ANNA.
The summer moonlight was shining into the sick-room, where, with Richard
and his mother beside him, Robert West was summoning nerve and courage
to tell the story they were waiting so anxiously to hear. With the
assertion that “Anna was my wife,” he had fainted, and since then a
night and a day had intervened, during which no word of the past had
escaped his lips. But now that he was stronger, he had said to his
mother and brother, “Sit beside me, and if I can I will tell you of
Anna.”
They needed no second bidding, but gathered closely to him, and there,
in the quiet room, Robert West began the story, in which there was a
slight recapitulation of what he had before told, but which will help to
enlighten the reader with regard to Robert’s past.
“I cannot remember the time when I did not love Anna,” he said, fixing
his eyes upon the ceiling. “As a boy I made no secret of it, but as I
grew older I pretended not to care for her more than for any other, and
called her a little doll, you know, but it was mere pretense, for I
loved the very air she breathed; and when I heard she was engaged to
Dick, I cried as young men of twenty-two seldom cry. You know I had then
been in New York two years, and that soon after this I was received into
Uncle Jason’s employ, and trusted by him with everything. For my
father’s sake, he trusted me, he used to say, never dreaming how unlike
the father was the son.
“After losing Anna I cared little for my self-respect, and then first
commenced the process of taking five or ten dollars, as I chanced to
need it. This I always replaced, and so conscience was satisfied,
particularly after I found that other young men, who stood as well as
myself, did the same. I cannot account for it, but I now believe that my
apparent indifference to Anna attracted rather than repelled her, for
when I was at home I used to try the experiment of being very attentive,
just to see how she would brighten with pleasure, but it was not until
my last visit, made the August before I ran away, that the idea entered
my brain of taking her from Richard. He was gone for two weeks, you will
remember, and I improved my time to so good advantage that when I
finally left Morrisville, I had won a half promise from Anna that she
would talk with him and ask to be released. She did not promise this
willingly, for her strong sense of right made her question the justice
of such an act, and all my arguments were necessary to wring that
promise from her. We were out in the graveyard, Dick on that little
bench,—you know where.”
“Yes, I know;” and Richard’s reply was like a groan, as Anna and Dora
came up before him, connected with that rustic bench.
“It was a moonlight night, and we stayed there a long, long time, mother
thinking we were at some neighbor’s house, while you, my brother, were
away, never dreaming how falsely I was dealing with you. But Anna
thought of you, pleading most for you, even while she confessed her love
for me, and saying that daily interviews with you made you more like her
brother. And there I had the advantage; I was comparatively a stranger,
while the city air and manner I had studied to acquire were not without
their effect on Anna. She was almost an angel, but human still, and so
the old story was again repeated. The city fop, with sin enough upon his
soul to have driven that pure young girl from his sight forever, could
she have known it, was preferred to the country boy. But it was hard
work, and more than once I gave up in despair, as, wringing her little
hands, she cried:
“‘O Robert, don’t tempt me so. I do love Richard, or I did before you
came, and he is so good, so noble. God will never forgive me if I
deceive him so dreadfully. Please, Robert, don’t tempt me any more.’
“You can imagine how I answered her. There were kisses and caresses, and
assurances that you would rather give her up than take her when her
heart was not your own, and so the victory was won, and I acted a most
cowardly part. I made Anna promise not to speak of me when talking with
you, Richard, or hint in any way that I was the cause of her changed
feelings toward you. I then returned to New York, while she asked to be
released from her engagement. She wrote to me once, bitterly condemning
herself for her deception, as she termed it, and earnestly begging
permission to tell you all, but I refused, and held her to her promise;
and so matters stood when you decided upon sending her to Boston. You
know she came first to New York to Uncle Jason’s, whose wife is both
deaf and half blind, so she was not in my way at all. After you returned
home, Dick, I was there every night, and as Uncle Jason nodded over his
paper in his study, while Aunt Eliza nodded over her knitting in the
parlor, I had every opportunity for pressing my suit, rejoicing when I
saw how I could sway Anna at my will. She was easily influenced by those
she loved and trusted—”
Here Robert’s voice trembled, and he paused a moment ere he resumed:
“She believed that I was good, and this belief, more than anything I
could say, led her to listen to me. She was to leave on Monday for
Boston, and on Saturday I took her for a drive through the city, and
when she returned at night she was my wife. How I accomplished it I can
hardly tell, for at first Anna refused outright, but she was finally
persuaded, and at the house of a clergyman whom I knew by reputation the
ceremony was performed. It was the original plan that when her visit was
over I should accompany her home and announce our marriage, after which
she should return with me to New York, but subsequent events made this
impossible. My uncle had commissioned me to telegraph to the friends in
Boston that I would be there on Monday with Anna, and he kindly gave me
permission to remain a few days, or even longer if I liked. This I
professed to have done, but it was a lie I told my uncle, who, believing
Anna to be Dick’s betrothed, had no suspicion that I cared for her in
the least except as my sister. After leaving her at his door on Saturday
night, I purposely did not see her again until Monday, when, according
to arrangement, I went ostensibly to accompany her to Boston. Anna knew
nothing of my real intentions, and it was some time before she
understood that we were going to Albany instead of New Haven. In much
surprise she questioned me, turning very white and bursting into tears
when the truth dawned upon her, and she saw how she was becoming more
entangled in the deception. We stayed in Albany at the City Hotel until
Thursday morning, and in those three days I was, I believe, as perfectly
happy as is possible for mortal man to be. And Anna was happy too. In
her love for me she forgot all else, and I tasted fully of the bliss it
was to call that lovely, gentle creature wife. I remained in Boston one
night, but Friday found me again in New York, while one week from the
next Saturday night,—O, mother! if I could only blot out that Saturday
night from the past, but I cannot, and I must tell you how low your boy
fell. Knowing how good and pure Anna was I resolved that henceforth my
life should be such as she could approve, and to this end I would avoid
all my old associates, I said, and never again frequent their haunts or
come in contact with them. Chief among these associates was a Stanley,
who had first taught me to play, and who had constantly hovered near me
as my evil genius. On Saturday, he came into my office, and told me of a
rare specimen from Cincinnati who was terribly conceited, but whom _I_
could beat so easily. ‘He has heaps of money,’ he said, ‘and if you
choose you can make a fortune in an hour. Come to-night, and you are
sure to win.’
“Instantly there flashed over me the thought ‘if Anna could only dress
and live like the ladies of Madison Square,’ but with it came the
knowledge of how she would disapprove, and I hesitated. The temptation
was a strong one, and as I continued to listen I felt my good
resolutions giving way. Just for once, and that should be the last, I
said, consenting to join my comrade, who evidently believed all he said
of the stranger. Ten o’clock found me at Stanley’s rooms, opposite my
antagonist, whom I at once pronounced a fool. Eleven found me the winner
of a considerable amount. Twelve o’clock, my lucky star was still in the
ascendant, but when two o’clock of that Sunday morning struck, I was
ruined, and my opponent held my note for $20,000.
“Desperate, distracted, what could I do but forge my uncle’s name for
the amount, taking the precaution to draw from three or four banks where
he had funds deposited, and this I did without a thought of the
consequences; but when I woke to the peril of my situation I was mad
with fear, and determined to run away. But first I wrote to Anna,
telling her I was going, but withheld the reason why. After the letter
was sent I was seized with a terror lest she by some means should betray
me, and so I be brought to justice. My love for her was strong, but
dread of a prison life was stronger. Of Uncle Jason I asked and received
permission to visit Morrisville for a week, and when I left him he
thought I was going home, but I went instead to Boston, reaching there
in the night, and next morning hiring a boy to take a note to Anna. She
was alone when it was delivered, as the family were out on some shopping
expedition. In much alarm she came to the Revere, where I was to meet
her, and there the horrible truth was revealed that she was the wife of
a felon. She had not received my letter, and what I told her was wholly
unexpected. She did not faint, nor scream, nor even reproach me with my
sin. She merely sank upon her knees and prayed that I might be forgiven,
while into her eyes and face there stole a look which I know now to have
been the germ of insanity which afterwards came upon her.
“‘Anna,’ I said, when her prayer was ended and she sat with her face
upon the table, ‘I am going to England in a vessel which sails to-night,
and from there to California, assuming the name of John Maxwell, and you
must not betray me.’
“Betray you! O Robert!” and the face she lifted up looked as grieved as
if I had struck her.
“‘I know you will not do it voluntarily,’ I said, ‘but you must not make
yourself liable to be questioned. No one knows I am here. No one knows
you are my wife, and no one must know it. Not yet, at least not till it
is settled somehow, and I come back to claim you, or send for you to
join me.’
“Again she looked wistfully at me, and I continued: ‘If Uncle Jason knew
you were my wife, he would question and cross-question you until he
frightened it out of you, and I should be captured. I deserve to go to
prison, I know, but Anna, darling, think how terrible for one so young
to be shut out from this world, wearing my life away. Promise, Anna, and
I will be a better man; I will earn enough to pay it back. Promise, if,
indeed, you love me.’
“I was kneeling at her feet, sueing almost for my life. I was her
husband, and she loved me, erring as I was, and she promised at last to
keep her marriage a secret until I said she might tell. I ought to have
been satisfied with her word, but each moment the dread of arrest grew
greater, and taking the Bible which lay upon the table, I said, ‘Swear
with your hand on this.’
“Then she hesitated, but I carried my point, and with her hand on the
book she loved so much, she took an oath not to tell, and fell fainting
to the floor. I restored her as soon as possible, and led her through
obscure streets back to Mr. Haverleigh’s dwelling. I dared not kiss her
as I parted with her at the gate, for it was broad day, but I shall
never forget the look in her eyes as they rested on my face, while she
said, ‘Good-by, Robert. Ask God daily to forgive you as I shall do.’
“I wrung her cold, damp hand, and hurried away, seeing the Haverleigh
carriage drive up the street just as I turned into another, and knew
that Anna must have been safe in her room when the family returned.”
“Poor Anna,” sobbed Mrs. West. “That was the time when Rosa Haverleigh
found her upon the floor totally unconscious. She was never herself
after that, and as they could not rouse her to an interest in anything,
they sent her back to us, a white-faced, frightened, half crazed
creature even then. O Robert, my son, how much sorrow you have wrought,”
and the poor mother wept piteously as she remembered the young girl whom
she in thought had wronged, and who she now knew had died for the erring
Robert, and kept silence even when to do so was to bring disgrace and
death upon herself.
“Truly Anna died a martyr’s death,” Richard murmured, feeling now how
glad he was that he had held her in his arms and kissed her quivering
lips with the kiss of forgiveness, when all else stood aloof as from a
sinful thing.
“Yes, a martyr’s death,” Robert repeated sadly; “and some time you will
tell me how she died and about her child, but now I hasten on with the
part which concerns myself. I went to England and then to California,
working in the gold mines like a dog, and literally starving myself for
the sake of gain. I _would_ pay that debt, I said, and I would yet be
worthy of Anna. It was some time in October that I stumbled upon a
Boston paper in which was a notice of Anna’s death, put in by the
Haverleighs, I presume, as they were greatly attached to her. I knew it
was my Anna, and that I had killed her, and for a time reason and life
forsook me. I was sick for weeks, and when I came back to life,
_Stanley_, the man who first taught me to sin, was taking care of me.
He, too, had come to the land of gold, finding me by mere chance, and
knowing at once that I was not John Maxwell, as I had given out. But he
betrayed no secrets, and since then has proved the old adage that there
is honor even among thieves. By some means he had ascertained that in
consideration of a sum of money paid by you, together with your promise
of the whole, Uncle Jason had concluded to say nothing of my forgery. He
had also heard that West Lawn was sold, and I knew well what prompted
this sacrifice, and cursed myself for the sinful wretch I was. Stanley
did not remain in California longer than spring, but returned to New
York, from which place he has occasionally written and given me tidings
of home. At my request he has at four different times been to
Morrisville, and reported to me what he learned. In this way I heard of
_Robin_, and I know that thoughts of him have helped to make me a better
man.
“By some strange chance Stanley was there when Robin died, and mingling
with those who followed my child to the grave, he saw you, mother, and
Dick, and a young lady was with you, he said, a fair young girl, whom
Dick called Dora. Is she to be your wife?” and he turned towards
Richard, who, with a half moan, replied, “I hoped so once, but I have
lost her now.”
Robert pressed the hands of his brother in token of sympathy, and then
continued: “I never saw my boy, but I wept bitterly when I heard he was
dead, while my desire to return was materially lessened; but this
feeling wore away, and I came again to look eagerly forward to the time
when with the gold in my hand I could go back and pay the heavy debt I
owe you.”
“Did you never hear directly from Anna?” Richard asked, remembering the
letter sent to California.
“Yes, once; and it made me for a time almost as mad as my darling. I was
up in the mountains when I read it, and the live-long night I lay upon
the ground, crying as men are not apt to cry. I have that letter now. It
is in my wallet. Would you like to see it?”
A moment after Dr. West held in his hand a worn, yellow paper, on which
were traced the last words ever written by the unfortunate Anna, words
which made the doctor’s chest heave with anguish as he read them, while
his mother sobbed hysterically. A part of this letter we transcribe for
the reader:
* * * “I am in a mad-house, darling, where are so many, many crazy
people, and they say that I am crazy too. It’s only the secret in my
head and heart which makes them burn so cruelly. Richard and mother
brought me here. Poor Richard looks so white and sorry, and speaks so
kindly of you, wondering where you are, that once I bit my tongue until
it bled, to keep from telling what I knew. If I had not promised with my
hand upon the Bible, I am sure I should tell, but that oath haunts me
day and night, and I dare not break it, so now I never talk, and I was
glad when they brought me here, for it was safer so. It was dreadful at
first, and sometimes I most wished I could die, but God is here just as
He is in Morrisville, and at last I prayed to Him as I used to do. You
see I forgot to pray for a while, it was so terrible, and I thought I
was lost forever, but I’ve found God again, and I don’t mind the
dreadful place. Everybody is kind to me, everybody says ‘poor girl,’ and
you need not worry because I am here. I pray for you every minute, and
God will hear and save you, because He has promised, and God never lies.
Dear, darling Robert, if I dared tell you something, it might perhaps
bring you home to spare me from the shame which is surely coming, unless
I tell, and that I’ve sworn not to do. It makes me blush to write it,
and so I guess I won’t; but just imagine, if I was your wife before all
the world, and we were living somewhere alone, and Richard did not love
me, as I know he does, and folks called me Mrs. West instead of poor
Anna, and you always hurried home at night to see me, wouldn’t it be
nice if we had a little baby between us to love, you because it was
Anna’s, and I because it was Robert’s! But now, O Robert, what shall I
do, with you away, and that Bible oath in my heart. God will help me, I
hope, and perhaps take me home to him, where they know I am innocent.
Poor Richard, I pity him most when he comes to know it, but God will
care for him, and when I am gone he will find some other one more worthy
than I for him to love.
“There came a young girl here yesterday, not to stay, for her brains all
were sound, but with some more to look at us, and as they reached my
door I heard the attendant whisper something of me, while the stranger
came up to me and said:
“‘Poor girl, does your head ache very hard?’ and she put her hand so
gently on my hair; but I would not look up, and she went on with her
companion, who called her Dora. I don’t know why her voice made me think
of Richard, but it did, it was so soft and pitiful, just like his when
he speaks to me. It made me cry, and I prayed carefully to myself, ‘God
send to Richard another love, with a voice and manner like Dora.’” * * *
Richard could read no farther, but dropping the letter upon the bed, he
buried his face in his hands and moaned:
“Darling Anna, your prayer will never be answered, but I thank you for
it all the same, and I am so glad that I never forsook nor quite lost
faith in you. O Anna! O Dora! Dora!”
The last name was wrung from him inadvertently, but Robert caught it up
and said:
“Was the Dora who was with you at Robin’s grave the same of whom Anna
speaks?”
“I think so,—yes, I am sure, for she once told me of a visit made to the
asylum, and related an incident similar to this which Anna mentions.”
“Then Dick,” and Robert spoke reverently but decidedly, “then she will
be yours. Anna prayed for it once, and I have implicit faith in Anna’s
prayers. They followed me over land and sea, bringing me at last to the
fountain of all peace.”
Richard made no reply to this, but asked reproachfully why his brother
did not hasten home after receiving that touching message from Anna.
“The letter was a long time coming,” Robert said. “And as I was not
expecting it, I never inquired at the post-office until I saw it
advertised. It was then the first of September, and Anna was already
dead, but this I did not know, and I was making up my mind to brave even
a prison for her sake, when I saw that paper which told me of her death.
The rest you know, except, indeed, the debt of gratitude I owe to you
and mother for all your kindness to my wife and boy, and for the love
with which you have ever cherished me. If I get well, I trust my life
will show that a wretch like me can reform. I have money enough to pay
the debt with interest, and, Richard, it is all yours, earned for you,
and hoarded as carefully as miser ever hoarded his gains. But now tell
me of Anna at the last. Did no one suspect she was my wife?”
“No one but myself, and I did not till she was dying,” Richard replied.
“No one dreamed of questioning her of you, and so she was spared that
pain.”
And then he told Robert the sad story which our readers already know,
the story of Anna’s death, of Robin’s birth, and his short life, while
Robert, listening to it, atoned for all the wrong by the anguish he
endured and the tears he shed, as the narrative proceeded. At last, when
it was finished, he sank back upon his pillow, wholly exhausted with
excitement and fatigue.
For weeks after that he hovered so near the verge of death that even the
mother despaired, and looked each day to see the life go out from her
child, who in his boyhood had never been so dear to her as now. But
youth and a strong constitution triumphed, and again the fever abated,
leaving the sick man as weak and helpless as a child, but anxious for
the day when he would be able to make the homeward voyage.