"No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike.
Times change, and people change; and if our hearts do not change as
readily, so much the worse for us."--NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
"But, ah! who ever shunn'd by precedent
The destined ills she must herself assay?"
--SHAKSPEARE.
When Miss Vanhorn and her niece entered the ball-room, late in the
evening, heads were turned to look at them; for the old woman wore all
her diamonds, fine stones in old-fashioned settings, and shone like a
little squat-figured East Indian god. Anne was beside her, clad in pale
lavender--an evening costume simply made, but more like full dress than
anything she had yet worn. Dexter came forward instantly, and asked her
to dance. He thought he had never seen her look so well--so much like
the other ladies; for heretofore there had been a marked difference--a
difference which he had neither comprehended nor admired. Anne danced.
New invitations came, and she accepted them. She was enjoying it all
frankly, when through a window she caught sight of Heathcote on the
piazza looking in. She happened to be dancing with Mr. Dexter, and at
once she felt nervous in the thought that he might at any moment ask her
some question about the day which she would find difficulty in
answering. But she had not thought of this until her eyes fell on
Heathcote.
Dexter had seen Heathcote too, and he had also seen her sudden
nervousness. He was intensely vexed. Could Ward Heathcote, simply by
looking through a window, make a girl grow nervous in that way, and a
girl with whom he, Dexter, was dancing? With inward angry determination,
he immediately asked her to dance again. But he need not have feared
interference; Heathcote did not enter the room during the evening.
From the moment Miss Vanhorn heard the story of that day her method
regarding her niece changed entirely; for Mr. Heathcote would never have
remained with her, storm or no storm, through four or five hours, unless
he either admired her, had been entertained by her, or liked her for
herself alone, as men will like occasionally a frank, natural young
girl.
According to old Katharine, Anne was not beautiful enough to excite his
admiration, not amusing enough to entertain him; it must be, therefore,
that he liked her to a certain degree for herself alone. Mr. Heathcote
was not a favorite of old Katharine's, yet none the less was his
approval worth having, and none the less, also, was he an excellent
subject to rouse the jealousy of Gregory Dexter. For Dexter was not
coming forward as rapidly as old Katharine had decreed he should come.
Old Katharine had decided that Anne was to marry Dexter; but if in the
mean time her girlish fancy was attracted toward Heathcote, so much the
better. It would all the more surely eliminate the memory of that fatal
name, Pronando. Of course Heathcote was only amusing himself, but he
must now be encouraged to continue to amuse himself. She ceased taking
Anne to the woods every day; she made her sit among the groups of ladies
on the piazza in the morning, with worsted, canvas, and a pattern, which
puzzled poor Anne deeply, since she had not the gift of fancy-work, nor
a talent for tidies. She asked Heathcote to teach her niece to play
billiards, and she sent her to stroll on the river-bank at sunset with
him under a white silk parasol. At the same time, however, she continued
to summon Mr. Dexter to her side with the same dictatorial manner she
had assumed toward him from the first, and to talk to him, and encourage
him to talk to her through long half-hours of afternoon and evening. The
old woman, with her airs of patronage, her half-closed eyes, and frank
impertinence, amused him more than any one at Caryl's. With his own
wide, far-reaching plans and cares and enterprises all the time pushing
each other forward in his mind, it was like coming from a world of
giants to one of Lilliputians to sit down and talk with limited,
prejudiced, narrow old Katharine. She knew that he was amused; she was
even capable of understanding it, viewed from his own stand-point. That
made no difference with her own.
After three or four days of the chaperon's open arrangement, it grew
into a custom for Heathcote to meet Anne at sunset in the garden, and
stroll up and down with her for half an hour. She was always there,
because she was sent there. Heathcote never said he would come again; it
was supposed to be by chance. But one evening Anne remarked frankly that
she was very glad he came; her grandaunt sent her out whether she wished
to come or not, and the resources of the small garden were soon
exhausted. They were sitting in an arbor at the end of the serpentine
walk. Heathcote, his straw hat on the ground, was braiding three spears
of grass with elaborate care.
"You pay rather doubtful compliments," he said.
"I only mean that it is very kind to come so regularly."
"You will not let even that remain a chance?"
"But it is not, is it?"
"Well, no," he answered, after a short silence, "I can not say that it
is." He dropped the grass blades, leaned back against the rustic seat,
and looked at her. It was a great temptation; he was a finished adept in
the art of flirtation at its highest grade, and enjoyed the pastime. But
he had not really opened that game with this young girl, and he said to
himself that he would not now. He leaned over, found his three spears of
grass, and went on braiding. But although he thus restrained himself, he
still continued to meet her, as Miss Vanhorn, with equal pertinacity,
continued to send her niece to meet him. They were not alone in the
garden, but their conversation was unheard.
One evening tableaux were given: Isabel, Rachel, and others had been
admired in many varieties of costume and attitude, and Dexter had been
everything from Richard the Lion-hearted to Aladdin. Heathcote had
refused to take part. And now came a tableau in which Anne, as the
Goddess of Liberty, was poised on a barrel mounted on three tables, one
above the other. This airy elevation was considered necessary for the
goddess, and the three tables were occupied by symbolical groups of the
Seasons, the Virtues, and the Nations, all gathered together under the
protection of Liberty on her barrel. Liberty, being in this case a
finely poised young person, kept her position easily, flag in hand,
while the merry groups were arranged on the tables below. When all was
ready, the curtain was raised, lowered, then raised again for a second
view, Anne looking like a goddess indeed (although a very young one),
her white-robed form outlined against a dark background, one arm
extended, her head thrown back, and her eyes fixed upon the outspread
flag. But at the instant the curtain began to rise for this second view,
she had felt the barrel broaden slightly under her, and knew that a hoop
had parted. At the same second came the feeling that her best course was
to stand perfectly motionless, in the hope that the staves would still
support her until she could be assisted down from her isolated height.
For she was fifteen feet above the stage, and there was nothing within
reach which she could grasp. A chill ran over her; she tried not to
breathe. At the same moment, however, when the sensation of falling was
coming upon her, two firm hands were placed upon each side of her waist
from behind, very slightly lifting her, as if to show her that she was
safe even if the support did give way beneath her. It was Heathcote,
standing on the table below. He had been detailed as scene-shifter
(Rachel, being behind the scenes herself, had arranged this), had
noticed the barrel as it moved, and had sprung up unseen behind the
draperied pyramid to assist the goddess. No one saw him. When the
curtain reached the foot-lights again he was assisting all the
allegorical personages to descend from their heights, and first of all
Liberty, who was trembling. No one knew this, however, save himself.
Rachel, gorgeous as Autumn, drew him away almost immediately, and Anne
had no opportunity to thank him until the next afternoon.
"You do not know how frightful it was for the moment," she said. "I had
never felt dizzy in my life before. I had nothing with which I could
save myself, and I could not jump down on the tables below, because
there was no footing: I should only have thrown down the others. How
quick you were, and how kind! But you are always kind."
"Few would agree with you there, Miss Douglas. Mr. Dexter has far more
of what is called kindness than I have," said Heathcote, carelessly.
They were sitting in the same arbor. Anne was silent a moment, as if
pondering. "Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "I believe you are right. You
are kind to a few; he is kind to all. It would be better if you were
more like him."
"Thanks. But it is too late, I fear, to make a Dexter of me. I have
always been, if not exactly a grief to my friends, still by no means
their pride. Fortunately I have no father or mother to be disturbed by
my lacks; one does not mind being a grief to second cousins." He paused;
then added, in another tone, "But life is lonely enough sometimes."
Two violet eyes met his as he spoke, gazing at him so earnestly,
sincerely, and almost wistfully that for an instant he lost himself. He
began to speculate as to the best way of retaining that wistful
interest; and then, suddenly, as a dam gives way in the night and lets
out the flood, all his good resolutions crumbled, and his vagrant fancy,
long indulged, asserted its command, and took its own way again. He knew
that he could not approach her to the ordinary degree and in the
ordinary way of flirtation; she would not understand or allow it. With
the intuition which was his most dangerous gift he also knew that there
was a way of another kind. And he used it.
[Illustration: "SHE STARTED SLIGHTLY."]
His sudden change of purpose had taken but a moment. "Lonely enough," he
repeated, "and bad enough. Do you think there is any use in trying to
be better?" He spoke as if half in earnest.
"We must all try," said the girl, gravely.
"But one needs help."
"It will be given."
He rose, walked to the door of the arbor, as if hesitating, then came
back abruptly. "_You_ could help me," he said, standing in front of her,
with his eyes fixed upon her face.
She started slightly, and turned her eyes away, but did not speak. Nor
did he. At last, as the silence grew oppressive, she said, in a low
voice: "You are mistaken, I think. I can not."
He sat down again, and began slowly to excavate a hole in the sand with
the end of his cane, to the consternation of a colony of ants who lived
in a thriving village under the opposite bench, but still in dangerous
proximity to the approaching tunnel.
"I have never pretended to be anything but an idle, useless fellow," he
said, his eyes intent upon his work. "But my life does not satisfy me
always, and at times I am seized by a horrible loneliness. I am not all
bad, I hope. If any one cared enough--but no one has ever cared."
"You have many friends," said Anne, her eyes fixed upon the hues of the
western sky.
"As you see them. The people here are examples of my friends."
"You must have others who are nearer."
"No, no one. I have never had a home." He looked up as he said this, and
met her eyes, withdrawn for a moment from the sunset; they expressed so
much pity that he felt ashamed of himself. For his entire freedom from
home ties was almost the only thing for which he had felt profoundly
grateful in his idle life. Other boys had been obliged to bend to the
paternal will; other fellows had not been able to wander over the world
and enjoy themselves as he had wandered and enjoyed. But--he could not
help going on now.
"I pretend to be indifferent, and all that. No doubt I succeed in
appearing so--that is, to the outside world. But there come moments
when I would give anything for some firm belief to anchor myself to,
something higher and better than I am." (The tunnel was very near the
ants now.) "I believe, Miss Douglas, I can not help believing, that
_you_ could tell me what that is."
"Oh no; I am very ignorant," said Anne, hurriedly, returning to the
sunset with heightened color.
"But you believe. I will never make a spectacle of myself; I will never
ask the conventional questions of conventional good people, whom I hate.
_You_ might influence me--But what right have I to ask you, Anne? Why
should I think that you would care?"
"I do care," said the low voice, after a moment, as if forced to answer.
"Then help me."
"How can I help you?"
"Tell me what you believe. And make me believe it also."
"Surely, Mr. Heathcote, you believe in God?"
"I am not sure that I do."
She clasped her hands in distress. "How _can_ you live!" she cried,
almost in tears.
Again Heathcote felt a touch of compunction. But he could not make
himself stop now; he was too sincerely interested.
"There is no use; I can not argue," Anne was saying. "If you do not
_feel_ God, I can not make you believe in him."
"Tell me how _you_ feel; perhaps I can learn from you."
Poor Anne! she did not know how she felt, and had no words ready.
Undeveloped, unused to analysis, she was asked to unfold her inmost soul
in the broad garish light of day.
"I--I can not," she murmured, in deep trouble.
"Never mind, then," said Heathcote, with an excellent little assumption
of disappointment masked by affected carelessness. "Forget what I have
said; it is of small consequence at best. Shall we go back to the house,
Miss Douglas?"
But Anne was struggling with herself, making a desperate effort to
conquer what seemed to her a selfish and unworthy timidity. "I will do
anything I can," she said, hurriedly, in a low voice.
They had both risen. "Let me see you to-morrow, then."
"Yes."
"It is a beginning," he said. He offered his arm gravely, almost
reverently, and in silence they returned to the house. It seemed to Anne
that many long minutes passed as they walked through the garden, brushed
by the roses on each side: in reality the minutes were three.
For that evening meteors had been appointed by the astronomers and the
newspapers. They were, when they came, few and faint; but they afforded
a pretext for being out on the hill. Anne was there with Mr. Dexter, and
other star-gazers were near. Heathcote and Rachel, however, were not
visible, and this disturbed Dexter. In spite of himself, he could never
be quite content unless he knew where that dark-eyed woman was. But his
inward annoyance did not affect either his memory or the fine tones of
his voice. No one on the hill that night quoted so well or so aptly
grand star-like sentences, or verses appropriate to the occasion.
"When standing alone on a hill-top during a clear night such as this,
Miss Douglas," he said, "the roll of the earth eastward is almost a
palpable movement. The sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of
the stars past earthly objects, or by the wind, or by the solitude; but
whatever be its origin, the impression of riding along is vivid and
abiding. We are now watching our own stately progress through the
stars."
"Hear Dexter quote," said Heathcote, in his lowest under-tone, to
Rachel. They were near the others, but, instead of standing, were
sitting on the grass, with a large bush for background; in its shadow
their figures were concealed, and the rustle of its leaves drowned their
whispers.
"Hush! I like Mr. Dexter," said Rachel.
"I know you do. You will marry that man some day."
"Do _you_ say that, Ward?"
An hour later, Anne, in her own room, was timidly adding the same name
to her own petitions before she slept.
The next day, and the next, they met in the garden at sunset as before,
and each time when they parted she was flushed and excited by the effort
she was making, and he was calm and content. On the third afternoon they
did not meet, for there was another picnic. But as the sun sank below
the horizon, and the rich colors rose in the sky, Heathcote turned, and,
across all the merry throng, looked at her as if in remembrance. After
that he did not see her alone for several days: chance obstacles stood
in the way, and he never forced anything. Then there was another
unmolested hour in the arbor; then another. Anne was now deeply
interested. How could she help being so, when the education of a soul
was placed in her hands? And Heathcote began to be fascinated too.
By his own conversion?
August was nearly over. The nights were cool, and the early mornings
veiled in mist. The city idlers awakened reluctantly to the realization
that summer was drawing to its close; and there was the same old
surprise over the dampness of the yellow moonlight, the dull look of the
forest; the same old discovery that the golden-rods and asters were
becoming prominent in the departure of the more delicate blossoms. The
last four days of that August Anne remembered all her life.
On the 28th there occurred, by unexpected self-arrangement of small
events, a long conversation of three hours with Heathcote.
On the 29th he quarrelled with her, and hotly, leaving her overwhelmed
with grief and surprise.
On the 30th he came back to her. They had but three minutes together on
the piazza, and then Mr. Dexter joined them. But in those minutes he had
asked forgiveness, and seemed also to yield all at once the points over
which heretofore he had been immovable.
On the 31st Helen came.
It was late. Anne had gone to her room. She had not seen Heathcote that
day. She had extinguished the candle, and was looking at the brassy moon
slowly rising above the trees, when a light tap sounded on her door.
"Who is it?" she said.
"Helen, of course," answered a sweet voice she knew. She drew back the
bolt swiftly, and Mrs. Lorrington came in, dressed in travelling attire.
She had just arrived. She kissed Anne, saying, gayly: "Are you not glad
to see me? Grandfather has again recovered, and dismissed me. I spend my
life on the road. Are you well, Crystal? And how do you like Caryl's?
No, do not light the candle; I can see you in the moonlight, all draped
in white. I shall stay half an hour--no longer. My maid is waiting, and
I must not lose my beauty-sleep. But I wanted to see you first of all.
Tell me about yourself, and everything. Did you put down what happened
in a note-book, as I asked you?"
"Yes; here it is. But the record is brief--only names and dates. How
glad I am to see you, Helen! How very, very glad! It seemed as if you
would never come." She took Helen's hands, and held them as she spoke.
She was very deeply attached to her brilliant friend.
Helen laughed, kissed her again, and began asking questions. She was
full of plans. "Heretofore they have not staid at Caryl's in the
autumn," she said, "but this year I shall make them. September and part
of October would be pleasant here, I know. Has any one spoken of going?"
"Mrs. Bannert has, I think."
"You mean my dearest friend Rachel. But she will stay now that _I_ have
come; that is, if I succeed in keeping--somebody else. The Bishop has
been devoted to her, of course, and likewise the Tenor; the Haunted Man
and others skirmish on her borders. Even the Knight-errant is not, I am
sorry to say, above suspicion. Who has it especially been?"
"I do not know; every one seems to admire her. I think she has not
favored one more than another."
"Oh, has she not?" said Mrs. Lorrington, laughing. "It is well I have
come, Crystal. You are too innocent to live." She tapped her cheek as
she spoke, and then turned her face to the moonlight. "And whom do you
like best?" she said. "Mr. Dexter?"
"Yes," said Anne; "I like him sincerely. And you will find his name very
often there," she added, looking at the note-book by Helen's side.
"Yes, but the others too, I hope. What _I_ want to know, of course, is
the wicked career of the Knight-errant."
"But is not Mr. Dexter the Knight-errant?"
"By no means. Mr. Dexter is the Bishop; have you not discovered that?
The Knight-errant is very decidedly some one else. And, by-the-way, how
do you like Some One Else--that is, Mr. Heathcote?"
"Mr. Heathcote!"
"It is not polite to repeat one's words, Crystal. But--I suppose you do
_not_ like him; and half the time, I confess, he is detestable. However,
now that I have come, he shall behave better, and I shall make you like
each other, for my sake. There is just one question I wish to ask here:
has he been much with Rachel?"
"No--yes--yes, I suppose he has," murmured Anne, sitting still as a
statue in the shadow. The brassy moon had gone slowly and coldly behind
a cloud, and the room was dim.
"You suppose? Do you not know?"
"Yes, I know he has." She stopped abruptly. She had never before thought
whether Heathcote was or was not with Rachel more than with others; but
now she began to recall. "Yes, he _has_ been with her," she said again,
struck by a sudden pang.
"Very well; I shall see to it, now that I am here," said Helen, with a
sharp tone in her voice. "He will perhaps be sorry that I have arrived
just at the end of the season--the time for grand climaxes, you know;
but he will have to yield. My half-hour is over; I must go. How is the
Grand Llama? Endurable?"
"She is helping the children; I am grateful to her," replied Anne's
voice, mechanically.
"Which means that she is worse than ever. What a dead-alive voice you
said it in! Now that I am here, I will do battle for you, Crystal, never
fear. I must go. You shall see my triumphal entrance to-morrow at
breakfast. Our rooms are not far from yours. Good-night."
She was gone. The door was closed. Anne was alone.