"O Toil, O Loneliness, O Poverty, doing the right makes ye no
easier."
The next morning the new nurses, long delayed, sent by the Weston Aid
Society, arrived at Number One, and Mary Crane, Mrs. Barstow, and Anne
were relieved from duty, and returned to their Northern home. During the
journey Anne decided that she must not remain in Weston. It was a hard
decision, but it seemed to her inevitable. This man whom she loved knew
that her home was there. He had said that he would not follow her; but
could she depend upon his promise? Even in saying that he would try to
do as well as he could, he had distinctly added that it might "not be
very well." She must leave no temptation in his path, or her own. She
must put it out of his power to find her, out of hers to meet him. She
must go away, leaving no trace behind.
She felt deeply thankful that at the present moment her movements were
not cramped by the wants of the children; for if they had been in
pressing need, she must have staid--have staid and faced the fear and
the danger. Now she could go. But whither? It would be hard to go out
into the broad world again, this time more solitary than before. After
much thought, she decided to go eastward to the half-house,
Jeanne-Armande having given her permission to use it. It would be at
least a shelter over her head, and probably old Nora would be glad to
come and stay with her. With this little home as background, she hoped
to be able to obtain pupils in the city, little girls to whom she could
be day governess, giving lessons in music and French. But the pupils:
how could she obtain them? Whose influence could she hope for? She could
not go to Tante, lest Helen should hear of her presence. At first it
seemed as if there were no one; she went over and over in vain her
meagre list of friends. Suddenly a remembrance of the little German
music-master, who had taught classical music, and hated Belzini, came to
her; he was no longer at the Moreau school, and she had his address. He
had been especially kind. She summoned her courage and wrote to him.
Herr Scheffel's reply came promptly and cordially. "I have your letter
received, and I remember you entirely. I know not now all I can promise,
as my season of lessons is not yet begun, but two little girls you can
have at once for scales, though much they will not pay. But with your
voice, honored Fräulein, a place in a church choir is the best, and for
that I will do my very best endeavor. But while you make a beginning,
honored Fräulein, take my wife and I for friends. Our loaf and our cup,
and our hearts too, are all yours."
The little German had liked Anne: this pupil, and this one only, had
cheered the dull hours he had spent in the little third-story room,
where he, the piano, and the screen had their cramped abode. Anne smiled
as she gratefully read his warm-hearted letter, his offer of his cup and
his loaf; she could hear him saying it--his "gup" and his "loave," and
"two liddle girls for sgales, though moche they will not bay." She had
written to old Nora also, and the answer (a niece acting as scribe)
declared, with Hibernian effusiveness, and a curious assemblage of
negatives, that she would be glad to return to the half-house on
Jeanne-Armande's old terms, namely, her living, but no wages. She did
not add that, owing to rheumatism, she was unable to obtain work where
she was; she left Anne to find that out for herself. But even old Nora,
bandaged in red flannel, her gait reduced to a limp, was a companion
worth having when one is companionless. During the interval, Anne had
received several letters from Miss Lois. Little André was better, but
the doctors advised that he should remain where he was through the
winter. Miss Lois wrote that she was willing to remain, in the hope of
benefit to the suffering boy, and how great a concession this was from
the careful housekeeper and home-lover only Anne could know. (But she
did not know how close the child had grown to Miss Lois's heart.) This
new plan would prevent their coming to Weston at present. Thankful now
for what would have been, under other circumstances, a great
disappointment, Anne resigned her position in the Weston school, and
went away, at the last suddenly, and evading all inquiries. Mrs. Green
was absent, the woman in temporary charge of the lodgings was not
curious, and the lonely young teacher was able to carry out her design.
She left Weston alone in the cold dawn of a dark morning, her face
turned eastward.
It was a courageous journey; only Herr Scheffel to rely upon, and the
great stony-hearted city to encounter in the hard struggle for daily
bread. Yet she felt that she must not linger in Weston; and she felt,
too, that she must not add herself to Miss Lois's cares, but rather make
a strong effort to secure a new position as soon as possible, in order
to send money to André. She thought that she would be safely hidden at
the half-house. Heathcote knew that Jeanne-Armande was in Europe, and
therefore he would not think of her in connection with Lancaster, but
would suppose that she was still in Weston, or, if not there, then at
home on her Northern island. In addition, one is never so well hidden as
in the crowds of a large city. But when she saw the spires, as the train
swept over the salt marshes, her heart began to beat: the blur of roofs
seemed so vast, and herself so small and alone! But she made the transit
safely, and drove up to the door of the half-house in the red wagon,
with Li as driver, at sunset. A figure was sitting on the steps outside,
with a large bundle at its feet; it was Nora. Anne opened the door with
Jeanne-Armande's key, and they entered together.
"Oh, wirra, wirra! Miss Douglas dear, and did ye know she'd taken out
all the furrrniture? Sure the ould shell is impty." It was true, and
drearily unexpected.
Jeanne-Armande, finding time to make a flying visit to her country
residence the day before she sailed, had been seized with the sudden
suspicion that certain articles were missing, notably a green wooden
pail and a window-curtain. The young priest, who had met her there by
appointment, and opened the door for her with his key (what mazes of
roundabout ways homeward, in order to divert suspicion, Jeanne-Armande
required of him that day!), was of the opinion that she was mistaken.
But no; Jeanne-Armande was never mistaken. She knew just where she had
left that pail, and as for the pattern of the flowers upon that curtain,
she knew every petal. Haunted by a vision of the abstraction of all her
household furniture, piece by piece, during her long absence--tables,
chairs, pans, and candle-sticks following each other through back
windows, moved by invisible hands--she was seized with an inspiration on
the spot: she would sell off all her furniture by public sale that very
hour, and leave only an empty house behind her. She knew that she was
considered a mystery in the neighborhood; probably, then, people would
come to a Mystery's sale, and pay good prices for a Mystery's furniture.
Of one thing she was certain--no buyer in that region knew how to buy
for prices as low as she herself had paid. Her method of buying was
genius. In five minutes a boy and a bell were secured, in half an hour
the whole neighborhood had heard the announcement, and, as mademoiselle
had anticipated, flocked to the sale. She attended to all negotiations
in person, still in her rôle of a Mystery, and sailed for Europe the
next day in triumph, having in her pocket nearly twice the sum she had
originally expended. She did not once think of Anne in connection with
this. Although she had given her authority to use the half-house, and
had intrusted to her care her own key, it seemed almost impossible that
the young girl would wish to use it. For was she not admirably
established at Weston, with all the advantages of mademoiselle's own
name and position behind her?
And thus it was that only bare walls met Anne's eyes as, followed by
Nora, she went from room to room, asking herself silently what she
should do in this new emergency that confronted her. One door they found
locked; it was the door of the store-room: there must, then, be
something within. Li was summoned to break the lock, and nothing loath,
he broke it so well that it was useless from that hour. Yes, here was
something--the unsold articles, carefully placed in order. A chair, a
kitchen table, an iron tea-kettle with a hole in it, and two straw
beds--the covers hanging on nails, and the straw tied in bundles
beneath; there was also a collection of wooden boxes, which mademoiselle
had endeavored, but without success, to dispose of as "old, superior,
and well-seasoned kindling-wood." It was a meagre supply of furniture
with which to begin housekeeping, a collection conspicuous for what it
lacked. But Anne, summoning courage, directed Li to carry down stairs
all the articles, such as they were, while she cheered old Nora with the
promise to buy whatever was necessary, and asked her to unpack the few
supplies she had herself purchased on her way through the city. The
kitchen stove was gone; but there was a fire-place, and Li made a bright
fire with some of the superior kindling-wood, mended the kettle, filled
it, and hung it over the crackling flame. The boy enjoyed it all
greatly. He stuffed the cases with straw, and dragged them down stairs,
he brought down the chair and table, and piled up boxes for a second
seat, he pinned up Anne's shawl for a curtain, and then volunteered to
go to the store for whatever was necessary, insisting, however, upon the
strict allowance of two spoons, two plates, and two cups only. It was
all like _Robinson Crusoe_ and _The Swiss Family Robinson_, and more
than two would infringe upon the severe paucity required by those
admirable narratives. When he returned with his burden, he affably
offered to remain and take supper with them; in truth, it was difficult
to leave such a fascinating scene as two straw beds on the floor, and a
kettle swinging over a hearth fire, like a gypsy camp--at least as Li
imagined it, for that essence of vagrant romanticism is absent from
American life, the so-called gypsies always turning out impostors, with
neither donkeys, tents, nor camp fires, and instead of the ancient and
mysterious language described by Borrow, using generally the well-known
and unpoetical dialect that belongs to modern and Americanized Erin. At
last, however, Li departed; Anne fastened the door. Old Nora was soon
asleep on the straw, but not her young mistress, in whose mind figures,
added together and set opposite each other, were inscribing themselves
like letters of fire on a black wall. She had not expected any such
outlay as would now be required, and the money she had brought with her
would not admit it. At last, troubled and despairing, she rose from her
hard couch, went to the window, and looked out. Overhead the stars were
serenely shining; her mind went back to the little window of her room in
the old Agency. These were the same stars; God was the same God; would
He not show her a way? Quieted, she returned to her straw, and soon fell
asleep.
In the morning they had a gypsy breakfast. The sun shone brightly, and
even in the empty rooms the young day looked hopeful. The mistress of
the house went in to the city on the morning train, and in spite of all
lacks, in spite of all her trouble and care, it was a beautiful girl who
entered the train at Lancaster station, and caused for a moment the
chronically tired business men to forget their damp-smelling morning
papers as they looked at her. For Anne was constantly growing more
beautiful; nothing had had power as yet to arrest the strong course of
nature. Sorrow had but added a more ripened charm, since now the old
child-like openness was gone, and in its place was a knowledge of the
depth and the richness and the pain of life, and a reticence. The open
page had been written upon, and turned down. Riding on toward the city,
she was, however, as unconscious of any observation she attracted as if
she had been a girl of marble. Hers was not one of those natures which
can follow at a time but one idea; yet something of the intensity which
such natures have--the nature of all enthusiasts and partisans--was
hers, owing to the strength of the few feelings which absorbed her. For
the thousand-and-one changing interests, fancies, and impulses which
actuate most young girls there was in her heart no room. It was not that
she thought and imagined less, but that she loved more.
Herr Scheffel received her in his small parlor. It was over the shop of
a musical instrument maker, a German also. Anne looked into his small
show-window while she was waiting for the street door to be opened,
noted the great brass tubes disposed diagonally, the accordions in a
rampart, the pavement of little music-boxes with views of Switzerland on
their lids, and the violins in apotheosis above. Behind the inner glass
she saw the instrument maker himself dusting a tambourine. She imagined
him playing on it all alone on rainy evenings for company, with the
other instruments looking on in a friendly way. Here Herr Scheffel's
cheery wife opened the door, and upon learning the name, welcomed her
visitor heartily, and ushered her up the narrow stairway.
"How you haf zhanged!" said Herr Scheffel, lifting his hands in
astonishment as he met her at the entrance. "But not for the vorse,
Fräulein. On the gontrary!" He bowed gallantly, and brought forward his
best arm-chair, then bowed again, sat down opposite, folded his hands,
and was ready for business or pleasure, as she saw fit to select. Anne
had come to him hoping, but not expecting. Fortune favored her, however;
or rather, as usual, some one had taken hold of Fortune, and forced her
to extend her favor, the some one in this instance being the little
music-master himself, who had not only bestowed two of his own scholars
as a beginning, but had also obtained for her a trial place in a church
choir. He now went with her without delay to the residence of the little
pupils, and arranged for the first lesson; then he took her to visit the
contralto of the choir, whose good-will he had already besought for the
young stranger. The contralto was a thin, disappointed little woman,
with rather a bad temper; but as she liked Anne's voice, and hated the
organist and tenor, she mentally organized an alliance offensive and
defensive on the spot, contralto, soprano, and basso against the other
two, with possibilities as to the rector thrown in. For, as the rector
regularly attended the rehearsals (under the mild delusion that he was
directing the choir), the contralto hoped that the new soprano's face,
as well as voice, would draw him out of his guarded neutrality, and
give to their side the balance of power. So, being in a friendly mood,
she went over the anthems with Anne, and when the little rehearsal was
ended, Herr Scheffel took her thin hand, and bowed over it profoundly.
Miss Pratt was a native of Maine, and despised romance, yet she was not
altogether displeased with that bow. Sunday morning came; the new voice
conquered. Anne was engaged to fill the vacant place in the choir.
Furniture was now purchased for the empty little home, but very
sparingly. It looked as though it would be cold there in the winter.
But--winter was not yet come.
Slowly she gained other pupils; but still only little girls "for the
sgales," as Herr Scheffel said. The older scholars for whom she had
hoped did not as yet seek her. But the little household lived.
In the mean while Père Michaux on the island and Miss Lois at the
springs had both been taken by surprise by Anne's sudden departure from
Weston. They knew nothing of it until she was safely in the half-house.
But poor Miss Lois, ever since the affair of Tita and Rast, had
cynically held that there was no accounting for anybody or anything in
this world, and she therefore remained silent. Père Michaux divined that
there was something behind; but as Anne offered no explanation, he asked
no question. In truth, the old priest had a faith in her not unlike that
which had taken possession of Heathcote. What was it that gave these two
men of the world this faith? It was not her innocence alone, for many
are innocent. It was her sincerity, combined with the peculiar intensity
of feeling which lay beneath the surface--an intensity of which she was
herself unconscious, but which their eyes could plainly perceive, and,
for its great rarity, admire, as the one perfect pearl is admired among
the thousands of its compeers by those who have knowledge and experience
enough to appreciate its flawlessness. But the majority have not this
knowledge; they admire mere size, or a pear-like shape, or perhaps some
eccentricity of color. Thus the perfect one is guarded, and the world is
not reduced to despair.
During these days in the city Anne had thought often of Helen. Her
engagements were all in another quarter, distant from Miss Teller's
residence; she would not have accepted pupils in that neighborhood. But
it was not probable that any would be offered to her in so fashionable a
locality. She did not allow herself even to approach that part of the
city, or to enter the streets leading to it, yet many times she found
herself longing to see the house in spite of her determination, and
thinking that if she wore a thick veil, so that no one would recognize
her, there would be no danger, and she might catch a glimpse of Miss
Teller, or even of Helen. But she never yielded to these longings.
October passed into November, and November into December, and she did
not once transgress her rules.
Early in December she obtained a new pupil, her first in vocal music.
She gave two lessons without any unusual occurrence, and then--Of all
the powers that make or mar us, the most autocratic is Chance. Let not
the name of Fate be mentioned in its presence; let Luck hide its head.
For Luck is but the man himself, and Fate deals only with great
questions; but Chance attacks all irrelevantly and at random. Though man
avoids, arranges, labors, and plans, one stroke from its wand destroys
all. Anne had avoided, arranged, labored, and planned, yet on her way to
give the third lesson to this new pupil she came suddenly upon--Helen.
[Illustration: "SAW HER SLOWLY ASCEND THE HOUSE STEPS."]
On the opposite side a carriage had stopped; the footman opened the
door, and a servant came from the house to assist its occupant. Anne's
eyes by chance were resting upon the group. She saw a lady lifted to the
pavement; then saw her slowly ascend the house steps, while a maid
followed with shawls and wraps. It was Helen. Anne's eyes recognized her
instantly. She was unchanged--proud, graceful, and exquisitely attired
as ever, in spite of her slow step and need of assistance. Involuntarily
the girl opposite had paused; then, recovering herself, she drew down
her veil and walked on, her heart beating rapidly, her breath coming in
throbs. But no one had noticed her. Helen was already within the
house, and the servant was closing the door; then the footman came
down the steps, sprang up to his place, and the carriage rolled away.
She went on to her pupil's residence, and, quietly as she could, asked,
upon the first opportunity, her question.
"A lady who was assisted up the steps? Oh yes, I know whom you mean; it
is Mrs. Ward Heathcote," replied the girl-pupil. "Isn't she too lovely!
Did you see her face?"
"Yes. Does she live in that house?"
"I am delighted to say that she _does_. She used to live with her aunt,
Miss Teller, but it seems that she inherited this old house over here
from her grandfather, who died not long ago, and she has taken a fancy
to live in it. Of course _I_ think all her fancies are seraphic, and
principally this one, since it has brought her near _us_. I look at her
half the time; just gaze and gaze!" Cora was sixteen, and very pretty;
she talked in the dialect of her age and set. Launched now on a favorite
topic, she rushed on, while the teacher, with downcast eyes, listened,
and rolled and unrolled the sheet of music in her hands. Mrs.
Heathcote's beauty; Mrs. Heathcote's wealth; Mrs. Heathcote's wonderful
costumes; Mrs. Heathcote's romantic marriage, after a fall from her
carriage; Mrs. Heathcote's husband, "_chivalrously_ in the army, with a
pair of _eyes_, Miss Douglas, which, I do assure you, are--well,
_murderously_ beautiful is not a word to express it! Not that he
_cares_. The most _indifferent_ person! Still, if you could _see_ them,
you would _know_ what I mean." Cora told all that she knew, and more
than she knew. The two households had no acquaintance, Anne learned; the
school-girl had obtained her information from other sources. There
would, then, be no danger of discovery in that way. The silent listener
could not help listening while Cora said that Captain Heathcote had not
returned home since his first departure; that he had been seriously ill
somewhere in the West, but having recovered, had immediately returned to
his regiment without coming home on furlough, as others always did,
after an illness, or even the pretense of one, which conduct Cora
considered so "perfectly grand" that she wondered "the papers" did not
"blazon it aloft." At last even the school-girl's volubility and
adjectives were exhausted, and the monologue came to an end. Then the
teacher gave her lesson, and the words she had heard sounded in her ears
like the roar of the sea in a storm--it seemed as though she must be
speaking loudly in order to drown it. But her pupil noticed nothing,
save that Miss Douglas was more quiet than usual, and perhaps more pale.
When she went away, she turned eastward, in order not to pass the house
a second time--the house that held Helen. But she need not have taken
the precaution; hers was not a figure upon which the eyes of Mrs.
Heathcote would be likely to dwell. In the city, unfashionable attire is
like the ring of Gyges, it renders the wearer, if not invisible, at
least unseen.
That night she could not sleep; she could do nothing but think of Helen,
Helen, her once dearly loved friend--Helen, his wife. She knew that she
must give up this new danger, and she knew also that she loved the
danger--these chances of a glimpse of Helen, Helen's home, and--yes, it
might be, at some future time, Helen's husband. But she conquered
herself again. In the morning she wrote a note to Cora's mother, saying
that she found herself unable to continue the lessons; as Cora had the
manuscript music-books which Dr. Douglas had himself prepared for his
daughter when she was a little girl on the island, she added that she
would come for them on Monday, and at the same time take leave of her
pupil, from whom she parted with regret.
Saturday and Sunday now intervened. At the choir rehearsal on Saturday a
foreboding came over her; occult malign influences seemed hovering in
the air. The tenor and organist, the opposition party, were ominously
affable. In this church there was, as in many another, an anomalous
"music committee," composed apparently of vestrymen, but in reality of
vestrymen's wives. These wives, spurred on secretly by the tenor and
organist, had decided that Miss Douglas was not the kind of soprano they
wished to have. She came into the city by train on the Sabbath day; she
was dressed so plainly and unfashionably that it betokened a want of
proper respect for the congregation; in addition, and in spite of this
plain attire, there was something about her which made "the gentlemen
turn and look at her." This last was the fatal accusation. Poor Anne
could not have disproved these charges, even if she had known what they
were; but she did not. Her foreboding of trouble had not been at fault
however, for on Monday morning came a formal note of dismissal, worded
with careful politeness; her services would not be required after the
following Sunday. It was a hard blow. But the vestrymen's wives
preferred the other candidate (friend of the organist and tenor), who
lived with her mother in the city, and patronized no Sunday trains;
whose garments were nicely adjusted to the requirements of the position,
following the fashions carefully indeed, but at a distance, and with
chastened salaried humility as well; who sang correctly, but with none
of that fervor which the vestrymen's wives considered so "out of place
in a church"; and whose face certainly had none of those outlines and
hues which so reprehensibly attracted "the attention of the gentlemen."
And thus Anne was dismissed.
It was a bitterly cold morning. The scantily furnished rooms of the
half-house looked dreary and blank; old Nora, groaning with rheumatism,
sat drawn up beside the kitchen stove. Anne, who had one French lesson
to give, and the farewell visit to make at the residence of Mrs.
Iverson, Cora's mother, went in to the city. She gave the lesson, and
then walked down to the Scheffels' lodging to bear the dark tidings of
her dismissal. The musical instrument maker's window was frosted nearly
to the top; but he had made a round hole inside with a hot penny, and he
was looking through it when Anne rang the street bell. It was startling
to see a human eye so near, isolated by the frost-work--an eye and
nothing more; but she was glad he could amuse himself even after that
solitary fashion. Herr Scheffel had not returned from his round of
lessons. Anne waited some time in the small warm crowded room, where
growing plants, canary-birds, little plaster busts of the great
musicians, the piano, and the stove crowded each other cheerfully, but
he did not come. Mrs. Scheffel urged her to remain all night. "It ees zo
beetter cold." But Anne took leave, promising to come again on the
morrow. It was after four o'clock, and darkness was not far distant; the
piercing wind swept through the streets, blowing the flinty dust before
it; the ground was frozen hard as steel. She made her farewell visit at
Mrs. Iverson's, took her music-books, and said good-by, facing the
effusive regrets of Cora as well as she could, and trying not to think
how the money thus relinquished would be doubly needed now. Then she
went forth into the darkening street, the door of the warm, brightly
lighted home closing behind her like a knell. She had chosen twilight
purposely for this last visit, in order that she might neither see nor
be seen. She shivered now as the wind struck her, clasped the heavy
books with one arm, and turned westward on her way to the railway
station. It seemed to her that the city held that night no girl so
desolate as herself.
As she was passing the street lamp at the first corner, some one stopped
suddenly. "Good heavens! Miss Douglas--Anne--is that you?" said a voice.
She looked up. It was Gregory Dexter.