Anne: A Novel

  CHAPTER VI.

  "Into the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land?

  "O Land, O Land, For all the broken-hearted, The mildest herald by our fate allotted Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand To the land of the great Departed-- Into the Silent Land!"

  --LONGFELLOW. _From the German._

  Early in September William Douglas failed suddenly. From taciturnity hesank into silence, from quiet into lethargy. He rose in the morning, butafter that effort he became like a breathing statue, and sat all day inhis arm-chair without stirring or noticing anything. If they brought himfood he ate it, but he did not speak or answer their questions by motionor gesture. The fort surgeon was puzzled; it was evidently notparalysis. He was a new-comer on the island, and he asked many questionsas to the past. Anne sincerely, Miss Lois resolutely, denied that therehad ever been any trouble with the brain; Dr. Gaston drummed on thetable, and answered sharply that all men of intellect were more or lessmad. But the towns-people smiled, and tapped their foreheadssignificantly; and the new surgeon had noticed in the course of hisexperience that, with time for observation, the towns-people aregenerally right. So he gave a few medicines, ordered a generous diet,and looking about him for some friend of the family who could betrusted, selected at last Pere Michaux. For Miss Lois would not treathim even civilly, bristling when he approached like a hedge-hog; andwith her frank eyes meeting his, he found it impossible to speak toAnne. But he told Pere Michaux the true state of his patient, and askedhim to break the tidings to the family.

  "He can not live long," he said.

  "Is it so?" said Pere Michaux. "God's will be done. Poor Anne!"

  "An odd lot of children he has in that ramshackle old house of his,"continued the surgeon. "Two sets, I should say."

  "Yes; the second wife was a French girl."

  "With Indian blood?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought so. Who is to have charge of them? The boys will take to thewoods, I suppose, but that little Tita is an odd specimen. She wouldmake quite a sensation in New York a few years later."

  "May she never reach there!" said the old priest, fervently.

  "Well, perhaps you are right. But who is to have the child?"

  "Her sister will take charge of her."

  "Miss Anne? Yes, she will do her best, of course; she is a fine, frankyoung Saxon. But I doubt if she understands that elfish littlecreature."

  "She understands her better than we do," said the priest, with someheat.

  "Ah? You know best, of course; I speak merely as an outsider," answeredthe new surgeon, going off about his business.

  "ALARMED, HE BENT OVER HER."]

  Pere Michaux decided that he would tell Anne herself. He went to thehouse for the purpose, and called her out on the old piazza. But whenshe stood before him, her violet eyes meeting his without a suspicion ofthe tidings he brought, his heart failed him suddenly. He comprehendedfor the first time what it would be to her, and, making some chanceinquiry, he asked to see Miss Lois, and turned away. Anne went in, andMiss Lois came out. The contrast between the priest and the New Englandwoman was more marked than usual as they stood there facing eachother on the old piazza, he less composed than he ordinarily was onaccount of what he had to tell. But it never occurred to him for amoment that Miss Lois would falter. Why should she? He told her. Shesank down at his feet as though she had fallen there and died.

  Alarmed, he bent over her, and in the twilight saw that she was notdead; her features were working strangely; her hands were clinched overher breast; her faded eyes stared at him behind the spectacles as thoughhe were miles away. He tried to raise her. She struck at him almostfiercely. "Let me alone," she said, in a muffled voice. Then, stilllying where she fell, she threw up her arms and wailed once or twice,not loudly, but with a struggling, inarticulate sound, as a person criesout in sleep. Poor old Lois! it was the last wail of her love. But eventhen she did not recognize it. Nor did the priest. Pale, with uncertainsteps and shaking hands, yet tearless, the stricken woman raised herselfby the aid of the bench, crossed the piazza, went down the path and intothe street, Pere Michaux's eyes following her in bewilderment. She wasevidently going home, and her prim, angular shape looked strangely bareand uncovered in the lack of bonnet and shawl, for through all the yearsshe had lived on the island she had never once been seen in the open airwithout them. The precision of her bonnet strings was a matter ofconscience. The priest went away also. And thus it happened that Annewas not told at all.

  When, late in the evening, Miss Lois returned, grayly pale, but quiet,as she entered the hall a cry met her ears and rang through the house.It had come sooner than any one expected. The sword of sorrow, whichsooner or later must pierce all loving hearts, had entered AnneDouglas's breast. Her father was dead.

  He had died suddenly, peacefully and without pain, passing away insleep. Anne was with him, and Tita, jealously watchful to the last. Noone else was in the room at the moment. Pere Michaux, coming in, hadbeen the first to perceive the change.

  Tita drew away quickly to a distant corner, and kneeling down where shecould still see everything that went on, began repeating prayers; butAnne, with a wild cry, threw herself down beside her dead, sobbing,holding his hand, and calling his name again and again. She would notbelieve that he was gone.

  Ah, well, many of us know the sorrow. A daughter's love for a kindfather is a peculiarly dependent, clinging affection; it is mixed withthe careless happiness of childhood, which can never come again. Intothe father's grave the daughter, sometimes a gray-haired woman, laysaway forever the little pet names and memories which to all the rest ofthe world are but foolishness. Even though happy in her woman's lot, sheweeps convulsively here for a while with a sorrow that nothing cancomfort; no other love so protecting and unselfish will ever be hersagain.

  Anne was crushed by her grief; it seemed to those who watched her thatshe revealed a new nature in her sorrow. Dr. Gaston and Pere Michauxspoke of it to each other, but could find little to say to the girlherself; she had, as it were, drifted beyond their reach, far out on anunknown sea. They prayed for her, and went silently away, only to comeback within the hour and meet again on the threshold, recognizing eachother's errand. They were troubled by the change in this young creature,upon whom they had all, in a certain way, depended. Singularly enough,Miss Lois did not seem to appreciate Anne's condition: she was sufferingtoo deeply herself. The whole of her repressed nature was in revolt. Butfaithful to the unconscious secret of her life, she still thought thewild pain of her heart was "sorrow for a friend."

  She went about as usual, attending to household tasks for both homes.She was unchanged, yet totally changed. There was a new tension abouther mouth, and an unwonted silence, but her hands were as busy as ever.Days had passed after the funeral before she began to perceive, evenslightly, the broken condition of Anne. The girl herself was the firstto come back to the present, in the necessity for asking one of thosesad questions which often raise their heads as soon as the coffin isborne away. "Miss Lois, there are bills to be paid, and I have no money.Do you know anything of our real income?"

  The old habits of the elder woman stirred a little; but she answered,vaguely, "No."

  "We must look through dear papa's papers," said Anne, her voice breakingas she spoke the name. "He received few letters, none at all lately;whatever he had, then, must be here."

  Miss Lois assented, still silently, and the two began their task. Anne,with a quivering lip, unlocked her father's desk. William Douglas hadnot been a relic-loving man. He had lived, he had loved; but memory wassufficient for him; he needed no tokens. So, amid a hundred mementos ofnature, they found nothing personal, not even a likeness of Anne'smother, or lock of her cur
ling brown hair. And amid a mass ofmiscellaneous papers, writings on every philosophic and imaginativesubject, they found but one relating to money--some figures jotted down,with a date affixed, the sum far from large, the date three yearsbefore. Below, a later line was added, as if (for the whole was vague)so much had gone, and this was the remainder; the date of this last linewas eight months back.

  "Perhaps this is it," said Anne; "perhaps this is what he had."

  "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Lois, mechanically.

  They went on with the search, and at last came to a package tied inbrown paper, which contained money; opening it, they counted thecontents.

  "Three hundred and ten dollars and eighty-five cents," said Anne.

  Miss Lois took a pen and made a calculation, still with the manner of amachine. "That is about what would be left by this time, at the rate ofthe sums you have had, supposing the memorandum is what you think itis," she said, rubbing her forehead with a shadowy imitation of her oldhabit.

  "It is a large sum," said Anne.

  Nothing more was found. It appeared, therefore, that the five childrenof William Douglas were left alone in the world with exactly threehundred and ten dollars and eighty-five cents.

  Dr. Gaston and Pere Michaux learned the result that day; the storyspread through the village and up to the fort. "I never heard anythingso extraordinary in my life," said Mrs. Cromer. "That a man like Dr.Douglas should have gone on for the last four or five years deliberatelyliving on his capital, seeing it go dollar by dollar, without making oneeffort to save it, or to earn an income--a father with children! I shallalways believe, after this, that the villagers were right, and that hismind was affected."

  The chaplain stopped these comments gruffly, and the fort ladies forgavehim on account of the tremor in his voice. He left them, and went acrossto his little book-clogged cottage with the first indications of ageshowing in his gait.

  "It is a blow to him; he is very fond of Anne, and hoped everything forher," said Mrs. Bryden. "I presume he would adopt her if he could; butthere are the other children."

  "They might go to their mother's relatives, I should think," said Mrs.Rankin.

  "They could, but Anne will not allow it. You will see."

  "I suppose our good chaplain has nothing to bequeath, even if he shouldadopt Anne?"

  "No, he has no property, and has saved nothing from his little salary;it has all gone into books," answered the colonel's wife.

  Another week passed. By that time Dr. Gaston and Pere Michaux togetherhad brought the reality clearly before Anne's eyes; for the girl hadheretofore held such small sums of money in her hands at any one timethat the amount found in the desk had seemed to her large. Pere Michauxbegan the small list of resources by proposing that the four childrenshould go at once to their uncle, their mother's brother, who waswilling to receive them and give them a home, such as it was, among hisown brood of black-eyed little ones. Anne decidedly refused. Dr. Gastonthen asked her to come to him, and be his dear daughter as long as helived.

  "I must not come with them, and I can not come without them," was Anne'sreply.

  There remained Miss Lois. But she seemed entirely unconscious of anypressing necessity for haste in regard to the affairs of the littlehousehold, coming and going as usual, but without words; while peopleround her, with that virtuous readiness as to the duties of theirneighbors which is so helpful in a wicked world, said loudly andfrequently that she was the nearest friend, and ought to do-- Herefollowed a variety of suggestions, which amounted in the aggregate toeverything. At last, as often happens, it was an outside voice thatbrought the truth before her.

  "And what are you thinking of doing, dear Miss Lois, for the five poororphans?" asked the second Miss Macdougall while paying a visit ofgeneral condolence at the church-house.

  "Why, what should I do?" said Miss Lois, with a faint remembrance of herold vigilant pride. "They want nothing."

  "They want nothing! And not one hundred dollars apiece for them in thewide world!" exclaimed Miss Jean.

  "Surely you're joking, my dear. Here's Dr. Gaston wishing to take Anne,as is most kind and natural; but she will not leave those children.Although why they should not go back to the stratum from which they cameis a mystery to me. She can never make anything of them: mark my words."

  Miss Jean paused; but whether Miss Lois marked her words or not, shemade no response, but sat gazing straight at the wall. Miss Jean,however, knew her duty, and did it like a heroine of old. "We thought,perhaps, dear Miss Lois, that _you_ would like to take them for a time,"she said, "seeing that Anne has proved herself so obstinate as to theother arrangements proposed. The village has thought so generally, andI am not the one to hide it from you, having been taught by my lamentedparent to honor and abide by veracity the most precise. We could allhelp you a little in clothing them for the present, and we willcontribute to their support a fish now and then, a bag of meal, a barrelof potatoes, which we would do gladly--right gladly, I do assure you.For no one likes to think of Dr. Douglas's children being on the town."

  The homely phrase roused Miss Lois at last. "What in the world are youtalking about, Jean Macdougall?" she exclaimed, in wrath. "On the town!Are you clean daft? On the town, indeed! Clear out of my house thismoment, you lying, evil-speaking woman!"

  The second Miss Macdougall rose in majesty, and drew her black silkvisite round her. "Of whom ye are speaking, Miss Hinsdale, I knaw not,"she said, growing Scotch in her anger; "but I believe ye hae lost yourwits. I tak' my departure freely, and not as sent by one who hasstrangely forgotten the demeanor of a leddy."

  With hands folded, she swept toward the door, all the flowers on herdignified bonnet swaying perceptibly. Pausing on the threshold, sheadded, "As a gude Christian, and a keeper of my word, I still say, MissHinsdale, in spite of insults, that in the matter of a fish or two, or abarrel of potatoes now and then, ye can count upon the Macdougalls."

  Left alone, Miss Lois put on her shawl and bonnet with feverish haste,and went over to the Agency. Anne was in the sitting-room, and thechildren were with her.

  "Anne, of course you and the children are coming to live with mewhenever you think it best to leave this house," said Miss Lois,appearing on the threshold like an excited ghost in spectacles. "Younever thought or planned anything else, I hope?"

  "No," said Anne, frankly, "I did not--at least for the present. I knewyou would help us, Miss Lois, although you did not speak."

  "Speak! was there any need of speaking?" said the elder woman, burstinginto a few dry, harsh sobs. "You are all I have in the world, Anne. Howcould you mistrust me?"

  "I did not," said Anne.

  And then the two women kissed each other, and it was all understoodwithout further words. And thus, through the intervention of the secondMiss Macdougall (who found herself ill rewarded for her pains), LoisHinsdale came out from the watch-chamber of her dead to real life again,took up her burden, and went on.

  Anne now unfolded her plans, for she had been obliged to invent plans:necessity forced her forward. "We must all come to you for a time, dearMiss Lois; but I am young and strong, and I can work. I wish to educatethe boys as father would have wished them educated. Do you ask what Ican do? I think--that is, I hope--that I can teach." Then, in a lowervoice, she added, "I promised father that I would do all I could for thechildren, and I shall keep my promise."

  Miss Lois's eyes filled with tears. But the effect of the loving emotionwas only to redden the lids, and make the orbs beneath look smaller andmore unbeautiful than before.

  For to be born into life with small, inexpressive eyes is like beingborn dumb. One may have a heart full of feeling, but the world will notbelieve it. Pass on, then, Martha, with your pale little orbs; leave thefeeling to Beatrice with her deep brown glance, to Agnes with her pureblue gaze, to Isabel with hers of passionate splendor. The world doesnot believe you have any especial feelings, poor Martha. Then do nothave them, if you can help it--and pass on.

  "I have been th
inking deeply," continued Anne, "and I have consulted Dr.Gaston. He says that I have a good education, but probably anold-fashioned one; at least the fort ladies told him that it would be soconsidered. It seems that what I need is a 'polish of modernaccomplishments.' That is what he called it. Now, to obtain a teacher'splace, I must have this, and I can not obtain it here." She paused; andthen, like one who rides forward on a solitary charge, added, "I amgoing to write to Miss Vanhorn."

  "A dragon!" said Miss Lois, knitting fiercely. Then added, after amoment, "A positive demon of pride." Then, after another silence, shesaid, sternly, "She broke your mother's heart, Anne Douglas, and shewill break yours."

  "I hope not," said the girl, her voice trembling a little; for hersorrow was still very near the surface. "She is old now, and perhapsmore gentle. At any rate, she is my only living relative, and to her Imust appeal."

  "How do you know she is alive? The world would be well rid of such awicked fiend," pursued Miss Lois, quoting unconsciously from Anne'sforest Juliet.

  "She was living last year, for father spoke of her."

  "I did not know he ever spoke of her."

  "Only in answer to my questions; for I had found her address, written inmother's handwriting, in an old note-book. She brought up my mother, youknow, and was once very fond of her."

  "So fond of her that she killed her. If poor Alida had not had thatstrain upon her, she might have been alive at this day," said Miss Lois.

  Anne's self-control left her now, and she began to sob like a child. "Donot make it harder for me than it is," she said, amid her tears. "I_must_ ask her; and if she should consent to help me, it will be griefenough to leave you all, without these cruel memories added. She is old:who knows but that she may be longing to repair the harm she did?"

  "Can the leopard change his spots?" said Miss Lois, sternly. "But whatdo you mean by leaving us all? What do you intend to do?"

  "I intend to ask her either to use her influence in obtaining ateacher's place for me immediately, or if I am not, in her opinion,qualified, to give me the proper masters for one year. I would studyvery hard; she would not be burdened with me long."

  "And the proper masters are not here, of course?"

  "No; at the East."

  Miss Lois stopped in the middle of a round, took off her spectacles,rolled up her knitting-work slowly and tightly as though it was never tobe unrolled again, and pinned it together with decision; she was pinningin also a vast resolution. Then she looked at Anne in silence forseveral minutes, saw the tear-dimmed eyes and tired, anxious face, theappealing glance of William Douglas's child.

  "I have not one word to say against it," she remarked at last, breakingthe silence; and then she walked out of the house and went homeward.

  It was a hard battle for her. She was to be left with the fourbrown-skinned children, for whom she had always felt unconquerableaversion, while the one child whom she loved--Anne--was to go far away.It was a revival of the bitter old feeling against Angelique Lafontaine,the artful minx who had entrapped William Douglas to his ruin. In truth,however, there had been very little art about Angelique; nor was Douglasby any means a rich prey. But women always attribute wonderful powers ofstrategy to a successful rival, even although by the same ratio theyreduce the bridegroom to a condition approaching idiocy; for anything isbetter than the supposition that he was a free agent, and sought hisfate from the love of it.

  The thought of Anne's going was dreadful to Miss Lois; yet herlong-headed New England thrift and calculation saw chances in thatfuture which Anne did not see. "The old wretch has money, and no nearheirs," she said to herself, "why should she not take a fancy to thisgrandniece? Anne has no such idea, but her friends should, therefore,have it for her." Still, the tears would rise and dim her spectacles asshe thought of the parting. She took off the gold-rimmed glasses andrubbed them vigorously. "One thing is certain," she added, to herself,as a sort of comfort, "Tita will have to do her mummeries in the gardenafter this."

  Poor old Lois! in these petty annoyances and heavy cures her great griefwas to be pressed down into a subdued under-current, no longer to beindulged or made much of even by herself.

  Anne knew but little of her grandaunt. William Douglas would not speakof what was the most bitter memory of his life. The address in the oldnote-book, in her mother's unformed girlish handwriting, was her onlyguide. She knew that Miss Vanhorn was obstinate and ill-tempered; sheknew that she had discarded her mother on account of her disobedientmarriage, and had remained harsh and unforgiving to the last. And thiswas all she knew. But she had no choice. Hoping, praying for the best,she wrote her letter, and sent it on its way. Then they all waited. ForPere Michaux had been taken into the conference also, and had givenhearty approval to Anne's idea--so hearty, indeed, that both thechaplain and Miss Lois looked upon him with disfavor. What did he mean?He did not say what he meant, but returned to his hermitage cheerfully.Dr. Gaston, not so cheerfully, brought out his hardest chess problems,and tried to pass away the time in mathematical combinations of thedeepest kind. Miss Lois, however, had combinations at hand of anothersort. No sooner was the letter gone than she advanced a series ofconjectures which did honor even to her New England origin.

  The first was that Miss Vanhorn had gone abroad: those old New-Yorkerswere "capable of wishing to ride on camels, even"; she added, fromhabit, "through the eye of a needle." The next day she decided thatparalysis would be the trouble: those old New-Yorkers were "oftenstricken down in that way, owing to their high living and desperatewine-bibbing." Anne need give no more thought to her letter; MissVanhorn would not be able even to read it. The third day, Miss Vanhornwould read the letter, but would immediately throw it on the floor andstamp on it: those old New-Yorkers "had terrible tempers," and were"known to swear like troopers even on the slightest provocation." Thefourth day, Miss Vanhorn was mad; the fifth day, she was married; thesixth, she was dead: those old New-Yorkers having tendencies towardinsanity, matrimony, and death which, Miss Lois averred, were known toall the world, and indisputable. That she herself had never been in NewYork in her life made no difference in her certainties: women like MissLois are always sure they know all about New York.

  Anne, weary and anxious, and forced to hear all these probabilities,began at last to picture her grandaunt as a sort of human kaleidoscope,falling into new and more fantastic combinations at a moment's notice.

  They had allowed two weeks for the letter to reach the island, alwayssupposing that Miss Vanhorn was not on a camel, paralyzed, obstinate,mad, married, or dead. But on the tenth day the letter came. Anne tookit with a hand that trembled. Dr. Gaston was present, and Miss Lois, butneither of them comprehended her feelings. She felt that she was now tobe confronted by an assent which would strain her heart-strings almostto snapping, yet be ultimately for the best, or by a refusal which wouldfill her poor heart with joy, although at the same time pressing downupon her shoulders a heavy, almost hopeless, weight of care. The twocould not enter into her feelings, because in the depths of their heartsthey both resented her willingness to leave them. They never said thisto each other, they never said it to themselves; yet they both felt itwith the unconscious selfishness of those who are growing old,especially when their world is narrowed down to one or two loving younghearts. They did not realize that it was as hard for her to go as it wasfor them to let her go; they did not realize what a supreme effort ofcourage it required to make this young girl go out alone into the wideworld, and face its vastness and its strangeness; they did not realizehow she loved them, and how every tree, every rock of the island, also,was dear to her strongly loving, concentrated heart.

  After her father's death Anne had been for a time passive, swept away bygrief as a dead leaf on the wind. But cold necessity came and stood byher bedside silently and stonily, and looked at her until, recalling herpromise, she rose, choked back her sorrow, and returned to common lifeand duty with an aching but resolute heart. In the effort she made tospeak at all it was no wonder that she spoke quie
tly, almost coldly;having, after sleepless nights of sorrow, nerved herself to bear thegreat change in her lot, should it come to her, could she trust herselfto say that she was sorry to go? Sorry!--when her whole heart was onepain!

  The letter was as follows:

  * * * * *

  "GRANDNIECE ANNE,--I did not know that you were in existence. I haveread your letter, and have now to say the following. Your motherwillfully disobeyed me, and died. I, meanwhile, an old woman, remain asstrong as ever.

  "While I recognize no legal claim upon me (I having long since attendedto the future disposal of all my property according to my own wishes), Iam willing to help you to a certain extent, as I would help anyindustrious young girl asking for assistance. If what you say of youreducation is true, you need only what are called modern accomplishments(of which I personally have small opinion, a grimacing in French and asqualling in Italian being not to my taste) to make you a fairly wellqualified teacher in an average country boarding-school, which is allyou can expect. You may, therefore, come to New York at my expense, andenter Madame Moreau's establishment, where, as I understand, the extremeof everything called 'accomplishment' is taught, and much nonsenselearned in the latest style. You may remain one year; not longer. And Iadvise you to improve the time, as nothing more will be done for you byme. You will bring your own clothes, but I will pay for your books. Isend no money now, but will refund your travelling expenses (of whichyou will keep strict account, without extras) upon your arrival in thecity, which must not be later than the last of October. Go directly toMadame Moreau's (the address is inclosed), and remember that you aresimply Anne Douglas, and not a relative of your obedient servant,

  KATHARINE VANHORN."

  * * * * *

  Anne, who had read the letter aloud in a low voice, now laid it down,and looked palely at her two old friends.

  "A hard letter," said the chaplain, indignantly. "My child, remain withus. We will think of some other plan for you. Let the proud,cold-hearted old woman go."

  "I told you how it would be," said Miss Lois, a bright spot of red oneach cheek-bone. "She was cruel to your mother before you, and she willbe cruel to you. You must give it up."

  "No," said Anne, slowly, raising the letter and replacing it in itsenvelope; "it is a matter in which I have no choice. She gives me theyear at school, as you see, and--there are the children. I promisedfather, and I must keep the promise. Do not make me falter, dearfriends, for--I _must_ go." And unable longer to keep back the tears,she hurriedly left the room.

  Dr. Gaston, without a word, took his old felt hat and went home. MissLois sat staring vaguely at the window-pane, until she became consciousthat some one was coming up the path, and that "some one" Pere Michaux.She too then went hurriedly homeward, by the back way, in order to avoidhim. The old priest, coming in, found the house deserted. Anne was onher knees in her own room, sobbing as if her heart would break; but thewalls were thick, and he could not hear her.

  Then Tita came in. "Annet is going away," she said, softly; "she isgoing to school. The letter came to-day."

  "So Miss Vanhorn consents, does she? Excellent! excellent!" said PereMichaux, rubbing his hands, his eyes expressing a hearty satisfaction.

  "When will you say 'Excellent! excellent!' about me?" said Tita,jealously.

  "Before long, I hope," said the priest, patting her small head.

  "But are you sure, mon pere?"

  "Well, yes," said Pere Michaux, "on the whole, I am."

  He smiled, and the child smiled also; but with a deep quiet triumphremarkable in one so young.