"The fierce old fires of primitive ages are not dead yet, although
we pretend they are. Every now and then each man of us is
confronted by a gleam of the old wild light deep down in his own
startled heart."
In the middle of wild, snowy March there came a strange week of
beautiful days. On the Sunday of this week Anne was in her place in the
choir, as usual, some time before the service began.
It was a compromise choir. The dispute between the ideas of the rector
and those of the congregation had been ended by bringing the organ
forward to the corner near the chancel, and placing in front of it the
singers' seats, ornamented with the proper devices: so much was done for
the rector. To balance this, and in deference to the congregation, the
old quartette of voices was retained, and placed in these seats, which,
plainly intended for ten or twelve surpliced choristers, were all too
long and broad for the four persons who alone occupied them. The singers
sat in one, and kept their music-books in the other, and objecting to
the open publicity of their position facing the congregation, they had
demanded, and at last succeeded in obtaining (to the despair of the
rector), red curtains, which, hanging from the high railing above,
modestly concealed them when they were seated, and converted that corner
of the church into something between a booth in a fair and a circus
tent.
Before the service began, while the people were coming in, the contralto
pushed aside a corner of the curtain as usual, and peeped out. She then
reported to Anne in a whisper the course of events, as follows, Anne not
caring to hear, but quiescent:
"Loads of people to-day. Wonder why? Oh yes, I remember now; the
apostolic bishop's going to be here, and preach about the Indians. Don't
you love that man? I do; and I wish I was an Indian myself. We'll have
_all_ the curtains put back for the sermon. More people coming. I
declare it's quite exciting. And I forgot gum-drops on this day of all
others, and shall probably be hoarse as a crow, and spoil the duet! I
hope you won't be raging. Oh, _do_ look! Here's such a swell! A lady;
Paris clothes from head to foot. And she's going to sit up here near us
too. Take a look?" But Anne declined, and the reporter went on. "She has
the lightest hair I ever saw. I wonder if it's bleached? And she's as
slender as a paper-cutter." (The contralto was stout.) "But I can't deny
that she's handsome, and her clothes are stunning. They're right close
to us now, and the man's awfully handsome too, come to look at him--her
husband, I suppose. A pair of brown eyes and _such_ heavy eyebrows!
They--"
But the soprano was curious at last, apparently, and the contralto
good-naturedly gave up her look-out corner. Yes, there they were, Helen
and Ward Heathcote, Mrs. Heathcote and her husband, Captain Heathcote
and his wife. Very near her, and unconscious of her presence. Hungrily,
and for one long moment, she could not help looking at them. As the
light-tongued girl had said, Helen looked very beautiful, more beautiful
than ever, Anne thought. She was clad in black velvet from head to foot,
and as the day was unexpectedly warm, she had thrown aside her heavy
mantle edged with fur, and her slender form was visible, outlined in the
clinging fabric. Under the small black velvet bonnet with its single
plume her hair, in all its fine abundance, shone resplendent,
contrasting with the velvet's richness. One little delicately gloved
hand held a prayer-book, and with the other, as Anne looked, she
motioned to her husband. He drew nearer, and she spoke. In answer he
sought in his pockets, and drew forth a fan. She extended her hand as if
to take it, but he opened it himself, and began to fan her quietly. The
heat in the church was oppressive; his wife was delicate; what more
natural than that he should do this? Yet the gazer felt herself acutely
miserable. She knew Helen so well also that although to the rest of the
congregation the fair face preserved unchanged its proud immobility,
Anne's eyes could read at once the wife's happiness in her husband's
attention.
She drew back. "I can not sing to-day," she said, hurriedly; "I am not
well. Will you please make my excuses to the others?" As she spoke she
drew on her gloves. (She had a fancy that she could not sing with her
hands gloved.)
"Why, what in the world--" began the contralto. "But you _do_ look
frightfully pale. Are you going to faint? Let me go with you."
"I shall not faint, but I must get to the open air as soon as possible.
Please stay and tell the others; perhaps Miss Freeborn will sing in my
place."
Having succeeded in saying this, her white cheeks and trembling hands
witnesses for her, she went out through the little choir door, which was
concealed by the curtain, and in another moment was in the street. The
organist, hidden in his oaken cell, looked after her in surprise. When
the basso came in, with a flower in his mouth, he took the flower out,
and grew severely thoughtful over the exigencies of the situation. After
a few minutes of hurried discussion, the basso, who was also the leader,
came forth from the circus tent and made a majestic progress to the
rector's pew, where sat the lily-like Miss Freeborn, the rector's
daughter; and then, after another consultation, she rose, and the two
made a second majestic progress back to the circus tent, the
congregation meanwhile looking on with much interest. When the tenor
came, a rather dissipated youth who had been up late the night before,
he was appalled by the presence of the lily-like Miss Freeborn, and did
not sing as well as usual, Miss Freeborn, although lily-like, keeping
him sternly to his notes, and not allowing him any of those lingering
little descents after the other singers have finished, upon which he,
like many tenors, relied for his principal effects.
Meanwhile Anne was walking rapidly down the street; a mile soon lay
between her and the church, yet still she hastened onward. She was in a
fever, yet a chill as well. Now she was warm with joy, now cold with
grief. She had seen him. Her eyes had rested upon his face at last, and
he was safe, he was well and strong again. Was not this joy enough?
And yet he was with Helen. And Helen loved him.
She had asked him to go back to Helen. He had gone back. She had asked
him to do his part in life bravely. And he was doing it. Was not this
what she wished?
And yet--was it so hard to go back--to go back to beautiful Helen who
loved him so deeply? Did his part in life require bravery? Did he look
as though it was a sacrifice, a hardship? And here she tried to recall
how in truth he had looked--how, to the eyes of a stranger. He was
strong again and vigorous; but beyond that she could think only of how
he looked to her--the face she knew so well, the profile, the short
crisp hair, the heavy eyebrows and brown eyes. He was in citizen's
dress; only the bronzed skin and erect bearing betrayed the soldier. How
he would have looked to a stranger she could not tell; she only knew,
she only felt, how he looked to her. "He is at home on furlough," she
thought, with gladness, realizing the great joy it was that he should be
safe when so many had been taken. And then, in her memory, blotting out
all gladness, rose again the picture of the two figures, side by side,
and she hurried onward, she knew not whither. It was jealousy, plain,
simple, unconquerable jealousy, which was consuming her; jealousy,
terrible passion which the most refined and intellectual share with the
poor Hottentots, from which the Christian can not escape any more than
the pagan; jealousy, horrible companion of love, its guardian and
tormentor. God help the jealous! for they suffer the acutest tortures
the human mind can feel. And Anne was jealous.
If she had not admired Helen so deeply, and loved her (save for this one
barrier) so sincerely, she would not have suffered as she was suffering.
But to her Helen had always been the fairest woman on earth, and even
now this feeling could not be changed. All Helen's words came back to
her, every syllable of her clear, quietly but intensely uttered avowal;
and this man, whom she had loved so deeply, was now her husband.
It was nothing new. Why should she feel it, think of it, in this way?
But she was no longer capable of thinking or feeling reasonably. Of
course he loved her. In his mind she, Anne, was probably but a far-off
remembrance, even if a remembrance at all. Their meeting in West
Virginia had been a chance encounter; its impulses, therefore, had been
chance impulses, its words chance words, meaning nothing, already
forgotten. She, Anne, had taken them as great, and serious, and sincere;
and she, Anne, had been a fool. Her life had been built upon this idea.
It was a foundation of sand.
She walked on, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Where were now the
resignation and self-sacrifice, the crowned patience and noble
fortitude? Ah, yes, but resignation and fortitude were one thing when
she had thought that he required them also, another when they were
replaced in his life by happiness and content. It is easy to be
self-sacrificing when the one we love suffers in companionship with us,
and there is no rival. But when there is a rival, self-sacrifice goes to
the winds. "He never loved me," was the burning cry of her heart. "I
have been a fool--a poor self-absorbed, blinded fool. If he thinks of me
at all, it is with a smile over my simple credulity."
Through miles of streets she wandered, and at last found herself again
in the quarter where the church stood. A sudden desire seized her to
look at him, at them, again. If the service had been long, she would be
in time to see their carriage pass. She turned, and hastened toward the
church, as anxious now to reach it as she had been before to leave it
far behind. Now she could see the corner and the porch. No, service was
not ended; carriages were waiting without. She was in time. But as she
drew near, figures began to appear, coming from the porch, and she took
refuge under the steps of a house opposite, her figure hidden in the
shadow.
[Illustration: "ANNE, STILL AS A STATUE."]
The congregation slowly made its dignified way into the street. St.
Lucien's had seldom held so large a throng of worshippers. The little
sexton hardly knew, in his excitement, where he was, or what his duty,
on such a momentous occasion. At length they appeared, the last of
all; only one carriage was left, and that was their own. Slowly, leaning
on her husband's arm, the slender fair-haired woman came forth; and
Anne, still as a statue, watched with fixed, burning eyes while he threw
the velvet cloak round her as they reached the open air, and fastened
the clasp. Chance favored the gazer. Helen had left her prayer-book
behind in the pew, and while the sexton went back to look for it,
husband and wife stood waiting on the steps in the sunshine. Yes,
Heathcote had regained all his old vigor, but his expression was
changed. He was graver; in repose his face was stern.
It seemed as if Helen felt the fixed although unseen gaze, for she
shivered slightly, said something, and they began to go down the steps,
the wife supported by her husband's arm as though she needed the
assistance. The footman held open the carriage door, but Helen paused.
Anne could see her slender foot, in its little winter boot, put out, and
then withdrawn, as though she felt herself unable to take the step. Then
her husband lifted her in his arms and placed her in the carriage
himself, took his place beside her, and the man closed the door. In
another minute the sexton had brought the prayer-book, and the carriage
rolled away. Anne came out from her hiding-place. The vision was gone.
Again she walked at random through the streets, unheeding where she was.
She knew that she had broken her compact with herself--broken it
utterly. Of what avail now the long months during which she had not
allowed herself to enter the street or the neighborhood where Helen
lived? Of what avail that she had not allowed herself to listen to one
word concerning them when Mr. Dexter stood ready to tell all? She had
looked at them--looked at them voluntarily and long; had gone back to
the church door to look at them, to look again at the face for a sight
of which her whole heart hungered.
She had broken her vow. In addition, the mist over her blind eyes was
dissolved. He had never loved her; it had been but a passing fancy. It
was best so. Yet, oh, how easy all the past now seemed, in spite of its
loneliness, toil, and care! For _then_ she had believed that she was
loved. She began to realize that until this moment she had never really
given up her own will at all, but had held on through all to this inward
belief, which had made her lonely life warm with its hidden secret
light. She had thought herself noble, and she had been but selfish; she
had thought herself self-controlled, and she had been following her own
will; she had thought herself humble, and here she was, maddened by
humiliated jealous pride.
At last, worn out with weariness, she went homeward to the half-house as
twilight fell. In the morning the ground was white with snow again, and
the tumultuous winds of March were careering through the sky, whipping
the sleet and hail before them as they flew along; the strange halcyon
sunshine was gone, and a second winter upon them. And Anne felt that a
winter such as she had never known before was in her heart also.