CHAPTER XXV._Anne: A Novel

"Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or tends with the remover to remove:

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom."

--SHAKSPEARE.

"Why did you not send across to the hospital at the mill?" said Anne.

"Dr. Flower, receiving no second message, supposed that Captain

Heathcote had recovered."

"Well, you see, I reckon I know as much about this yer fever as the

doctors do as never had it," replied Mrs. Redd. "The captain couldn't be

moved; that was plain as day. And we hadn't a horse, nuther. Our horse

and mules have all been run off and stole."

Mrs. Redd was a clay-colored woman, with a figure which, cavernous in

front, was yet so rounded out behind that if she could have turned her

head round she would have been very well shaped. Her knowledge of the

fever was plainly derived from personal experience; she explained that

she had it "by spells," and that "Redd he has it too," and their

daughter Nancy as well. "Redd he isn't to home now, nor Nancy nuther.

But Redd he'll be back by to-morrow night, I reckon. If you want to

stay, I can accommodate you. You can have the loft, and the niggers can

sleep in the barn. But they'll have to cook for themselves. I shall be

mighty glad to have some help in tending on the captain; I'm about wore

out."

Mrs. Redd did not mention that she had confiscated the sick man's money,

and hidden it safely away in an old tea-pot, and that all her knowledge

of arithmetic was at work keeping a daily account of expenses which

should in the end exactly balance the sum. She had no intention of

stealing the money--certainly not. But of course her "just account" must

be paid. She could still work at this problem, she thought, and earn

something as well from the new-comers, who would also relieve her from

all care of the sick man: it was clearly a providence. In the glow of

this expected gain she even prepared supper. Fortunately in summer her

kitchen was in the open air, and the room where Heathcote lay was left

undisturbed.

Anne had brought the hospital medicines with her, and careful

instructions from Mary Crane. If she had come upon Heathcote before her

late experiences, she would have felt little hope, but men whose

strength had been far more reduced than his had recovered under her

eyes. Diana was a careful nurse; July filled the place of valet,

sleeping on straw on the floor. She ordered down the bed-curtains and

opened all the windows; martial law regarding air, quiet, and medicines

was proclaimed. The sick man lay quietly, save for the continued

restless motion of his head.

"If we could only stop his slipping his head across and back in that

everlasting way, I believe he'd be better right off," said Mrs. Redd.

"It done him good, 'pears to me," said July, who already felt a strong

affection in his capacious vagabondizing heart for the stranger

committed to his care. "Yo' see, it kinder rests his mind like."

"Much mind _he's_ got to rest with!" said Mrs. Redd, contemptuously.

With her two assistants, it was not necessary that Anne should remain in

the room at night, and she did not, at least in personal presence; but

every half-hour she was at the top of the stairway, silently watching to

see if Diana fulfilled her duties. On the third day the new medicines

and the vigilance conquered. On the fifth day the sick man fell into his

first natural slumber. The house was very still. Bees droned serenely.

There was no breeze. Anne was sitting on the door-steps. "Ought I to go

now before he wakens?" she was thinking. "But I _can_ not until the

danger is surely over. He may not recognize me even now." She said to

herself that she would stay a short time longer, but without entering

the room where he was; Diana could come to her for orders, and the

others must not allude to her presence. Then, as soon as she was

satisfied that his recovery was certain, she could slip away unseen. She

went round to the back of the house to warn the others; it was all to go

on as though she was not there.

Heathcote wakened at last, weak but conscious. He had accepted without

speech the presence of Diana and July, and had soon fallen asleep again,

"like a chile." He ate some breakfast the next morning, and the day

passed without fever. Mrs. Redd pronounced him convalescent, and

declared decisively that all he needed was to "eat hearty." The best

medicine now would be "a plenty of vittals." In accordance with this

opinion she prepared a meal of might, carried it in with her own hands,

and in two minutes, forgetting all about the instructions she had

received, betrayed Anne's secret. Diana, who was present, looked at her

reproachfully: the black skin covered more faithfulness than the white.

"Well, I do declare to Jerusalem I forgot!" said the hostess, laughing.

"However, now you know it, Miss Douglas might as well come in, and make

you eat if she can. For eat you must, captain. Why, man alive, if you

could see yourself! You're just skin and rattling bones."

And thus it all happened. Anne, afraid to lay so much as a finger's

weight of excitement of any kind upon him in his weak state, hearing his

voice faintly calling her name, and understanding at once that her

presence had been disclosed, came quietly in with a calm face, as though

her being there was quite commonplace and natural, and taking the plate

from Diana, sat down by the bedside and began to feed him with the bits

of chicken, which was all of the meal of might that he would touch. She

paid no attention to the expression which grew gradually in his feeble

eyes as they rested upon her and followed her motions, at first vaguely,

then with more and more of insistence and recollection.

"Anne?" he murmured, after a while, as if questioning with himself. "It

is Anne?"

She lifted her hand authoritatively. "Yes," she said; "but you must not

talk. Eat."

He obeyed; but he still gazed at her, and then slowly he smiled. "You

will not run away again?" he whispered.

"Not immediately."

"Promise that you will not go to-night or to-morrow."

"I promise."

And then, as if satisfied, he fell asleep.

He slept all night peacefully. But Anne did not once lose consciousness.

At dawn she left her sleepless couch, and dressed herself, moving about

the room cautiously, so as not to awaken the sleeper below. When she was

ready to go down, she paused a moment, thinking. Raising her eyes, she

found herself standing by chance opposite the small mirror, and her gaze

rested half unconsciously upon her own reflected image. She drew nearer,

and leaning with folded arms upon the chest of drawers, looked at

herself, as if striving to see something hitherto hidden.

We think we know our own faces, yet they are in reality less known to us

than the countenances of our acquaintances, of our servants, even of our

dogs. If any one will stand alone close to a mirror, and look intently

at his own reflection for several minutes or longer, the impression

produced on his mind will be extraordinary. At first it is nothing but

his own well-known, perhaps well-worn, face that confronts him. Whatever

there may be of novelty in the faces of others, there is certainly

nothing of it here. So at least he believes. But after a while it grows

strange. What do those eyes mean, meeting his so mysteriously and

silently? Whose mouth is that? Whose brow? What vague suggestions of

something stronger than he is, some dormant force which laughs him to

scorn, are lurking behind that mask? In the outline of the features, the

curve of the jaw and chin, perhaps he notes a suggested likeness to this

or that animal of the lower class--a sign of some trait which he was not

conscious he possessed. And then--those strange eyes! They are his own;

nothing new; yet in their depths all sorts of mocking meanings seem to

rise. The world, with all its associations, even his own history also,

drops from him like a garment, and he is left alone, facing the problem

of his own existence. It is the old riddle of the Sphinx.

Something of this passed through Anne's mind at that moment. She was too

young to accept misery, to generalize on sorrow, to place herself among

the large percentage of women to whom, in the great balance of

population, a happy love is denied. She felt her own wretchedness

acutely, unceasingly, while the man she loved was so near. She knew that

she would leave him, that he would go back to Helen; that she would

return to her hospital work and to Weston, and that that would be the

end. There was not in her mind a thought of anything else. Yet this

certainty did not prevent the two large slow tears that rose and welled

over as she watched the eyes in the glass, watched them as though they

were the eyes of some one else.

Diana's head now appeared, giving the morning bulletin: the captain had

slept "like a cherrb," and was already "'mos' well." Anne went down by

the outside stairway, and ate her breakfast under the trees not far from

Mrs. Redd's out-door hearth. She told July that she should return to the

hospital during the coming night, or, if the mountain path could not be

traversed in the darkness, they must start at dawn.

"I don't think it's quite fair of you to quit so soon," objected Mrs.

Redd, loath to lose her profit.

"If you can find any one to escort me, I will leave you Diana and July,"

answered Anne. "For myself, I can not stay longer."

July went in with the sick man's breakfast, but came forth again

immediately. "He wants _yo'_ to come, miss."

"I can not come now. If he eats his breakfast obediently, I will come in

and see him later," said the nurse.

"Isn't much trouble 'bout _eating_," said July, grinning. "Cap'n he eats

like he 'mos' starved."

Anne remained sitting under the trees, while the two black servants

attended to her patient. At ten o'clock he was reported as "sittin' up

in bed, and powerful smart." This bulletin was soon followed by another,

"Him all tired out now, and gone to sleep."

Leaving directions for the next hour, she strolled into the woods behind

the house. She had intended to go but a short distance, but, led on by

her own restlessness and the dull pain in her heart, she wandered

farther than she knew.

Jacob Redd's little farm was on the northern edge of the valley; its

fields and wood-lot ascended the side of the mountain. Anne, reaching

the end of the wood-lot, opened the gate, and went on up the hill. She

followed a little trail. The trees were larger than those through which

she had travelled on the opposite side of the valley; it was a wood, not

a thicket; the sunshine was hot, the green silent shade pleasant. She

went on, although now the trail was climbing upward steeply, and rocks

appeared. She had been ascending for half an hour, when she came

suddenly upon a narrow, deep ravine, crossing from left to right; the

trail turned and followed its edge; but as its depths looked cool and

inviting, and as she thought she heard the sound of a brook below, she

left the little path, and went downward into the glen. When she reached

the bottom she found herself beside a brook, flowing along over white

pebbles; it was not more than a foot wide, but full of life and

merriment, going no one knew whither, and in a great hurry about it. A

little brook is a fascinating object to persons unaccustomed to its

coaxing, vagrant witcheries. There were no brooks on the island, only

springs that trickled down from the cliffs into the lake in tiny silver

water-falls. Anne followed the brook. Absorbed in her own thoughts, and

naturally fearless, it did not occur to her that there might be danger

even in this quiet forest. She went round a curve, then round another,

when--what was that? She paused. Could he have seen her? Was he asleep?

Or--dead?

It was a common sight enough, a dead soldier in the uniform of the

United States infantry. He was young, and his face, turned toward her,

was as peaceful as if he was sleeping; there was almost a smile on his

cold lips. With beating heart she looked around. There were twisted

broken branches above on the steep side of the ravine; he had either

fallen over, or else had dragged himself down to be out of danger, or

perhaps to get water from the brook. The death-wound was in his breast;

she could see traces of blood. But he could not have been long dead. It

had been said that there was no danger in that neighborhood at present;

then what was this? Only one of the chances of war, and a common one in

that region: an isolated soldier taken off by a bullet from behind a

tree. She stood looking sorrowfully down upon the prostrate form; then a

thought came to her. She stooped to see if she could discover the

identity of the slain man from anything his pockets contained. There was

no money, but various little possessions, a soldier's wealth--a puzzle

carved in wood and neatly fitted together, a pocket-knife, a ball of

twine, a pipe, and a ragged song-book. At last she came upon what she

had hoped to find--a letter. It was from the soldier's mother, full of

love and little items of neighborhood news, and ending, "May God bless

you, my dear and only son!" The postmark was that of a small village in

Michigan, and the mother's name was signed in full.

One page of the letter was blank; with the poor soldier's own pencil

Anne drew upon this half sheet a sketch of his figure, lying there

peacefully beside the little brook. Then she severed a lock of his hair,

and went sadly away. July should come up and bury him; but the mother,

far away in Michigan, should have something more than the silence and

heart-breaking suspense of that terrible word "missing." The lock of

hair, the picture, and the poor little articles taken from his pockets

would be her greatest earthly treasures. For the girl forgets her lover,

and the wife forgets her husband; but the mother never forgets her dear

and only son.

When Anne reached the farm-house it was nearly four o'clock. July's

black anxious face met hers as she glanced through the open door of the

main room; he was sitting near the bed waving a long plume of feathers

backward and forward to keep the flies from the sleeping face below. The

negro came out on tiptoe, his enormous patched old shoes looking like

caricatures, yet making no more sound, as he stole along, than the small

slippers of a woman. "Cap'en he orful disappointed 'cause you worn't

yere at dinner-time," he whispered. "An' Mars' Redd, Mis' Redd's

husband, you know, him jess come home, and they's bote gone 'cross de

valley to see some pusson they know that's sick; but they'll he back

'fore long. And Di she's gone to look fer _you_, 'cause she was moughty

oneasy 'bout yer. An' she's been gone so long that _I'm_ moughty oneasy

'bout Di. P'r'aps you seen her, miss?"

No, Anne had not seen her. July looked toward the mountain-side

anxiously. "Cap'en he's had 'em broth, and taken 'em medicine, and has

jess settled down to a good long sleep; reckon he won't wake up till

sunset. If you'll allow, miss, I'll run up and look for Di."

Anne saw that he intended to go, whether she wished it or not: the lazy

fellow was fond of his wife. She gave her consent, therefore, on the

condition that he would return speedily, and telling him of the dead

soldier, suggested that when Farmer Redd returned the two men should go

up the mountain together and bury him. Was there a burial-ground or

church-yard in the neighborhood?

No; July knew of none; each family buried its dead on its own ground,

"in a corner of a meddar." He went away, and Anne sat down to keep the

watch.

She moved the long plume to and fro, refraining from even looking at the

sleeper, lest by some occult influence he might feel the gaze and waken.

Mrs. Redd's clock in another room struck five. The atmosphere grew

breathless; the flies became tenacious, almost adhesive; the heat was

intense. She knew that a thunder-storm must be near, but from where she

sat she could not see the sky, and she was afraid to stop the motion of

the waving fan. Each moment she hoped to hear the sound of July's

returning footsteps, or those of the Redds, but none came. Then at last

with a gust and a whirl of hot sand the stillness was broken, and the

storm was upon them. She ran to close the doors, but happily the sleeper

was not awakened. The flies retreated to the ceiling, and she stood

looking at the black rushing rain. The thunder was not loud, but the

lightning was almost incessant. She now hoped that in the cooler air his

sleep would be even deeper than before.

But when the storm had sobered down into steady soft gray rain, so that

she could open the doors again, she heard a voice speaking her name:

"Anne."

She turned. Heathcote was awake, and gazing at her, almost as he had

gazed in health.

Summoning all her self-possession, yet feeling drearily, unshakenly

sure, even during the short instant of crossing the floor, that no

matter what he might say (and perhaps he would say nothing), she should

not swerve, and that this little moment, with all its pain and all its

sweetness, would, for all its pain and all its sweetness, soon be gone,

she sat down by the bedside, and taking up the fan, said, quietly:

"I am glad you are so much better. As the fever has not returned, in a

week or two you may hope to be quite strong again. Do not try to talk,

please. I will fan you to sleep."

"Very well," replied Heathcote, but reaching out as he spoke, and taking

hold of the edge of her sleeve, which was near him.

"Why do you do that?" said his nurse, smiling, like one who humors the

fancies of a child.

"To keep you from going away. You said you would be here at dinner, and

you were not."

"I was detained. I intended to be here, but--"

She stopped, for Heathcote had closed his eyes, and she thought he was

falling asleep. But no.

"It is raining," he said presently, still with closed eyes.

"Yes; a summer shower."

"Do you remember that thunder-storm when we were in the little cave? You

are changed since then."

She made no answer.

"Your face has grown grave. No one would take you for a child now, but

that day in the cave you were hardly more than one."

"You too are changed," she answered, turning the conversation from

herself; "you are thin and pale. You must sleep and eat. Surrender

yourself to that duty for the time being." She spoke with matter-of-fact

cheerfulness, but her ears were strained to catch the sound of

footsteps. None came, and the rain fell steadily. She began to dread

rain.

Heathcote in his turn did not reply, but she was conscious that his eyes

were open, and that he was looking at her. At last he said, gently,

"_I_ should have placed it there, Anne."

She turned; his gaze was fixed upon her left hand, and the gold ring

given by the school-girls.

"He is kind to you? And you--are happy?" he continued, still gazing at

the circlet.

She did not speak; she was startled and confused. He supposed, then,

that she was married. Would it not be best to leave the error

uncorrected? But--could she succeed in this?

"You do not answer," said Heathcote, lifting his eyes to her face. "Are

you not happy, then?"

"Yes, I am happy," she answered, trying to smile. "But please do not

talk; you are not strong enough for talking."

"I hope he is not here, or expected. Do not let him come in _here_,

Anne: promise me."

"He is not coming."

"He is in the army, I suppose, somewhere in the neighborhood; and you

are here to be near him?"

"No."

"Then how is it that you are here?"

"I have been in the hospitals for a short time as nurse. But if you

persist in talking, I shall certainly leave you. Why not try to sleep?"

"He must be a pretty sort of fellow to let you go into the hospitals,"

said Heathcote, paying no heed to her threat. "I have your fatal

marriage notice, Anne; I have always kept it."

"You have my marriage notice?" she repeated, startled out of her

caution.

"Yes. Put your hand under my pillow and you will find my wallet; the

woman of the house has skillfully abstracted the money, but fortunately

she has not considered a newspaper slip as of any value." He took the

case from her hand, opened it, and gave her a folded square paper, cut

from the columns of a New York journal. Anne opened it, and read the

notice of the marriage of "Erastus Pronando, son of the late John

Pronando, Esquire, of Philadelphia, and Angélique, daughter of the late

William Douglas, surgeon, United States Army."

The slip dropped from her hand. "Père Michaux must have sent it," she

thought.

"It was in all the New York and Philadelphia papers for several days,"

said Heathcote. "There seemed to be a kind of insistence about it."

And there was. Père Michaux had hoped that the Eastern Pronandos would

see the name, and, moved by some awakening of memory or affection, would

make inquiry for this son of the lost brother, and assist him on his

journey through the crowded world.

"I did not know that 'Anne' was a shortening of 'Angélique'; I thought

yours was the plain old English name. But Helen knew; I showed the

notice to her."

Anne's face altered; she could not control the tremor that seized her,

and he noticed it.

"Are you _not_ married then, after all? Tell me, Anne, tell me. You can

not deceive; you never could, poor child; I remember that well."

She tried to rise, but he held her arm with both hands, and she could

not bring herself to use force against that feeble hold.

"Why should you not tell me what all the world is free to know?" he

continued. "What difference does it make?"

[Illustration: "SHE TRIED TO RISE, BUT HE HELD HER ARM WITH BOTH

HANDS."]

"You are right; it makes no difference," she answered, seating herself,

and taking up the fan again. "It is of no especial consequence. No, I

am not married, Mr. Heathcote. Angélique is the name of my little sister

Tita, of whom you have heard me speak; we first called her Petite, then

Tita. Mr. Pronando and Tita are married."

"The same Pronando to whom you were engaged?"

"Yes. He is--"

"Oh, I do not care to hear anything about _him_. Give me your hand,

Anne. Take off that ring."

"No; it was a present from my pupils," she said, drawing back with a

smile, but at the same time an inward sigh of relief that the disclosure

was over. "They--"

"If you knew what I suffered when I read that notice!" pursued

Heathcote, without heeding her. "The world seemed all wrong then

forever. For there was something about you, Anne, which brought out what

small good there was in my worthless self, and young as you were, you

yet in one way ruled me. I might have borne the separation itself, but

the thought that any other man should call you wife was intolerable to

me. I had--I still have it--a peculiar feeling about you. In some

mysterious way you had come to be the one real faith of my life. I was

bitterly hurt and angry when you ran away from me; but angry as I was, I

still searched for you, and would have searched again if Helen had

not--But never mind that now. If I have loved you, Anne, you have loved

me just as dearly. And now you are here, and I am here, let us ask no