Woolson Constance Fenimore
Anne: A Novel

CHAPTER XXVI

"My only wickedness is that I love you; my only goodness, the same."

– Anonymous.

"A Durwaish in his prayer said: 'O God, show kindness toward the wicked; for on the good Thou hast already bestowed kindness enough by having created them virtuous.'"

– Saadi.

Anne passed the next day in the same state of vivid happiness. The mere joy of the present was enough for her; she thought not as yet of the future, of next month, next week, or even to-morrow. It sufficed that they were there together, and free without wrong to love each other. During the morning there came no second chance for their being alone, and Heathcote grew irritated as the slow hours passed. Farmer Redd esteemed it his duty, now that he was at home again, to entertain his guest whenever, from his open eyes, he judged him ready for conversation; and Mrs. Redd, July, and Diana seemed to have grown into six persons at least, from their continuous appearances at the door. At last, about five o'clock, Anne was left alone in the room, and his impatient eyes immediately summoned her. Smiling at his irritation, she sat down by the bedside and took up the fan.

"You need not do that," he said; "or rather, yes, do. It will keep you here, at any rate. Where have you been all day?"

They could talk in low tones unheard; but through the open door Mrs. Redd and Diana were visible, taking down clothes from the line. Heathcote watched them for a moment, and then looked at his nurse with silent wistfulness.

"But it is a great happiness merely to be together," said Anne, answering the look in words.

"Yes, I know it; but yet – Tell me, Anne, do you love me?"

"You know I do; in truth, you have told me you knew it more times than was generous," she answered, almost gayly. She was fairly light-hearted now with happiness.

"That is not what I want. Look at me and tell me; do, dear." He spoke urgently, almost feverishly; a sombre restless light burned in his eyes.

And then she bent forward and looked at him with so much love that his inmost heart was stirred. "I love you with all my heart, all my being," she murmured, even the fair young beauty of her face eclipsed by the light from the soul within. He saw then what he had seen before – how deep was her love for him. But this time there was in it no fear; only perfect trust.

He turned his head away as if struggling with some hidden emotion. But Anne, recovering herself, fell back into her former content, and began to talk with the child-like ease of happiness. She told him of her life, all that had happened since their parting. Once or twice, when her story approached their past, and she made some chance inquiry, he stopped her. "Do not ask questions," he said; "let us rest content with what we have;" and she, willing to follow his fancy, smiled and refrained. He lay silently watching her as she talked. Her faith in him was absolute; it was part of her nature, and he knew her nature. It was because she was what she was that he had loved her, when all the habits and purposes of his life were directly opposed to it.

"Anne," he said, "when will you marry me?"

"Whenever you wish," she answered, with what was to him the sweetest expression of obedience that a girl's pure eyes ever held.

"Will you go with me, as soon as I am able, and let some clergyman in the nearest village marry us?"

"I would rather have Miss Lois come, and little André; still, Ward, it shall be as you wish."

He took her hand, and laid his hot cheek upon it; a moisture gathered in his eyes. "You trust me entirely. You would put your hand in mine to-night and go out into the world with me unquestioning?"

"Yes."

"Kiss me once, love – just once more." His face was altering; its faint color had faded, and a brown pallor was taking its place.

"You are tired," said Anne, regretfully; "I have talked to you too long." What he had said made no especial impression upon her; of course she trusted him.

"Kiss me," he said again; "only once more, love." There was a strange dulled look in his eyes; she missed the expression which had lain there since the avowal of the day before. She turned; there was no one in sight – the women had gone to the end of the garden. She bent over and kissed him with timid tenderness, and as her lips touched his cheek, tears stole from his eyes under the closed lashes. Then, as steps were approaching, he turned his face toward the wall, and covered his eyes with his hand. She thought that he was tired, that he had been overtaxed by all that had happened, and going out softly she cautioned the others. "Do not go in at present; I think he is falling asleep."

"Well, then, I'll jest take this time to run across to Miss Pendleton's and git some of that yere fine meal; I reckon the captain will like a cake of it for supper," said Mrs. Redd. "And, Di, you go down to Dawson's and git a young chicken for briling. No one need say as how the captain don't have enough to eat yere."

July was left in charge. Anne took her straw hat, passed through the garden, and into the wood-lot behind, where she strolled to and fro, looking at the hues of the sunset through the trees, although not in reality conscious of the colors at all, save as part of the great boundless joy of the day.

She had been there some time, when a sound roused her; she lifted her eyes. Was it a ghost approaching?

Weak, holding on by the trees, a shadow of his former self, it was Ward Heathcote who was coming toward her as well as he could, swerving a little now and then, and moving unsteadily, yet walking. July had deserted his post, and the patient, left alone, had risen, dressed himself unaided, and was coming to find her.

With a cry she went to meet him, and drew him down upon a fallen tree trunk. "What can you mean?" she said, kneeling down to support him.

"Do not," he answered (and the voice was unlike Heathcote's). "I will move along so that I can lean against this tree. Come where I can see you, Anne; I have something to say."

"Let us first go back to the house. Then you can say it."

But he only made a motion of refusal, and, startled by his manner, she came and stood before him as he desired. He began to speak at once, and rapidly.

"Anne, I have deceived you. Helen is married; but I– am her husband."

She gazed at him. Not a muscle or feature had stirred, yet her whole face was altered.

"I did not mean to deceive you; there was no plan. It was a wild temptation that swept over me suddenly when I found that you were free – not married as I had thought; that you still loved me, and that you – did not know. I said to myself, let me have the sweetness of her love for one short day, one short day only, and then I will tell her all. Yet I might have let it go on for a while longer, Anne, if it had not been for your own words this afternoon: you would go with me anywhere, at any time, trusting me utterly, loving me as you only can love. Your faith has humiliated me; your unquestioning trust has made me ashamed. And so I have come to tell you the deception, and to tell you also that I love you so that I will no longer trust myself. I do not say that I can not, but that I will not. And I feel the strongest self-reproach of my life that I took advantage of your innocent faith to draw out, even for that short time, the proof which I did not need; for ever since that morning in the garden, Anne, I have known that you loved me. It was that which hurt me in your marriage. But you are so sweet, so dangerously sweet to me, and I – have not been accustomed to deny myself. This is no excuse; I do not offer it as such. But remember what kind of a man I have been; remember that I love you, and – forgive me."

For the first time he now looked at her. Still and white as a snow statue, she met his gaze mutely.

"I can say no more, Anne, unless you tell me you forgive me."

She did not answer. He moved as if to rise and come to her, but she stretched out her hand to keep him back.

"You are too weak," she murmured, hurriedly. "Yes, yes, I forgive you."

"You will wish to know how it all happened," he began again, and his voice showed his increasing exhaustion.

"No; I do not care to hear."

"I will write it, then."

There was a momentary pause; he closed his eyes. The girl, noting, amid her own suffering, the deathly look upon his face, came to his side. "You must go back to the house," she said. "Will my arm be enough? Or shall I call July?"

He looked at her; a light came back into his eyes. "Anne," he whispered, "would not the whole world be well lost to us if we could have but love and each other?"

She returned his gaze. "Yes," she said, "it would – if happiness were all."

"Then you would be happy with me, darling?"

"Yes."

"Alone with me, and – in banishment?"

"In banishment, in disgrace, in poverty, pain, and death," she answered, steadily.

"Then you will go with me, trusting to me only?" He was holding her hands now, and she did not withdraw them.

"No," she answered; "never. If happiness were all, I said. But it is not all. There is something nearer, higher than happiness." She paused. Then rapidly and passionately these words broke from her: "Ward, Ward, you are far more than my life to me. Do not kill me, kill my love for you, my faith in you, by trying to tempt me more. You could not succeed; I tell you plainly you could never succeed; but it is not on that account I speak. It is because it would kill me to lose my belief in you, my love, my only, only love!"

"But I am not so good as you think," murmured Heathcote, leaning his head against her. His hands, still holding hers, were growing cold.

"But you are brave. And you shall be true. Go back to Helen, and try to do what is right, as I also shall try."

"But you – that is different. You do not care."

"Not care!" she repeated, and her voice quivered and broke. "You know that is false."

"It is. Forgive me."

"Promise me that you will go back; promise for my sake, Ward. Light words are often spoken about a broken heart; but I think, if you fail me now, my heart will break indeed."

"What must I do?"

"Go back to Helen – to your life, whatever it is."

"And shall I see you again?"

"No."

"It is too hard, too hard," he whispered, putting his arms round her.

But she unclasped them. "I have your promise?" she said.

"No."

"Then I take it." And lightly touching his forehead with her lips, she turned and was gone.

When July and Diana came to bring back their foolhardy patient, they found him lying on the earth so still and cold that it seemed as if he were dead. That night the fever appeared again. But there was only Diana to nurse him now; Anne was gone.

Farmer Redd acted as guide and escort back to Peterson's Mill; but the pale young nurse would not stop, begging Dr. Flower to send her onward immediately to Number Two. She was so worn and changed that the surgeon feared that fever had already attacked her, and he sent a private note to the surgeon of Number Two, recommending that Miss Douglas should at once be returned to Number One, and, if possible, sent northward to her home. But when Anne arrived at Number One, and saw again the sweet face of Mrs. Barstow, when she felt herself safely surrounded by the old work, she said that she would stay for a few days longer. While her hands were busy, she could think; as she could not sleep, she would watch. She felt that she had now to learn life entirely anew; not only herself, but the very sky, sunshine, and air. The world was altered.

On the seventh morning a letter came; it was from Heathcote, and had been forwarded from Peterson's Mill. She kept it until she had a half-hour to herself, and then, going to the bank of the river, she sat down under the trees and opened it. Slowly; for it might be for good, or it might be for evil; but, in any case, it was her last. She would not allow herself to receive or read another.

It was a long letter, written with pencil upon coarse blue-lined paper. After saying that the fever had disappeared, and that before long he should try to rejoin his regiment, the words went on as follows:

"I said that I would write and tell you all. When you ran away from me last year, I was deeply hurt; I searched for you, but could find no clew. Then I went back eastward, joined the camping party, and after a day or two returned with them to Caryl's. No one suspected where I had been. From Caryl's we all went down to the city together, and the winter began.

"I was, in a certain way, engaged to Helen; yet I was not bound. Nor was she. I liked her: she had known how to adapt herself to me always. But I had never been in any haste; and I wondered sometimes why she held to me, when there were other men, worth more in every way than Ward Heathcote, who admired her as much as I did. But I did not then know that she loved me. I know it now.

"After our return to the city, I never spoke of you; but now and then she mentioned your name of her own accord, and I – listened. She was much surprised that you did not write to her; she knew no more where you were than I did, and hoped every day for a letter; so did I. But you did not write.

"All this time – I do not like to say it, yet it is part of the story – she made herself my slave. There was nothing I could say or do, no matter how arbitrary, to which she did not yield, in which she did not acquiesce. No word concerning marriage was spoken, even our former vague lovers' talk had ceased; for, after you hurt me so deeply, Anne, I had not the heart for it. My temper was anything but pleasant. The winter moved on; I had no plan; I let things take their course. But I always expected to find you in some way, to see you again, until – that marriage notice appeared. I took it to Helen. 'It is Anne, I suppose?' I said. She read it, and answered, 'Yes.' She was deceived, just as I was."

Here Anne put down the letter, and looked off over the river. Helen knew that Tita's name was Angélique, and that the sister's was plain Anne. It was a lie direct. But Heathcote did not know it. "He shall never know through me," she thought, with stern sadness.

The letter went on: "I think she had not suspected me before, Anne – I mean in connection with you: she was always thinking of Rachel. But she did then, and I saw it. I was so cut up about it that I concealed nothing. About a week after that she was thrown from her carriage. They thought she was dying, and sent for me. Miss Teller was in the hall waiting; she took me into the library, and said that the doctors thought Helen might live if they could only rouse her, but that she seemed to be sinking into a stupor. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she said, 'Ward, I know you love her, and she has long loved you. But you have said nothing, and it has worn upon her. Go to her and save her life. You can.'

"She took me into the room, and went out, closing the door. Helen was lying on a couch; I thought she was already dead. But when I bent over her and spoke her name, she opened her eyes, and knew me immediately. I was shocked by her death-like face. It was all so sudden. I had left her the night before, dressed for a ball. She whispered to me to lift her in my arms, so that she might die there; but I was afraid to move her, lest her suffering should increase. She begged with so much earnestness, however, that at last, gently as I could, I lifted and held her. 'I am going to die,' she whispered, 'so I need not care any more, or try. I have always loved you, Ward. I loved you even when I married Richard.' I thought her mind was wandering; and she must have seen that I did, because she spoke again, and this time aloud. 'I am perfectly myself. I tell you that I have always loved you; you shall know it before I die.' Miss Teller said, 'And he loves you also, my darling child; he has told me so. Now, for his sake you will try to recover and be his wife.'

"We were married two days later. The doctors advised it, because when I was not there Helen sank rapidly. I took care of the poor girl for weeks; she ate only from my hand. As she grew stronger, I taught her to walk again, and carried her in my arms up and down stairs. When at last she began to improve, she gained strength rapidly; she is now well, save that she will never be able to walk far or dance. I think she is happy. It seems a feeble thing to say, and yet it is something – I am always kind to Helen.

"As for you – it was all a wild, sudden temptation.

"I will go back to my regiment (as to my being in the army, after that attack on Sumter it seemed to me the only thing to do). I will make no attempt to follow you. In short, I will do – as well as I can. It may not be very well.

W. H."

That was all. Anne, miserable, lonely, broken-hearted, as she was, felt that she had in one way conquered. She leaned her head against the tree trunk, and sat for some time with her eyes closed. Then she tore the letter into fragments, threw them into the river, and watched the slow current bear them away. When the last one had disappeared, she rose and went back to the hospital.

"The clean clothes have been brought in, Miss Douglas," said the surgeon's assistant. "Can you sort them?"

"Yes," she replied. And dull life moved on again.

CHAPTER XXVII

"O Toil, O Loneliness, O Poverty, doing the right makes ye no easier."

The next morning the new nurses, long delayed, sent by the Weston Aid Society, arrived at Number One, and Mary Crane, Mrs. Barstow, and Anne were relieved from duty, and returned to their Northern home. During the journey Anne decided that she must not remain in Weston. It was a hard decision, but it seemed to her inevitable. This man whom she loved knew that her home was there. He had said that he would not follow her; but could she depend upon his promise? Even in saying that he would try to do as well as he could, he had distinctly added that it might "not be very well." She must leave no temptation in his path, or her own. She must put it out of his power to find her, out of hers to meet him. She must go away, leaving no trace behind.

She felt deeply thankful that at the present moment her movements were not cramped by the wants of the children; for if they had been in pressing need, she must have staid – have staid and faced the fear and the danger. Now she could go. But whither? It would be hard to go out into the broad world again, this time more solitary than before. After much thought, she decided to go eastward to the half-house, Jeanne-Armande having given her permission to use it. It would be at least a shelter over her head, and probably old Nora would be glad to come and stay with her. With this little home as background, she hoped to be able to obtain pupils in the city, little girls to whom she could be day governess, giving lessons in music and French. But the pupils: how could she obtain them? Whose influence could she hope for? She could not go to Tante, lest Helen should hear of her presence. At first it seemed as if there were no one; she went over and over in vain her meagre list of friends. Suddenly a remembrance of the little German music-master, who had taught classical music, and hated Belzini, came to her; he was no longer at the Moreau school, and she had his address. He had been especially kind. She summoned her courage and wrote to him. Herr Scheffel's reply came promptly and cordially. "I have your letter received, and I remember you entirely. I know not now all I can promise, as my season of lessons is not yet begun, but two little girls you can have at once for scales, though much they will not pay. But with your voice, honored Fräulein, a place in a church choir is the best, and for that I will do my very best endeavor. But while you make a beginning, honored Fräulein, take my wife and I for friends. Our loaf and our cup, and our hearts too, are all yours."

The little German had liked Anne: this pupil, and this one only, had cheered the dull hours he had spent in the little third-story room, where he, the piano, and the screen had their cramped abode. Anne smiled as she gratefully read his warm-hearted letter, his offer of his cup and his loaf; she could hear him saying it – his "gup" and his "loave," and "two liddle girls for sgales, though moche they will not bay." She had written to old Nora also, and the answer (a niece acting as scribe) declared, with Hibernian effusiveness, and a curious assemblage of negatives, that she would be glad to return to the half-house on Jeanne-Armande's old terms, namely, her living, but no wages. She did not add that, owing to rheumatism, she was unable to obtain work where she was; she left Anne to find that out for herself. But even old Nora, bandaged in red flannel, her gait reduced to a limp, was a companion worth having when one is companionless. During the interval, Anne had received several letters from Miss Lois. Little André was better, but the doctors advised that he should remain where he was through the winter. Miss Lois wrote that she was willing to remain, in the hope of benefit to the suffering boy, and how great a concession this was from the careful housekeeper and home-lover only Anne could know. (But she did not know how close the child had grown to Miss Lois's heart.) This new plan would prevent their coming to Weston at present. Thankful now for what would have been, under other circumstances, a great disappointment, Anne resigned her position in the Weston school, and went away, at the last suddenly, and evading all inquiries. Mrs. Green was absent, the woman in temporary charge of the lodgings was not curious, and the lonely young teacher was able to carry out her design. She left Weston alone in the cold dawn of a dark morning, her face turned eastward.

It was a courageous journey; only Herr Scheffel to rely upon, and the great stony-hearted city to encounter in the hard struggle for daily bread. Yet she felt that she must not linger in Weston; and she felt, too, that she must not add herself to Miss Lois's cares, but rather make a strong effort to secure a new position as soon as possible, in order to send money to André. She thought that she would be safely hidden at the half-house. Heathcote knew that Jeanne-Armande was in Europe, and therefore he would not think of her in connection with Lancaster, but would suppose that she was still in Weston, or, if not there, then at home on her Northern island. In addition, one is never so well hidden as in the crowds of a large city. But when she saw the spires, as the train swept over the salt marshes, her heart began to beat: the blur of roofs seemed so vast, and herself so small and alone! But she made the transit safely, and drove up to the door of the half-house in the red wagon, with Li as driver, at sunset. A figure was sitting on the steps outside, with a large bundle at its feet; it was Nora. Anne opened the door with Jeanne-Armande's key, and they entered together.

"Oh, wirra, wirra! Miss Douglas dear, and did ye know she'd taken out all the furrrniture? Sure the ould shell is impty." It was true, and drearily unexpected.

Jeanne-Armande, finding time to make a flying visit to her country residence the day before she sailed, had been seized with the sudden suspicion that certain articles were missing, notably a green wooden pail and a window-curtain. The young priest, who had met her there by appointment, and opened the door for her with his key (what mazes of roundabout ways homeward, in order to divert suspicion, Jeanne-Armande required of him that day!), was of the opinion that she was mistaken. But no; Jeanne-Armande was never mistaken. She knew just where she had left that pail, and as for the pattern of the flowers upon that curtain, she knew every petal. Haunted by a vision of the abstraction of all her household furniture, piece by piece, during her long absence – tables, chairs, pans, and candle-sticks following each other through back windows, moved by invisible hands – she was seized with an inspiration on the spot: she would sell off all her furniture by public sale that very hour, and leave only an empty house behind her. She knew that she was considered a mystery in the neighborhood; probably, then, people would come to a Mystery's sale, and pay good prices for a Mystery's furniture. Of one thing she was certain – no buyer in that region knew how to buy for prices as low as she herself had paid. Her method of buying was genius. In five minutes a boy and a bell were secured, in half an hour the whole neighborhood had heard the announcement, and, as mademoiselle had anticipated, flocked to the sale. She attended to all negotiations in person, still in her rôle of a Mystery, and sailed for Europe the next day in triumph, having in her pocket nearly twice the sum she had originally expended. She did not once think of Anne in connection with this. Although she had given her authority to use the half-house, and had intrusted to her care her own key, it seemed almost impossible that the young girl would wish to use it. For was she not admirably established at Weston, with all the advantages of mademoiselle's own name and position behind her?

And thus it was that only bare walls met Anne's eyes as, followed by Nora, she went from room to room, asking herself silently what she should do in this new emergency that confronted her. One door they found locked; it was the door of the store-room: there must, then, be something within. Li was summoned to break the lock, and nothing loath, he broke it so well that it was useless from that hour. Yes, here was something – the unsold articles, carefully placed in order. A chair, a kitchen table, an iron tea-kettle with a hole in it, and two straw beds – the covers hanging on nails, and the straw tied in bundles beneath; there was also a collection of wooden boxes, which mademoiselle had endeavored, but without success, to dispose of as "old, superior, and well-seasoned kindling-wood." It was a meagre supply of furniture with which to begin housekeeping, a collection conspicuous for what it lacked. But Anne, summoning courage, directed Li to carry down stairs all the articles, such as they were, while she cheered old Nora with the promise to buy whatever was necessary, and asked her to unpack the few supplies she had herself purchased on her way through the city. The kitchen stove was gone; but there was a fire-place, and Li made a bright fire with some of the superior kindling-wood, mended the kettle, filled it, and hung it over the crackling flame. The boy enjoyed it all greatly. He stuffed the cases with straw, and dragged them down stairs, he brought down the chair and table, and piled up boxes for a second seat, he pinned up Anne's shawl for a curtain, and then volunteered to go to the store for whatever was necessary, insisting, however, upon the strict allowance of two spoons, two plates, and two cups only. It was all like Robinson Crusoe and The Swiss Family Robinson, and more than two would infringe upon the severe paucity required by those admirable narratives. When he returned with his burden, he affably offered to remain and take supper with them; in truth, it was difficult to leave such a fascinating scene as two straw beds on the floor, and a kettle swinging over a hearth fire, like a gypsy camp – at least as Li imagined it, for that essence of vagrant romanticism is absent from American life, the so-called gypsies always turning out impostors, with neither donkeys, tents, nor camp fires, and instead of the ancient and mysterious language described by Borrow, using generally the well-known and unpoetical dialect that belongs to modern and Americanized Erin. At last, however, Li departed; Anne fastened the door. Old Nora was soon asleep on the straw, but not her young mistress, in whose mind figures, added together and set opposite each other, were inscribing themselves like letters of fire on a black wall. She had not expected any such outlay as would now be required, and the money she had brought with her would not admit it. At last, troubled and despairing, she rose from her hard couch, went to the window, and looked out. Overhead the stars were serenely shining; her mind went back to the little window of her room in the old Agency. These were the same stars; God was the same God; would He not show her a way? Quieted, she returned to her straw, and soon fell asleep.

In the morning they had a gypsy breakfast. The sun shone brightly, and even in the empty rooms the young day looked hopeful. The mistress of the house went in to the city on the morning train, and in spite of all lacks, in spite of all her trouble and care, it was a beautiful girl who entered the train at Lancaster station, and caused for a moment the chronically tired business men to forget their damp-smelling morning papers as they looked at her. For Anne was constantly growing more beautiful; nothing had had power as yet to arrest the strong course of nature. Sorrow had but added a more ripened charm, since now the old child-like openness was gone, and in its place was a knowledge of the depth and the richness and the pain of life, and a reticence. The open page had been written upon, and turned down. Riding on toward the city, she was, however, as unconscious of any observation she attracted as if she had been a girl of marble. Hers was not one of those natures which can follow at a time but one idea; yet something of the intensity which such natures have – the nature of all enthusiasts and partisans – was hers, owing to the strength of the few feelings which absorbed her. For the thousand-and-one changing interests, fancies, and impulses which actuate most young girls there was in her heart no room. It was not that she thought and imagined less, but that she loved more.

Herr Scheffel received her in his small parlor. It was over the shop of a musical instrument maker, a German also. Anne looked into his small show-window while she was waiting for the street door to be opened, noted the great brass tubes disposed diagonally, the accordions in a rampart, the pavement of little music-boxes with views of Switzerland on their lids, and the violins in apotheosis above. Behind the inner glass she saw the instrument maker himself dusting a tambourine. She imagined him playing on it all alone on rainy evenings for company, with the other instruments looking on in a friendly way. Here Herr Scheffel's cheery wife opened the door, and upon learning the name, welcomed her visitor heartily, and ushered her up the narrow stairway.