Anne: A Novel

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  "The fierce old fires of primitive ages are not dead yet, although we pretend they are. Every now and then each man of us is confronted by a gleam of the old wild light deep down in his own startled heart."

  In the middle of wild, snowy March there came a strange week ofbeautiful days. On the Sunday of this week Anne was in her place in thechoir, as usual, some time before the service began.

  It was a compromise choir. The dispute between the ideas of the rectorand those of the congregation had been ended by bringing the organforward to the corner near the chancel, and placing in front of it thesingers' seats, ornamented with the proper devices: so much was done forthe rector. To balance this, and in deference to the congregation, theold quartette of voices was retained, and placed in these seats, which,plainly intended for ten or twelve surpliced choristers, were all toolong and broad for the four persons who alone occupied them. The singerssat in one, and kept their music-books in the other, and objecting tothe open publicity of their position facing the congregation, they haddemanded, and at last succeeded in obtaining (to the despair of therector), red curtains, which, hanging from the high railing above,modestly concealed them when they were seated, and converted that cornerof the church into something between a booth in a fair and a circustent.

  Before the service began, while the people were coming in, the contraltopushed aside a corner of the curtain as usual, and peeped out. She thenreported to Anne in a whisper the course of events, as follows, Anne notcaring to hear, but quiescent:

  "Loads of people to-day. Wonder why? Oh yes, I remember now; theapostolic bishop's going to be here, and preach about the Indians. Don'tyou love that man? I do; and I wish I was an Indian myself. We'll have_all_ the curtains put back for the sermon. More people coming. Ideclare it's quite exciting. And I forgot gum-drops on this day of allothers, and shall probably be hoarse as a crow, and spoil the duet! Ihope you won't be raging. Oh, _do_ look! Here's such a swell! A lady;Paris clothes from head to foot. And she's going to sit up here near ustoo. Take a look?" But Anne declined, and the reporter went on. "She hasthe lightest hair I ever saw. I wonder if it's bleached? And she's asslender as a paper-cutter." (The contralto was stout.) "But I can't denythat she's handsome, and her clothes are stunning. They're right closeto us now, and the man's awfully handsome too, come to look at him--herhusband, I suppose. A pair of brown eyes and _such_ heavy eyebrows!They--"

  But the soprano was curious at last, apparently, and the contraltogood-naturedly gave up her look-out corner. Yes, there they were, Helenand Ward Heathcote, Mrs. Heathcote and her husband, Captain Heathcoteand his wife. Very near her, and unconscious of her presence. Hungrily,and for one long moment, she could not help looking at them. As thelight-tongued girl had said, Helen looked very beautiful, more beautifulthan ever, Anne thought. She was clad in black velvet from head to foot,and as the day was unexpectedly warm, she had thrown aside her heavymantle edged with fur, and her slender form was visible, outlined in theclinging fabric. Under the small black velvet bonnet with its singleplume her hair, in all its fine abundance, shone resplendent,contrasting with the velvet's richness. One little delicately glovedhand held a prayer-book, and with the other, as Anne looked, shemotioned to her husband. He drew nearer, and she spoke. In answer hesought in his pockets, and drew forth a fan. She extended her hand as ifto take it, but he opened it himself, and began to fan her quietly. Theheat in the church was oppressive; his wife was delicate; what morenatural than that he should do this? Yet the gazer felt herself acutelymiserable. She knew Helen so well also that although to the rest of thecongregation the fair face preserved unchanged its proud immobility,Anne's eyes could read at once the wife's happiness in her husband'sattention.

  She drew back. "I can not sing to-day," she said, hurriedly; "I am notwell. Will you please make my excuses to the others?" As she spoke shedrew on her gloves. (She had a fancy that she could not sing with herhands gloved.)

  "Why, what in the world--" began the contralto. "But you _do_ lookfrightfully pale. Are you going to faint? Let me go with you."

  "I shall not faint, but I must get to the open air as soon as possible.Please stay and tell the others; perhaps Miss Freeborn will sing in myplace."

  Having succeeded in saying this, her white cheeks and trembling handswitnesses for her, she went out through the little choir door, which wasconcealed by the curtain, and in another moment was in the street. Theorganist, hidden in his oaken cell, looked after her in surprise. Whenthe basso came in, with a flower in his mouth, he took the flower out,and grew severely thoughtful over the exigencies of the situation. Aftera few minutes of hurried discussion, the basso, who was also the leader,came forth from the circus tent and made a majestic progress to therector's pew, where sat the lily-like Miss Freeborn, the rector'sdaughter; and then, after another consultation, she rose, and the twomade a second majestic progress back to the circus tent, thecongregation meanwhile looking on with much interest. When the tenorcame, a rather dissipated youth who had been up late the night before,he was appalled by the presence of the lily-like Miss Freeborn, and didnot sing as well as usual, Miss Freeborn, although lily-like, keepinghim sternly to his notes, and not allowing him any of those lingeringlittle descents after the other singers have finished, upon which he,like many tenors, relied for his principal effects.

  Meanwhile Anne was walking rapidly down the street; a mile soon laybetween her and the church, yet still she hastened onward. She was in afever, yet a chill as well. Now she was warm with joy, now cold withgrief. She had seen him. Her eyes had rested upon his face at last, andhe was safe, he was well and strong again. Was not this joy enough?

  And yet he was with Helen. And Helen loved him.

  She had asked him to go back to Helen. He had gone back. She had askedhim to do his part in life bravely. And he was doing it. Was not thiswhat she wished?

  And yet--was it so hard to go back--to go back to beautiful Helen wholoved him so deeply? Did his part in life require bravery? Did he lookas though it was a sacrifice, a hardship? And here she tried to recallhow in truth he had looked--how, to the eyes of a stranger. He wasstrong again and vigorous; but beyond that she could think only of howhe looked to her--the face she knew so well, the profile, the shortcrisp hair, the heavy eyebrows and brown eyes. He was in citizen'sdress; only the bronzed skin and erect bearing betrayed the soldier. Howhe would have looked to a stranger she could not tell; she only knew,she only felt, how he looked to her. "He is at home on furlough," shethought, with gladness, realizing the great joy it was that he should besafe when so many had been taken. And then, in her memory, blotting outall gladness, rose again the picture of the two figures, side by side,and she hurried onward, she knew not whither. It was jealousy, plain,simple, unconquerable jealousy, which was consuming her; jealousy,terrible passion which the most refined and intellectual share with thepoor Hottentots, from which the Christian can not escape any more thanthe pagan; jealousy, horrible companion of love, its guardian andtormentor. God help the jealous! for they suffer the acutest torturesthe human mind can feel. And Anne was jealous.

  If she had not admired Helen so deeply, and loved her (save for this onebarrier) so sincerely, she would not have suffered as she was suffering.But to her Helen had always been the fairest woman on earth, and evennow this feeling could not be changed. All Helen's words came back toher, every syllable of her clear, quietly but intensely uttered avowal;and this man, whom she had loved so deeply, was now her husband.

  It was nothing new. Why should she feel it, think of it, in this way?But she was no longer capable of thinking or feeling reasonably. Ofcourse he loved her. In his mind she, Anne, was probably but a far-offremembrance, even if a remembrance at all. Their meeting in WestVirginia had been a chance encounter; its impulses, therefore, had beenchance impulses, its words chance words, meaning nothing, alreadyforgotten. She, Anne, had taken them as great, and serious, and sincere;and she, Anne, had been a fool. Her life had been built upon thi
s idea.It was a foundation of sand.

  She walked on, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Where were now theresignation and self-sacrifice, the crowned patience and noblefortitude? Ah, yes, but resignation and fortitude were one thing whenshe had thought that he required them also, another when they werereplaced in his life by happiness and content. It is easy to beself-sacrificing when the one we love suffers in companionship with us,and there is no rival. But when there is a rival, self-sacrifice goes tothe winds. "He never loved me," was the burning cry of her heart. "Ihave been a fool--a poor self-absorbed, blinded fool. If he thinks of meat all, it is with a smile over my simple credulity."

  Through miles of streets she wandered, and at last found herself againin the quarter where the church stood. A sudden desire seized her tolook at him, at them, again. If the service had been long, she would bein time to see their carriage pass. She turned, and hastened toward thechurch, as anxious now to reach it as she had been before to leave itfar behind. Now she could see the corner and the porch. No, service wasnot ended; carriages were waiting without. She was in time. But as shedrew near, figures began to appear, coming from the porch, and she tookrefuge under the steps of a house opposite, her figure hidden in theshadow.

  "ANNE, STILL AS A STATUE."]

  The congregation slowly made its dignified way into the street. St.Lucien's had seldom held so large a throng of worshippers. The littlesexton hardly knew, in his excitement, where he was, or what his duty,on such a momentous occasion. At length they appeared, the last ofall; only one carriage was left, and that was their own. Slowly, leaningon her husband's arm, the slender fair-haired woman came forth; andAnne, still as a statue, watched with fixed, burning eyes while he threwthe velvet cloak round her as they reached the open air, and fastenedthe clasp. Chance favored the gazer. Helen had left her prayer-bookbehind in the pew, and while the sexton went back to look for it,husband and wife stood waiting on the steps in the sunshine. Yes,Heathcote had regained all his old vigor, but his expression waschanged. He was graver; in repose his face was stern.

  It seemed as if Helen felt the fixed although unseen gaze, for sheshivered slightly, said something, and they began to go down the steps,the wife supported by her husband's arm as though she needed theassistance. The footman held open the carriage door, but Helen paused.Anne could see her slender foot, in its little winter boot, put out, andthen withdrawn, as though she felt herself unable to take the step. Thenher husband lifted her in his arms and placed her in the carriagehimself, took his place beside her, and the man closed the door. Inanother minute the sexton had brought the prayer-book, and the carriagerolled away. Anne came out from her hiding-place. The vision was gone.

  Again she walked at random through the streets, unheeding where she was.She knew that she had broken her compact with herself--broken itutterly. Of what avail now the long months during which she had notallowed herself to enter the street or the neighborhood where Helenlived? Of what avail that she had not allowed herself to listen to oneword concerning them when Mr. Dexter stood ready to tell all? She hadlooked at them--looked at them voluntarily and long; had gone back tothe church door to look at them, to look again at the face for a sightof which her whole heart hungered.

  She had broken her vow. In addition, the mist over her blind eyes wasdissolved. He had never loved her; it had been but a passing fancy. Itwas best so. Yet, oh, how easy all the past now seemed, in spite of itsloneliness, toil, and care! For _then_ she had believed that she wasloved. She began to realize that until this moment she had never reallygiven up her own will at all, but had held on through all to this inwardbelief, which had made her lonely life warm with its hidden secretlight. She had thought herself noble, and she had been but selfish; shehad thought herself self-controlled, and she had been following her ownwill; she had thought herself humble, and here she was, maddened byhumiliated jealous pride.

  At last, worn out with weariness, she went homeward to the half-house astwilight fell. In the morning the ground was white with snow again, andthe tumultuous winds of March were careering through the sky, whippingthe sleet and hail before them as they flew along; the strange halcyonsunshine was gone, and a second winter upon them. And Anne felt that awinter such as she had never known before was in her heart also.