CHAPTER XIX.
"Man is a bundle of contradictions, tied together with fancies."--PERSIAN PROVERB.
"The might of one fair face sublimes my love, For it hath weaned my heart from low desires. Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires. Forgive me if I can not turn away From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, For they are guiding stars, benignly given To tempt my footsteps to the upward way."
--MICHAEL ANGELO.
Dire was the wrath of Helen Lorrington when, having carefully filled themeasure of her lost sleep, she sent a little note across to Anne, andanswer was returned that Miss Douglas was gone.
Mrs. Lorrington, with compliments to Miss Vanhorn, then begged (on acard) to be informed _where_ Miss Douglas was gone. Miss Vanhorn, withcompliments to Mrs. Lorrington (also on a card), returned answer thatshe did not know. Mrs. Lorrington, deeply grieved to disturb MissVanhorn a second time, then requested to be favored with Miss Douglas'saddress. Miss Vanhorn, with assurances that it was no disturbance, butalways a pleasure to oblige Mrs. Lorrington, replied that she did notpossess it. Then Helen waited until the old coupe rolled away for anafternoon drive, its solitary occupant inside, her profile visiblebetween the two closed glass windows like an object mounted for amicroscope, and going across, beguiled the mild Bessmer to tell all sheknew. This was not much; but the result was great anger in Helen's mind,and a determination to avenge the harsh deed. Bessmer did not knowcauses, but she knew actions. Anne had been sent away in disgrace, themaid being forbidden to know even the direction the lonely traveller hadtaken. Helen, quick to solve riddles, solved this, at least as far asone side of it was concerned, and the quick, partially correct guessesof a quick-witted woman are often, by their very nearness, moremisleading than any others. Mr. Dexter had been with Anne during theevening of the ball; probably he had asked her to be his wife. Anne,faithful to her engagement, had refused him; and Miss Vanhorn, faithfulto her cruel nature, had sent her away in disgrace. And when Helenlearned that Mr. Dexter had gone also--gone early in the morning beforeany one was stirring--she took it as confirmation of her theory, and wasnow quite sure. She would tell all the house, she said to herself. Shebegan by telling Heathcote.
They were strolling in the garden. She turned toward the little arbor atthe end of the path.
"Not there," said Heathcote.
"Why not? Have you been there so much with Rachel?" said his companion,in a sweet voice.
"Never, I think. But arbors are damp holes."
"Nevertheless, I am going there, and you are going with me."
"As you please."
"Ward, how much have you been with Rachel?" she asked, when they wereseated in the little bower, which was overgrown with the old-fashionedvine called matrimony.
"Oh!" said Heathcote, with a sound of fatigue in his voice. "Are wenever to have an end to that subject?"
"Yes; when you _make_ an end."
"One likes to amuse one's self. You do."
"Whom do you mean now?" said Helen, diverted from her questions for themoment, as he intended she should be.
To tell the truth, Heathcote did not mean any one; but he neverhesitated. So now he answered, promptly, "Dexter." He had long agodiscovered that he could make any woman believe he was jealous of anyman, no matter whom, even one to whom she had never spoken; itpresupposed that the other man had been all the time a silent admirer,and on this point the grasp of the feminine imagination is wide andhopeful.
"How like you that is! Mr. Dexter is nothing to me."
"You have been out driving with him already," said Heathcote, pursuinghis advantage; "and you have not been out with me."
"He has gone; so we need not quarrel about him."
"When did he go?"
"Early this morning. And to show you how unjust you are, he went becauselast evening Anne Douglas refused him."
"Then he was refused twice in one day," said Heathcote. "Mrs. Bannertrefused him at six."
"How do you know?"
"She told me."
"Traitorous creature!"
"Oh no; she is an especial--I may say confidential--friend of mine."
"Then what am I?"
"Not a friend at all, I hope," said the man beside her. "Somethingmore." He was pulling a spray of vine to pieces, and did not look up;but Helen was satisfied, and smiled to herself brightly. She now wentback to Anne. "Did you know poor Anne was gone too, Ward?"
"Gone!" said Heathcote, starting. Then he controlled himself. "What doyou mean?" he asked.
"I mean that Miss Vanhorn cruelly sent her away this afternoon withoutwarning, and with only a little money; Bessmer was not even allowed toinquire what she intended to do, or where she was going. I have beenhaunted ever since I heard it by visions of the poor child arriving inNew York all alone, and perhaps losing her way: she only knew that oneup-town locality near Moreau's."
"Do you mean to say that no one knows where she has gone?"
"No one. Bessmer tells me that the old dragon was in one of her blackrages. Mr. Dexter was with Anne for some time in the little parlorduring the ball last evening, and Miss Vanhorn had the room made ready,as though she expected him. Here are the few lines the poor child leftfor me: they are constrained, and very unlike her; but I suppose she wastoo troubled to choose her words. She told me herself only the daybefore that she was very unhappy."
Heathcote took the little note, and slipped it into an inner pocket. Hesaid nothing, and went on stripping the vine.
"There is one thing that puzzles me," continued Helen. "Bessmer heardthe old woman say, violently, 'You have thrown yourself at the feet of aman who is simply laughing at you.' Now Anne never threw herself at anyman's feet--unless, indeed, it might be the feet of that boy on theisland to whom she is engaged. I do not know how she acts when withhim."
"It is a pity, since Bessmer overheard so much, that while she was aboutit she did not overhear more," said Heathcote, dryly.
"You need not suspect her: she is as honest as a cow, and asunimaginative. She happened to catch that sentence because she hadentered the next room for something; but she went out again immediately,and heard no more. What I fear is that Miss Vanhorn has dismissed herentirely, and that I shall not see her again, even at Moreau's. In thenote she says that she will send me her address when she can, which isoddly expressed, is it not? I suppose she means that she will send itwhen she knows where she is to be. Poor child! think of her to-night outin the hard world all alone!"
"I do think of her."
"It is good of you to care so much. But you know how much attached toher I am."
"Yes."
"She is an odd girl. Undeveloped, yet very strong. She would refuse aprince, a king, without a thought, and work all her life like a slavefor the man she loved, whoever he might be. In truth, she has done whatamounts to nearly the same thing, if my surmises are correct. Thosechildren on the island were pensioned, and I presume the old dragon hasstopped the pension."
"Have you no idea where she has gone?"
"Probably to Mademoiselle Pitre at Lancaster, on the Inside Road; Istopped there once to see her. It would be her first resource. I shallhear from her, of course, in a few days, and then I shall help her inevery way in my power. We will not let her suffer, Ward."
"No."
Then there was a pause.
"Are you not chilly here, Helen?"
"It _is_ damp," said Mrs. Lorrington, rising. She always followed themoods of this lethargic suitor of hers as closely as she could divinethem; she took the advance in every oblique and even retrograde movementhe made so swiftly that it generally seemed to have originated withherself. In five minutes they were in the house, and she had left him.
In what was called the office, a group of young men were discussing,over their cigars, a camping party; the mountains, whose blue sides layalong the western sky, afforded good hunting ground still, and were notas yet farmed out to clubs. The men now at Caryl's generally camped outfor a f
ew weeks every year; it was one of their habits. Heathcote, withhis hands in the pockets of his sack-coat, walked up and down,listening. After a while, "I think I'll go with you," he said.
"Come along, then, old fellow; I wish you would."
"When are you going?"
"To-morrow morning--early."
"By wagon?"
"Train to the junction; then wagons."
"How long shall you stay?"
"A week or two."
"I'll go," said Heathcote. He threw away his cigar, and started towardhis room. Helen was singing in the parlor as he passed; he pausedoutside for a moment to listen. Every one was present save Anne andGregory Dexter; yet the long room wore to him already the desolate andempty aspect of summer resorts in September. He could see the singerplainly; he leaned against the wall and looked at her. He liked her; shefitted into all the grooves of his habits and tastes. And he thought shewould marry him if he pushed the matter. While he was thus meditating, asoft little hand touched his arm in the darkness. "I saw you," saidRachel, in a whisper, "and came round to join you. You are looking atHelen; what a flute-like voice she has! Let us go out and listen to heron the piazza."
Mr. Heathcote would be delighted to go. He hated that parlor, with allthose people sitting round in a row. How could Rachel stand it?
Rachel, with a pathetic sigh, answered, How could she do as she wished?She had no talent for deception.
Heathcote regretted this; he wished with all his heart that she had.
His heart was not all his to wish with, Rachel suggested, in a cooingmurmur.
He answered that it was. And then they went out on the piazza.
Helen missed Rachel, and suspected, but sang on as sweetly as ever. Atlast, however, even Rachel could not keep the recreant admirer longer.He went off to his room, filled a travelling bag, lit a cigar, and thensat down to write a note:
* * * * *
"DEAR HELEN,--I have decided suddenly to go with the camping party tothe mountains for a week or two; we leave early in the morning. I shallhope to find you still here when I return.
W. H."
* * * * *
He sealed this missive, threw it aside, and then began to study arailway guide. To a person going across to the mountains in a wagon, aknowledge of the latest time-tables was, of course, important.
The next morning, while her maid was coiling her fair hair, Mrs.Lorrington received the note, and bit her lips with vexation.
The hunting party drove over to the station soon after six, and waitedthere for the early train. Hosy sold them their tickets, and then cameout to gain a little information in affable conversation. All the mensave Heathcote were attired in the most extraordinary old clothes, andthey wore among them an assortment of hats which might have won a prizein a collection. Hosy regarded them with wonder, but his sharp freckledface betrayed no sign. They were men, and he was above curiosity. He atean apple reflectively, and took an inward inventory: "Hez clothes that Iwouldn't be seen in, and sports 'em proud as you please. Hats like apirate. The strangest set of fellers!"
As the branch road train, with a vast amount of self-importantwhistling, drew near the junction with the main line, Heathcote saidcarelessly that he thought he would run down to the city for a day ortwo, and join them later. There was hue and cry over this delinquency,but he paid his way to peace by promising to bring with him on hisreturn a certain straw-packed basket, which, more than anything else, isa welcome sight to poor hard-worked hunters in a thirsty land. Thewagons rolled away with their loads, and he was left to take thesouthern-bound express. He reached the city late in the evening, sleptthere, and early the next morning went out to Lancaster Station. When hestepped off the train, a boy and a red wagon were in waiting; nothingelse save the green country.
"WHILE HER MAID WAS COILING HER FAIR HAIR."]
"Does a French lady named Pitre live in this neighborhood?" he inquiredof the boy, who was holding the old mare's head watchfully, as though,if not restrained, she would impetuously follow the receding train. Thiswas the boy with whom Jeanne-Armande had had her memorable contest overAnne's fare. Here was his chance to make up from the pockets of thisstranger--fair prey, since he was a friend of hers--the money lost onthat field.
"Miss Peters lives not fur off. I can drive you there if you want tergo."
Heathcote took his seat in the wagon, and slowly as possible the boydrove onward, choosing the most roundabout course, and bringing theneighborhood matrons to their windows to see that wagon pass a secondtime with the same stranger in it, going no one knew where. At last, allthe cross-roads being exhausted, the boy stopped before the closedhalf-house.
"Is this the place? It looks uninhabited," said Heathcote.
"'T always looks so; she's such a screw, she is," replied Eli, addressedas "Li" by his friends.
Heathcote knocked; no answer. He went round to the back door, but foundno sign of life.
"There is no one here. Would any one in the neighborhood know where shehas gone?"
"Mr. Green might, over to the store," said Li.
"Drive there."
"I've got to meet the next train, but I'll take you as fur as the door;'tain't but a step from there to the station. And you might as well payme now," he added, carelessly, "because the mare she's very fiery, andwon't stand." Pocketing his money--double price--he drove off, exultant.It was a mile and a half to the station, and a hot, cloudless morning.
Heathcote made acquaintance with Mr. Green, and asked his question.There was no one in the shop at the moment, and Mr. Green respondedfreely that he knew Miss Peters very well; in fact, they were oldfriends. She had gone to Valley City--had, in fact, left that verymorning in the same red wagon which had brought the inquirer to hisdoor; he, Green, looking out by chance, had seen her pass. What did shedo in Valley City? Why, she taught--in fact, kept school. She had keptschool there for ten years, and he, Green, was the only one in theneighborhood who knew it, since she--Miss Peters--wasn't much likedabout there, perhaps on account of her being a Papist. But in suchmatters, he, Green, was liberal. Did she have any one with her? Yes, shehad; in fact, Miss Douglas--same young lady as was there the fore partof the summer. No, they warn't going to stop at all in New York; goingright through to the West. Hoped there was no bad news?
"No," replied Heathcote.
But his monosyllable without details convinced the hearer that therewas, and before night the whole neighborhood was humming withconjecture. The darkest of the old suspicions about mademoiselle's pastwere now held to have been verified.
Heathcote walked back to the station over the red clay road, and lookedfor that boy. But Li had taken care to make good his retreat. By thedelay two trains were missed, and he was obliged to wait; when hereached the city it was two o'clock, and it seemed to him that thepavements had never exhaled such withering heat. His rooms were closed;he went to the hotel, took a bath, took two, but could not recovereither his coolness or his temper. Even after dinner he was stillundecided. Should he go westward to Valley City by the ten o'clocktrain? or wait till morning? or throw it all up and join the other menat the mountains? It was a close evening. Anne was at that moment on theferry-boat.
Mademoiselle had carefully misled her friend Mr. Green; so great was hercaution, so intricate her manoeuvres, that she not only never once toldhim the truth, but also had taken the trouble to invent elaboratefictions concerning herself and her school at Valley City every time sheclosed the half-house and bade him good-by. The only person who knewwhere she really was was the Roman Catholic priest who had charge of themission church at the railway-car shops three miles distant; to thissecret agent was intrusted the duty of walking over once a week, withoutexciting the notice of the neighborhood, to see if the half-houseremained safe and undisturbed. For this service mademoiselle paid asmall sum each week to the mission; and it was money well earned. Thepriest, a lank, lonely, sad-eyed young Irishman, with big feet in lowshoes, came do
wn the track once in seven days to Lancaster, as if for awalk, taking the half-house within his varying circuit, and, with thetact of his nation and profession, never once betraying his real object.On this occasion Jeanne-Armande had even showed Mr. Green her tickets toValley City: what could be surer?
At sunset, in the city, the air grew cooler, a salt breeze came up theharbor from the ocean, tossing bluely outside. Heathcote decided to takeanother glass of wine, and the morning train. To the mountains?
The next day he was somewhat disgustedly eating breakfast at NewMacedonia; and going through the cars an hour later, came upon Anne. Hehad not expected to see her. He was as much surprised as she was.
Why had he followed her? He could hardly have given a clear answer, saveperhaps that he was accustomed to follow his inclinations wherever theyled him, without hinderance or question. For there existed no one in theworld who had the right to question him; and therefore he was withoutthe habit of accounting for what he did, even to himself. It may,perhaps, be considered remarkable that, with such a position andtraining, he was, as a man, no worse than he was; that is, that heshould be so good a fellow, after all, when he had possessed suchunlimited opportunities to be a bad one. But natural refinement and finephysical health had kept the balance from swaying far; and thelast-named influence is more powerful than is realized. Many a man offine mind--even genius--is with the dolts and the brutes in the greatarmy of the fallen, owing to a miserable, weak, and disappointing body.Of course he should have learned, early in life, its deficiencies,should have guarded it, withheld it and himself from exertions which tohis neighbor are naught; but he does not always learn this lesson. Thehuman creature who goes through his allotted course with vigorous healthand a physical presence fine enough to command the unconscious respectof all with whom he comes in contact has no conception of thehumiliations and discouragements, the struggles and failures, whichbeset the path of his weak-bodied and physically insignificant brother.Heathcote, indolent as he was, had a superb constitution, for which andof which, ungratefully, he had never thought long enough to be thankful.
But why was he following Anne?
She had told him of her engagement. Even if he could have broken thatengagement, did he wish to break it? He said to himself that it wasbecause his chivalry, as a man, had been stirred by the maid's story ofMiss Vanhorn's harsh words--words which he had at once construed as anallusion to himself. Was he not partially, perhaps wholly, responsiblefor her banishment? But, even if this were true, could he not have actedthrough Helen, who was by far the most fitting agent? Instead of this,here he was following her himself!
Why?
Simply because of one look he had had deep down into violet eyes.
He had not expected to find her so soon. In truth, he was following inrather a purposeless fashion, leaving much to chance, and making noplans. They had gone to Valley City; he would go to Valley City. Perhapshe should meet her in the street there; or perhaps he should leave aletter; perhaps he should do neither, but merely turn round, his impulsesatisfied, and go home again. There was no need to decide now. He was onthe way; that was enough. And more than enough.
Then, suddenly, he saw her.
She was sitting next the aisle. He put out his hand; she gave hers, andmechanically mentioned his name to mademoiselle, who, helmeted in hertravelling bonnet surmounted by a green veil, presented a martial frontto all beholders. There was no vacant place near; he remained standing.
"How fortunate that I have met you!" he said, with conventionalcordiality. "The day promised to be intolerably long and dull."
Mademoiselle, who at a glance had taken in his appearance from head tofoot as only a Frenchwoman can, inquired if he was going far, in a voiceso harmonious, compared with the bonnet, that it was an agreeablesurprise.
"To Valley City," replied Heathcote.
"We also are going to Valley City," said Jeanne-Armande, graciously. "Itis a pity there happens to be no vacant place near for monsieur. If someof these good people--" Here she turned the helmet toward her neighborsbehind.
"Pray do not give yourself any trouble," said Heathcote. "I was on myway to the last car, hoping to find more air and space. If I am sofortunate as to find there two vacant seats, may I not return for you?It will be a charity to my loneliness."
"And a pleasure, monsieur, to ourselves," said mademoiselle.
He bowed his thanks, and glanced again at Anne. She had not spoken, andhad not looked at him since her first startled glance. ButJeanne-Armande was gracious for two; she was charmed to have a monsieurof such distinguished appearance standing in the aisle by their side,and she inwardly wished that she had worn her second instead of herthird best gloves and veil.
"Mrs. Lorrington misses you sadly," said Heathcote to the silent avertedface, more for the sake of saying something than with any specialmeaning.
A slight quiver in the downcast eyelids, but no answer.
"She hopes that you will soon send her your address."
"It is uncertain as yet where I shall be," murmured Anne.
"I thought you were to be at Valley City?"
She made no reply, but through her mind passed the thought that he couldnot know, then, their real destination. He had been speaking in a lowvoice; mademoiselle had not heard. But he could not carry on aconversation long with a person who would not answer. "I will go to thelast car, and see if I can find those seats," he said, speaking tomademoiselle, and smiling as he spoke. She thought him charming.
As soon as he turned away, Anne said: "Please do not tell him that oursare excursion tickets, mademoiselle. Let him think that our destinationis really Valley City."
"Certainly, if you wish it," replied Jeanne-Armande, who had a sympathywith all mysteries; this little speech of Anne's gave a new spice to theday. "He is one of the circle round your grandaunt, probably?"
"Yes; I met him at Caryl's."
"A most distinguished personage; entirely as it should be. And did I notoverhear the name of the charming Mrs. Lorrington also?"
"He is a friend of Helen's. I think, I am not sure, but still I thinkthat they are engaged," said Anne, bravely.
"And most appropriate. I do not know when I have been more comfortedthan by the culture and manner of that elegant friend of yours whosought you out at my little residence; I hope it may be my fortunateprivilege to entertain her there again. From these two examples, I amnaturally led to think that the circle round your grandaunt is oneadjusted to that amiable poise so agreeable to the feelings of a lady."
Anne made no reply; the circle round her grandaunt seemed to her a worldof dark and menacing terrors, from which she was fleeing with all thespeed she could summon. But, one of these terrors had followed her.
Presently Heathcote returned. He had found two vacant seats, and the carwas much better ventilated than this one; there was no dust, and no onewas eating either pea-nuts or apples; the floor was clean; the coveringof the seats seemed to have been recently renewed. Upon hearing theenumeration of all these advantages, mademoiselle arose immediately, and"monsieur" was extremely attentive in the matter of carrying shawls,packages, and baskets. But when they reached the car, they found thatthe two seats were not together; one was at the end, the other separatedfrom it by the aisle and four intervening places.
"I hoped that you would be kind enough to give me the pleasure of beingwith you by turns," said Heathcote, gallantly, to mademoiselle, "sinceit was impossible to find seats together." As he spoke, he placedJeanne-Armande in one of the seats, and Anne in the other; and thengravely, but with just the scintillation of a smile in his brown eyes,he took his own place, not beside Anne, but beside the delightedFrenchwoman, who could scarcely believe her good fortune to be realuntil she found him actually assisting her in the disposal of basket,shawl, bag, India-rubber shoes, and precious although baggy umbrella.