.
"What is this that thou hast been fretting and fuming and lamenting and self-tormenting on account of? Say it in a word: is it not because thou art not _happy_? Foolish soul! what act of Legislature was there that _thou_ shouldst be happy? There is in Man a higher than Happiness; he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessedness. This is the everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved."--CARLYLE.
After an hour of mute suffering, Anne sought the blessed oblivion ofsleep. She had conquered herself; she was exhausted. She would try togain strength for the effort of the coming day. But nothing availsagainst that fever, strong as life and sad as death, which we call Love,and which, in spite of the crowd of shallower feelings that masqueradeunder and mock its name, still remains the master-power of our humanexistence. Anne had no sooner laid her head upon the pillow than thererose within her, and ten times stronger than before, her love and herjealousy. She would stay and contest the matter with Helen. Had he notsaid, had he not looked--And then she caught herself back in an agony ofself-reproach. For it is always hard for the young to learn the lessonof human weakness. It is strange and humiliating to them to discoverthat there are powers within them stronger than their own wills. The oldknow this so well that they excuse each other silently; but, loath toshake the ignorant faith of innocence, they leave the young to find itout for themselves. The whole night with Anne was but a repetition ofefforts and lapses, followed toward morning, however, by a strugglingreturn to self-control. For years of faithfulness even as a child arenot thrown away, but yield, thank Heaven! a strength at last in times oftrial; else might we all go drown ourselves. At dawn, with tear-stainedcheeks, she fell asleep, waking with a start when Bessmer knocked andinquired if she was ill. Miss Vanhorn had gone down to breakfast.
"Please send me some coffee," said Anne, without opening the door. "I donot care for anything else. I will be ready soon."
She dressed herself slowly, swallowing the coffee. But youth is strong;the cold bath and the fresh white morning dress made her look as fair asever. Miss Vanhorn was waiting for her in the little parlor. Bessmer wassent away, and the door closed. The girl remained standing, and tookhold of the back of a chair to nerve herself for the first step alongthe hard, lonely road stretching out before her like a desert.
"Anne," began Miss Vanhorn, in a magisterial voice, "what did Mr. Dextersay to you last evening?"
"He asked me to be his wife."
"I hardly expected it so soon, although I knew it would come in time,"said the old woman, with a swallow of satisfaction. "Sit down. And don'tbe an idiot. You will now listen to _me_. Mr. Dexter is a rich man; heis what is called a rising man (if any one wants to rise); he is a goodenough man also, as men go. He has no claim as regards family; neitherhave you. He is a thorough and undiluted American; so are you. He willbe a kind husband, and one far higher in the world than you had anyright to expect. On the other hand, you will do very well as his wife,for you have fair ability and a pretty face (it is of course your pinkand white beauty that has won him), and principles enough for both.Like all people who have made money rapidly, he is lavish, and will denyyou nothing; he will even allow you, I presume, to help one and all ofthat colony of children, priests, old maids, and dogs, up on thatisland. See what power will be put into your hands! You might labor allyour life, and not accomplish one-hundredth part of that which, asGregory Dexter's wife, you could do in one day.
"As to your probable objection--the boy-and-girl engagement in which youwere foolish enough to entangle yourself--I will simply say, leave it totime; it will break itself. How do you know that it is not, in fact,broken already? The Pronando blood is faithless in its very essence,"added the old woman, bitterly. "Mr. Dexter is a man of the world. I willexplain it to him myself; he will understand, and will not urge you atpresent. He will wait, as I shall, for the natural solution of time. Butin the mean while you must not offend him; he is not at all a man whom awoman can offend with impunity. He is vain, and has a singularlymistaken idea of his own importance. Agree to what I propose--which issimple quiescence for the present--and you shall go back to Moreau's,and the allowance for the children shall be continued. I have neverbefore in my life made so many concessions; it is because you have hadat times lately a look that brings back--Alida."
Anne's lips trembled; a sudden weakness came over her at this allusionto her mother.
"Well?" said Miss Vanhorn, expectantly.
There was a pause. Then a girl's voice answered: "I can not, grandaunt.I must go."
"You _may_ go, I tell you, back to Moreau's on the 1st of October."
"I mean that I can not marry Mr. Dexter."
"No one asks you to marry him now."
"I can never marry him."
"Why?" said Miss Vanhorn, with rising color. "Be careful what you say.No lies."
"I--I am engaged to Rast."
"Lie number one. Look at me. If your engagement was ended, _then_ wouldyou marry Mr. Dexter?"
Anne half rose, as if to escape, but sank back again. "I could not marryhim, because I do not love him," she answered.
"And whom do you love, that you know so much about it, and have your 'donot' and 'can not' so promptly ready? Never tell me that it is that boyupon the island who has taught you all these new ways, this falteringand fear of looking in my face, of which you knew nothing when you came.Do you wish me to tell you what I think of you?"
"No," cried the girl, rushing forward, and falling on her knees besidethe arm-chair; "tell me nothing. Only let me go away. I can not, can notstay here; I am too wretched, too weak. You can not have a lower opinionof me than I have of myself at this moment. If you have any compassionfor me--for the memory of my mother--say no more, and let me go." Shebowed her head upon the arm of the chair and sobbed aloud.
But Miss Vanhorn rose and walked away. "I know what this means," shesaid, standing in the centre of the room. "Like mother, like daughter.Only Alida ran after a man who loved her, although her inferior, whileyou have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is simply laughing atyou. Don't you know, you fool, that Ward Heathcote will marry HelenLorrington--the woman you pretend to be grateful to, and call yourdearest friend? Helen Lorrington will be in every way a suitable wifefor him. It has long been generally understood. The idea of _your_trying to thrust yourself between them is preposterous--I may say amaniac's folly."
"I am not trying: only let me go," sobbed Anne, still kneeling by thechair.
"You think I have not seen," continued Miss Vanhorn, her wrath risingwith every bitter word; "but I have. Only I never dreamed that it was asbad as this. I never dreamed that Alida's daughter could be bold andimmodest--worse than her mother, who was only love-mad."
Anne started to her feet. "Miss Vanhorn," she said, "I will not hearthis, either of myself or my mother. It is not true."
"As to not hearing it, you are right; you will not hear my voice oftenin the future. I wash my hands of you. You are an ungrateful girl, andwill come to an evil end. When I think of the enormous selfishness younow show in thus throwing away, for a mere matter of personal obstinacy,the bread of your sister and brothers, and leaving them to starve, Istand appalled. What do you expect?"
"Nothing--save to go."
"And you _shall_ go."
"To-day?"
"This afternoon, at three." As she said this, Miss Vanhorn seatedherself with her back toward Anne, and took up a book, as though therewas no one in the room.
"Do you want me any longer, grandaunt?"
"Never call me by that name again. Go to your room; Bessmer will attendto you. At two o'clock I will see you for a moment before you go."
Without a reply, Anne obeyed. Her tears were dried as if by fever; wordshad been spoken which could not be forgiven. Inaction was impossible;she began to pack. Then, remembering who had given her all theseclothes, she paused, uncertain what to do. After reflection, she decidedto take with her only those she had brought from t
he half-house; and inthis she was not actuated by any spirit of retaliation, her idea wasthat her grandaunt would demand the gifts in any case. Miss Vanhorn wasnot generous. She worked steadily; she did not wish to think; yet stillthe crowding feelings pursued her, caught up with her, and then wentalong with her, thrusting their faces close to hers, and forcingrecognition. Was she, as Miss Vanhorn had said, enormously selfish inthus sacrificing the new comfort of the pinched household on the islandto her own obstinacy? But, as she folded the plain garments brought fromthat home, she knew that it was not selfishness; as she replaced thefilmy ball dress in its box, she said to herself that she could notdeceive Mr. Dexter by so much even as a silence. Then, as she wrappedthe white parasol in its coverings, the old burning, throbbing miseryrolled over her, followed by the hot jealousy which she thought she hadconquered; she seized the two dresses given by Helen, and added them tothose left behind. But the action brought shame, and she replaced them.And now all the clothes faced her from the open trunks; those from theisland, those which Rast had seen, murmured, "Faithless!" Helen's giftswhispered, "Ingratitude!" and those of her grandaunt called more loudly,"Fool!" She closed the lids, and turned toward the window; she tried tobusy her mind with the future: surely thought and plans were needed. Shewas no longer confident, as she had been when she first left herNorthern island; she knew now how wide the world was, and how cold. Shecould not apply at the doors of schools without letters orrecommendations; she could not live alone. Her one hope began and endedin Jeanne-Armande. She dressed herself in travelling garb and sat downto wait. It was nearly noon, probably she would not see Helen, as shealways slept through the morning after a ball, preserving by thischangeless care the smooth fairness of her delicate complexion. Shedecided to write a note of farewell, and leave it with Bessmer; butagain and again she tore up her beginnings, until the floor was strewnwith fragments. She had so very much not to say. At last she succeededin putting together a few sentences, which told nothing, save that shewas going away; she bade her good-by, and thanked her for all herkindness, signing, without any preliminary phrases (for was she"affectionately" or "sincerely" Helen's "friend"?), merely her name,Anne Douglas.
At one o'clock Bessmer entered with luncheon. Evidently she had receivedorders to enter into no conversation with the prisoner; but she took thenote, and promised to deliver it with her own hands. At two the dooropened, and Miss Vanhorn came in.
The old woman's eye took in at a glance the closed trunks and thetravelling dress. She had meant to try her niece, to punish her; buteven then she could not believe that the girl would really throw awayforever all the advantages she had placed within her grasp. She satdown, and after waiting a moment, closed her eyes. "Anne Douglas," shebegan, "daughter of my misguided niece Alida Clanssen, I have come for afinal decision. Answer my questions. First, have you, or have you not,one hundred dollars in the world?"
"I have not."
"Have you, or have you not, three brothers and one sister whollydependent upon you?"
"I have."
"Is it just or honorable to leave them longer to the charity of a womanwho is poor herself, and not even a relative?"
"It is neither."
"Have I, or have I not, assisted you, offered also to continue thepension which makes them comfortable?"
"You have."
"Then," said the old woman, still with her eyes closed, "why persist inthis idiotic stubbornness? In offending me, are you not aware that youare offending the only person on earth who can assist you? I make nopromises as to the future; but I am an old woman now, one to whom youcould at least be dutiful. There--I want no fine words. Show yourfineness by obeying my wishes."
"I will stay with _you_, grandaunt, willingly, gladly, gratefully, ifyou will take me away from this place."
"No conditions," said Miss Vanhorn. "Come here; kneel down in front ofme, so that I can look at you. Will you stay with me _here_, if I yieldeverything concerning Mr. Dexter?" She held her firmly, with her smallkeen eyes searching her face.
Anne was silent. Like the panorama which is said to pass before the eyesof the drowning man, the days and hours at Caryl's as they would be,must be, unrolled themselves before her. But there only followed thesame desperate realization of the impossibility of remaining; themisery, the jealousy; worse than all, the self-doubt. The misery, thejealousy, she could perhaps bear, deep as they were. But what appalledher was this new doubt of herself, this new knowledge, that, in spite ofall her determination, she might, if tried, yield to this love which hadtaken possession of her unawares, yield to certain words which he mightspeak, to certain tones of his voice, and thus become even morefaithless to Rast, to Helen, and to herself, than she already was. If hewould go away--but she knew that he would not. No, _she_ must go.Consciousness came slowly back to her eyes, which had been meeting MissVanhorn's blankly.
"I can not stay," she said.
Miss Vanhorn thrust her away violently. "I am well paid for having hadanything to do with Douglas blood," she cried, her voice trembling withanger. "Get back into the wilderness from whence you came! I will neverhear your name on earth again." She left the room.
In a few moments Bessmer appeared, her eyes reddened by tears, andannounced that the wagon was waiting. It was at a side door. At thishour there was no one on the piazzas, and Anne's trunk was carried down,and she herself followed with Bessmer, without being seen by any onesave the servants and old John Caryl.
"I am not to say anything to you, Miss Douglas, if you please, but justthe ordinary things, if you please," said Bessmer, as the wagon borethem away. "You are to take the three o'clock train, and go--whereveryou please, she said. I was to tell you."
"Yes, Bessmer; do not be troubled. I know what to do. Will you tellgrandaunt, when you return, that I beg her to forgive what has seemedobstinacy, but was only sad necessity. Can you remember it?"
"Yes, miss; only sad necessity," repeated Bessmer, with dropping tears.She was a meek woman, with a comfortable convexity of person, which,however, did not seem to give her confidence.
"I was not to know, miss, if you please, where you bought tickets to,"she said, as the wagon stopped at the little station. "I was to giveyou this, and then go right back."
She handed Anne an envelope containing a fifty-dollar note. Anne lookedat it a moment. "I will not take this, I think; you can tell grandauntthat I have money enough for the present," she said, returning it. Shegave her hand kindly to the weeping maid, who was then driven away inthe wagon, her sun-umbrella held askew over her respectable brownbonnet, her broad shoulders shaken with her sincere grief. A turn in theroad soon hid even this poor friend of hers from view. Anne was alone.
The station-keeper was not there; his house was near by, but hidden by agrove of maples, and Anne, standing on the platform, seemed all alone,the two shining rails stretching north and south having the peculiarlysolitary aspect which a one-track railway always has among green fields,with no sign of life in sight. No train has passed, or ever will pass.It is all a dream. She walked to and fro. She could see into thewaiting-room, which was adorned with three framed texts, and anotherplacard not religiously intended, but referring, on the contrary, tosteamboats, which might yet be so interpreted, namely, "Take theProvidence Line." She noted the drearily ugly round stove, faded belowto white, planted in a sand-filled box; she saw the bench, railed offinto single seats by iron elbows, and remembered that during her journeyeastward, two, if not three, of these places were generally filled withthe packages of some solitary female of middle age, clad inhalf-mourning, who remained stonily unobservant of the longing glancescast upon the space she occupied. These thoughts came to hermechanically. When a decision has finally been made, and for the presentnothing more can be done, the mind goes wandering off on trivialerrands; the flight of a bird, the passage of the fairy car ofthistle-down, are sufficient to set it in motion. It seemed to her thatshe had been there a long time, when a step came through the grove:Hosea Plympton--or, as he was called in the neighborhood,
Hosy Plim--wasunlocking the station door. Anne bought her ticket, and had her trunkchecked; she hoped to reach the half-house before midnight.
Hosy having attended to his official business with dignity, now came outto converse unofficially with his one passenger. "From Caryl's, ain'tyou?"
"Yes," replied Anne.
"Goin' to New York?"
"Yes."
"I haven't yet ben to that me-tropo-lis," said Hosy. "On some accounts Ishould admire to go, on others not. Ben long at Caryl's?"
"Yes, some time."
"My wife's cousin helps over there; Mirandy's her name. And she tellsme, Mirandy does, that the heap of washing over to that house is a sightto see. She tells me, Mirandy does, that they don't especial dress upfor the Sabbath over there, not so much even as on other days."
"That is true, I believe."
"Sing'lar," said the little man, "what folks 'll do as has the money!They don't seem to be capable of enj'ying themselves exactly; andp'r'aps that's what Providence intends. We haven't had city folks atCaryl's until lately, miss, you see; and I confess they've ben acontinooal study to me ever since. 'Tis amazin' the ways the Lord'lltake to make us contented with our lot. Till I _see_ 'em, I thought 'emmost downright and all everlastin' to be envied. But _now_ I feel theba'm of comfort and innard strengthenin' when I see how little they know_how_ to enj'y themselves, after all. Here's the train, miss."
In another moment Anne felt herself borne away--away from the solitarystation, with its shining lines of rails; from the green hills whichencircled Caryl's; from the mountain-peaks beyond. She had started onher journey into the wide world.
In darkness, but in safety, she arrived at the half-house, in thestation-keeper's wagon, a few minutes before midnight. A light was stillburning, and in response to her knock Jeanne-Armande herself opened thedoor, clad in a wrapper, with a wonderful flannel cap on her head. Shewas much astonished to see her pupil, but received her cordially,ordered the trunk brought in, and herself attended to the beating downof the station-keeper's boy to a proper price for his services. Sheremarked upon his audacity and plainly criminal tendencies; shethoroughly sifted the physical qualities of the horse; she objected tothe shape of the wagon; and finally, she had noted his manner ofbringing in the trunk, and shaving its edges as well as her doorway, andshe felt that she must go over to the station herself early in themorning, and lodge a complaint against him. What did he mean by-- Buthere the boy succumbed, and departed with half-price, and Jeanne-Armandetook breath, and closed the door in triumph.
"You see that I have come back to you, mademoiselle," said Anne, with afaint smile. "Shall I tell you why?"
"Yes; but no, not now. You are very weary, my child; you look pale andworn. Would you like some coffee?"
"Yes," said Anne, who felt a faint exhaustion stealing over her. "Butthe fast-day coffee will do." For there was one package of coffee in thestore-room which went by that name, and which old Nora was instructed touse on Fridays. Not that Jeanne-Armande followed strict rules anddiscipline; but she had bought that coffee at an auction sale in thecity for a very low price, and it proved indeed so low in quality thatthey could not drink it more than once a week. Certainly, therefore,Friday was the appropriate day.
"No," said the hostess, "you shall have a little of the other, child.Come to the kitchen. Nora has gone to bed, but I will arrange a littlesupper for you with my own hands."
They went to the bare little room, where a mouse would have starved. Butmademoiselle was not without resources, and keys. Soon she "arranged" abrisk little fire and a cheery little stew, while the pint coffee-potsent forth a delicious fragrance. Sitting there in a wooden chair besidethe little stove, Anne felt more of home comfort than she had everknown at Caryl's, and the thin miserly teacher was kinder than hergrandaunt had ever been. She ate and drank, and was warmed; then,sitting by the dying coals, she told her story, or rather as much of itas it was necessary mademoiselle should know.
"It is a pity," said Jeanne-Armande, "and especially since she has norelative, this grandaunt, nearer than yourself. Could nothing be done inthe way of renewal, as to heart-strings?"
"Not at present. I must rely upon you, mademoiselle; in this, even Tantecan not help me."
"That is true; she can not. She even disapproved of my own going forthinto the provinces," said Jeanne-Armande, with the air of an explorer."We have different views of life, Hortense Moreau and I; but there!--werespect each other. Of how much money can you dispose at present, mychild?"
Anne told the sum.
"If it is so little as that," said Jeanne-Armande, "it will be betterfor you to go westward with me immediately. I start earlier than usualthis year; you can take the journey with me, and share expenses; in thisway we shall both be able to save. Now as to chances: there is sometimesa subordinate employed under me, when there is a press of new scholars.This is the autumn term: there _may_ be a press. I must prepare you,however, for the lowest of low salaries," said the teacher, her voicechanging suddenly to a dry sharpness. "I shall present you as a novice,to whom the privilege of entering the institution is an equivalent ofmoney."
"I expect but little," said Anne. "A beginner must take the lowestplace."
On the second day they started. Jeanne-Armande was journeying to Westonthis time by a roundabout way. By means of excursion tickets to ValleyCity, offered for low rates for three days, she had found that she could(in time) reach Weston _via_ the former city, and effect a saving of onedollar and ten cents. With the aid of her basket, no additional mealswould be required, and the money saved, therefore, would be pure gain.There was only one point undecided, namely, should she go through toValley City, or change at a junction twenty miles this side for thenorthern road? What would be the saving, if any, by going on? What bychanging? No one could tell her; the complication of excursion rates toValley City for the person who was not going there, and the method ofnight travel for a person who would neither take a sleeping-car, nortravel in a day car, combined themselves to render more impassive stillthe ticket-sellers, safely protected in their official round towers fromthe rabble of buyers outside. Regarding the main lines between New Yorkand Weston, and all their connections, it would be safe to say thatmademoiselle knew more than the officials themselves. The remainder ofthe continent was an unknown wilderness in her mind, but these lines ofrails, over which she was obliged to purchase her way year after year,she understood thoroughly. She had tried all the routes, and once shehad gone through Canada; she had looked at canal-boats meditatively. Shewas haunted by a vision that some day she might find a clean captain andcaptain's wife who would receive her as passenger, and allow her to cookher own little meals along shore. Once, she explained to Anne, aSunday-school camp-meeting had reduced the rates, she being apparentlyon her way thither. She had always regretted that the season of Statefairs was a month later: she felt herself capable of being on her way toall of them.
"But now, whether to go on to Valley City, or to leave the train atStringhampton Junction, is the question I can not decide," she said,with irritation, having returned discomfited from another encounter witha ticket-seller.
"We reach Weston by both routes, do we not?" said Anne.
"Of course; that follows without saying. Evidently you do not comprehendthe considerations which are weighing upon me. However, I will get itout of the ticket agent at New Macedonia," said mademoiselle, rising."Come, the train is ready."
They were going only as far as New Macedonia that night; mademoisellehad slept there twice, and intended to sleep there again. Once, in herdecorous maiden life, she had passed a night in a sleeping-car, andnever again would her foot "cross the threshold of one of thoseoutrageous inventions." She remembered even now with a shudder theprocessions of persons in muffled drapery going to the wash-rooms in theearly morning. New Macedonia existed only to give suppers andbreakfasts; it had but two narrow sleeping apartments over its abnormaldevelopment of dining-room below. But the military genius ofJeanne-Armande selected it on this ve
ry account; for sleeping-roomswhere no one ever slept, half-price could in conscience alone becharged. All night Anne was wakened at intervals by the rushing sound ofpassing trains. Once she stole softly to the uncurtained window andlooked out; clouds covered the sky, no star was visible, but down thevalley shone a spark which grew and grew, and then turned white andintense, as, with a glare and a thundering sound, a locomotive rushedby, with its long line of dimly lighted sleeping-cars swiftly and softlyfollowing with their unconscious human freight, the line ending in twored eyes looking back as the train vanished round a curve.
"Ten hours' sleep," said mademoiselle, awaking with satisfaction in themorning. "I now think we can sit up to-night in the Valley Citywaiting-room, and save the price of lodgings. Until twelve they wouldthink we were waiting for the midnight train; after that, the nightporter, who comes on duty then, would suppose it was the early morningexpress."
"Then you have decided to go through to Valley City?" asked Anne.
"Yes, since by this arrangement we can do it without expense."
Two trains stopped at New Macedonia for breakfast, one eastward boundfrom over the Alleghanies, the other westward bound from New York.Jeanne-Armande's strategy was to enter the latter while its passengerswere at breakfast, and take bodily possession of a good seat, removing,if necessary, a masculine bag or two left there as tokens of ownership;for the American man never makes war where the gentler sex is concerned,but retreats to another seat, or even to the smoking-car, with silentgenerosity.
Breakfast was now over; the train-boy was exchanging a few witticismswith the pea-nut vender of the station, a brakeman sparred playfullywith the baggage porter, and a pallid telegraph operator looked on fromhis window with interest. Meanwhile the conductor, in his stiff officialcap, pared a small apple with the same air of fixed melancholy andinward sarcasm which he gave to all his duties, large and small; when itwas eaten, he threw the core with careful precision at a passing pig,looked at his watch, and called out, suddenly and sternly, "All aboard!"The train moved on.
It was nine o'clock. At ten there came into the car a figure Anneknew--Ward Heathcote.