SISTER ANNA
Ah, we never could resist her,
Since the day that she was born;
For we loved that winsome sister
As we loved the opening morn.
Four years!--yes, I think it was a little over four years, after the
scene in our last chapter, when we bring our readers to the Old
Homestead again.
It was the evening of a disagreeable, chilly day. Everything was
gloomy inside and out. Salina had come up from the Farnham's deserted
mansion to spend the evening with aunt Hannah, and arrange the
preliminaries for a "husking frolic," which was to take place on the
morrow in uncle Nathan's barn. But she found the good lady so taciturn
and gloomy, that even her active spirit was awed into stillness. So
the two women remained almost in silence, knitting steadily, with a
round candle-stand between them.
Uncle Nathan, notwithstanding the cold and the storm, occupied his
great chair in the porch. I think the old man must have grown a trifle
stouter since the reader saw him, and his face had a still more
benevolent look; something of serene goodness, mellowing in the
sunshine of his genial nature, was perceptible there, as the tints of
a golden pippin, ripened in the autumn sun.
But you could see nothing of this, as the old man sat in his
easy-chair that night. Everything was dark around him. Black clouds
hung overhead, broken now and then with gleams of pale blue lightning.
Once or twice these flashes were bright enough to reveal his features,
which were strangely troubled and thoughtful. Since nightfall, he had
been sitting there almost in silence, watching the storm gather
overhead, and the black shadows as they crowded down from the hills
and choked up the garden. He listened to the wind as it rose and
swelled down the valley, rushing through the orchard boughs, and
tossing them up and down in the darkness. The old man was not
reposing; thoughtful and aroused he took a clear retrospection of
those phases of life that had left scars even on his placid heart.
A shadow, for it seemed nothing more, lingered by his side.
It moved now and then, and amid the hushes of the wind you might have
known that two persons breathed close together in the old porch.
At length what seemed the shadow spoke.
"Shall we go in, uncle Nathan? The wind is getting high, here. How the
rain beats on the porch--you will catch cold."
"No, I'd rather sit out here yet awhile. But go in yourself, Mary; it
is getting rather chilly for you."
"No," answered Mary, in her old gentle way, "I'd rather sit with you,
uncle Nat."
"I'm bad company," said the old man, "somehow I can't feel like
talking to-night."
"Nor I," said Mary Fuller, leaning her cheek against the arm-chair,
"something is the matter with us both. I wonder what it is!"
"My heart is full," said uncle Nathan, mournfully.
Mary crept close to him.
"Tell me, uncle Nat, is it about Mr. Ritner's note that you feel so
bad?"
"That may have set me to thinking of--of other things. I seem to
remember everything that ever happened to-night, I never saw clouds
exactly like them before, or heard the wind howl so, but once."
"When was that, uncle Nathan?" inquired his companion, in a whisper.
"The night our sister Anna died," answered the old man in the same
hushed tone.
"Uncle Nathan, do tell me about her, I want to hear it so much, it
seems as if I must ask you now, though I never dared before."
Uncle Nathan remained silent a minute or two, then turning in his
chair, he said, in a low, husky voice,
"See what they are doing in there. Hannah must not hear what we are
talking about."
Mary opened the kitchen-door and looked through.
"They are sitting by the fire, both of them. Salina is talking. Aunt
Hannah knitting hard, with her eyes on the fire, as if she didn't
hear." And reseating herself she continued; "now tell me about
_her_--she was very handsome, wasn't she?"
"She was like a picture, Mary. You think Isabel Chester handsome, but
she don't more than compare with our Anna. She had the softest and
most beautiful brown eyes you ever saw, bright as a star and soft as a
rabbit's--and such hair, it was all in crinkles and waves, breaking
out into curls let her braid and twist it as she would--brown when she
sat by me at her sewing-work in the morning, and shining out like gold
when the sun lay in the porch. I wish you could a-seen her as she was
drawing out her thread of woolen yarn, and running it up on the
spindle as bright and spry as a bird."
"I wasn't so old nor so heavy," continued uncle Nathan, with a sigh,
"as I am now-a-days, but she always loved to wait on me just as you
do; and when I came into the stoop, hot days in summer, tired with
mowing or planting, away she would run after a pitcher of cool drink,
holding it between her two little hands, and laughing till the dimples
swarmed about her mouth like lady-bugs around a rose. I do really
think, Mary Fuller, that our sister Anna was the handsomest gal I ever
set eyes on, and so sweet tempered: you put me in mind of her every
day, Mary."
Mary Fuller did not answer, she was afraid that uncle Nathan might
detect the tears that swelled at her heart in her voice.
"I didn't like to part with Anna, she was so young, and both sister
and I had promised our parents to take their place with her. We two
were the children of their youth, but she was a sort of ewe lamb in
the house, the child of their old age, and when they died we looked
upon her as our own.
"We both gave up all ideas of marrying for her sake; that wasn't much
for me you may think, but it was a good deal for Hannah; she was a
tall, good-looking woman then, and might have done well in the world;
she did give up a match that I knew her heart was set on. As for
me--but no matter about that--I wasn't likely to make a promise to my
own parents on their death-beds and only half keep it, by marrying and
putting a sort of step-mother over Anna--no, Hannah and I just put
away all thoughts of settling for life, except with one another, and
gave ourselves up to little Anna, heart and soul."
The old man paused awhile, and bent his head as if overpowered by the
fierce storm that raged around the house. The porch was sheltered, and
though the rain rushed over its low eaves in sheets, nothing but the
dampness reached the great easy-chair upon which uncle Nathan sat.
Still Mary felt three or four heavy drops fall upon her hand, too warm
for rain and too sacred for comment.
"I couldn't help it," resumed uncle Nathan, in a broken voice. "From
the first I was agin Anna's going out to work but she wanted a new
silk dress, and we, in our old-fashioned ideas, objected to it--so in
her pretty, willful fashion she determined to earn it for herself.
"I always thought Hannah had a hankering after the dress, too, for she
never thought anything too good for the gal, but there was a good many
debts left on the old place, and she knew well enough that we couldn't
afford to indulge the child that way; but she sided with Anna agin me,
and so the poor child went up to Farnham's to spin his wool. Old Mrs.
Farnham kept house for her son, and no one thought harm of it. I shall
never forget how bright and pretty she looked that morning, in her
pink calico dress and that little straw cottage. Her cheeks were rosy
as the dress, and her eyes shone like diamonds, when she came out here
to shake hands with me.
"I felt hurt, and couldn't help looking so. She saw how I took it, and
tried to laugh in her old cheerful way, but it was of no use; the
sound died on her open lips, and her eyes filled with tears.
"'Nathan, Nathan,' she said, 'I will give up the dress if you feel so
about it,' and she began to untie her bonnet; 'I never had a silk
dress in my life, but--but'---
"She sat down on a stool and fairly burst into sobs.
"'Anna,' says I, 'couldn't we make it out, and you stay at home,
think? There is Hannah's orange silk gown, that mother gave her years
ago, wouldn't that make over for you nicely now?'
"Anna threw herself back on the stool and laughed like a bird, while
the tears sparkled in her eyes.
"'Oh, Nathan don't speak of it, I've tried it on a dozen times, and
thought and thought how to make it do, but the waist is under my arms,
the skirt gored like an umbrella cover, and so scant, why I couldn't
get over a fence or jump a brook in it to save my life.'
"I answered, 'But you look so nice and pretty in that pink calico,
Anna, I wish a silk dress had never come into your head. I'm afraid
it'll be the ruin of you.'
"'My pink calico!' said the naughty child, lifting up a fold between
her thumb and finger, and eyeing me sideways, like a pet bird as she
was; 'don't you think, brother Nat, that I was born for something
better than pink calico?'
"I couldn't keep from laughing, and at that she threw her arms round
my neck, and thanked me for letting her go.
"Mary Fuller, my heart sunk like lead as the door closed after her.
But what could I do? she would have her own way. She had it, Mary
Fuller, the gal had her way!"
Once more the old man paused, while drops fell thick and heavy on Mary
Fuller's hand.
"Anna staid three months at old Mrs. Farnham's, but she came home at
last with her silk dress, happy as a lark, and handsomer than ever.
The dress was heavy white silk. Mr. Farnham had bought it for her in
York.
"'But what did you get white for, Anna?' says I, as she unfolded the
silk, smiling and looking with her bright eager eyes in my face, 'It
isn't a color for use--this comes of trusting young girls to choose
things for themselves.'
"'I didn't choose it--it was Mr. Farnham,' says she, blushing up to
her temples, and trying to laugh.
"'Well, what did he get this useless color for?' says Hannah, holding
up the silk with one of her stern looks, that I could see made poor
Anna tremble from head to foot. 'It will be spoiled the first time of
wearing! fit for nothing on earth but the wedding-dress of some great
lady.'
"'It is a wedding-dress--that's what Mr. Farnham bought it for,' says
Anna, bursting out a crying, while her face was as red as the wild
rose.
"Hannah dropped the silk as if it had been a firebrand, and her face
turned white as a curd. She looked at me, and I at her, then we both
looked at Anna. Poor girl! how frightened she was! First she turned to
sister; but Hannah was taken by surprise and didn't know how to
act--then she crept towards me with a sort of smile on her mouth and
her eyes pleading for her, as I've seen a rabbit when taken from a
trap--I just reached out my arms without knowing it, and drew her
close to my bosom.
"She flung her arms around my neck and then we both burst out a
crying, while Hannah sat down in a chair with her hands folded hard in
her lap, and looked on growing whiter and whiter every minute.
"'It's true, brother,' whispered Anna, at last, hiding her face agin
mine, 'I'm going to be married--kiss me, please, and just whisper that
you like it.'
"I couldn't help kissing her hot cheeks, though every word went to my
heart, for I saw well enough how Hannah would take it.
"Anna hung around me till I had kissed her more than once, I'm afraid,
then she drew away from my arm like a child that's determined to stand
alone, and went up to sister Hannah.
"'Sister, won't you kiss me, as well as Nathan?' says she in her
sweet, coaxing way.
"But Hannah sat still, white as ever. She only gave her fingers a
closer grip around each other. Anna sunk down to the floor, bending
her ankle back and sitting upon the heel of one little foot.
"'Mother Hannah, don't be cross--what harm have I done?' says she,
lifting her pretty face, all wet with tears, to meet the hard, set
look of our sister. 'Mother Hannah,' says the girl again, drawing her
face closer and closer, 'won't you kiss me as Nathan did?'
"Hannah bent her head, and it seemed as if a marble woman had moved.
She touched the girl's forehead with her lips, and, says she,
"'God forgive you!'
"I think to this day that sister meant, 'God bless you' and tried to
say it, but 'God forgive you' came from her lips in spite of that.
This frightened Anna. So with a sort of wild look toward me, the girl
got up and went out of the room, crying as if her heart would break.
She couldn't understand the thing at all.
"The minute she was gone, Hannah unlocked her hands, that shook like
dead leaves in parting from each other, and holding them out toward
me, she cried out, 'Nathan, Nathan!' and fell down in a fainting fit,
just as she did the other night."
"But why," said Mary Fuller, drawing a deep breath, "why did aunt
Hannah feel so dreadfully, wasn't Mr. Farnham a good man?"
Uncle Nathan bent down his head and whispered the reply.
"I told you, when our last parent died, Hannah gave up all thoughts of
marrying. She had thought of it day and night for two years. Mr.
Farnham was the man."
"Poor aunt Hannah!" murmured Mary, "it was hard."
"She was up next morning and got breakfast just as usual," said uncle
Nathan, "from that day to this she has never spoken of that fainting
fit. You see what Hannah is now, she was not so silent or so hard
before that day."
"But Anna's wedding was put off," resumed uncle Nathan, after a pause.
"Mr. Farnham had gone down to York about some of his affairs, and
finally concluded to go into business there. He wrote that it would be
some months before he could settle things and come after her. Poor
little Anna, how she did practice writing, and how much letter-paper
the creature tore up and wasted in answering the long letters that
came, at first every week, then every fortnight, and at last
irregularly, longer and longer apart. She became uneasy, and I could
see that Hannah grew sterner and more set every day.
"The next summer a painter came into these parts for his health and to
study the shape of trees and rocks as they really grow. He put up at
the tavern in the village and spent his time among the hills, taking
pictures of the scenery, as he called them. He took a fancy to the old
house here, and I caught him one day sitting across the road on a
stool and taking it off on paper. It was about our dinner-time, and so
I asked him in to take a bite with us.
"He was a clever, gentlemanly sort of a fellow, not over young, nor
much of a dandy, and we all took a sort of liking to him; Hannah,
because he'd made a genuine picture of the homestead, and may be I
felt that too a little, for we both set everything by the old place.
Anna took to him at first; she loved the homestead as well as we did,
almost, besides the painter came from York, and she seemed to fancy
him for that more than anything else.
"I remember, Anna only got one letter from Mr. Farnham, all summer,
and that was the only one she did not, sooner or later, let me read.
She lost her spirits, and really grew thin. The artist was a good deal
of company for her; she had talent, he said, and a few lessons would
learn her to paint pictures almost as well as himself. He was old
enough to be the girl's father, and so Hannah and I were glad to have
him there to cheer her up.
"All at once she took a dislike to the man, and when he came to the
house, she would always find something to busy herself about, up
stairs, or in the cheese-room. The painter seemed to feel this, and
after awhile it was as much as I could do to get him into the house.
"One day toward fall Salina came up from the square house with a
letter that she gave to Anna, who ran up stairs to read it alone.
"Salina was the only person in the village that knew of Anna's
engagement to Mr. Farnham. His letters had always come under cover to
her, after his mother died, and she loved the girl as if she had been
her own sister. Like the rest of us, she had thought it strange, that
he did not write as usual, and was as proud as a peacock when this
letter came.
"Anna stayed up stairs a long time, reading her letter, while Salina
and I talked it over in the porch.
"'I reckon,' says she, 'that we shall have the white dress made up
within a week or so. Then, uncle Nat, I'll show you what a genuine
house warming is. Just think of little Anna's being the mistress of
our house, instead of Hannah!'
"I felt a little anxious somehow, and did not answer at once. She was
going to speak again, when we heard the front door shut to, with a
sort of groan, as if a pang had passed through it. And so there had,
for when we got to the entry and looked out, Anna was a good way from
the house, with her bonnet and shawl on, running in a wild hurry down
the street.
"'She's gone to see the dressmaker,' says Salina, winking her right
eye-lid, and giving me a cunning look from the other eye; 'see the
bundle under her arm, didn't I tell you?'
"I wanted to believe her, and we went back to the porch. But there was
a strange feeling about me, and I couldn't sit still in the old chair,
no more than if it had been made of red-hot iron. As for Hannah"--
The old man paused again, and for some moments the rushing sound of
the storm was all that filled the porch. When he spoke, it was with a
sort of desperate effort, as if all that was left for him to tell were
full of pain.
"Anna did not come back in three days, and then the painter, or
artist, as he called himself, came with her. She was his wife."
"His wife!" uttered Mary Fuller; "but the letter from Mr. Farnham!"
"It told her that he was married to a city lady. You have seen her,
Mary Fuller; it was the woman who came with you into these parts. But
you never saw the poor girl they murdered between them, none of us
will ever see little Anna again."
Mary was silent, listening to the old man's sobs, as they mingled with
the storm.
"She came back with her husband," uttered the old man, "the whitest
and stillest creature you ever saw. Her husband loved her, and she was
so gentle and submissive to him. Poor fellow! poor fellow! he deserved
something better than the dead ashes that she had to give him.
"Anna's husband was nothing but a common artist, wanting to do
something great, but with no power to do it. He could dream of
beautiful things, and then pine his soul out, because his hand failed
in making them. But he had a true, good heart; that was our only
comfort when Anna went away with him to live in the city.
"'Why did you act so wildly, Anna?' says I, as she crept to my chair
and laid her head so sorrowfully on my knee the night before they went
away; 'we would have worked ourselves to death, poor child, if you had
only stayed in the old place--what possessed you that night, Anna?'
"'_He_ will never know that I was the forsaken one,' says she, and her
cheeks burned with crimson once more. 'I only thought of that at
first, but in the pain his letter gave me, I remembered the
disappointment I had dealt on a good man who loved me--I was wild,
brother Nathan, but not bad. But my husband, I will make him a humble,
patient wife, see if I don't.'
"And she did, Mary Fuller--the poor girl did make a dutiful, good
wife; but it was enough to break your heart to see her trying so hard
to please a man, who wanted nothing but her love to make him happy,
and felt she could not give him that."