"You who keep account
Of crisis and transition in this life,
Set down the first time Nature says plain 'no'
To some 'yes' in you, and walks over you
In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all begin
By singing with the birds, and running fast
With June days hand in hand; but, once for all,
The birds must sing against us, and the sun
Strike down upon us like a friend's sword, caught
By an enemy to slay us, while we read
The dear name on the blade which bites at us."
--ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
It is easy for the young to be happy before the deep feelings of the
heart have been stirred. It is easy to be good when there has been no
strong temptation to be evil; easy to be unselfish when nothing is
ardently craved; easy to be faithful when faithfulness does not tear the
soul out of its abiding-place. Some persons pass through all of life
without strong temptations; not having deep feelings, they are likewise
exempt from deep sins. These pass for saints. But when one thinks of the
cause of their faultlessness, one understands perhaps better the meaning
of those words, otherwise mysterious, that "joy shall be in heaven over
one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons,
which need no repentance."
Anne went through that night her first real torture; heretofore she had
felt only grief--a very different pain.
Being a woman, her first feeling, even before the consciousness of what
it meant, was jealousy. What did Helen mean by speaking of him as though
he belonged to her? She had never spoken in that way before. Although
she--Anne--had mistaken the fictitious titles, still, even under the
title, there had been no such open appropriation of the Knight-errant.
What did she mean? And then into this burning jealous anger came the
low-voiced question, asked somewhere down in the depths of her being, as
though a judge was speaking, "What--is--it--to--you?" And again, "What
is it to you?" She buried her face tremblingly in her hands, for all at
once she realized what it was, what it had been, unconsciously perhaps,
but for a long time really, to her.
She made no attempt at self-deception. Her strongest trait from
childhood had been her sincerity, and now it would not let her go. She
had begun to love Ward Heathcote unconsciously, but now she loved him
consciously. That was the bare fact. It confronted her, it loomed above
her, a dark menacing shape, from whose presence she could not flee. She
shivered, and her breath seemed to stop during the slow moment while the
truth made itself known to her. "O God!" she murmured, bursting into
tears; and there was no irreverence in the cry. She recognized the
faithlessness which had taken possession of her--unawares, it is true,
yet loyal hearts are not conquered so. She had been living in a dream,
and had suddenly found the dream reality, and the actors flesh and
blood--one of them at least, a poor wildly loving girl, with the mark of
Judas upon her brow. She tried to pray, but could think of no words. For
she was false to Rast, she loved Heathcote, and hated Helen, yet could
not bring herself to ask that any of these feelings should be otherwise.
This was so new to her that she sank down upon the floor in utter
despair and self-abasement. She was bound to Rast; she was bound to
Helen. Yet she had, in her heart at least, betrayed them both.
Still, so complex is human nature that even here in the midst of her
abasement the question stole in, whispering its way along as it came,
"_Does_ he care for me?" And "he" was not Rast. She forgot all else to
weigh every word and look of the weeks and days that had passed. Slowly
she lived over in memory all their conversations, not forgetting the
most trivial, and even raised her arm to get a pillow in order that she
might lie more easily; but the little action brought reality again, and
her arm fell, while part of her consciousness drew off, and sat in
judgment upon the other part. The sentence was scathing.
[Illustration: "SHE BURIED HER FACE TREMBLINGLY IN HER HANDS."]
Then jealousy seized her again. She had admired Helen so warmly as a
woman, that even now she could not escape the feeling. She went over in
quick, hot review all that the sweet voice and delicate lips had ever
said concerning the person veiled under the name of Knight-errant, and
the result was a miserable conviction that she had been mistaken; that
there was a tie of some kind--slight, perhaps, yet still a tie. And
then, as she crushed her hands together in impotent anger, she again
realized what she was thinking, and began to sob in her grief like a
child. Poor Anne! she would never be a child again. Never again would be
hers that proud dauntless confidence of the untried, which makes all
life seem easy and secure. And here suddenly into her grief darted this
new and withering thought: Had Heathcote perceived her feeling for him?
and had he been playing upon it to amuse himself?
Anne knew vaguely that people treated her as though she was hardly more
than a child. She was conscious of it, but did not dispute it, accepting
it humbly as something--some fault in herself--which she could not
change. But now the sleeping woman was aroused at last, and she blushed
deeply in the darkness at the thought that while she had remained
unconscious, this man of the world had perhaps detected the truth
immediately, and had acted as he had in consequence of it. This was the
deepest sting of all, and again hurriedly she went over all their
conversations a second time; and imagined that she found indications of
what she feared. She rose to her feet with the nervous idea of fleeing
somewhere, she did not know where.
The night had passed. The sun had not yet risen, but the eastern sky was
waiting for his coming with all its banners aflame. Standing by the
window, she watched the first gold rim appear. The small birds were
twittering in the near trees, the earth was awaking to another day, and
for the first time Anne realized the joy of that part of creation which
knows not sorrow or care; for the first time wished herself a flower of
the field, or a sweet-voiced bird singing his happy morning anthem on a
spray. There were three hours yet before breakfast, two before any one
would be stirring. She dressed herself, stole through the hall and down
the stairs, unbolted the side door, and went into the garden; she longed
for the freshness of the morning air. Her steps led her toward the
arbor; she stopped, and turned in another direction--toward the bank of
the little river. Here she began to walk to and fro from a pile of
drift-wood to a bush covered with dew-drops, from the bush back to the
drift-wood again. Her feet were wet, her head ached dully, but she kept
her mind down to the purpose before her. The nightmare of the darkness
was gone; she now faced her grief, and knew what it was, and had decided
upon her course. This course was to leave Caryl's. She hoped to return
to Mademoiselle at the half-house, and remain there until the school
opened--if her grandaunt was willing. If her grandaunt was
willing--there came the difficulty. Yet why should she not be willing?
The season was over; the summer flowers were gone; it was but
anticipating departure by a week or two. Thus she reasoned with herself,
yet felt all the time by intuition that Miss Vanhorn would refuse her
consent. And if she should so refuse, what then? It could make no
difference in the necessity for going, but it would make the going hard.
She was considering this point when she heard a footstep. She looked up,
and saw--Ward Heathcote. She had been there some time; it was now seven
o'clock. They both heard the old clock in the office strike as they
stood there looking at each other. In half an hour the early risers
would be coming into the garden.
Anne did not move or speak; the great effort she had made to retain her
composure, when she saw him, kept her motionless and dumb. Her first
darting thought had been to show him that she was at ease and
indifferent. But this required words, and she had not one ready; she was
afraid to speak, too, lest her voice should tremble. She saw, standing
there before her, the man who had made her forget Rast, who had made her
jealous of Helen, who had played with her holiest feelings, who had
deceived and laughed at her, the man whom she--hated? No, no--whom she
loved, loved, loved: this was the desperate ending. She turned very
white, standing motionless beside the dew-spangled bush.
And Heathcote saw, standing there before him, a young girl with her fair
face strangely pale and worn, her eyes fixed, her lips compressed; she
was trembling slightly and constantly, in spite of the rigidity of her
attitude.
He looked at her in silence for a moment; then, knocking down at one
blow all the barriers she had erected, he came to her and took her cold
hands in his. "What is it she has said to you?" he asked.
She drew herself away without speaking.
"What has Helen said to you? Has she told you that I have deceived you?
That I have played a part?"
But Anne did not answer; she turned, as if to pass him.
"You shall not leave me," he said, barring the way. "Stay a moment,
Anne; I promise not to keep you long. You will not? But you shall. Am
_I_ nothing in all this? My feelings nothing? Let me tell you one thing:
whatever Helen may have said, remember that it was all before I
knew--_you_."
Anne's hands shook in his as he said this. "Let me go," she cried, with
low, quick utterance; she dared not say more, lest her voice should
break into sobs.
"I will not," said Heathcote, "until you hear me while I tell you that I
have _not_ played a false part with you, Anne. I did begin it as an
experiment, I confess that I did; but I have ended by being in
earnest--at least to a certain degree. Helen does not know me entirely;
one side of me she has never even suspected."
"Mrs. Lorrington has not spoken on the subject," murmured Anne, feeling
compelled to set him right, but not looking up.
"Then what _has_ she said about me, that you should look as you do, my
poor child?"
"You take too much upon yourself," replied the girl, with an effort to
speak scornfully. "Why should you suppose we have talked of you?"
"I do not suppose it; I know it. I have not the heart to laugh at you,
Anne: your white face hurts me like a sharp pain. Will you at least tell
me that you do not believe I have been amusing myself at your
expense--that you do not believe I have been insincere?"
"I am glad to think that you were not wholly insincere."
"And you will believe also that I like you--like you very, very much,
with more than the ordinary liking?"
"That is nothing to me."
"Nothing to you? Look at me, Anne; you shall look once. Ah, my dear
child, do you not see that I can not help loving you? And that you--love
me also?" As he spoke he drew her close and looked down into her eyes,
those startled violet eyes, that met his at last--for one half-moment.
Then she sprang from him, and burst into tears. "Leave me," she said,
brokenly. "You are cruel."
"No; only human," answered Heathcote, not quite master of his words now.
"I have had your confession in that look, Anne, and you shall never
regret it."
"I regret it already," she cried, passionately; "I shall regret it all
my life. Do you not comprehend? can you not understand? I am
engaged--engaged to be married. I was engaged before we ever met."
"_You_ engaged, when I thought you hardly more than a child!" He had
been dwelling only upon himself and his own course; possibilities on the
other side had not occurred to him. They seldom do to much-admired men.
"I can not help what you thought me," replied Anne. At this moment they
heard a step on the piazza; some one had come forth to try the morning
air. Where they stood they were concealed, but from the garden walk they
would be plainly visible.
"Leave me," she said, hurriedly.
"I will; I will cross the field, and approach the house by the road, so
that you will be quite safe. But I shall see you again, Anne." He bent
his head, and touched her hand with his lips, then sprang over the stone
wall, and was gone, crossing the fields toward the distant turnpike.
Anne returned to the house, exchanging greetings as she passed with the
well-preserved jaunty old gentleman who was walking up and down the
piazza twenty-five times before breakfast. She sought her own room,
dressed herself anew, and then tapped at her grandaunt's door; the
routine of the day had her in its iron grasp, and she was obliged to
follow its law.
Mrs. Lorrington came in to breakfast like a queen: it was a royal
progress. Miss Teller walked behind in amiable majesty, and gathered up
the overflow; that is, she shook hands cordially with those who could
not reach Helen, and smiled especially upon those whom Helen disliked.
Helen was robed in a soft white woollen material that clung closely
about her; she had never seemed more slender. Her pale hair, wound round
her small head, conveyed the idea that, unbound, it would fall to the
hem of her dress. She wore no ornaments, not even a ring on her small
fair hands. Her place was at some distance from Miss Vanhorn's table,
but as soon as she was seated she bowed to Anne, and smiled with marked
friendliness. Anne returned the salutation, and wondered that people did
not cry out and ask her if she was dying. But life does not go out so
easily as miserable young girls imagine.
"Eggs?" said the waiter.
She took one.
"I thought you did not like eggs," said Miss Vanhorn. She was in an
ill-humor that morning because Bessmer had upset the plant-drying
apparatus, composed of bricks and boards.
"Yes, thanks," said Anne, vaguely. Mr. Dexter was bowing good-morning to
her at that moment, and she returned the salutation. Miss Vanhorn,
observing this, withheld her intended rebuke for inattention. Dexter had
bowed on his way across to Helen; he had finished his own breakfast, and
now took a seat beside Miss Teller and Mrs. Lorrington. At this instant
a servant entered bearing a basket of flowers, not the old-fashioned
country flowers of Caryl's, but the superb cream-colored roses of the
city, each on its long stalk, reposing on a bed of unmixed heliotrope,
Helen's favorite flower. All eyes coveted the roses as they passed, and
watched to see their destination. They were presented to Mrs.
Lorrington.
Every one supposed that Dexter was the giver. The rich gift was like
him, and perhaps also the time of its presentation. But the time was a
mistake of the servant's; and was not Mrs. Lorrington bowing her
thanks?--yes, she was bowing her thanks, with a little air of
consciousness, yet with openness also, to Mr. Heathcote, who sat by
himself at the end of the long room. He bowed gravely in return, thus
acknowledging himself the sender.
"Well," said Miss Vanhorn, crossly, yet with a little shade of relief
too in her voice, "of all systematic coquettes, Helen Lorrington is our
worst. I suppose that we shall have no peace, now that she has come.
However, it will not last long."
"You will go away soon, then, grandaunt?" said Anne, eagerly.
Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass; the tone had betrayed something. "No,"
she said, inspecting her niece coolly; "nothing of the sort. I shall
remain through September, perhaps later."
Anne's heart sank. She would be obliged, then, to go through the ordeal.
She could eat nothing; a choking sensation had risen in her throat when
Heathcote bowed to Helen, acknowledging the flowers. "May I go,
grandaunt?" she said. "I do not feel well this morning."
"No; finish your breakfast like a Christian. I hate sensations. However,
on second thoughts, you _may_ go," added the old woman, glancing at
Dexter and Helen. "You may as well be re-arranging those specimens that
Bessmer stupidly knocked down. But do not let me find the Lorrington in
my parlor when I come up; do you hear?"
"Yes," said Anne, escaping. She ran up stairs to her own room, locked
the door, and then stood pressing her hands upon her heart, crying out
in a whisper: "Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do! How can I bear it!"
But she could not have even that moment unmolested: the day had begun,
and its burdens she must bear. Bessmer knocked, and began at once
tremulously about the injured plants through the closed door.
"Yes," said Anne, opening it, "I know about them. I came up to
re-arrange them."
"It wouldenter been so bad, miss, if it hadenter been asters. But I
never could make out asters; they all seem of a piece to me," said
Bessmer, while Anne sorted the specimens, and replaced them within the
drying-sheets. "Every fall there's the same time with 'em. I just dread
asters, I do; not but what golden-rods is almost worse."
"Anne," said a voice in the hall.
Anne opened the door; it was Helen, with her roses.
"These are the Grand Llama's apartments, I suppose," she said, peeping
in. "I will not enter; merely gaze over the sacred threshold. Come to my
room, Crystal, for half an hour; I am going to drive at eleven."
"I must finish arranging these plants."
"Then come when you have finished. Do not fail; I shall wait for you."
And the white robe floated off down the dark sidling hall, as Miss
Vanhorn's heavy foot made itself heard ascending the stairs. When
Bessmer had gone to her breakfast, to collect what strength she could
for another aster-day, Anne summoned her courage.
"Grandaunt, I would like to speak to you," she said.
"And I do not want to be spoken to; I have neuralgia in my cheek-bones."
"But I would like to tell you--"
"And I do not want to be told. You are always getting up sensations of
one kind or another, which amount to nothing in the end. Be ready to
drive to Updegraff's glen at eleven; that is all I have to say to you
now." She went into the inner room, and closed the door.
"It does not make any difference," thought Anne, drearily; "I shall tell
her at eleven."
Then, nerving herself for another kind of ordeal, she went slowly toward
Helen's apartments.
But conventionality is a strong power: she passed the first fifteen
minutes of conversation without faltering.
Then Helen said: "You look pale, Crystal. What is the matter?"
"I did not sleep well."
"And there is some trouble besides! I see by the note-book that you have
been with the Bishop almost constantly; confess that you like him!"
"Yes, I like him."
"Very much?"
"Yes."
"_Very_ much?"
"You know, Helen, that I am engaged."
"That! for your engagement," said Mrs. Lorrington, taking a rose and
tossing it toward her. "I know you are engaged. But I thought that if
the Bishop would only get into one of his dead-earnest moods--he is
capable of it--you would have to yield. For you are capable of it too."
"Capable of what? Breaking a promise?"
"Do not be disagreeable; I am complimenting you. No; I mean capable of
loving--really loving."
"All women can love, can they not?"
"Themselves! Yes. But rarely any one else. And now let me tell you
something delightful--one of those irrelevant little inconsistencies
which make society amusing: _I_ am going to drive with the Bishop this
morning, and not you at all."
"I hope you will enjoy the drive."
"You take it well," said Mrs. Lorrington, laughing merrily. "But I will
not tease you, Crystal. Only tell me one thing--you are always truthful.
Has anything been said to you--anything that really _means_
anything--since you have been here?"
"By whom?" said Anne, almost in a whisper.
"The Bishop, of course. Who else should it be?"
"Oh, no, no," answered the girl, rising hurriedly, as if uncertain what
to do. "Why do you speak to me so constantly of Mr. Dexter? I have been
with--with others too."
"You have been with him more than with the 'others' you mention," said
Helen, mimicking her tone. "The note-book tells that. However, I will
say no more; merely observe. You are looking at my driving costume;
jealous already? But I tell you frankly, Crystal, that regarding dress
you must yield to me. With millions you could not rival me; on that
ground I am alone. Rachel looked positively black with envy when she saw
me this morning; she is ugly in a second, you know, if she loses that
soft Oriental expression which makes you think of the Nile. Imagine
Rachel in a Greek robe like this, loosely made, with a girdle! I shall
certainly look well this morning; but never fear, it shall be for your
sake. I shall talk of you, and make you doubly interesting by what I do
and do not say; I shall give thrilling glimpses only."
The maid entered, and Anne sat through the change of dress and the
rebraiding of the pale soft hair.
"I do not forbid your peeping through the hall window to see us start,"
said Mrs. Lorrington, gayly, as she drew on her gloves. "Good-by."
Anne went to her own room. "Are they all mad?" she thought. "Or am I?
Why do they all speak of Mr. Dexter so constantly, and not of--"
"You are late," said Miss Vanhorn's voice. "I told you not to keep me
waiting. Get your hat and gloves, and come immediately; the carriage is
there."
But it was not as strange in reality as it seemed to Anne that Helen,
Miss Vanhorn, and others spoke of Mr. Dexter in connection with herself.
Absorbed in a deeper current, she had forgotten that others judge by the
surface, and that Mr. Dexter had been with her openly, and even
conspicuously, during a portion of every day for several weeks. To her
the two hours or three with him had been but so many portions of time
before she could see, or after she had seen, Heathcote. But time is not
divided as young people suppose; she forgot that ordinary eyes can not
see the invisible weights which make ten minutes--nay, five--with one
person outbalance a whole day with another. In the brief diary which she
had kept for Helen, Dexter's name occurred far more frequently than
Heathcote's, and Helen had judged from that. Others did the same, with
their eyes. If old Katharine had so far honored her niece as to question
her, she might have learned something more; but she did not question,
she relied upon her own sagacity. It is a dispensation of Providence
that the old, no matter how crowded their own youth may have been,
always forget. What old Katharine now forgot was this: if a man like
Gregory Dexter is conspicuously devoted to one woman, but always in the
presence of others, making no attempt to secure her attention for a few
moments alone here and there, it is probable that there is another woman
for whom he keeps those moments, and a hidden feeling stronger than the
one openly displayed. Rachel never allowed observable devotion. This,
however, did not forbid the unobserved.
"Grandaunt," began Anne, as the carriage rolled along the country road.
Her voice faltered a little, and she paused to steady it.
"Wait a day," said Miss Vanhorn, with grim sarcasm; "then there will be
nothing to tell. It is always so with girls."
It was her nearest approach to good-humor: Anne took courage. "The
summer is nearly over, grandaunt--"
"I have an almanac."
"--and, as school will soon begin--"
"In about three weeks."
"--I should like to go back to Mademoiselle until then, if you do not
object."
Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass, and looked at her niece; then she
laughed, sought for a caraway-seed, and by good luck found one, and
deposited it safely in the tight grasp of her glittering teeth. She
thought Anne was jealous of Mr. Dexter's attentions to Helen.
"You need not be afraid, child," she said, still laughing. "If you have
a rival, it is the Egyptian, and not that long white creature you call
your friend."
"I am unhappy here, grandaunt. Please let me go."
"Girls are always unhappy, or thinking themselves so. It is one of their
habits. Of course you can not go; it would be too ridiculous giving way
to any such childish feeling. You will stay as long as I stay."
"But I can not. I _must_ go."
"And who holds the authority, pray?"
"Dear grandaunt, do not compel me," said Anne, seizing the old woman's
hands in hers. But Miss Vanhorn drew them away angrily.
"What nonsense!" she said. "Do not let me hear another word. You will
stay according to my pleasure (which should be yours also), or you
forfeit your second winter at Moreau's and the children's allowance."
She tapped on the glass, and signaled to the coachman to drive homeward.
"You have spoiled the drive with your obstinacy; I do not care to go
now. Spend the day in your own room. At five o'clock come to me."
And at five Anne came.
"Have you found your senses?" asked the elder woman, and more gently.
"I have not changed my mind."
Miss Vanhorn rose and locked the door. "You will now give me your
reasons," she said.
"I can not."
"You mean that you will not."
Anne was silent, and Miss Vanhorn surveyed her for a moment before
letting loose the dogs of war. In her trouble the girl looked much
older; it was a grave, sad, but determined woman who was standing there
to receive her sentence, and suddenly the inquisitor changed her course.
"There, there," she said; "never mind about it now. Go back to your
room; Bessmer shall bring you some tea, and then you will let her dress
you precisely as I shall order. You will not, I trust, disobey me in so
small a matter as that?"
"And may I go to-morrow?"
"We will see. You can not go to-night, at any rate; so do as I bid you."
Anne obeyed; but she was disappointed that all was not ended and the
contest over. For the young, to wait seems harder than to suffer.
Miss Vanhorn thought that her niece was jealous of Helen in regard to
Dexter, and that this jealousy had opened her eyes for the first time to
her own faithlessness; being conscientious, of course she was, between
the two feelings, made very wretched. And the old woman's solution of
the difficulty was to give Dexter one more and perfect opportunity, if
she, Katharine Vanhorn, could arrange it. And there was, in truth, very
little that old Katharine could not arrange if she chose, since she was
a woman not afraid to use on occasion that which in society is the
equivalent of force, namely, directness. She was capable of saying,
openly, "Mr. Dexter, will you take Anne out on the piazza for a while?
The air is close here," and then of smiling back upon Rachel, Isabel, or
whoever was left behind, with the malice of a Mazarin. Chance favored
old Katharine that night once and again.