Anne: A Novel

  CHAPTER XXI.

  "How heavy do I journey on the way When what I seek, my weary travel's end, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 'Thus far the miles are measured from my friend.'"

  --_Shakspeare's Sonnets._

  In the mean time Ward Heathcote was in the supper-room. After selectingthe best that the little country station afforded, and feeing a servantto take it across to the train, he sat down to eat a nondescript mealwith some hunger.

  The intelligent mulatto boy who carried the waiter consumed as manyminutes as possible in his search for "the two ladies in that car, onthe right-hand side opposite the fourth window," who, plainly, were notthere. He had the fee in his pocket, there would not be another, and thetwo "suppers" were paid for. It was decidedly a case for delay. Hewaited, therefore, until the warning bell rang, and he was thenencountered in hot haste hurrying to meet his patron, the waiter stillbalanced on his shoulder.

  "No ladies there, sah. Looked everywhere fur 'em, sah."

  There was no time for further parley. Heathcote hurried forward, and thetrain started. They must be there, of course; probably the cars had beenchanged or moved forward while the train was waiting. But although hewent from end to end of the long file of carriages, he found no one.They were under full headway now; the great engine did not need gradualbeginnings. He could not bring himself to ask questions of thepassengers whose faces he remembered in the same car; they would openupon him a battery of curiosity in return. He went to the rear door,opened it, and looked out; the two grime-encircled eyes of a brakemanmet his gravely. He stepped outside, closed the door, and entered intoconversation with the eyes.

  Yes, he seed two ladies get off; they come out this here end door, andclimbed down on the wrong side. Seemed to be in a hurry. Didn't knowwhere they went. Called after 'em that that warn't the way to thedining-room, and the young one said, "Thanks," but didn't say no more.Was they left behind? No, train didn't stop this side of Valley City;but the gentleman could telegraph back, and they could come on safe andsound in the morning express. 'Twarn't likely they'd gone north by thelittle branch road, was it? Branch connects at Stringhampton for theNorthern Line.

  But this suggestion made no impression upon Heathcote. Mademoisellelived in Valley City; he had seen her tickets for Valley City. No, itwas some unlooked-for mistake or accident. He gave the brakeman adollar, and went back into the car. But everything was gone--bags,shawls, basket, cloak, bundle, and umbrella, all the miscellaneouspossessions with which mademoiselle was accustomed to travel; there hadbeen, then, deliberation enough to collect them all. He sat downperplexed, and gradually the certainty stole coldly over him that Annehad fled. It must be this.

  For it was no freak of the Frenchwoman's; she had been too much pleasedwith his escort to forego it willingly. He was deeply hurt. And deeplysurprised. Had he not followed her to ask her to be his wife? (This wasnot true, but for the moment he thought it was.) Was this a properresponse?

  Never before had he received such a rebuff, and after brooding over itan hour in the dismal car, it grew into an insult. His deeper feelingswere aroused. Under his indolence he had a dominant pride, evenarrogance of nature, which would have astonished many who thought theyknew him. Whether his words had or had not been the result of impulse,now that they were spoken, they were worthy of at least respect. He grewmore angry as the minutes passed, for he was so deeply hurt that he tookrefuge in anger. To be so thwarted and played upon--he, a man of theworld--by a young girl; a young girl regarding whom, too, there hadsprung up in his heart almost the only real faith of his life! He hadbelieved in that face, had trusted those violet eyes, he did not knowhow unquestioningly until now. And then, feeling something very likemoisture coming into his own eyes, he rose, angry over his weakness,went forward to the smoking car, lit a cigar, and savagely tried tothink of other things. A pretty fool he was to be on a night train inthe heart of Pennsylvania, going no one knew whither.

  But, in spite of himself, his mind stole back to Anne. She was sodifferent from the society women with whom he had always associated; shehad so plainly loved him. Poor, remorseful, conscientious, struggling,faithful heart! Why had she fled from him? It did not occur to him thatshe was fleeing from herself.

  He arrived at Valley City at eleven o'clock, and had the very room withgaudy carpet he had pictured to himself. The next morning, disgustedwith everything and out of temper as he was, he yet so far postponed hisreturn journey as to make inquiries concerning schools for girls--one inparticular, in which a certain Mademoiselle Pitre had been teachingFrench and music for several years. The clerk thought it must be the"Young Ladies' Seminary." Heathcote took down the address of thisestablishment, ordered a carriage, and drove thither, inquiring at thedoor if Mademoiselle Pitre had arrived.

  There was no such person there, the maid answered. No; he knew that shehad not yet arrived. But when was she expected?

  The maid (who admired the stranger) did not take it upon herself to denyhis statement, but went away, and returned with the principal, ProfessorAdolphus Bittinger. Professor Bittinger was not acquainted withMademoiselle Pitre. Their instructress in the French language was namedBlanchard, and was already there. Heathcote then asked if there were anyother young ladies' seminaries in Valley City, and was told (loftily)that there were not. No schools where French was taught? There mightbe, the professor thought, one or two small establishments for dayscholars. The visitor wrote down the new addresses, and drove away tovisit four day schools in succession, sending a ripple of curiosity downthe benches, and exciting a flutter in the breasts of four Frenchteachers, who came in person to answer the inquiries of monsieur. One ofthem, a veteran in the profession, who had spent her life in askingabout the loaf made by the distant one-eyed relative of the baker,answered decidedly that there was no such person in Valley City."Monsieur" was beginning to think so himself; but having now the fancyto exhaust all the possibilities, he visited the infant schools, and aprivate class, and at two o'clock returned to the hotel, having seenaltogether about five hundred young Americans in frocks, from five yearsold to seventeen.

  According to the statement of the little shop-keeper at Lancaster,mademoiselle had been teaching in Valley City for a number of years:there remained, then, the chance that she was in a private family asgoverness. Heathcote lingered in Valley City three days longer on thisgoverness chance. He ate three more dinners in the comfortlessdining-room, slept three more nights in the gaudy bedroom, and was atthe railway station five times each day, to wit, at the hours when thetrains arrived from the east. If they had waited at Stringhampton untilhe had had time to return to New York, they would be coming on now. Butno one came. The fourth day opened with dull gray rain; the smoke of themanufactories hung over the valley like a pall. In the dining-room therewas a sour odor of fresh paint, and from the window he could see only aline of hacks, the horses standing in the rain with drooping heads,while the drivers, in a row against an opposite wall, looked, in theirlong oil-skin coats, as though they were drawn up there in their blackshrouds to be shot. In a fit of utter disgust he rang for his bill,ordered a carriage, and drove to the station: he would take the morningtrain for New York.

  Yet when the carriage was dismissed, he let the express roll awaywithout him, while he walked to and fro, waiting for an incoming train.The train was behind time; when it did come, there was no one among itspassengers whom he had ever seen before. With an anathema upon his ownfolly, he took the day accommodation eastward. He would return to NewYork without any more senseless delays. And then at StringhamptonJunction he was the only person who alighted. His idea was to makeinquiries there. He spent two hours of that afternoon in the rain, undera borrowed umbrella, and three alone in the waiting-room. No suchpersons as he described had been seen at Stringhampton, and as thesettlement was small, and possessed of active curiosity, there remainedno room for doubt. There was the chance that they had followed him toValley City an hour later on a freight train with car attached, in
whichcase he had missed them. And there was the other chance that they hadgone northward by the branch road. But why should they go northward?They lived in Valley City, or near there; their tickets were marked"Valley City." The branch led to the Northern Line, by which one couldreach Chicago, St. Louis, Omaha, the wilderness, but not Valley City.The gentleman might go up as far as the Northern Line, and inquire ofthe station agent there, suggested the Stringhampton ticket-seller, whobalanced a wooden tooth-pick in his mouth lightly, like a cigarette. Butthe gentleman, who had already been looking up the narrow line of wetrails under his umbrella for an hour, regarded the speaker menacingly,and turned away with the ironical comment in his own mind that theNorthern Line and its station agent might be--what amounted toCalvinized--before _he_ sought them.

  The night express came thundering along at midnight. It bore away thevisitor. Stringhampton saw him no more.

  In the mean time Anne and her companion had ridden on during the night,and the younger woman had explained to the elder as well as she couldthe cause of her sudden action. "It was not right that I should hear orthat he should speak such words."

  "He had but little time in which to speak them," said Jeanne-Armande,stiffly. "He spent most of the day with me. But, in any case, why runaway? Why could you not have repelled him quietly, and with the properdignity of a lady, and yet remained where you were, comfortably, andallowed me to remain as well?"

  "I _could_ not," said Anne. Then, after a moment, "Dear mademoiselle,"she added, "do not ask me any more questions. I have done wrong, and Ihave been very, very unhappy. It is over now, and with your help I hopeto have a long winter of quiet and patient labor. I am grateful to you;you do not know how grateful. Save those far away on the island, youseem to me now the only friend I have on earth." Her voice broke.

  Jeanne-Armande's better feelings were touched. "My poor child!" shesaid, pityingly.

  And then Anne laid her head down upon the Frenchwoman's shoulder, andsobbed as if her heart would break.

  They reached Weston the next day. The journey was ended.

  Mademoiselle selected new lodgings, in a quarter which overlooked thelake. She never occupied the same rooms two seasons in succession, lestshe should be regarded as "an old friend," and expected to makeconcessions accordingly. On the second day she called ceremoniously uponthe principal of the school, sending in her old-fashioned glazed card,with her name engraved upon it, together with a minute "Paris" in onecorner. To this important personage she formally presented hercandidate, endowing her with so large a variety of brilliant qualitiesand accomplishments that the candidate was filled with astonishment, andcame near denying them, had she not been prevented by the silent meaningpressure of a gaiter that divined her intention, and forbade therevelation. Fortunately an under-teacher was needed, and half an hourlater Anne went away, definitely, although at a very small salary,engaged.

  She went directly home, locked her door, took paper and pen, and beganto write. "Dear Rast," she wrote. Then, with a flood of remorsefulaffection, "Dear, dear Rast." Her letter was a long one, without breakor hesitation. She told him all save names, and asked him to forgiveher. If he still loved her and wished her to be his wife, she was ready;in truth, she seemed almost to urge the marriage, that is, if he stillloved her. When the letter was completed she went out and placed it in aletter-box with her own hands, coming home with a conscience more free.She had done what she could. The letter was sent to the island, whereRast still was when she had heard from him the last time before leavingCaryl's; for only seven days had passed since then. They seemed sevenyears.

  A day later she wrote to Miss Lois, telling of Miss Vanhorn's action,her new home and change of position. She said nothing of her letter toRast or the story it told; she left that to him to relate or not as hepleased. In all things he should be now her master.

  When this second letter was sent, she asked herself whether she couldwrite to Helen. But instantly the feeling came surging over her that shecould not. In addition there was the necessity of keeping her new abodehidden. No one knew were mademoiselle was, and the younger woman had nowthe benefit of that carefully woven mystery. She was safe. She must notdisturb that safety.

  To one other person she felt that she must write, namely, Miss Vanhorn.Harsh as had been the treatment she had received, it came from hermother's aunt. She wrote, therefore, briefly, stating that she hadobtained a teacher's place, but without saying where it was. Thisletter, inclosed in another envelope, was sent to a friend ofJeanne-Armande in Boston, and mailed from that city. Anne had writtenthat a letter sent to the Boston address, which she inclosed, would beimmediately forwarded to her. But no reply came. Old Katharine neverforgave.

  The school opened; the young teacher had a class of new scholars. To heralso were given the little brothers who were allowed to mingle with theflock until they reached the age of eleven, when they were banished torougher trials elsewhere; to these little boys she taught Latin grammar,and the various pursuits in the imperfect tense of those two well-knowngrammar worthies, Caius and Balbus. Jeanne-Armande had not failed toproclaim far and wide her candidate's qualifications as to vocal music."A pupil of Belzini," she remarked, with a stately air, "was not oftento be obtained so far inland." The principal, a clear-headed Westernwoman, with a keen sense of humor, perceived at once (although smilingat it) the value of the phrase. It was soon in circulation. And it wasunderstood that at Christmas-time the pupil of Belzini, who was notoften to be obtained so far inland, would assume charge of the musicclass, and lift it to a plane of Italian perfection hitherto unattained.

  The autumn opened. Anne, walking on the lake shore at sunset, saw thevessels steal out from port one by one, and opening white sails, glideaway in the breeze of evening silently as spirits. Then came the coloredleaves. The town, even in its meanest streets, was now so beautiful thatthe wonder was that the people did not leave their houses, and liveout-of-doors altogether, merely to gaze; every leaf was a flower, andbrighter than the brightest blossom. Then came a wild storm, tearing thesplendor from the branches in a single night; in the morning, Novemberrain was falling, and all was desolate and bare. But after this, thelast respite, came Indian summer.

  If there is a time when the American of to-day recalls the red-skinnedmen who preceded him in this land he now calls his own, it is duringthese few days of stillness and beauty which bear the name of thevanished race. Work is over in the fields, they are ready for theirwinter rest; the leaves are gone, the trees are ready too. The last redapple is gathered; men and the squirrels together have gleaned the lastnut. There is nothing more to be done; and he who with a delicateimagination walks abroad, or drives slowly along country roads, findshimself thinking, in the stillness, of those who roved over this sameground not many years ago, and tardily gathering in at this season theirsmall crops of corn beside the rivers, gave to the beautifulgolden-purple-hued days the name they bear. Through the naked woods hesees them stealing, bow in hand; on the stream he sees their birch-barkcanoes; the smoke in the atmosphere must surely rise from their hiddencamp fires. They have come back to their old haunts from the happyhunting grounds for these few golden days. Is it not the Indian summer?The winter came early, with whirling snow followed by bitter cold. Iceformed; navigation was over until spring. Anne had heard from Dr. Gastonand Miss Lois, but not from Rast. For Rast had gone; he had started onhis preliminary journey through the western country, where he proposedto engage in business enterprises, although their nature remained as yetvague. The chaplain wrote that a letter addressed to Erastus in herhandwriting had been brought to him the day after the youth's departure,and that he had sent it to the frontier town which was to be his firststopping-place. Erastus had written to her the day before his departure,but the letter had of course gone to Caryl's. Miss Vanhorn, withoutdoubt, would forward it to her niece. The old man wrote with an effortto appear cheerful, but he confessed that he missed his two childrensadly. The boys were well, and Angelique was growing pretty. In anotheryear it would be better
that she should be with her sister; it wassomewhat doubtful whether Miss Lois understood the child.

  Miss Lois's letter was emphatic, beginning and ending with her opinionof Miss Vanhorn in the threefold character of grandaunt, Christian, andwoman. She was able to let out her feelings at last, unhindered by thenow-withdrawn allowance. The old bitter resentment against the woman whohad slighted William Douglas found vent, and the characterization waswithering and picturesque. When she had finished the arraignment, trial,and execution, at least in words, she turned at last to the children;and here it was evident that her pen paused and went more slowly. Theboys, she hoped (rather as a last resort), were "good-hearted." She hadbut little trouble, comparatively, with Tita now; the child was veryattentive to her lessons, and had been over to Pere Michaux at hishermitage almost every other day. The boys went sometimes; and Erastushad been kind enough to accompany the children, to see that they werenot drowned. And then, dropping the irksome theme, Miss Lois dipped herpen in romance, and filled the remainder of her letter with praise ofgolden-haired Rast, not so much because she herself loved him, asbecause Anne did. For the old maid believed with her whole heart in thisyoung affection which had sprung into being under her fostering care,and looked forward to the day when the two should kneel together beforeDr. Gaston in the little fort chapel, to receive the solemn benedictionof the marriage service, as the happiest remaining in her life on earth.Anne read the fervid words with troubled heart. If Rast felt all thatMiss Lois said he felt, if he had borne as impatiently as Miss Loisdescribed their present partial separation, even when he was sure of herlove, how would he suffer when he read her letter! She looked forwardfeverishly to the arrival of his answer; but none came. The delay washard to bear.

  Dr. Gaston wrote a second time. Rast had remained but a day at the firsttown, and not liking it, had gone forward. Not having heard from Anne,he sent, inclosed to the chaplain's care, a letter for her. With nervoushaste she opened it; but it contained nothing save an account of hisjourney, with a description of the frontier village--"shanties, drinkingsaloons, tin cans, and a grave-yard already. This will never do for ahome for us. I shall push on farther." The tone of the letter wasaffectionate, as sure as ever of her love. Rast had always been sure ofthat. She read the pages sadly; it seemed as if she was willfullydeceiving him. Where was her letter, the letter that told all? She wroteto the postmaster of the first town, requesting him to return it. Aftersome delay, she received answer that it had been sent westward toanother town, which the person addressed, namely, Erastus Pronando, hadsaid should be his next stopping-place. But a second letter from Rast,sent also to the chaplain's care, had mentioned passing through thatvery town without stopping--"it was such an infernal den"; and againAnne wrote, addressing the second postmaster, and asking for the letter.This postmaster replied, after some tardiness, owing to his conflictingengagements as politician, hunter, and occasionally miner, that theletter described had been forwarded to the Dead-letter Office. Thiscorrespondence occupied October and November; and during this time Rastwas still roaming through the West, writing frequently, but sending nopermanent address. Now rumors of a silver mine attracted him; now it wasa scheme for cattle-raising; now speculation in lands along the line ofthe coming railway It was impossible to follow him--and in truth he didnot wish to be followed. He was tasting his first liberty. He meant tolook around the world awhile before choosing his home: not long, onlyawhile. Still, awhile.

  The chaplain added a few lines of his own when he sent these letters toAnne. Winter had seized them; they were now fast fettered; the mail cameover the ice. Miss Lois was kind, and sometimes came up to regulate hishousekeeping; but nothing went as formerly. His coffee was seldom good;and he found himself growing peevish--at least his present domestic, aworthy widow named McGlathery, had remarked upon it. But Anne must notthink the domestic was in fault; he had reason to believe that she meantwell even when she addressed him on the subject of his ownshort-comings. And here the chaplain's old humor peeped through, as headded, quaintly, that poor Mistress McGlathery's health was far fromstrong, she being subject to "inward tremblings," which tremblings shehad several times described to him with tears in her eyes, while he hadas often recommended peppermint and ginger, but without success; on thecontrary, she always went away with a motion of the skirts and a manneras to closing the door which, the chaplain thought, betokened offense.Anne smiled over these letters, and then sighed. If she could only bewith him again--with them all! She dreamed at night of the old man inhis arm-chair, of Miss Lois, of the boys, of Tita curled in her furrycorner, which she had transferred, in spite of Miss Lois'sremonstrances, to the sitting-room of the church-house. Neither Tita norPere Michaux had written; she wondered over their new silence.

  Anne's pupils had, of course, exhaustively weighed and sifted the newteacher, and had decided to like her. Some of them decided to adore her,and expressed their adoration in bouquets, autograph albums, and variousarticles in card-board supposed to be of an ornamental nature. Theywatched her guardedly, and were jealous of every one to whom she spoke;she little knew what a net-work of plots, observation, mines andcountermines, surrounded her as patiently she toiled through each longmonotonous day. These adorations of school-girls, although butunconscious rehearsals of the future, are yet real while they last;Anne's adorers went sleepless if by chance she gave especial attentionto any other pupil. The adored one meanwhile did not notice these littleintensities; her mind was absorbed by other thoughts.

  Four days before Christmas two letters came; one was her own to Rast,returned at last from the Dead-letter Office; the other was from MissLois, telling of the serious illness of Dr. Gaston. The old chaplain hadhad a stroke of paralysis, and Rast had been summoned; fortunately hislast letter had been from St. Louis, to which place he had unexpectedlyreturned, and therefore they had been able to reach him by message toChicago and a telegraphic dispatch. Dr. Gaston wished to see him; theyouth had been his ward as well as almost child, and there were businessmatters to be arranged between them. Anne's tears fell as she read ofher dear old teacher's danger, and the impulse came to her to go to himat once. Was she not his child as well as Rast? But the impulse waschecked by the remainder of the letter. Miss Lois wrote, sadly, that shehad tried to keep it from Anne, but had not succeeded: since August hersmall income had been much reduced, owing to the failure of a NewHampshire bank, and she now found that with all her effort they couldnot quite live on what was left. "Very nearly, dear child. I think, with_thirty_ dollars, I can manage until spring. Then everything will be_cheaper_. I should not have kept it from you if it had not happened atthe _very time_ of your trouble with that _wicked old woman_, and I didnot wish to add to your care. But the boys have what is called _fine_appetites (I wish they were not quite so 'fine'), and of course _this_winter, and never before, my provisions were spoiled in my own cellar."

  Anne had intended to send to Miss Lois all her small savings onChristmas-day. She now went to the principal of the school, asked thatthe payment of her salary might be advanced, and forwarded all she wasable to send to the poverty-stricken little household in thechurch-house. That night she wept bitter tears; the old chaplain wasdying, and she could not go to him; the children were perhaps suffering.For the first time in a life of poverty she felt its iron hand crushingher down. Her letter to Rast lay before her; she could not send it nowand disturb the last hours on earth of their dear old friend. She laidit aside and waited--waited through those long hours of dreary suspensewhich those must bear who are distant from the dying beds of their lovedones.

  In the mean time Rast had arrived. Miss Lois wrote of the chaplain's joyat seeing him. The next letter contained the tidings that death hadcome; early in the morning, peacefully, with scarcely a sigh, the oldman's soul had passed from earth. Colonel Bryden, coming in soonafterward, and looking upon the calm face, had said, gently,

  "Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not good-night, but, in some brighter cl
ime, Bid me good-morning."

  When Anne knew that the funeral was over, that another grave had beenmade under the snow in the little military cemetery, and that, with thestrange swiftness which is so hard for mourning hearts to realize, dailylife was moving on again in the small island circle where the kind oldface would be seen no more, she sent her letter, the same old letter,unaltered and travel-worn. Then she waited. She could not receive heranswer before the eighth or ninth day. But on the fifth came twoletters; on the seventh, three. The first were from Miss Lois and Mrs.Bryden; the others from Tita, Pere Michaux, and--Rast. And theextraordinary tidings they brought were these: Rast had married Tita.The little sister was now his wife.