CHAPTER XIII.
"So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kinds of arguments and questions deep."
--SHAKSPEARE.
"What is the use of so much talking? Is not this wild rose sweet without a comment?"--HAZLITT.
Early the next morning Miss Vanhorn, accompanied by her niece, drove offon an all-day botanizing expedition. Miss Vanhorn understood the worthof being missed. At sunset she returned; and the girl she brought backwith her was on the verge of despair. For the old woman had spent thehours in making her doubt herself in every possible way, besidescovering her with ridicule concerning the occurrences of the day before.It was late when they entered the old ball-room, Anne looking newlyyouthful and painfully shy; as they crossed the floor she did not raiseher eyes. Dexter was dancing with Rachel, whose soft arms were visibleunder her black gauze, encircled with bands of old gold. Anne wasdressed in a thick white linen fabric (Miss Vanhorn having herselfselected the dress and ordered her to wear it), and appeared more like aschool-girl than ever. Miss Vanhorn, raising her eye-glass, had selectedher position on entering, like a general on the field: Anne was placednext to Isabel on the wooden bench that ran round the room. Andimmediately Miss Varce seemed to have grown suddenly old. In addition,her blonde beauty was now seen to be heightened by art. Isabel herselfdid not dream of this. Hardly any woman, whose toilet is a study, cancomprehend beauty in unattractive unfashionable attire. So she kept herseat unconsciously, sure of her Paris draperies, while the superb youthof Anne, heightened by the simplicity of the garb she wore, reduced theother woman, at least in the eyes of all the men present, to thetemporary rank of a faded wax doll.
Dexter soon came up and asked Anne to dance. She replied, in a low voiceand without looking up, that she would rather not; her arm was stillpainful.
"Go," said Miss Vanhorn, overhearing, "and do not be absurd about yourarm. I dare say Miss Morle's aches quite as badly." She was almostalways severe with her niece in Dexter's presence: could it have beenthat she wished to excite his sympathy?
Anne rose in silence; they did not dance, but, after walking up and downthe room once or twice, went out on the piazza. The windows were open:it was the custom to sit here and look through at the dancers within.They sat down near a window.
"I have not had an opportunity until now, Miss Douglas, to tell you howdeeply I have admired your wonderful courage," began Dexter.
"Oh, pray do not speak of it," said Anne, with intense embarrassment.For Miss Vanhorn had harried her niece so successfully during the longday, that the girl really believed that she had overstepped not only theedge of the cliff, but the limits of modesty as well.
"But I must," said Dexter. "In the life I have lived, Miss Douglas, Ihave seen women of all classes, and several times have been with womenin moments of peril--on the plains during an Indian attack, at the minesafter an explosion, and once on a sinking steamer. Only one showedanything like your quick courage of yesterday, and she was a mother whoshowed it for her child. You did your brave deed for a stranger; and youseem, to my eyes at least, hardly more than a child yourself. It is butanother proof of the innate nobility of our human nature, and I, anenthusiast in such matters, beg you to let me personally thank you forthe privilege of seeing your noble act." He put out his hand, took hers,and pressed it cordially.
It was a set speech, perhaps--Dexter made set speeches; but it wascordial and sincere. Anne, much comforted by this view of her impulsiveaction, looked at him with thankfulness. This was different from MissVanhorn's idea of it; different and better.
"I once helped one of my little brothers, who had fallen over a cliff,in much the same way," she said, with a little sigh of relief. "I amglad you think it was excusable."
"Excusable? It was superb," said Dexter. "And permit me to add, too,that I am a better judge of heroism than the people here, who belong,most of them, to a small, prejudiced, and I might say ignorant, class.They have no more idea of heroism, of anything broad and liberal, or ofthe country at large, than so many canary-birds born and bred in a cage.They ridicule the mere idea of being in earnest about anything in thisridiculous world. Yet the world is not so ridiculous as they think, andearnestness carries with it a tremendous weight sometimes. All the greatdeeds of which we have record have been done by earnest beliefs andearnest enthusiasms, even though mistaken ones. It is easy enough, bycarefully abstaining from doing anything one's self, to maintain theposition of ridiculing the attempts of others; but it is more thanprobable--in fact it is almost certain--that those very persons whoridicule and criticise could not themselves do the very least of thosedeeds, attain the very lowest of those successes, which afford them somuch entertainment in others."
So spoke Dexter; and not without a tinge of bitterness, which hedisguised as scorn. A little of the indifference to outside opinionwhich characterized the very class of whom he spoke would have made hima contented, as he already was a successful, man. But there was asurface of personal vanity over his better qualities which led him todesire a tribute of universal liking; and this is the tribute the classreferred to always refuses--to the person who appears to seek it.
"But, in spite of ridicule, self-sacrifice is still heroic, faith in ourhumanity still beautiful, and courage still dear, to all hearts thathave true nobility," he continued. Then it struck him that he wasgeneralizing too much, feminine minds always preferring a personalapplication. "I would rather have a girl who was brave and truthful formy wife than the most beautiful woman on earth," he said, with thequick, sudden utterance he used when he wished to appear impulsive.
"But beautiful women can be truthful too," said Anne, viewing thesubject impartially, with no realization of any application to herself.
"Can, but rarely are. I have, however, known--that is, I think I nowknow--_one_," he added, with quiet emphasis, coming round on anothertack.
"I hope you do," said Anne; "and more than one. Else your acquaintancemust be limited." As she spoke, the music sounded forth within, andforgetting the subject altogether, she turned with girlish interest towatch the dancers.
Dexter almost laughed aloud to himself in his shadowed corner, she wasso unconscious. He had not thought her beautiful, save for theperfection of her youthful bloom; but now he suddenly began to discoverthe purity of her profile, and the graceful shape of her head, outlinedagainst the lighted window. His taste, however, was not for youthfulsimplicity; he preferred beauty more ripened, and heightened by art.Having lived among the Indians in reality, the true children of nature,he had none of those dreams of ideal perfection in a brown skin and inthe wilderness which haunt the eyes of dwellers in cities, and misleadeven the artist. To him Rachel in her black floating laces, and HelenLorrington in her shimmering silks, were far more beautiful than anIndian girl in her calico skirt could possibly be. But--Anne wascertainly very fair and sweet.
"Of what were you thinking, Miss Douglas, during the minutes you hungsuspended over that abyss?" he asked, moving so that he could rest hishead on his hand, and thus look at her more steadily.
Anne turned. For she always looked directly at the person who spoke toher, having none of those side glances, tableaux of sweeping eyelashes,and willful little motions which belong to most pretty girls. Sheturned. And now Dexter was surprised to see how she was blushing, sodeeply and slowly that it must have been physically painful.
"She is beginning to be conscious of my manner at last," he said tohimself, with self-gratulation. Then he added, in a lower voice, "_I_was thinking only of you; and what a brutal sacrifice it would be ifyour life should be given for that other!"
"Valeria is a good girl, I think," said Anne, recovering herself, andanswering as impersonally as though he had neither lowered his voice northrown any intensity into his eyes. "However, none of the ladies hereapproach Helen--Mrs. Lorrington; and I am sure _you_ agree with me inthinking so, Mr. Dexter."
"You are loyal to your friend."
"No one has been so kind to me; I both love her and war
mly admire her.How I hope she may come soon! And when she does, as I can not helploving to be with her, I suppose I shall see a great deal more of_you_," said the girl, smiling, and in her own mind addressing thelong-devoted Knight-errant.
"Shall you?" thought Dexter, not a little piqued by her readiness toyield him even to her friend. "I will see that you do not long continuequite so indifferent," he added to himself, with determination. Then, inpursuance of this, he decided to go in and dance with some one else;that should be a first step.
"I believe I am engaged to Mrs. Bannert for the next dance," he said,regretfully. "Shall I take you in?"
"No; please let me stay here a while. My arm really aches dully all thetime, and the fresh air is pleasant."
"And if Miss Vanhorn should ask?"
"Tell her where I am."
"I will," answered Dexter. And he fully intended to do it in any case.He liked, when she was not with him, to have Anne safely under hergrandaunt's watchful vigilance, not exactly with the spirit of the dogin the manger, but something like it. He was conscious, also, that hepossessed the chaperon's especial favor, and he did not intend toforfeit it; he wished to use it for his own purposes.
But Rachel marred his intention by crossing it with one of her own.
Dexter admired Mrs. Bannert. He could not help it. When she took hisarm, he was for the time being hers. She knew this, and being piqued bysome neglect of Heathcote's, she met the other man at the door, and madehim think, without saying it, that she wished to be with him awhile onthe moon-lit piazza; for Heathcote was there. Dexter obeyed. And thus ithappened that Miss Vanhorn was not told at all; but supposing that herniece was still with the escort she had herself selected, thefine-looking owner of mines and mills, the future Senator, the "type ofAmerican success," she rested mistakenly content, and spent the timeagreeably in making old Mrs. Bannert's life a temporary fever byrelating to her in detail some old buried scandals respecting thedeparted Bannert, pretending to have forgotten entirely the chiefactor's name.
In the mean while Heathcote, sauntering along the piazza in his turn,came upon Anne sitting alone by the window, and dropped into the vacantplace beside her. He said a few words, playing with the fringe ofRachel's sash, which he still wore, "her colors," some one remarked, butmade no allusion to the occurrences of the previous day. What he saidwas unimportant, but he looked at her rather steadily, and she wasconscious of his glance. In truth, he was merely noting the effect ofher head and throat against the lighted window, as Dexter had done, theoutline being very distinct and lovely, a profile framed in light; butshe thought it was something different. A painful timidity again seizedher; instead of blushing, she turned pale, and with difficulty answeredclearly. "_He_ does not praise me," she thought. "_He_ does not say thatwhat I did yesterday was greater than anything among Indians and minesand on sinking steamers. _He_ is laughing at me. Grandaunt was right,and no doubt he thinks me a bold, forward girl who tried to make asensation."
"HE WAS MERELY NOTING THE EFFECT."]
Heathcote made another unimportant remark, but Anne, being now nervouslysensitive, took it as having a second meaning. She turned her head awayto hide the burning tears that were rising; but although unshed,Heathcote saw them. His observation was instantaneous where women wereconcerned; not so much active as intuitive. He had no idea what was thematter with her: this was the second inexplicable appearance of tears.But it would take more than such little damp occasions to disconcerthim; and rather at random, but with sympathy and even tenderness in hisvoice, he said, soothingly, "Do not mind it," "it" of courserepresenting whatever she pleased. Then, as the drops fell, "Why, youpoor child, you are really in trouble," he said, taking her hand andholding it in his. Then, after a moment: "I do not know, of course, whatit is that distresses you, but I too, although ignorant, am distressedby it also. For since yesterday, Anne, you have occupied a place in mymemory which will never give you up. You will be an image thereforever."
It was not much, after all; most improbable was it that any of those whosaw her risk her life that day would soon forget her. Yet there wassomething in the glance of his eye and in the clasp of his hand thatsoothed Anne inexpressibly. She never again cared what people thought ofher "boyish freak" (so Miss Vanhorn termed it), but laid the wholememory away, embalmed shyly in sweet odors forever.
Other persons now came in sight. "Shall we walk?" said Heathcote. Theyrose; she took his arm. He did not lead her out to the shadowed pathbelow the piazza; they remained all the time among the lights andpassing strollers. Their conversation was inconclusive and unmomentous,without a tinge of novel interest or brilliancy; not one sentence wouldhave been worth repeating. Yet such as it was, with its few words andmany silences which the man of the world did not exert himself to break,it seemed to establish a closer acquaintance between them than eloquencecould have done. At least it was so with Anne, although she did notdefine it. Heathcote had no need to define; it was an old story withhim.
As the second dance ended, he took her round, as though by chance, tothe other side of the piazza, where he knew Rachel was sitting with Mr.Dexter. Here he skillfully changed companions, simply by one or two ofhis glances. For Rachel understood from them that he was bored,repentant, and lonely; and once convinced of this, she immediatelyexecuted the manoeuvre herself, with the woman's usual means of naturallittle phrases and changes of position, Heathcote meanwhile standingpassive until it was all done. Heathcote generally stood passive. ButDexter often had the appearance of exerting himself and arrangingthings.
Thus it happened that Miss Vanhorn saw Anne re-enter with the sameescort who had taken her forth.
Another week passed, and another. Various scenes in the little dramasplayed by the different persons present followed each other with more orless notice, more or less success. One side of Dexter's nature wascompletely fascinated with Rachel Bannert--with her beauty, which asaint-worshipper would have denied, although why saintliness should be amatter of blonde hair remains undiscovered; with her dress and grace ofmanner; with her undoubted position in that narrow circle which hewished to enter even while condemning--perhaps merely to conquer it andturn away again. His rival with Rachel was Heathcote; he had discoveredthat. He was conscious that he detested Heathcote. While thus secretlyinterested in Rachel, he yet found time, however, to give a portion ofeach day to Anne; he did this partly from policy and partly from jealousannoyance. For here too he found the other man. Heathcote, in truth,seemed to be amusing himself in much the same way. If Dexter waltzedwith Rachel, Heathcote offered his arm to Anne and took her out on thepiazza; if Dexter walked with Anne there, Heathcote took Rachel into therose-scented dusky garden. But Dexter had Miss Vanhorn's favor, if thatwas anything. She went to drive with him and took Anne; she allowed himto accompany them on their botanizing expeditions; she talked to him,and even listened to his descriptions of his life and adventures. Inreality she cared no more for him than for a Choctaw; no more for hislife than for that of Robinson Crusoe. But he was a rich man, and hewould do for Anne, who was not a Vanhorn, but merely a Douglas. He hadshowed some liking for the girl; the affair should be encouraged andclinched. She, Katharine Vanhorn, would clinch it. He must be a verydifferent man from the diagnosis she had made up of him if he did notyield to her clinching.
During these weeks, therefore, there had been many long conversationsbetween Anne and Mr. Dexter; they had talked on many subjectsappropriate to the occasion--Dexter was always appropriate. He hadquoted pages of poetry, and he quoted well. He had, like Othello,related his adventures, and they were thrilling and true. Then, whenmore sure of her, he had turned the conversation upon herself. It is afascinating subject--one's self! Anne touched it timidly here and there,but, never having had the habit or even the knowledge of self-analysis,she was more uncomfortable than pleased, after all, and inclinedmentally to run away. She did not know herself whether she had moreimagination than timidity, whether conscientiousness was more developedin her than ideality, or whether, if obliged to c
hoose between savingthe life of a brother or a husband, she would choose the former or thelatter. Dexter had to drag her opinions of her own character from heralmost by main strength. But he persisted. He had never known animaginative young girl at the age when all things are problems to herwho was not secretly, often openly, fascinated by a sympathetic researchinto her own timid little characteristics, opening like buds within herone by one. Dexter's theory was correct, his rule a good one probably inninety-nine cases out of a hundred; only--Anne was the hundredth. Shebegan to be afraid of him as he came toward her, kind, smiling, with hisinvisible air of success about him, ready for one of their longconversations. Yet certainly he was as pleasant a companion as asomewhat lonely young girl, isolated at a place like Caryl's, couldwish for; at least that is what every one would have said.
During these weeks there had been no long talks with Heathcote. MissVanhorn did not ask him to accompany them to the woods; she did notutter to him the initiative word in passing which gives the opportunity.Still, there had been chance meetings and chance words, ofcourse--five-minute strolls on the piazza, five-minute looks at thesunset or at the stars, in the pauses between the dances. But whereHeathcote took a minute, Dexter had, if he chose, an hour.
Although in one way now so idle, Anne seemed to herself never to havebeen so busy before. Miss Vanhorn kept her at work upon plants through alarge portion of each day, and required her to be promptly ready uponall other occasions. She barely found time to write to Miss Lois, whowas spending the summer in a state betwixt anger and joy, veering oneway by reason, the other by wrath, yet unable to refrain entirely fromsatisfaction over the new clothes for the children which Miss Vanhorn'smoney had enabled her to buy. The allowance was paid in advance; and itmade Anne light-hearted whenever she thought, as she did daily, of thecomforts it gave to those she loved. To Rast, Anne wrote in the earlymorning, her only free time. Rast was now on the island, but he was togo in a few days. This statement, continually repeated, like lawyers'notices of sales postponed from date to date, had lasted all summer, andstill lasted. He had written to Anne as usual, until Miss Vanhorn,although without naming him, had tartly forbidden "so many letters."Then Anne asked him to write less frequently, and he obeyed. She,however, continued to write herself as before, describing her life atCaryl's, while he answered (as often as he was allowed), telling of hisplans, and complaining that they were to be separated so long. But hewas going to the far West, and there he should soon win a home for her.He counted the days till that happy time.
And then Anne would sit and dream of the island: she saw the old house,Rast, and the children, Miss Lois's thin, energetic face, the blueStraits, the white fort, and the little inclosure on the heights wherewere the two graves. She closed her eyes and heard their voices; shetold them all she hoped. Only this one more winter, and then she couldsee them again, send them help, and perhaps have one of the childrenwith her. And then, the year after-- But here Miss Vanhorn's voicecalling her name broke the vision, and with a sigh she returned toCaryl's again.
Helen's letters had ceased; but Anne jotted down a faithful record ofthe events of the days for her inspection when she came. Rumors variedat Caryl's respecting Mrs. Lorrington. Now her grandfather had died, andleft her everything; and now he had miraculously recovered, and deededhis fortune to charitable institutions. Now he had existed withoutnourishment for weeks, and now he had the appetite of ten, and exhibitedthe capabilities of a second Methuselah. But in the mean time Helen wasstill absent. Under these circumstances, Anne, if she had been older,and desirous, might have collected voluminous expressions of opinion asto the qualities, beauty, and history, past and present, of the absentone from her dearest friends on earth. But the dearest friends on earthhad not the habit of talking to this young girl as a companion andequal; to them she was simply that "sweet child," that "dear fresh-facedschool-girl," to whom they confided only amiable platitudes. So Annecontinued to hold fast undisturbed her belief in her beautifulHelen--that strong, grateful, reverent feeling which a young girl oftencherishes for an older woman who is kind to her.
One still, hazy morning Miss Vanhorn announced her programme for theday. She intended to drive over to the county town, and Anne was to gowith her six miles of the distance, and be left at a certain glen, wherethere was a country saw-mill. They had been there together severaltimes, and had made acquaintance with the saw-miller, his wife, and hisbrood of white-headed children. The object of the present visit was acertain fern--the Camptosorus, or walking-leaf--which Miss Vanhorn hadrecently learned grew there, or at least had grown there within thememory of living botanists. That was enough. Anne was to search for theplant unflinchingly (the presence of the mill family being a sufficientprotection) throughout the entire day, and be in waiting at themain-road crossing at sunset, when her grandaunt's carriage would stopon its return home. In order that there might be no mistake as to thetime, she was allowed to wear one of Miss Vanhorn's watches. There werefourteen of them, all heirlooms, all either wildly too fast in theirmotions or hopelessly too slow, so that the gift was an embarrassingone. Anne knew that if she relied upon the one intrusted to her care,she would be obliged to spend about three hours at the crossing to allowfor the variations in one direction or the other which might erraticallyattack it during the day. But her hope lay in the saw-miller'sbright-faced little Yankee clock. At their early breakfast she prepareda lunch for herself in a small basket, and before Caryl's had fairlyawakened, the old coupe rolled away from the door, bearing aunt andniece into the green country. When they reached the wooded hills at theend of the six miles, Anne descended with her basket, her diggingtrowel, and her tin plant case. She was to go over every inch of thesaw-miller's ravine, and find that fern, living or dead. Miss Vanhornsaid this, and she meant the plant; but it sounded as if she meant Anne.With renewed warnings as to care and diligence, she drove on, and Annewas left alone. It was ten o'clock, and a breathless August day. Shehastened up the little path toward the saw-mill, glad to enter the woodand escape the heat of the sun. She now walked more slowly, and lookedright and left for the fern; it was not there, probably, so near thelight, but she had conscientiously determined to lose no inch of theallotted ground. Owing to this slow search, half an hour had passed whenshe reached the mill. She had perceived for some time that it was not inmotion; there was no hum of the saw, no harsh cry of the rent boards:she said to herself that the miller was getting a great log in place onthe little cart to be drawn up the tramway. But when she reached thespot, the miller was not there; the mill was closed, and only thepeculiar fresh odor of the logs recently sawn asunder told that but ashort time before the saw had been in motion. She went on to the door ofthe little house, and knocked; no one answered. Standing on tiptoe, shepeeped in through the low window, and saw that the rooms were empty, andin that shining order that betokens the housewife's absence. Returningto the mill, she walked up the tramway; a bit of paper, for theinformation of chance customers, was pinned to the latch: "All handsgone to the sirkus. Home at sunset." She sat down, took off her strawhat, and considered what to do.
Three hundred and sixty-four days of that year Saw-miller Pike, hiswife, his four children, and his hired man, one or all of them, were onthat spot; their one absence chance decreed should be on this particularAugust Thursday when Anne Douglas came there to spend the day. She wasnot afraid; it was a quiet rural neighborhood without beggars or tramps.Her grandaunt would not return until sunset. She decided to look for thefern, and if she found it within an hour or two, to walk home, and senda boy back on horseback to wait for Miss Vanhorn. If she did not find itbefore afternoon, she would wait for the carriage, according toagreement. Hanging her basket and shawl on a tree branch near the mill,she entered the ravine, and was soon hidden in its green recesses. Upand down, up and down the steep rocky sides she climbed, her tin caseswinging from her shoulder, her trowel in her belt; she neglected nospot, and her track, if it had been visible, would have shown itselfalmost as regular as the web of the geometric spider.
Up and down, upand down, from the head of the ravine to its foot on one side: nothing.It seemed to her that she had seen the fronds and curled crosiers of athousand ferns. Her eyes were tired, and she threw herself down on amossy bank not far from the mill to rest a moment. There was no use inlooking at the watch; still, she did it, and decided that it was eitherhalf past eleven or half past three. The remaining side of the ravinegazed at her steadily; she knew that she must clamber over every inchof those rocks also. She sighed, bathed her flushed cheeks in the brook,took down her hair, and braided it in two long school-girl braids, whichhung down below her waist; then she tied her straw hat to a branch,pinned her neck-tie on the brim, took off her linen cuffs, and laid themwithin together with her gloves, and leaving the tin plant case and thetrowel on the bank, started on her search. Up and down, up and down,peering into every cranny, standing on next to nothing, swinging herselffrom rock to rock; making acquaintance with several very unpleasant rockspiders, and hastily constructing bridges for them of small twigs, sothat they could cross from her skirt to their home ledge in safety;finding a trickling spring, and drinking from it; now half way down theravine, now three-quarters; and still no walking-leaf. She sat down on ajutting crag to take breath an instant, and watched a bird on a treebranch near by. He was one of those little brown songsters that sing asfollows:
Musical notation]
Seeing her watching him, he now chanted his little anthem in his beststyle.
"Very well," said Anne, aloud.
"Oh no; only so-so," said a voice below. She looked down, startled, Itwas Ward Heathcote.
"SHE BATHED HER FLUSHED CHEEK."]
Anne: A Novel Page 13