Woolson Constance Fenimore
Anne: A Novel

He installed himself in one of the new arm-chairs (looking, it must be confessed, much more comfortable than before), and began to talk in a fluent general way, approaching no topics that were personal. Meanwhile old Nora, hearing from Li that the benefactor of the household was present, appeared, strong in the new richness of her store-room, at the door, and dropping a courtesy, wished to know at what hour it would please him to dine. She said "your honor"; she had almost said "your highness." Her homage was so sincere that Anne smiled, and Dexter laughed outright.

"You see I am expected to stay, whether you wish it or not," he said. "Do let me; it shall be for the last time." Then turning to Nora, he said, "At four." And with another reverence, the old woman withdrew.

"It is a viciously disagreeable afternoon. You would not, I think, have the heart to turn out even a dog," he continued, leaning back at ease, and looking at his hostess, his eyes shining with amusement: he was reading her objections, and triumphing over them. Then, as he saw her soberness deepen, he grew grave immediately. "I am staying to-day because I wish to talk with you, Anne," he said. "I shall not come again. I know as well as you do, of course, that you can not receive me while you have no better chaperon than Nora." He paused, looking at her downcast face. "You do not like what I have done?"

"No."

"Why?"

"You have loaded me with too heavy an obligation."

"Any other reason?"

"I can never repay you."

"In addition?"

"It is not right that you should treat me as though I were a child."

"I knew you would object, and strongly; yet I hope to bring you over yet to my view of the case," said Dexter. "You say that I have placed you under too heavy an obligation. But pray consider what a slight affair the little gift seems to me. The house is very small; I have spent but a few hundreds; in all, with the exception of the shawl and furs, not much over five. What is that to an income like mine? You say you can never repay me. You repay me by accepting. It seems to me a noble quality to accept, simply and generously accept; and I have believed that yours was a noble nature. Accept, then, generously what it is such a pleasure to me to give. On my own side, I say this: the woman Gregory Dexter once asked to be his wife shall not suffer from want while Gregory Dexter lives, and knows where to find her. This has nothing to do with you; it is my side of the subject."

He spoke with much feeling. Anne looked at him. Then she rose, and with quiet dignity gave him, as he rose also, her hand. He understood the silent little action. "You have answered my expectation," he said, and the subject was at an end forever.

After dinner, in the twilight, he spoke again. "You said, an hour or two ago, that I had treated you as though you were a child. It is true; for you were a child at Caryl's, and I remembered you as you were then. But you are much changed; looking at you now, it is impossible that I should ever think of you in the same way again."

She made no reply.

"Can you tell me nothing of yourself, of your personal life since we parted? Your engagement, for instance?"

"It is ended. Mr. Pronando is married; he married my sister. You did not see the notice?" (Anne's thoughts were back in the West Virginia farm-house now with the folded slip of newspaper.)

"No; I was in the far West until April. I did not come eastward until the war broke out. Then you are free, Anne? Do not be afraid to tell me; I remember every word you said in Miss Vanhorn's little red parlor, and I shall not repeat my mistake. You are, then, free?"

"I can not answer you."

"Then I will not ask; it all belongs to the one subject, I suppose. The only part intrusted to me – the secret of your being here – I will religiously guard. As to your present life – you would rather let this Herr Scheffel continue looking for a place for you?"

"Yes."

"I will not interfere. But I shall write to you now and then, and you must answer. If at the end of a month you have not obtained this position you are hoping for – in a church choir, is it not? – you must let me know. Will you promise?"

"I promise."

"And bear in mind this: you shall never be left friendless again while I am on earth to protect you."

"But I have no right to – "

"Yes, you have; you have been more to me than you know." Here he paused, and looked away as if debating with himself. "I have always intended that you should know it some time," he continued; "perhaps this is as good a time as any. Will you listen?"

"Yes."

He settled himself anew in his chair, meditated a moment, and then, with all his natural fluency, which nothing could abate, with the self-absorption which men of his temperament always show when speaking of themselves, and yet with a certain guarded look at Anne too all the while, as if curious to see how she would take his words, he began:

"You know what my life has been – that is, generally. What I wish to tell you now is an inner phase. When, at the beginning of middle age, at last I had gained the wealth I always intended to have, I decided that I would marry. I wished to have a home. Of course, during all those toiling years, I had not been without what are called love affairs, but I was far too intensely absorbed in my own purposes to spend much time upon them. Besides, I had preserved an ideal.

"I do not intend to conceal or deny that I am ambitious: I made a deliberate effort to gain admittance into what is called the best society in the Eastern cities, and in a measure I succeeded. I enjoyed the life; it was another world; but still, wherever I went it seemed to me that the women were artificial. Beautiful, attractive, women I could not help admiring, but – not like my ideal of what my wife must be. They would never make for me that home I coveted; for while I stood ready to surround that home with luxury, in its centre I wanted, for myself alone, a true and loving heart, a heart absorbed in me. And then, while I knew that I wanted this, while I still cherished my old ideal closely, what did I do? I began to love Rachel Bannert!

"You look at me; you do not understand why I speak in that tone. It is as well that you should not. I can only say that I worshipped her. It was not her fault that I began to love her, but it was her fault that I was borne on so far; for she made me believe that she loved me; she gave me the privileges of a lover. I never doubted (how could I?) that she would be my wife in the end, although, for reasons of her own, she wished to keep the engagement, for the time being, a secret. I submitted, because I loved her. And then, when I was helpless, because I was so sure of her, she turned upon me and cast me off. Like a worn-out glove!

"Anne, I could not believe it. We were in the ravine; she had strolled off in that direction, as though by chance, and I had followed her. I asked her what she meant: no doubt I looked like a dolt. She laughed in my face. It seemed that she had only been amusing herself; that she had never had any intention of marrying me; a 'comedy of the summer.' But no one laughs in my face twice – not even a woman. When, at last, I understood her, my infatuation vanished; and I said some words to her that night which I think she will not soon forget. Then I turned and left.

"Remember that this was no boy whose feelings she had played with, whose respect she had forfeited; it was a man, and one who had expected to find in this Eastern society a perfection of delicacy and refinement not elsewhere seen. I scorned myself for having loved her, and for the moment I scorned all women too. Then it was, Anne, that the thought of you saved me. I said to myself that if you would be my wife, I could be happy with your fresh sincerity, and not sink into that unbelieving, disagreeable cynicism which I had always despised in other men. Acting on the impulse, I asked you.

"I did not love you, save as all right-minded men love and admire a sweet young girl; but I believed in you; there was something about you that aroused trust and confidence. Besides – I tell you this frankly – I thought I should succeed. I certainly did not want to be repulsed twice in one day. I see now that I was misled by Miss Vanhorn. But I did not see it then, and when I spoke to you, I fully expected that you would answer yes.

"You answered no, Anne, but you still saved me. I still believed in you. And more than ever after that last interview. I went away from Caryl's early the next morning, and two days later started for the West. I was hurt through and through, angry with myself, disgusted with life. I wanted to breathe again the freedom of the border. Yet through it all your memory was with me as that of one true, pure, steadfast woman-heart which compelled me to believe in goodness and steadfastness as possibilities in women, although I myself had been so blindly befooled. This is what you, although unconsciously, have done for me: it is an inestimable service.

"I was not much moved from my disgust until something occurred which swept me out of myself – I mean the breaking out of the war. I had not believed in its possibility; but when the first gun was fired, I started eastward at an hour's notice." Here Dexter rose, and with folded arms walked to and fro across the floor. "The class of people you met at Caryl's used to smile and shrug their shoulders over what is called patriotism – I think they are smiling no longer." – (Here Anne remembered "After that attack on Fort Sumter, it seemed to me the only thing to do") "but the tidings of that first gun stirred something in my breast which is, I suppose, what that word means. As soon as I reached Pennsylvania, I went up to the district where my mines are, gathered together and equipped all the volunteers who would go. I have been doing similar work on a larger scale ever since. I should long ago have been at the front in person were it not that the Governor requires my presence at home, and I am well aware also that I am worth twenty times more in matters of organization than I should be simply as one more man in the field."

This was true. Gregory Dexter's remarkable business powers and energy, together with his wealth, force, and lavish liberality, made him the strong arm of his State throughout the entire war.

He asked for no comment upon his story; he had told it briefly as a series of facts. But from it he hoped that the listener would draw a feeling which would make her rest content under his friendly aid. And he succeeded.

But before he went away she told him that while accepting all the house contained, she would rather return those of his gifts which had been personal to herself.

"Why?"

"I would rather do it, but I do not know how to explain the feeling," she answered, frankly, although her face was one bright blush.

"If you do not, I do," said Dexter, smiling, and looking at her with the beginnings of a new interest in his eyes. "As you please, of course, although I did try to buy a good shawl for you, Anne. Are you not very poorly dressed?"

"Plainly and inexpensively. Quite warmly, however."

"But what am I to do with the things? I will tell you what I shall do: I shall keep them just as they are, in the cedar box. Perhaps some day you will accept them."

She shook her head. But he only smiled back in answer, and soon afterward he went away.

The next day she sent the cedar case to his city address. She wrote a note to accompany it, and then destroyed it. Why should she write? All had been said.

Before the month was quite ended, Herr Scheffel succeeded in obtaining for her a place in another church choir. It was a small church, and the salary was not large, but she was glad to accept it, and more than glad to be able to write to Mr. Dexter that she had accepted it. New pupils came with the new year; she was again able to send money to Miss Lois, for the household supplies, so lavishly provided, were sufficient for the little family throughout the winter.

In February, being again in New York, Dexter came out to see her. It was a wild evening; the wind whistled round the house, and blew the hail and sleet against the panes. Most persons would have remained in the city; but after one look at Dexter's face and figure, no one ever spoke to him about the weather. Anne had received a long letter from Jeanne-Armande; she showed it to him. Also one from Père Michaux. "I feel now," she said, "almost as though you were my – "

"Please do not say father."

"Oh no."

"Brother, then?"

"Hardly that."

"Uncle?"

"Perhaps; I never had an uncle. But, after all, it is more like – " Here she stopped again.

"Guardian?" suggested Dexter; "they are always remarkable persons, at least in books. Never mind the name, Anne; I am content to be simply your friend."

During the evening he made one allusion to the forbidden subject. "You asked me to tell you nothing regarding the people who were at Caryl's, but perhaps the prohibition was not eternal. I spent an hour with Mrs. Heathcote this afternoon (never fear; I kept your secret). Would you not like to hear something of her?"

Anne's face changed, but she did not swerve. "No; tell me nothing," she answered. And he obeyed her wish. In a short time he took leave, and returned to the city. During the remainder of the winter she did not see him again.

CHAPTER XXIX

"The fierce old fires of primitive ages are not dead yet, although we pretend they are. Every now and then each man of us is confronted by a gleam of the old wild light deep down in his own startled heart."

In the middle of wild, snowy March there came a strange week of beautiful days. On the Sunday of this week Anne was in her place in the choir, as usual, some time before the service began.

It was a compromise choir. The dispute between the ideas of the rector and those of the congregation had been ended by bringing the organ forward to the corner near the chancel, and placing in front of it the singers' seats, ornamented with the proper devices: so much was done for the rector. To balance this, and in deference to the congregation, the old quartette of voices was retained, and placed in these seats, which, plainly intended for ten or twelve surpliced choristers, were all too long and broad for the four persons who alone occupied them. The singers sat in one, and kept their music-books in the other, and objecting to the open publicity of their position facing the congregation, they had demanded, and at last succeeded in obtaining (to the despair of the rector), red curtains, which, hanging from the high railing above, modestly concealed them when they were seated, and converted that corner of the church into something between a booth in a fair and a circus tent.

Before the service began, while the people were coming in, the contralto pushed aside a corner of the curtain as usual, and peeped out. She then reported to Anne in a whisper the course of events, as follows, Anne not caring to hear, but quiescent:

"Loads of people to-day. Wonder why? Oh yes, I remember now; the apostolic bishop's going to be here, and preach about the Indians. Don't you love that man? I do; and I wish I was an Indian myself. We'll have all the curtains put back for the sermon. More people coming. I declare it's quite exciting. And I forgot gum-drops on this day of all others, and shall probably be hoarse as a crow, and spoil the duet! I hope you won't be raging. Oh, do look! Here's such a swell! A lady; Paris clothes from head to foot. And she's going to sit up here near us too. Take a look?" But Anne declined, and the reporter went on. "She has the lightest hair I ever saw. I wonder if it's bleached? And she's as slender as a paper-cutter." (The contralto was stout.) "But I can't deny that she's handsome, and her clothes are stunning. They're right close to us now, and the man's awfully handsome too, come to look at him – her husband, I suppose. A pair of brown eyes and such heavy eyebrows! They – "

But the soprano was curious at last, apparently, and the contralto good-naturedly gave up her look-out corner. Yes, there they were, Helen and Ward Heathcote, Mrs. Heathcote and her husband, Captain Heathcote and his wife. Very near her, and unconscious of her presence. Hungrily, and for one long moment, she could not help looking at them. As the light-tongued girl had said, Helen looked very beautiful, more beautiful than ever, Anne thought. She was clad in black velvet from head to foot, and as the day was unexpectedly warm, she had thrown aside her heavy mantle edged with fur, and her slender form was visible, outlined in the clinging fabric. Under the small black velvet bonnet with its single plume her hair, in all its fine abundance, shone resplendent, contrasting with the velvet's richness. One little delicately gloved hand held a prayer-book, and with the other, as Anne looked, she motioned to her husband. He drew nearer, and she spoke. In answer he sought in his pockets, and drew forth a fan. She extended her hand as if to take it, but he opened it himself, and began to fan her quietly. The heat in the church was oppressive; his wife was delicate; what more natural than that he should do this? Yet the gazer felt herself acutely miserable. She knew Helen so well also that although to the rest of the congregation the fair face preserved unchanged its proud immobility, Anne's eyes could read at once the wife's happiness in her husband's attention.

She drew back. "I can not sing to-day," she said, hurriedly; "I am not well. Will you please make my excuses to the others?" As she spoke she drew on her gloves. (She had a fancy that she could not sing with her hands gloved.)

"Why, what in the world – " began the contralto. "But you do look frightfully pale. Are you going to faint? Let me go with you."

"I shall not faint, but I must get to the open air as soon as possible. Please stay and tell the others; perhaps Miss Freeborn will sing in my place."

Having succeeded in saying this, her white cheeks and trembling hands witnesses for her, she went out through the little choir door, which was concealed by the curtain, and in another moment was in the street. The organist, hidden in his oaken cell, looked after her in surprise. When the basso came in, with a flower in his mouth, he took the flower out, and grew severely thoughtful over the exigencies of the situation. After a few minutes of hurried discussion, the basso, who was also the leader, came forth from the circus tent and made a majestic progress to the rector's pew, where sat the lily-like Miss Freeborn, the rector's daughter; and then, after another consultation, she rose, and the two made a second majestic progress back to the circus tent, the congregation meanwhile looking on with much interest. When the tenor came, a rather dissipated youth who had been up late the night before, he was appalled by the presence of the lily-like Miss Freeborn, and did not sing as well as usual, Miss Freeborn, although lily-like, keeping him sternly to his notes, and not allowing him any of those lingering little descents after the other singers have finished, upon which he, like many tenors, relied for his principal effects.

Meanwhile Anne was walking rapidly down the street; a mile soon lay between her and the church, yet still she hastened onward. She was in a fever, yet a chill as well. Now she was warm with joy, now cold with grief. She had seen him. Her eyes had rested upon his face at last, and he was safe, he was well and strong again. Was not this joy enough?

And yet he was with Helen. And Helen loved him.

She had asked him to go back to Helen. He had gone back. She had asked him to do his part in life bravely. And he was doing it. Was not this what she wished?

And yet – was it so hard to go back – to go back to beautiful Helen who loved him so deeply? Did his part in life require bravery? Did he look as though it was a sacrifice, a hardship? And here she tried to recall how in truth he had looked – how, to the eyes of a stranger. He was strong again and vigorous; but beyond that she could think only of how he looked to her – the face she knew so well, the profile, the short crisp hair, the heavy eyebrows and brown eyes. He was in citizen's dress; only the bronzed skin and erect bearing betrayed the soldier. How he would have looked to a stranger she could not tell; she only knew, she only felt, how he looked to her. "He is at home on furlough," she thought, with gladness, realizing the great joy it was that he should be safe when so many had been taken. And then, in her memory, blotting out all gladness, rose again the picture of the two figures, side by side, and she hurried onward, she knew not whither. It was jealousy, plain, simple, unconquerable jealousy, which was consuming her; jealousy, terrible passion which the most refined and intellectual share with the poor Hottentots, from which the Christian can not escape any more than the pagan; jealousy, horrible companion of love, its guardian and tormentor. God help the jealous! for they suffer the acutest tortures the human mind can feel. And Anne was jealous.

If she had not admired Helen so deeply, and loved her (save for this one barrier) so sincerely, she would not have suffered as she was suffering. But to her Helen had always been the fairest woman on earth, and even now this feeling could not be changed. All Helen's words came back to her, every syllable of her clear, quietly but intensely uttered avowal; and this man, whom she had loved so deeply, was now her husband.

It was nothing new. Why should she feel it, think of it, in this way? But she was no longer capable of thinking or feeling reasonably. Of course he loved her. In his mind she, Anne, was probably but a far-off remembrance, even if a remembrance at all. Their meeting in West Virginia had been a chance encounter; its impulses, therefore, had been chance impulses, its words chance words, meaning nothing, already forgotten. She, Anne, had taken them as great, and serious, and sincere; and she, Anne, had been a fool. Her life had been built upon this idea. It was a foundation of sand.

She walked on, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Where were now the resignation and self-sacrifice, the crowned patience and noble fortitude? Ah, yes, but resignation and fortitude were one thing when she had thought that he required them also, another when they were replaced in his life by happiness and content. It is easy to be self-sacrificing when the one we love suffers in companionship with us, and there is no rival. But when there is a rival, self-sacrifice goes to the winds. "He never loved me," was the burning cry of her heart. "I have been a fool – a poor self-absorbed, blinded fool. If he thinks of me at all, it is with a smile over my simple credulity."

Through miles of streets she wandered, and at last found herself again in the quarter where the church stood. A sudden desire seized her to look at him, at them, again. If the service had been long, she would be in time to see their carriage pass. She turned, and hastened toward the church, as anxious now to reach it as she had been before to leave it far behind. Now she could see the corner and the porch. No, service was not ended; carriages were waiting without. She was in time. But as she drew near, figures began to appear, coming from the porch, and she took refuge under the steps of a house opposite, her figure hidden in the shadow.

The congregation slowly made its dignified way into the street. St. Lucien's had seldom held so large a throng of worshippers. The little sexton hardly knew, in his excitement, where he was, or what his duty, on such a momentous occasion. At length they appeared, the last of all; only one carriage was left, and that was their own. Slowly, leaning on her husband's arm, the slender fair-haired woman came forth; and Anne, still as a statue, watched with fixed, burning eyes while he threw the velvet cloak round her as they reached the open air, and fastened the clasp. Chance favored the gazer. Helen had left her prayer-book behind in the pew, and while the sexton went back to look for it, husband and wife stood waiting on the steps in the sunshine. Yes, Heathcote had regained all his old vigor, but his expression was changed. He was graver; in repose his face was stern.

It seemed as if Helen felt the fixed although unseen gaze, for she shivered slightly, said something, and they began to go down the steps, the wife supported by her husband's arm as though she needed the assistance. The footman held open the carriage door, but Helen paused. Anne could see her slender foot, in its little winter boot, put out, and then withdrawn, as though she felt herself unable to take the step. Then her husband lifted her in his arms and placed her in the carriage himself, took his place beside her, and the man closed the door. In another minute the sexton had brought the prayer-book, and the carriage rolled away. Anne came out from her hiding-place. The vision was gone.

Again she walked at random through the streets, unheeding where she was. She knew that she had broken her compact with herself – broken it utterly. Of what avail now the long months during which she had not allowed herself to enter the street or the neighborhood where Helen lived? Of what avail that she had not allowed herself to listen to one word concerning them when Mr. Dexter stood ready to tell all? She had looked at them – looked at them voluntarily and long; had gone back to the church door to look at them, to look again at the face for a sight of which her whole heart hungered.

She had broken her vow. In addition, the mist over her blind eyes was dissolved. He had never loved her; it had been but a passing fancy. It was best so. Yet, oh, how easy all the past now seemed, in spite of its loneliness, toil, and care! For then she had believed that she was loved. She began to realize that until this moment she had never really given up her own will at all, but had held on through all to this inward belief, which had made her lonely life warm with its hidden secret light. She had thought herself noble, and she had been but selfish; she had thought herself self-controlled, and she had been following her own will; she had thought herself humble, and here she was, maddened by humiliated jealous pride.

At last, worn out with weariness, she went homeward to the half-house as twilight fell. In the morning the ground was white with snow again, and the tumultuous winds of March were careering through the sky, whipping the sleet and hail before them as they flew along; the strange halcyon sunshine was gone, and a second winter upon them. And Anne felt that a winter such as she had never known before was in her heart also.