Anne's letter, written from the Eastern Shore, was a long and childish
screed. "We have always been beggars on horseback," she said. "Of course
you couldn't know that, Max. We have gone without bread so that we could
be grand and elegant. We have gone without fire so that we could buy our
satin gowns for fashionable functions. We went without butter for a year
so that Amy could entertain the Strangeways, whom she had met years ago
in Europe. I wouldn't dare tell you what that dinner cost us, but we had
a cabinet member or two, and the British Ambassador.
"You wondered why I liked Dickens. Well, I read him so that I could get
a good meal by proxy. I used to gloat over the feasts at Wardle's, and
Mr. Stiggins' hot toast. And when I met you you gave me--everything.
Murray Flint thinks that because I am thin and pale I am all spirit,
and I'm afraid you have the same idea. You didn't dream, did you, that I
was pale because I hadn't had enough to eat? And when you told me that
you wanted me to be your wife I looked ahead and saw the good food and
the roaring fires, and I didn't think of anything else. I honestly
didn't think of you for a moment, Max.
"There were days, though, when you meant more to me than just that. When
we played at the Capitol--that night when we met Lafayette on the
stairs! Nobody had ever played with me. But after we went to the farm I
was smothered in ease. And I loved it. And I didn't love you. You were
just--the man who gave me things. Do you see what I mean? And when you
kissed me on the stairs it was as if I were being kissed by a nice old
Santa Claus.
"Everybody saw it but you. I am sure Amy knew--and Winifred Reed.
You--you ought to marry Winifred, Max. Perhaps you will. You won't want
me after you read this letter. And Winifred is splendid.
"It was your speech to the men that waked me. I saw how big you were,
and I just--shriveled up.
"And you mustn't worry about me. I am not hungry any more. I feel as if
I should never want anything to eat. Perhaps it is because I am older
and haven't a growing appetite. And I am not any of the things you
thought me. And of course you would be disappointed, and it wouldn't be
fair."
Having posted this, Anne had other things to do. She wrote mysterious
letters, and finally came into a room where her sisters and Aunt
Elizabeth were sewing, with an important-looking paper in her hand.
"I am going to work, Amy."
"To work!"
"Yes."
Amy and Ethel and Aunt Elizabeth wore white frocks, and looked very cool
and feminine and high-bred. Aunt Elizabeth had a nose like Amy's and the
same look of race.
It was Aunt Elizabeth who said in her commanding voice: "What are you
talking about, Anne?"
"I am going to work in the War Risk Bureau, Aunt Elizabeth. I wrote to
two senators, and they helped me."
No woman of the Merryman family had ever worked in an office.
Anne faced a storm of disapproval, but she stood there slim and defiant,
and stated her reasons.
"We need money. I don't see how we can get through a winter like the
last. I can't keep my self-respect if we go on living as we did last
winter."
"Haven't you any pride, Anne?"
"I have self-respect."
She left the room a conqueror. After she had gone the three women talked
about her. They did not say it openly, but they felt that there was
really an ordinary streak in Anne. Otherwise she would not have wanted
to work in an office.
There was, however, nothing to be done. Anne was twenty-one. She was to
get a hundred dollars a month. In spite of herself, Amy felt a throb of
the heart as she thought of what that hundred dollars would mean to
them.
Murray Flint was much perturbed when he heard of Anne's decision. He
wrote to her that of course she knew that there was no reason why she
should go into an office--his home and hearthstone were hers. She wrote
back that she should never marry! After that, Murray felt, with Amy and
Ethel and Aunt Elizabeth, that there was an ordinary streak in Anne!
When he arrived in August at Aunt Elizabeth's he was astonished at the
change in Amy. She looked really very young as she came to meet him, and
Aunt Elizabeth's house was a perfect setting for her charms. Murray was
very fond of Aunt Elizabeth's house. It was an ancient, stately edifice,
and within there were the gold-framed portraits of men and women with
noses like Amy's and Aunt Elizabeth's.
Murray had missed Amy very much and he told her so.
"It was a point of honor for me to ask Anne again. But when I thought I
was going to lose you I learned that my life would be empty without
you."
He really believed what he was telling her. If Amy did not believe it
she made no sign. She was getting much more than she expected, and she
accepted him graciously and elegantly, as became a daughter of the
Merrymans.
It was when he told Anne of his engagement to Amy that Murray again
offered her a home. "There will always be a place for Amy's sisters,
Anne."
"You are very good, Murray--but I can't."
She had said the same thing to Maxwell, who had come hot-footed to tell
her that her letter had made no difference in his feeling for her.
"How could you think it, Anne? My darling, you are making a mountain of
a molehill!"
She had been tremulous but firm. "I've got to have my--self-respect,
Max."
Because he understood men he understood her. And when he had left her he
had said to himself with long-drawn breath, "She's a corking kid."
And this time there had been no laughter in his eyes.
All that winter Anne worked, a little striving creature, with her head
held high!
Maxwell was in town, for Congress had convened. But he had not come to
see her. Now and then when there was a night session she went up to the
House and sat far back in the Gallery, where, unperceived, she could
listen to her lover's voice. Then she would steal away, a little ghost,
down the shadowy stairway; but there were no games now with Lafayette!
Amy and Murray were to be married in June. They had enjoyed a dignified
and leisurely engagement, and Amy had bloomed in the sunshine of
Murray's approbation. Anne's salary had helped a great deal in getting
the trousseau together. Most of the salary, indeed, had been spent for
that. The table was, as usual, meagre, but Anne had not seemed to care.
She was therefore rather white and thin when, on the day that Congress
adjourned, Maxwell came out to Georgetown to see her. It had been a long
session, and it was spring.
There were white lilacs in a great blue jar in the Merryman library, and
through the long window a glimpse of a thin little moon in a faint green
sky.
As he looked at Anne, Maxwell felt a lump in his throat. She had given
him her hand and had smiled at him. "How are the kittens?" she had asked
in an effort to be gay.
He did not answer her question. He went, rather, directly to the point.
"Anne, why wouldn't you kiss me on that last night?"
She flushed to the roots of her hair. "It--it was because I loved you,
Max."
"I thought so. But you had to prove it to yourself?"
"Yes."
"Anne, that's why I've let you alone all winter--so that you might prove
it. But--I can't go on. It has been an awful winter for me, Anne."
It had been an awful winter for her. But she had come out of it knowing
herself. And even when at last his arms were about her and he was
telling her that he would never let her go, she had a plea to make:
"Don't let me live too softly, Max. Life isn't a feather bed--You belong
to the world. I must go with you toward the big things. But now and then
we'll run back to the farm."
"What do I care where we run, so that we run--together!"