A DECLARATION OF LOVE.
The night that Gould went home with Miss Halstead, Savage presented
himself in the tenement-house, resolved to come to an explanation with
Anna, and be guided by the result. The boys had gone out on some errand,
and old Mrs. Burns had just stepped down stairs to give their landlady
notice of the removal; so, for once, Anna was alone. She heard the step
on the stairs, and started up like a frightened fawn ready for flight.
But there was no place to flee to, except the little bedroom, and that
was so close to the room that he might hear her breathe—for she was even
then panting with affright. What could she say to him? Had he really
thought that Ward was staying there with her consent? He had reached the
last flight of steps, when she remembered, with a pang, her promise to
Mrs. Savage, “never, if she could help it, to see him again.”
Stung by this thought, she sprang for the bedroom; but the doors of that
house did not move with patent springs; this one dragged against the
floor, and, before she could close it, Savage was in the ante-room. Was
she glad or sorry that the possibility of avoiding him had escaped her?
The tumult in her heart would have forbidden an answer to this question
had her conscience been able to force it upon her.
He was in the room, his eyes caught hers as her hand dropped from the
door, and she stood on the threshold, gazing wildly at him like an
antelope frightened in its lair.
“Anna,” he said, yielding to a sudden rush of tenderness which swelled
in his heart at the very sight of her; “Anna, was it from me you were
striving to escape?”
She stood where he had first seen her, with drooping eyes and a cheek of
ashes.
“Anna, speak to me.”
She looked up with such agony on her face, that the very sight of it
made him recoil a step backward.
“Anna, my poor, dear girl, what is this that has come between us?”
“I don’t know. Ask—ask——No, you must not ask any one. You and I must
never speak to each other again—never! never! never!”
The voice broke off in a faint wail, so full of pain, that it made the
young man shiver.
“But we can and will speak together. Who shall prevent it?”
“I must.”
“You, Anna? This is madness. Some trouble has driven you wild.”
“No, I am not wild, nor wicked enough to break a sacred promise.”
“A sacred promise? Who exacted this promise?”
“One who had a right?”
“One who had a right! Who on earth has any right over you, Anna Burns?
Are you not in every thing but words my betrothed wife?”
“I was—I was!” cried the poor girl, wringing her hands in piteous
distress. “But every thing is changed.”
A flash of the old suspicion came over Savage; he strode across the
room, and seizing Anna by the wrist, drew her with gentle violence
through the door.
“Look me in the face, Anna Burns, and say, if you have the courage, that
this change is in yourself.”
She cast a piteous look into his face, and strove to force her hand from
his grasp.
“Girl! Girl! Has your heart become so false that it dares not look
through your eyes?”
“It is breaking! It is breaking!” she cried, desperately yielding her
feeble strength to his.
“Breaking? For what—for whom?”
“You wound it so. Every one I meet gives it a blow.”
“I wound it? Girl! Girl! Two days ago I would have died to save you an
hour’s pain!”
“But now you hate, you despise me!” moaned the poor young creature,
giving him one look that went to his heart.
“Why should you think so, Anna? If you have done nothing to earn hate or
contempt, how could the idea enter your heart?”
“I—I cannot tell. I can tell you nothing, Mr. Savage, only that I have
made a promise, and must keep it.”
Savage grasped her hand so fiercely that it pained her.
“Girl, answer me. Was that promise made to Mr. Ward?”
“Mr. Ward?”
Her face became instantly crimson with flashing blood.
“Mr. Ward? Who told you? Who—who——‘
She remembered her second promise to Mrs. Savage in time, and grew
coldly white again.
“Those who know him to be under the same roof with you told me, Anna. If
you could only know how I have reproached myself for believing them.”
“But you must believe them,” she said. The words fell from her lips
sharp and cold, like hailstones on frozen snow. She shivered under his
eye, and made another, wild effort to release herself. But he held her
in an iron grasp.
“Anna, do you love that man?”
His voice was low and hoarse; his eyes were full of passionate pleading;
all his pride was forgotten then. He was a man pleading for the very
life of his love.
“Do you love that man?”
“Oh! let me go! I pray of you let me go!”
“Not till you answer me, Anna.”
“What was it you asked me to say?” she faltered, humbly.
“I asked if you loved that man Ward?”
“I could not answer that question. I—I wonder how you can ask it.”
“Another, then—and for mercy’s sake, be frank. Have you ceased to love
me? Anna, is it so?”
Anna would not tell a lie. She could be silent, and so keep her promise;
but to say that she did not love that man, when every thought of her
brain and pulse of her being was drawing her soul into his, was a
blasphemy against love that she recoiled from.
“Oh, Anna! is it all over between us?”
She began to weep; great tears broke through those drooping eyelashes.
“Yes,” she said, mournfully. “It is all over between us.”
“And you will marry that man?”
“No! No! He does not wish it. I—I——”
She broke off, as if a shot had penetrated her heart; for Savage had
dropped her hand with a gesture of sweet anguish, as only a proud man
feels when the woman he loves sinks into degradation. Fortunately for
her secret, she neither understood the gesture, or the thought that made
him turn so deadly white. She had paused suddenly, because the words on
her lips were about to betray her. The next words that Savage addressed
to her made the heart in her bosom thrill and ache as it had never done
before.
“Anna, listen. I am going now, and you may never hear my voice again.”
A sob broke on her white lips. She drooped before him, white and still;
but, oh! how miserable! ready for the last killing words.
“If—if this man should become weary of you——”
“Weary of me?”
There was pride on her lip, and fire in her eyes now; but this only
revolted Savage. It seemed to him like the confidence of a vain woman,
secure in her unhappy position.
“This may happen, Anna.”
“No, Mr. Savage, it never can.”
“But men do change sometimes,” he answered bitterly, “almost as readily
as women. When this time comes, send to me. I shall never, of my own
will, speak to you again; but while I have a dollar you shall never
want.”
Anna was weeping bitterly now. She strove to answer him, but her throat
gave forth nothing but sobs.
“Do you promise, Anna, if any thing connected with you could give me a
gleam of pleasure, it would be a certainty that you would send to me in
your trouble or your need?”
“I will—I will,” she cried out.
“And to no other person?”
“To you, and no other.”
“Now, farewell, Anna.”
She took his hand in hers; she pressed her lips upon it again and again,
covering it with tears and passionate kisses.
“It is forever—it is forever!” she sobbed in despair. “Do not hate me.
Think kindly of me sometimes. Tell your mother——”
“Tell my mother what, Anna? She will be sorry to hear this. She has been
kind to you.”
“Kind! Oh, yes! very kind.” There was bitterness in her heart, and it
broke up through her sobs.
“But what must I tell her?”
“Nothing.”
“I will tell her nothing,” he answered sadly.
He made an effort to take away his hand, but it brought a cry of such
anguish from her that he desisted, and strove to soothe her.
“And after what you have told me, it is only pain to stay near you.”
“I know it,” she said; “terrible pain!”
They were both silent now. She still clung to his hand, but was growing
calmer. The storm of tears was ending in short, dry sobs; and she lifted
her eyes to him with a look of such yearning tenderness, such humble
deprecation, that his own eyes were flooded.
“You will not hate me?” she said.
“No, Anna. Heaven knows that is not in my power!”
“And sometimes, when you are married to some lady——”
“I shall not marry for many a long year, Anna.”
“There is Miss Halstead!”
“Hush! That name on your lips wounds me.”
“You will marry her?”
“Hush!” he said, “I cannot bear that.”
“And when you are happy, sometimes think kindly of the poor girl who is
not so very bad.”
“Anna, I shall always think kindly of you. God forgive you that I cannot
mingle respect with kindness!”
“Then you think I have done very wrong?”
“Yes; very, very wrong.”
“Ah, me! How can I help it? Which way shall I turn? It is hard to be so
young, with only a dear old grandmother to show you the right way.”
“It is hard, poor child!”
“And I have tried to do my best—indeed, I have.”
“Tried and failed. Unhappy girl!”
“Yes, I am an unhappy girl—so unhappy that I sometimes think there never
was a creature so wretched. Then I must not let her see it, or the
boys—they have so little pleasure, you know; but they are affectionate,
and will find me out; but not if I can help it.”
She said all this in a low, dreary voice, that would have touched a
heart of granite. Savage felt his resentment, his pride and his strength
giving away. He would have given the world to take that young creature
in his arms and weep over her. But it could not be. Her hands had fallen
away from his unconsciously. She had covered her face with them. Savage
turned from her and softly left the room; he had no heart to attempt
another farewell.
Anna felt the silence, and, looking up, saw that he was gone. She heard
his footsteps going rapidly down the stairs. Quick as thought she
snatched up her bonnet and shawl. She would not part with him so. If the
whole world dropped from under her feet she would follow him. Down the
stairs she went like a lapwing, wrapping the shawl about her as she ran.
He walked swiftly, as men do when stung to quick motion by pain. She
soon came up with him; but that moment a panic of shame seized her, and
she lagged behind, growing fainter and fainter each moment. An impulse
of self-preservation had sent her into the street. She could not part
with him so. That proud woman had no right to ask it. She would follow
him home. She would demand a release from her promise from that haughty
woman in his presence, and tell him how she loathed that man Ward; that
a thousand thousand worlds would not induce her to marry him. How could
he believe it of her, even though she told it herself?
Wild with these rash thoughts, she would have called out for him to
stop; but she was panting for breath, and no sound came when she made a
wild effort to utter his name.
Then, with the faintness, came other thoughts. His parents never would
consent that he should marry her. It would be ruin, utter ruin to him.
What wild, wicked thing was she about? After resisting her own love, and
his unhappiness so bravely, was she to destroy it all and ruin him
because of that awful heartache? But she was so tired, so completely
worn out. A few moments she would rest on that door-step, and then go
home. It did not matter much what became of her, since he had gone,
believing her a fickle, heartless girl, capable of marrying that
creature. No; it was of very little consequence, for—for—for——
Unhappy girl, she had fallen into insensibility on that door-step, and
there she lay like a lost lamb, pale and still.
Anna had scarcely rested on those cold stones five minutes, when an old
man turned from the street and was about to mount the steps. He saw her
lying there, with the light from a street lamp blazing on her features.
They were so white that he thought at first she must be dead. Stooping
down, he found that she had fainted, and rang the bell violently. A
servant came out, and lifting the insensible girl between them, master
and man bore her into that old-fashioned family mansion, which I have
described in the early part of this story.
They laid her on a broad-seated old sofa in the front room, and then,
for the first time, that strange old man recognized her as the girl he
had seen in that poverty-stricken home picture. He had been a voyage to
Europe since then, but those delicate features were fresh in his memory
yet.
“Bring brandy, wine, every thing that can help her out of this cold
fit,” he said to the servant. “I know the girl, and will take charge of
her myself.”
The wine and brandy were brought. With his old hand shaking the glass
unsteadily, the master poured wine through those white lips. It was a
simple case of exhaustion, and Anna soon felt a glow of life diffusing
itself through her frame.
“Give me another glass—not the brandy, that is too strong; but generous
wine hurts no one. Take another drink, child, and then tell me all about
it. Remember, I am your friend.”
“Yes,” said Anna, “I remember you were very good to grandmother and the
children once. We do not forget such kindness.”
“But how happens it that you are here?” inquired the old man, smoothing
her hair with his hand. “Come out on an errand, I suppose, or something
like that, and wilted down on my door-step. Singular, wasn’t it? Do you
know that your brother is in my employ? Found the place out for himself;
didn’t know it was mine. Mean to make a man of that shaver, I promise
you. True as steel, and good as gold. Now tell me all about yourself.”
“Oh! if I only could,” she said, looking earnestly in his face.
“But you can. Of course, you can.”
“Perhaps you might help me,” she said, rising to her elbow. “Somehow I
feel as if——but you couldn’t.”
“Who knows? I have helped a great many people in my lifetime.”
“But not young girls like me, who have troubles that money cannot cure.”
“Little lady, permit me to doubt that.”
She rose higher on the sofa-pillows, and looked at him with her great,
earnest eyes.
“I will fancy that you are my father, and tell you every thing,” she
said.
“Do,” answered the old man, but his voice shook a little; “do.”
Anna told him every thing, even to her love for Horace Savage, for the
old man helped her forward with low spoken questions, and she could talk
to him with more ease than if it had been her grandmother, with whom she
was just a little shy about some of her feelings. There may be things in
the human heart which we can confide to strangers more easily than we
can explain them to our dearest friends. At any rate, Anna opened her
innocent, young heart to that old man, as if she had been saying her
prayers before God. With him she felt such a sense of protection that
she smiled in his face more than once through her tears.
“Let the whole thing alone, child. Move into the new house as soon as
you like, and wait till I can think every thing over. But, above all
things, get a little sunshine into those eyes; you shall never be sorry
for having trusted the old man. As for that young scamp, Ward, Gould
shall take care of him. But where do you live?”
Anna gave him the name and number of the house. He seemed surprised.
“Why, that house belongs to me; and you have been paying rent in it all
the time to this good-hearted woman? I remember, my agent said that he
had a good tenant there. I wont forget that the woman has been kind to
you and your grandmother.”
“Most of all to her,” said Anna.
“And this grandmother—does she bear her age well?”
“Oh! you must ask some one else—to me grandma is lovely.”
“And she was kind to you?”
“Kind!”
Anna’s fine eyes opened wide at the question.
“I was foolish to ask that, of course—grandmothers are always kind.”
“But she isn’t, like any other grandmother that ever lived. She has
petted us, worked for us, gone without food that we might have enough.
When my father was alive——”
“Hush! hush! we need not speak of him. Robert has told me all about
that.”
The old man was a little excited, and seemed to shrink into himself when
Anna mentioned her father. So she changed the subject, and said she must
go home; they would miss her and be frightened.
“Yes,” the old man said, “perhaps they would. She was looking natural
again and might go; but it would be as well not to say where she had
been. No good in talking too much, even if it was only to an old
grandmother.”
Anna promised not to say any thing about her little adventure. It did
really seem to her as if Providence had taken away her strength at that
door-step for some kind purpose, with which it would be sacrilege for
her to interfere. She had a world of faith in that old man’s power to
help her, and went home, if not happy, greatly comforted.
The very next morning young Gould sought an interview with his uncle,
and told him the whole story about young Ward, and his own great fault
regarding the Burns family. He concealed nothing, either of his former
extravagant entanglements, or the last vile act which this man had
perpetrated under his patronage.
The old man listened in dead silence till Gould had exhausted his
subject. Then he looked him quietly in the face, and spoke in his usual
dry fashion.
“Had you succeeded in really injuring this girl, I should have broken
with you forever,” he said.
“I—I never thought of injuring her. It was only a freak, a sudden fancy
to know who and what she was. I hope you believe me, uncle?”
“If I did not, you would have little chance to convince me, for I would
not endure you in my presence an hour. Let that pass. You were about to
say something more—ask something of me, I believe?”
“Yes, sir, I was. Having given these people some annoyance——”
“Driven them from their home, in fact,” broke in the uncle
“Yes, as you say, driven them from their home. I—I should like, in
short, to give them a better one.”
“But that is already secured to them.”
“How did you know that, uncle? Oh! I see, you have been questioning the
boy. But there is something about this new home that I do not like,
uncle. I think young Savage is at the bottom of that movement.”
“Very likely. He seems a generous young fellow enough.”
“But I cannot accept his generosity. No man shall be permitted to pay
the penalty of my fault.”
“No man? What if I choose to take that in, with your other expenses?”
“Ah! that is another thing.”
“Entirely! Well, now do not trouble yourself about young Savage, if you
love the girl.”
“But I don’t. On the contrary, uncle, I am deuced near loving another
girl, if not quite in for it.”
“That is fortunate, because I could not permit you to marry this one.
She’s too good for you, fifty per cent. too good.”
“Well, uncle, we wont quarrel about that. But the new home. Either
Savage or old Mrs. Halstead is providing that, and I wont permit it. We
must take this on ourselves.”
“We?”
“Yes. For what am I without you?”
The old man’s eyes glistened. He took young Gould’s hand in his with a
vigorous pressure.
“True enough—true enough! No man is sufficient to himself. That which
men call independence of our fellow-creatures only brings loneliness.
But about this house, nephew? It belongs to me—I own all that property,
every foot of it, and better paying houses can’t be found. Old Mrs.
Halstead lived in one of ’em before she took up her residence with her
husband’s son, and we’ve kept it on hand, thinking that she might want
to go back.”
“Then you know Mrs. Halstead?”
“A little. She was my tenant. Well, your suspicions were right. Young
Savage did want to make the family more comfortable. He is an honorable
young fellow, Gould, and did not want to risk the girl’s good name by
direct help—so he went to Halstead’s daughter.”
“What, Miss Eliza?”
“No. I think they call her Georgiana.”
“Confound his impudence!” muttered Gould.
“What were you saying, nephew?”
“Nothing, sir. But is Savage so intimate with the Halsteads as that?”
“Decidedly. Mrs. Savage hints that there is an engagement between her
son and the young lady.”
“I—I don’t believe it, sir.”
“Nor I. At any rate, this Georgiana consented to act as his agent; and,
thinking as you do, that old people are worth something in an emergency,
she went at once to her grandmother for help. Her grandmother came to me
about the house, and I took the whole affair off her hands, knowing what
a scamp you have been, and guessing that you would be wild to make
atonement.”
“Uncle!”
“Well, sir.”
“You are too good. I am unworthy of all this kindness.”
“Of course you are!” said the old man, looking at him with eyes that
twinkled as through a mist. “But what about this little Halstead girl?”
“Uncle, since I saw her in that garret with that family, I honestly
believe I am getting in love with that girl!”
“Hem!” muttered the old man, pressing his thin lips to keep them from
smiling too broadly; “the second confession in twenty-four hours. I
wonder if Miss Eliza would lend me her flying cupid?”
“Why, what do you know about the cupid?” inquired Gould, laughing.
“Oh! the young lady sent for me, and I went. She was in full state with
that little winged imp dancing over her.”
“Did she ask you to sit on the ottoman?” asked Gould, going into
convulsions of laughter.
“Yes; but I told her my joints were too rusty.”
“And she answered that ‘hearts never grow old.’ I know all about it. Oh!
uncle, beware! But what on earth did she want of you?”
“She wanted to make some inquiries about my nephew.”
“What?”
“How much he was worth in his own right, and if I knew that his heart
was touched.”
“No!”
“If he would, in the end, be my heir; and if I intended to divide with
him before my death.”
“Oh! ah, this is too much. Had the creature an idea about Georgiana? Was
I goose enough to let her guess that?”
“Georgiana! Nothing of that; Miss Eliza was speaking in her own behalf.”
“Oh, uncle! that’s too bad; with all my faults, I do not deserve that.”
“It is the solemn truth, though.”
Here the old man broke into a low, chuckling laugh; and Gould, well-bred
as he was, broke into a wild ecstasy of fun.
“She asked my consent.”
“What! under the cupid?”
“Said she could not think of encouraging your devotion without that.”
“No! no! no! she didn’t do that!”
“Said that it was but right to confess that her first maiden affections
had, for a moment, wandered to another, who might even then hold her in
honor bound to him; but her love, the pure, deep, holy, irresistible
feeling would forever turn to my nephew, though she might, such was her
fine sense of honor, be compelled to marry another.”
“Oh, uncle, uncle! do break off. I shall die—I shall die with laughing.
Have mercy, uncle.”
“I am an indulgent old fellow, Gould, and I told her that my consent
should not be withheld, when you asked it.”
“You did—and then?”
“Then she kissed my hand, slid down, with one knee on the ottoman, and
asked my blessing.”
“And you gave it?”
“No, Gould; an old man’s blessing is too sacred for such trifling; but
Louis the grand, never lifted a woman from her knees more regally. She
was delighted with me.”
“I wonder she did not put in a reversionary interest in yourself,
uncle.”
“She did, rather. I think she said, if her young heart had not gone out
to my nephew, it would still have rested in the family.”
“Excuse me, uncle, but this is getting too funny; I have got a pain in
my side already. Just let me off awhile till I take breath.”
“But about Georgiana?”
“Don’t uncle. I cannot bear to have that sweet girl mentioned in the
same day with that excruciating old maid.”
“That is right, Gould. We’ll talk of her another time.”