"What is this that thou hast been fretting and fuming and lamenting
and self-tormenting on account of? Say it in a word: is it not
because thou art not _happy_? Foolish soul! what act of Legislature
was there that _thou_ shouldst be happy? There is in Man a higher
than Happiness; he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof
find Blessedness. This is the everlasting Yea, wherein all
contradiction is solved."--CARLYLE.
After an hour of mute suffering, Anne sought the blessed oblivion of
sleep. She had conquered herself; she was exhausted. She would try to
gain strength for the effort of the coming day. But nothing avails
against that fever, strong as life and sad as death, which we call Love,
and which, in spite of the crowd of shallower feelings that masquerade
under and mock its name, still remains the master-power of our human
existence. Anne had no sooner laid her head upon the pillow than there
rose within her, and ten times stronger than before, her love and her
jealousy. She would stay and contest the matter with Helen. Had he not
said, had he not looked--And then she caught herself back in an agony of
self-reproach. For it is always hard for the young to learn the lesson
of human weakness. It is strange and humiliating to them to discover
that there are powers within them stronger than their own wills. The old
know this so well that they excuse each other silently; but, loath to
shake the ignorant faith of innocence, they leave the young to find it
out for themselves. The whole night with Anne was but a repetition of
efforts and lapses, followed toward morning, however, by a struggling
return to self-control. For years of faithfulness even as a child are
not thrown away, but yield, thank Heaven! a strength at last in times of
trial; else might we all go drown ourselves. At dawn, with tear-stained
cheeks, she fell asleep, waking with a start when Bessmer knocked and
inquired if she was ill. Miss Vanhorn had gone down to breakfast.
"Please send me some coffee," said Anne, without opening the door. "I do
not care for anything else. I will be ready soon."
She dressed herself slowly, swallowing the coffee. But youth is strong;
the cold bath and the fresh white morning dress made her look as fair as
ever. Miss Vanhorn was waiting for her in the little parlor. Bessmer was
sent away, and the door closed. The girl remained standing, and took
hold of the back of a chair to nerve herself for the first step along
the hard, lonely road stretching out before her like a desert.
"Anne," began Miss Vanhorn, in a magisterial voice, "what did Mr. Dexter
say to you last evening?"
"He asked me to be his wife."
"I hardly expected it so soon, although I knew it would come in time,"
said the old woman, with a swallow of satisfaction. "Sit down. And don't
be an idiot. You will now listen to _me_. Mr. Dexter is a rich man; he
is what is called a rising man (if any one wants to rise); he is a good
enough man also, as men go. He has no claim as regards family; neither
have you. He is a thorough and undiluted American; so are you. He will
be a kind husband, and one far higher in the world than you had any
right to expect. On the other hand, you will do very well as his wife,
for you have fair ability and a pretty face (it is of course your pink
and white beauty that has won him), and principles enough for both.
Like all people who have made money rapidly, he is lavish, and will deny
you nothing; he will even allow you, I presume, to help one and all of
that colony of children, priests, old maids, and dogs, up on that
island. See what power will be put into your hands! You might labor all
your life, and not accomplish one-hundredth part of that which, as
Gregory Dexter's wife, you could do in one day.
"As to your probable objection--the boy-and-girl engagement in which you
were foolish enough to entangle yourself--I will simply say, leave it to
time; it will break itself. How do you know that it is not, in fact,
broken already? The Pronando blood is faithless in its very essence,"
added the old woman, bitterly. "Mr. Dexter is a man of the world. I will
explain it to him myself; he will understand, and will not urge you at
present. He will wait, as I shall, for the natural solution of time. But
in the mean while you must not offend him; he is not at all a man whom a
woman can offend with impunity. He is vain, and has a singularly
mistaken idea of his own importance. Agree to what I propose--which is
simple quiescence for the present--and you shall go back to Moreau's,
and the allowance for the children shall be continued. I have never
before in my life made so many concessions; it is because you have had
at times lately a look that brings back--Alida."
Anne's lips trembled; a sudden weakness came over her at this allusion
to her mother.
"Well?" said Miss Vanhorn, expectantly.
There was a pause. Then a girl's voice answered: "I can not, grandaunt.
I must go."
"You _may_ go, I tell you, back to Moreau's on the 1st of October."
"I mean that I can not marry Mr. Dexter."
"No one asks you to marry him now."
"I can never marry him."
"Why?" said Miss Vanhorn, with rising color. "Be careful what you say.
No lies."
"I--I am engaged to Rast."
"Lie number one. Look at me. If your engagement was ended, _then_ would
you marry Mr. Dexter?"
Anne half rose, as if to escape, but sank back again. "I could not marry
him, because I do not love him," she answered.
"And whom do you love, that you know so much about it, and have your 'do
not' and 'can not' so promptly ready? Never tell me that it is that boy
upon the island who has taught you all these new ways, this faltering
and fear of looking in my face, of which you knew nothing when you came.
Do you wish me to tell you what I think of you?"
"No," cried the girl, rushing forward, and falling on her knees beside
the arm-chair; "tell me nothing. Only let me go away. I can not, can not
stay here; I am too wretched, too weak. You can not have a lower opinion
of me than I have of myself at this moment. If you have any compassion
for me--for the memory of my mother--say no more, and let me go." She
bowed her head upon the arm of the chair and sobbed aloud.
But Miss Vanhorn rose and walked away. "I know what this means," she
said, standing in the centre of the room. "Like mother, like daughter.
Only Alida ran after a man who loved her, although her inferior, while
you have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is simply laughing at
you. Don't you know, you fool, that Ward Heathcote will marry Helen
Lorrington--the woman you pretend to be grateful to, and call your
dearest friend? Helen Lorrington will be in every way a suitable wife
for him. It has long been generally understood. The idea of _your_
trying to thrust yourself between them is preposterous--I may say a
maniac's folly."
"I am not trying: only let me go," sobbed Anne, still kneeling by the
chair.
"You think I have not seen," continued Miss Vanhorn, her wrath rising
with every bitter word; "but I have. Only I never dreamed that it was as
bad as this. I never dreamed that Alida's daughter could be bold and
immodest--worse than her mother, who was only love-mad."
Anne started to her feet. "Miss Vanhorn," she said, "I will not hear
this, either of myself or my mother. It is not true."
"As to not hearing it, you are right; you will not hear my voice often
in the future. I wash my hands of you. You are an ungrateful girl, and
will come to an evil end. When I think of the enormous selfishness you
now show in thus throwing away, for a mere matter of personal obstinacy,
the bread of your sister and brothers, and leaving them to starve, I
stand appalled. What do you expect?"
"Nothing--save to go."
"And you _shall_ go."
"To-day?"
"This afternoon, at three." As she said this, Miss Vanhorn seated
herself with her back toward Anne, and took up a book, as though there
was no one in the room.
"Do you want me any longer, grandaunt?"
"Never call me by that name again. Go to your room; Bessmer will attend
to you. At two o'clock I will see you for a moment before you go."
Without a reply, Anne obeyed. Her tears were dried as if by fever; words
had been spoken which could not be forgiven. Inaction was impossible;
she began to pack. Then, remembering who had given her all these
clothes, she paused, uncertain what to do. After reflection, she decided
to take with her only those she had brought from the half-house; and in
this she was not actuated by any spirit of retaliation, her idea was
that her grandaunt would demand the gifts in any case. Miss Vanhorn was
not generous. She worked steadily; she did not wish to think; yet still
the crowding feelings pursued her, caught up with her, and then went
along with her, thrusting their faces close to hers, and forcing
recognition. Was she, as Miss Vanhorn had said, enormously selfish in
thus sacrificing the new comfort of the pinched household on the island
to her own obstinacy? But, as she folded the plain garments brought from
that home, she knew that it was not selfishness; as she replaced the
filmy ball dress in its box, she said to herself that she could not
deceive Mr. Dexter by so much even as a silence. Then, as she wrapped
the white parasol in its coverings, the old burning, throbbing misery
rolled over her, followed by the hot jealousy which she thought she had
conquered; she seized the two dresses given by Helen, and added them to
those left behind. But the action brought shame, and she replaced them.
And now all the clothes faced her from the open trunks; those from the
island, those which Rast had seen, murmured, "Faithless!" Helen's gifts
whispered, "Ingratitude!" and those of her grandaunt called more loudly,
"Fool!" She closed the lids, and turned toward the window; she tried to
busy her mind with the future: surely thought and plans were needed. She
was no longer confident, as she had been when she first left her
Northern island; she knew now how wide the world was, and how cold. She
could not apply at the doors of schools without letters or
recommendations; she could not live alone. Her one hope began and ended
in Jeanne-Armande. She dressed herself in travelling garb and sat down
to wait. It was nearly noon, probably she would not see Helen, as she
always slept through the morning after a ball, preserving by this
changeless care the smooth fairness of her delicate complexion. She
decided to write a note of farewell, and leave it with Bessmer; but
again and again she tore up her beginnings, until the floor was strewn
with fragments. She had so very much not to say. At last she succeeded
in putting together a few sentences, which told nothing, save that she
was going away; she bade her good-by, and thanked her for all her
kindness, signing, without any preliminary phrases (for was she
"affectionately" or "sincerely" Helen's "friend"?), merely her name,
Anne Douglas.
At one o'clock Bessmer entered with luncheon. Evidently she had received
orders to enter into no conversation with the prisoner; but she took the
note, and promised to deliver it with her own hands. At two the door
opened, and Miss Vanhorn came in.
The old woman's eye took in at a glance the closed trunks and the
travelling dress. She had meant to try her niece, to punish her; but
even then she could not believe that the girl would really throw away
forever all the advantages she had placed within her grasp. She sat
down, and after waiting a moment, closed her eyes. "Anne Douglas," she
began, "daughter of my misguided niece Alida Clanssen, I have come for a
final decision. Answer my questions. First, have you, or have you not,
one hundred dollars in the world?"
"I have not."
"Have you, or have you not, three brothers and one sister wholly
dependent upon you?"
"I have."
"Is it just or honorable to leave them longer to the charity of a woman
who is poor herself, and not even a relative?"
"It is neither."
"Have I, or have I not, assisted you, offered also to continue the
pension which makes them comfortable?"
"You have."
"Then," said the old woman, still with her eyes closed, "why persist in
this idiotic stubbornness? In offending me, are you not aware that you
are offending the only person on earth who can assist you? I make no
promises as to the future; but I am an old woman now, one to whom you
could at least be dutiful. There--I want no fine words. Show your
fineness by obeying my wishes."
"I will stay with _you_, grandaunt, willingly, gladly, gratefully, if
you will take me away from this place."
"No conditions," said Miss Vanhorn. "Come here; kneel down in front of
me, so that I can look at you. Will you stay with me _here_, if I yield
everything concerning Mr. Dexter?" She held her firmly, with her small
keen eyes searching her face.
Anne was silent. Like the panorama which is said to pass before the eyes
of the drowning man, the days and hours at Caryl's as they would be,
must be, unrolled themselves before her. But there only followed the
same desperate realization of the impossibility of remaining; the
misery, the jealousy; worse than all, the self-doubt. The misery, the
jealousy, she could perhaps bear, deep as they were. But what appalled
her was this new doubt of herself, this new knowledge, that, in spite of
all her determination, she might, if tried, yield to this love which had
taken possession of her unawares, yield to certain words which he might
speak, to certain tones of his voice, and thus become even more
faithless to Rast, to Helen, and to herself, than she already was. If he
would go away--but she knew that he would not. No, _she_ must go.
Consciousness came slowly back to her eyes, which had been meeting Miss
Vanhorn's blankly.
"I can not stay," she said.
Miss Vanhorn thrust her away violently. "I am well paid for having had
anything to do with Douglas blood," she cried, her voice trembling with
anger. "Get back into the wilderness from whence you came! I will never
hear your name on earth again." She left the room.
In a few moments Bessmer appeared, her eyes reddened by tears, and
announced that the wagon was waiting. It was at a side door. At this
hour there was no one on the piazzas, and Anne's trunk was carried down,
and she herself followed with Bessmer, without being seen by any one
save the servants and old John Caryl.
"I am not to say anything to you, Miss Douglas, if you please, but just
the ordinary things, if you please," said Bessmer, as the wagon bore
them away. "You are to take the three o'clock train, and go--wherever
you please, she said. I was to tell you."
"Yes, Bessmer; do not be troubled. I know what to do. Will you tell
grandaunt, when you return, that I beg her to forgive what has seemed
obstinacy, but was only sad necessity. Can you remember it?"
"Yes, miss; only sad necessity," repeated Bessmer, with dropping tears.
She was a meek woman, with a comfortable convexity of person, which,
however, did not seem to give her confidence.
"I was not to know, miss, if you please, where you bought tickets to,"
she said, as the wagon stopped at the little station. "I was to give
you this, and then go right back."
She handed Anne an envelope containing a fifty-dollar note. Anne looked
at it a moment. "I will not take this, I think; you can tell grandaunt
that I have money enough for the present," she said, returning it. She
gave her hand kindly to the weeping maid, who was then driven away in
the wagon, her sun-umbrella held askew over her respectable brown
bonnet, her broad shoulders shaken with her sincere grief. A turn in the
road soon hid even this poor friend of hers from view. Anne was alone.
The station-keeper was not there; his house was near by, but hidden by a
grove of maples, and Anne, standing on the platform, seemed all alone,
the two shining rails stretching north and south having the peculiarly
solitary aspect which a one-track railway always has among green fields,
with no sign of life in sight. No train has passed, or ever will pass.
It is all a dream. She walked to and fro. She could see into the
waiting-room, which was adorned with three framed texts, and another
placard not religiously intended, but referring, on the contrary, to
steamboats, which might yet be so interpreted, namely, "Take the
Providence Line." She noted the drearily ugly round stove, faded below
to white, planted in a sand-filled box; she saw the bench, railed off
into single seats by iron elbows, and remembered that during her journey
eastward, two, if not three, of these places were generally filled with
the packages of some solitary female of middle age, clad in
half-mourning, who remained stonily unobservant of the longing glances
cast upon the space she occupied. These thoughts came to her
mechanically. When a decision has finally been made, and for the present
nothing more can be done, the mind goes wandering off on trivial
errands; the flight of a bird, the passage of the fairy car of
thistle-down, are sufficient to set it in motion. It seemed to her that
she had been there a long time, when a step came through the grove:
Hosea Plympton--or, as he was called in the neighborhood, Hosy Plim--was
unlocking the station door. Anne bought her ticket, and had her trunk
checked; she hoped to reach the half-house before midnight.
Hosy having attended to his official business with dignity, now came out
to converse unofficially with his one passenger. "From Caryl's, ain't
you?"
"Yes," replied Anne.
"Goin' to New York?"
"Yes."
"I haven't yet ben to that me-tropo-lis," said Hosy. "On some accounts I
should admire to go, on others not. Ben long at Caryl's?"
"Yes, some time."
"My wife's cousin helps over there; Mirandy's her name. And she tells
me, Mirandy does, that the heap of washing over to that house is a sight
to see. She tells me, Mirandy does, that they don't especial dress up
for the Sabbath over there, not so much even as on other days."
"That is true, I believe."
"Sing'lar," said the little man, "what folks 'll do as has the money!
They don't seem to be capable of enj'ying themselves exactly; and
p'r'aps that's what Providence intends. We haven't had city folks at
Caryl's until lately, miss, you see; and I confess they've ben a
continooal study to me ever since. 'Tis amazin' the ways the Lord'll
take to make us contented with our lot. Till I _see_ 'em, I thought 'em
most downright and all everlastin' to be envied. But _now_ I feel the
ba'm of comfort and innard strengthenin' when I see how little they know
_how_ to enj'y themselves, after all. Here's the train, miss."
In another moment Anne felt herself borne away--away from the solitary
station, with its shining lines of rails; from the green hills which
encircled Caryl's; from the mountain-peaks beyond. She had started on
her journey into the wide world.
In darkness, but in safety, she arrived at the half-house, in the
station-keeper's wagon, a few minutes before midnight. A light was still
burning, and in response to her knock Jeanne-Armande herself opened the
door, clad in a wrapper, with a wonderful flannel cap on her head. She
was much astonished to see her pupil, but received her cordially,
ordered the trunk brought in, and herself attended to the beating down
of the station-keeper's boy to a proper price for his services. She
remarked upon his audacity and plainly criminal tendencies; she
thoroughly sifted the physical qualities of the horse; she objected to
the shape of the wagon; and finally, she had noted his manner of
bringing in the trunk, and shaving its edges as well as her doorway, and
she felt that she must go over to the station herself early in the
morning, and lodge a complaint against him. What did he mean by-- But
here the boy succumbed, and departed with half-price, and Jeanne-Armande
took breath, and closed the door in triumph.
"You see that I have come back to you, mademoiselle," said Anne, with a
faint smile. "Shall I tell you why?"
"Yes; but no, not now. You are very weary, my child; you look pale and
worn. Would you like some coffee?"
"Yes," said Anne, who felt a faint exhaustion stealing over her. "But
the fast-day coffee will do." For there was one package of coffee in the
store-room which went by that name, and which old Nora was instructed to
use on Fridays. Not that Jeanne-Armande followed strict rules and
discipline; but she had bought that coffee at an auction sale in the
city for a very low price, and it proved indeed so low in quality that
they could not drink it more than once a week. Certainly, therefore,
Friday was the appropriate day.
"No," said the hostess, "you shall have a little of the other, child.
Come to the kitchen. Nora has gone to bed, but I will arrange a little
supper for you with my own hands."
They went to the bare little room, where a mouse would have starved. But
mademoiselle was not without resources, and keys. Soon she "arranged" a
brisk little fire and a cheery little stew, while the pint coffee-pot
sent forth a delicious fragrance. Sitting there in a wooden chair beside
the little stove, Anne felt more of home comfort than she had ever
known at Caryl's, and the thin miserly teacher was kinder than her
grandaunt had ever been. She ate and drank, and was warmed; then,
sitting by the dying coals, she told her story, or rather as much of it
as it was necessary mademoiselle should know.
"It is a pity," said Jeanne-Armande, "and especially since she has no
relative, this grandaunt, nearer than yourself. Could nothing be done in
the way of renewal, as to heart-strings?"
"Not at present. I must rely upon you, mademoiselle; in this, even Tante
can not help me."
"That is true; she can not. She even disapproved of my own going forth
into the provinces," said Jeanne-Armande, with the air of an explorer.
"We have different views of life, Hortense Moreau and I; but there!--we
respect each other. Of how much money can you dispose at present, my
child?"
Anne told the sum.
"If it is so little as that," said Jeanne-Armande, "it will be better
for you to go westward with me immediately. I start earlier than usual
this year; you can take the journey with me, and share expenses; in this
way we shall both be able to save. Now as to chances: there is sometimes
a subordinate employed under me, when there is a press of new scholars.
This is the autumn term: there _may_ be a press. I must prepare you,
however, for the lowest of low salaries," said the teacher, her voice
changing suddenly to a dry sharpness. "I shall present you as a novice,
to whom the privilege of entering the institution is an equivalent of
money."
"I expect but little," said Anne. "A beginner must take the lowest
place."
On the second day they started. Jeanne-Armande was journeying to Weston
this time by a roundabout way. By means of excursion tickets to Valley
City, offered for low rates for three days, she had found that she could
(in time) reach Weston _viâ_ the former city, and effect a saving of one
dollar and ten cents. With the aid of her basket, no additional meals
would be required, and the money saved, therefore, would be pure gain.
There was only one point undecided, namely, should she go through to
Valley City, or change at a junction twenty miles this side for the
northern road? What would be the saving, if any, by going on? What by
changing? No one could tell her; the complication of excursion rates to
Valley City for the person who was not going there, and the method of
night travel for a person who would neither take a sleeping-car, nor
travel in a day car, combined themselves to render more impassive still
the ticket-sellers, safely protected in their official round towers from
the rabble of buyers outside. Regarding the main lines between New York
and Weston, and all their connections, it would be safe to say that
mademoiselle knew more than the officials themselves. The remainder of
the continent was an unknown wilderness in her mind, but these lines of
rails, over which she was obliged to purchase her way year after year,
she understood thoroughly. She had tried all the routes, and once she
had gone through Canada; she had looked at canal-boats meditatively. She
was haunted by a vision that some day she might find a clean captain and
captain's wife who would receive her as passenger, and allow her to cook
her own little meals along shore. Once, she explained to Anne, a
Sunday-school camp-meeting had reduced the rates, she being apparently
on her way thither. She had always regretted that the season of State
fairs was a month later: she felt herself capable of being on her way to
all of them.
"But now, whether to go on to Valley City, or to leave the train at
Stringhampton Junction, is the question I can not decide," she said,
with irritation, having returned discomfited from another encounter with
a ticket-seller.
"We reach Weston by both routes, do we not?" said Anne.
"Of course; that follows without saying. Evidently you do not comprehend
the considerations which are weighing upon me. However, I will get it
out of the ticket agent at New Macedonia," said mademoiselle, rising.
"Come, the train is ready."
They were going only as far as New Macedonia that night; mademoiselle
had slept there twice, and intended to sleep there again. Once, in her
decorous maiden life, she had passed a night in a sleeping-car, and
never again would her foot "cross the threshold of one of those
outrageous inventions." She remembered even now with a shudder the
processions of persons in muffled drapery going to the wash-rooms in the
early morning. New Macedonia existed only to give suppers and
breakfasts; it had but two narrow sleeping apartments over its abnormal
development of dining-room below. But the military genius of
Jeanne-Armande selected it on this very account; for sleeping-rooms
where no one ever slept, half-price could in conscience alone be
charged. All night Anne was wakened at intervals by the rushing sound of
passing trains. Once she stole softly to the uncurtained window and
looked out; clouds covered the sky, no star was visible, but down the
valley shone a spark which grew and grew, and then turned white and
intense, as, with a glare and a thundering sound, a locomotive rushed
by, with its long line of dimly lighted sleeping-cars swiftly and softly
following with their unconscious human freight, the line ending in two
red eyes looking back as the train vanished round a curve.
"Ten hours' sleep," said mademoiselle, awaking with satisfaction in the
morning. "I now think we can sit up to-night in the Valley City
waiting-room, and save the price of lodgings. Until twelve they would
think we were waiting for the midnight train; after that, the night
porter, who comes on duty then, would suppose it was the early morning
express."
"Then you have decided to go through to Valley City?" asked Anne.
"Yes, since by this arrangement we can do it without expense."
Two trains stopped at New Macedonia for breakfast, one eastward bound
from over the Alleghanies, the other westward bound from New York.
Jeanne-Armande's strategy was to enter the latter while its passengers
were at breakfast, and take bodily possession of a good seat, removing,
if necessary, a masculine bag or two left there as tokens of ownership;
for the American man never makes war where the gentler sex is concerned,
but retreats to another seat, or even to the smoking-car, with silent
generosity.
Breakfast was now over; the train-boy was exchanging a few witticisms
with the pea-nut vender of the station, a brakeman sparred playfully
with the baggage porter, and a pallid telegraph operator looked on from
his window with interest. Meanwhile the conductor, in his stiff official
cap, pared a small apple with the same air of fixed melancholy and
inward sarcasm which he gave to all his duties, large and small; when it
was eaten, he threw the core with careful precision at a passing pig,
looked at his watch, and called out, suddenly and sternly, "All aboard!"
The train moved on.
It was nine o'clock. At ten there came into the car a figure Anne
knew--Ward Heathcote.