Anne: A Novel

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  CHAPTER XVII.

  "That which is not allotted, the hand can not reach, and what is allotted will find you wherever you may be. You have heard with what toil Secunder penetrated to the land of darkness, and that, after all, he did not taste the water of immortality."--SAADI.

  "When a woman hath ceased to be quite the same to us, it matters little how different she becomes."--WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

  The last dance of the season had been appointed for the evening, andMrs. Lorrington's arrival had stimulated the others to ordain "fulldress"; they all had one costume in reserve, and it was an occasion tobring all the banners upon the field, and the lance also, in a lasttournament. Other contests, other rivalries, had existed, other storiesbesides this story of Anne; it never happens in real life that one womanusurps everything. That this dance should occur on this particularevening was one of the chances vouchsafed to old Katharine and herstrategy.

  For the fairest costume ordered for Anne had not been worn, and at teno'clock Bessmer with delight was asking a white-robed figure to look atitself in the glass, while on her knees she spread out the cloud offleecy drapery that trailed softly over the floor behind. The robe wasof white lace, and simple. But nothing could have brought out sostrongly the rich, noble beauty of this young face and form. There wasnot an ornament to break the outline of the round white throat, or thebeautiful arms, bared from the shoulder. For the first time the thickbrown hair was released from its school-girl simplicity, and Anne's facewore a new aspect, as young faces will under such changes. For one maybe sorrowful, and even despairing, yet at eighteen a few waving lockswill make a fair face fairer than ever, even in spite of one's owndetermined opposition.

  When they entered the ball-room, the second chance vouchsafed to oldKatharine came to meet them, and no strategy was necessary. For Mr.Dexter, with an unwonted color on his face, offered his arm to Anneimmediately, asking for that dance, and "as many dances besides as youcan give me, Miss Douglas."

  All who were near heard his words; among them Rachel. She looked at himwith soft deprecation in her eyes. But he returned her gaze directly andhaughtily, and bore Anne away. They danced once, and then went out onthe piazza. It was a cool evening, and presently Miss Vanhorn came tothe window. "It is too damp for you here, child," she said. "If you donot care to dance, take Mr. Dexter up to see the flowers in our parlor;and when you come down, bring my shawl."

  "Mr. Dexter does not care about flowers, I think," answered Anne, tooabsorbed in her own troubles to be concerned about her grandaunt's openmanoeuvre. She spoke mechanically.

  "On the contrary, I am very fond of flowers," said Dexter, risingimmediately. "And I particularly thank you, Miss Vanhorn, for giving methis opportunity to--admire them." He spoke with emphasis, and bowed ashe spoke. The old lady gave him a stately inclination in return. Theyunderstood each other; the higher powers were agreed.

  When Anne, still self-absorbed and unconscious, entered the littleparlor, she was surprised to find it brightly lighted and prepared, asif for their reception. The red curtains were closed, a small firecrackled on the hearth, the rich perfume of the flowers filled the warmair; in the damp September evening the room was a picture of comfort,and in the ruddy light her own figure, in its white lace dress, wasclearly outlined and radiant. "Here are the flowers," she said, goingtoward the table. Dexter had closed the door; he now came forward, andlooked at the blossoms a moment absently. Then he turned toward thesofa, which was covered with the same red chintz which hung over thewindows to the floor.

  "Shall we sit here awhile? The room is pleasant, if you are in no hurryto return."

  "No, I am in no hurry," replied Anne. She was glad to be quiet and awayfrom the dancers; she feared to meet Heathcote. Mr. Dexter alwaystalked; she would not be obliged to think of new subjects, or to makelong replies.

  But to-night Mr. Dexter was unusually silent. She leaned back againstthe red cushions, and looked at the point of her slipper; she was askingherself how long this evening would last.

  "Miss Douglas," began Dexter at length, and somewhat abruptly, "I do notknow in what light you regard me, or what degree of estimation you haveconferred upon me; but--" Here he paused.

  "It is of no consequence," said Anne.

  "What?"

  "I mean," she said, rousing herself from her abstraction, "that it doesnot matter one way or the other. I am going away to-morrow, Mr. Dexter.I see now that I ought never to have come. But--how could I know?"

  "Why do you go?" said her companion, pausing a moment also, in his owntrain of thought.

  "I have duties elsewhere," she began; then stopped. "But that is not thereal reason," she added.

  "You are unhappy, Miss Douglas; I can always read your face. I will notobtrude questions now, although most desirous to lift the burdens whichare resting upon you. For I have something to ask you. Will you listento me for a few moments?"

  "Oh yes," said Anne, falling back into apathy, her eyes still on thepoint of her slipper.

  "It is considered egotistical to talk of one's self," began Dexter,after a short silence; "but, under the circumstances, I trust I may bepardoned." He took an easier attitude, and folded his arms. "I was bornin New Hampshire." (Here Anne tried to pay attention; from thisbeginning, she felt that she must attend. But she only succeeded inrepeating, vaguely, the word "New Hampshire?" as though she had reasonsfor thinking it might be Maine.)

  "Yes, New Hampshire. My father was a farmer there; but when I was fiveyears old he died, and my mother died during the following year. A richrelative, a cousin, living in Illinois, befriended me, homeless as Iwas, and gave me that best gift in America, a good education. I wentthrough college, and then--found myself penniless. My cousin had diedwithout a will, and others had inherited his estate. Since then, MissDouglas, I have led a life of effort, hard, hard work, and bitterfluctuations. I have taught school; I have dug in the mines; I havedriven a stage; I have been lost in the desert, and have lived for daysupon moss and berries. Once I had a hundred thousand dollars--the resultof intensest labor and vigilance through ten long years--and I lost itin an hour. Then for three days, shovel in hand, I worked on anembankment. I tell you all this plainly, so that if it, or any part ofit, ever comes up, you will not feel that you have been deceived. Theleading power of my whole life has been action; whether for good or forill--action. I am now thirty-eight years old, and I think I may say thatI--am no worse than other men. The struggle is now over; I am rich. Iwill even tell you the amount of my fortune--"

  "Oh no," said Anne, hurriedly.

  "I prefer to do so," replied Dexter, with a formal gesture. "I wish youto understand clearly the whole position, both as regards myself and allmy affairs."

  "Myself and all my affairs," repeated itself buzzingly in Anne's brain.

  "My property is now estimated at a little more than a million, andwithout doubt it will increase in value, as it consists largely of land,and especially mines."

  He paused. He was conscious that he had not succeeded in controlling acertain pride in the tone of his voice, and he stopped to remedy it. Intruth, he _was_ proud. No one but the man who has struggled and laboredfor that sum, unaided and alone, knows how hard it is to win it, and howrare and splendid has been his own success. He has seen others go downon all sides of him like grain before the scythe, while he stoodupright. He knows of disappointed hopes, of bitter effort ended in thegrave; of men, strong and fearless as himself, who have strivendesperately, and as desperately failed. He was silent for a moment,thinking of these things.

  "It must be pleasant to have so much money," said Anne, sighing alittle, and turning her slipper point slightly, as though to survey itin profile.

  Dexter went on with his tale. He was as much for the moment absorbed inhimself as she was in herself; they were like two persons shut up inclosely walled towers side by side.

  "For some years I have lived at the East, and have been much in what iscalled society in New York and Washington," he cont
inued, "and I havehad no cause to be dissatisfied with the reception accorded to me. Ihave seen many beautiful faces, and they have not entirely withheldtheir kindness from me. But--Miss Douglas, young girls like romance, andI have, unfortunately, little that I can express, although I believethat I have at heart more true chivalry toward women than twenty of theidle _blase_ men about here. But that had been better left unsaid. WhatI wish to say to you is this: will you be my wife? Anne, dear child,will you marry me?" He had ended abruptly, and even to himselfunexpectedly, as though his usually fluent speech had failed him. Hetook her hand, and waited for her answer, his face showing signs ofemotion, which seemed to be more his own than roused by anything in her.

  Anne had started back in surprise; she drew her hand from his. Theywere both gloved; only the kid-skins had touched each other. "You aremaking a mistake," she said, rising. "You think I am Mrs. Lorrington."

  Dexter had risen also; an involuntary smile passed over his face at herwords. He took her hand again, and held it firmly.

  "Do you not suppose I know to whom I am talking?" he said, "I am talkingto you, Anne, and thinking only of you. I ask you again, will you be mywife?"

  "Of course not. You do not love me in the least, and I do not love you.Of what are you dreaming, Mr. Dexter?" She walked across the littleroom, and stood between the windows, the red light full upon her. Abrightness had risen in her eyes; she looked very beautiful in heryouthful scorn.

  Dexter gazed at her, but without moving. "You are mistaken," he said,gravely. "I do love you."

  "Since when?" asked the sweet voice, with a touch of sarcasm. Anne wasnow using the powers of concealment which nature gives to all women,even the youngest, as a defense. Mr. Dexter should know nothing, shouldnot be vouchsafed even a glimpse, of her inner feelings; she wouldsimply refuse him, as girls did in books. And she tried to think whatthey said.

  But the man opposite her was not like a man in a book. "Since sixo'clock this evening," he answered, quietly.

  Anne looked at him in wonder.

  "Do you wish to hear the whole?" he asked.

  "No; it is nothing to me. Since you only began at six, probably you canstop at twelve," she answered, still with her girlish scorn perceptiblein her voice.

  But Dexter paid no attention to her sarcasm. "I will tell you the wholewhen you are my wife," he said. "Let it suffice now that at the hournamed I became aware of the worthlessness and faithlessness of women;and--I speak God's truth, Anne--even at that bitter moment I fell backupon the thought of _you_ as a safeguard--a safeguard against totaldisbelief in the possibility of woman's fidelity. I knew then that I hadrevered you with my better self all the while--that, young as you are,I had believed in you. I believe in you now. Be my wife; and from thisinstant I will devote all the love in me--and I have more than youthink--to you alone." He had crossed the room, and was standing besideher.

  Anne felt at once the touch of real feeling. "I am very sorry," shesaid, gently, looking up into his face. "I should have said it at first,but that I did not think you were in earnest until now. I am engaged,Mr. Dexter; I was engaged before I came here."

  "But," said Dexter, "Miss Vanhorn--"

  "Yes, I know. Grandaunt does not approve of it, and will not countenanceit. But that, of course, makes no difference."

  He looked at her, puzzled by her manner. In truth, poor Anne, whileimmovably determined to keep her promise to Rast, even cherishing thepurpose, also, of hastening the marriage if he wished it, was yet soinefficient an actress that she trembled as she spoke, and returned hisgaze through a mist of tears.

  "You _wish_ to marry this man, I suppose--I am ignorant of his name?" heasked, watching her with attention.

  "His name is Erastus Pronando; we were children together on the island,"she answered, in a low voice, with downcast eyes.

  "And you wish to marry him?"

  "I do."

  Gregory Dexter put another disappointment down upon the tablets of hismemory--a disappointment and a surprise; he had not once doubted hissuccess.

  In this certainty he had been deceived partly by Miss Vanhorn, andpartly by Anne herself; by her unstudied frankness. He knew that sheliked him, but he had mistaken the nature of her regard. He could alwayscontrol himself, however, and he now turned to her kindly. He thoughtshe was afraid of her aunt. "Sit down for a few minutes more," he said,"and tell me about it. Why does Miss Vanhorn disapprove?"

  "I do not know," replied Anne; "or, rather, I do know, but can not tellyou. Never mind about me, Mr. Dexter. I am unhappy; but no one can helpme. I must help myself."

  "Mr. Pronando should esteem it his dearest privilege to do so," saidDexter, who felt himself growing old and cynical under this revelationof fresh young love.

  "Yes," murmured Anne, then stopped. "If you will leave me now," shesaid, after a moment, "it would be very kind."

  "I will go, of course, if you desire it; but first let me say one word.Your aunt objects to this engagement, and you have neither father normother to take your part. I have a true regard for you, which is notaltered by the personal disappointment I am at present feeling; it isfounded upon a belief in you which can not change. Can I not help you,then, as a friend? For instance, could I not help Mr. Pronando--merelyas a friend? I know what it is to have to make one's own way in theworld unaided. I feel for such boys--I mean young men. What does heintend to do? Give me his address."

  "No," said Anne, touched by this prompt kindness. "But I feel yourgenerosity, Mr. Dexter; I shall never forget it." Her eyes filled withtears, but she brushed them away. "Will you leave me now?" she said.

  "Would it not be better if we returned together? I mean, would not MissVanhorn notice it less? You could excuse yourself soon afterward."

  "You are right. I will go down with you. But first, do I not show--" shewent toward the mirror.

  "Show what?" said Dexter, following her, and standing by her side. "Thatyou are one of the loveliest young girls in the world--as you lookto-night, the loveliest?" He smiled at her reflection in the mirror ashe spoke, and then turned toward the reality. "You show nothing," hesaid, kindly; "and my eyes are very observant."

  They went toward the door; as they reached it, he bent over her. "Ifthis engagement should by any chance be broken, then could you not loveme a little, Anne--only a little?" he murmured, looking into her eyesquestioningly.

  "I wish I could," she answered, gravely. "You are a generous man. Iwould like to love you."

  "But you could not?"

  "I can not."

  He pressed her hand in silence, opened the door, and led the way down tothe hall-room. They had been absent one hour.

  Blum, who was standing disconsolately near the entrance, watching Helen,came up and asked Anne to dance. Reluctant to go to her grandaunt beforeit was necessary, she consented. She glanced nervously up and down thelong room as they took their places, but Heathcote was not present. Hergaze then rested upon another figure moving through the dance at somedistance down the hall. Mrs. Lorrington in her costume that eveningchallenged criticism. She did this occasionally--it was one of heramusements. Her dress was of almost the same shade of color as her hair,the hue unbroken from head to foot, the few ornaments being little starsof topaz. Her shoulders and arms were uncovered; and here also shechallenged criticism, since she was so slight that in profile view shelooked like a swaying reed. But as there was not an angle visibleanywhere, her fair slenderness seemed a new kind of beauty, which all,in spite of sculptor's rules, must now admire. Rachel called her,smilingly, "the amber witch." But Isabel said, "No; witch-hazel; becauseit is so beautiful, and yellow, and sweet." Rachel, Isabel, and Helenalways said charming things about each other in public: they had donethis unflinchingly for years.

  Miss Vanhorn was watching her niece from her comfortable seat on theother side of the room, and watching with some impatience. But theHaunted Man was now asking Anne to dance, and Anne was accepting. Afterthat dance she went out on the piazza for a few moments; when shereturned, Heathcote wa
s in the room, and waltzing with Helen.

  All her courage left her before she could grasp it, and hardly knowingwhat she was doing, she went directly across the floor to Miss Vanhorn,and asked if she might go to her room.

  Miss Vanhorn formed one of a majestic phalanx of old ladies. "Are youtired?" she asked.

  "Very tired," said Anne, not raising her eyes higher than the stoutwaist before her, clad in shining black satin.

  "She does look pale," remarked old Mrs. Bannert, sympathizingly.

  "Anne is always sleepy at eight or nine, like a baby," replied MissVanhorn, well aware that the dark-eyed Rachel was decidedly anight-bird, and seldom appeared at breakfast at all; "and she has also abarbarous way of getting up at dawn. Go to bed, child, if you wish; yourbowl of bread and milk will be ready in the morning." Then, as Anneturned, she added: "You will be asleep when I come up; I will notdisturb you. Take a good rest." Which Anne interpreted, "I give you thatamount of time: think well before you act." The last respite wasaccorded.

  But even a minute is precious to the man doomed to death. Anne left theball-room almost with a light heart: she had the night. She shut herselfin her room, took off the lace dress, loosened her hair, and sat down bythe window to think. The late moon was rising; a white fog filled thevalley and lay thickly over the river; but she left the sash open--thecool damp air seemed to soothe her troubled thoughts. For she knew--anddespised herself in the knowledge--that the strongest feeling in herheart now was jealousy, jealousy of Helen dancing with Heathcote below.Time passed unheeded; she had not stirred hand or foot when, two hourslater, there was a tap on her door. It was Helen.

  "Do not speak," she whispered, entering swiftly and softly, and closingthe door; "the Grand Llama is coming up the stairs. I wanted to see you,and I knew that if I did not slip in before she passed, I could not getin without disturbing her. Do not stir; she will stop at your door andlisten."

  They stood motionless; Miss Vanhorn's step came along the hall, and, asHelen had predicted, paused at Anne's door. There was no light within,and no sound; after a moment it passed on, entered the parlor, and thenthe bedroom beyond.

  "If Bessmer would only close the bedroom door," whispered Helen, "weshould be quite safe." At this moment the maid did close the door; Helengave a sigh of relief. "I never could whisper well," she said. "Onlycat-women whisper nicely. Isabel is a cat-woman. Now when it comes to amurmur--a faint, clear, sweet murmur, I am an adept. I wonder if Isabelwill subdue her widower? You have been here long enough to have anopinion. Will she?"

  "I do not know," said Anne, wondering at her own ability to speak thewords.

  "And I--do not care! I am tired, Crystal: may I lie on your bed? Doclose that deathly window, and come over here, so that we can talkcomfortably," said Helen, throwing herself down on the white coverlet--along slender shape, with its white arms clasped under its head. Thesmall room was in shadow. Anne drew a chair to the bedside and sat down,with her back to the moonlight.

  "This is a miserable world," began Mrs. Lorrington. Her companion,sitting with folded arms and downcast eyes, mentally agreed with her.

  "Of course _you_ do not think so," continued Helen, "and perhaps, beingsuch a crystal-innocent, you will never find it out. There are suchsouls. There are also others; and it is quite decided that Ihate--Rachel Bannert, who is one of them."

  Anne had moved nervously, but at that name she fell back into stillnessagain.

  "Rachel is the kind of woman I dread more than any other," continuedHelen. "Her strength is feeling. Feeling! I tell you, Crystal, that youand I are capable of loving, and suffering for the one we love, throughlong years of pain, where Rachel would not wet the sole of her slipper.Yet men believe in her! The truth is, men are fools: one sigh deceivesthem."

  "Then sigh," said the figure in the chair.

  "ANNE DREW A CHAIR TO THE BEDSIDE AND SAT DOWN, WITH HERBACK TO THE MOONLIGHT."]

  "No; that is not my talent: I must continue to be myself. But _I_ sawher on the piazza with Ward to-night; and I detest her."

  "With--Mr. Heathcote?"

  "Yes. Of course nothing would be so much to her disadvantage as to marryWard, and she knows it; he has no fortune, and she has none. But sheloves to make me wretched. I made the greatest mistake of my life when Ilet her see once, more than a year ago, how things were."

  "How things were?" repeated Anne--that commonplace phrase which carriesdeep meanings safely because unexpressed.

  "Of course there is no necessity to tell _you_, Crystal, what you mustalready know--that Ward and I are in a certain way betrothed. It is anold affair: we have known each other always."

  "Yes," said the other voice, affirmatively and steadily.

  "Some day we shall be married, I suppose: we like each other. But thereis no haste at present: I think we both like to be free. Heigh-ho! Doyou admire this dress, Crystal?"

  "It is very beautiful."

  "And yet he only came in and danced with me once!"

  "Perhaps he does not care for dancing," said Anne. She was accomplishingeach one of her sentences slowly and carefully, like answers in alesson.

  "Yes, he does. Do not be deceived by his indolent manner, Crystal; he isfull of all sorts of unexpected strong likings and feelings, in spite ofhis lazy look. Do you think I should be likely to fall in love with astick?"

  Anne made no reply.

  "_Do_ you?" said Helen, insistently, stretching out her arms, andadjusting the chains of topaz stars that decked their slenderness.

  Anne leaned forward and drew down her friend's hands, holding themclosely in her own. "Helen," she said, "tell me: do you love Mr.Heathcote?"

  "What is love?" said Mrs. Lorrington, lightly.

  "Tell me, Helen."

  "Why do you wish to know?"

  "I _do_ wish to know."

  "Ward Heathcote is not worth my love."

  "Is he worth Rachel Bannert's, then?" said Anne, touching the spring bywhich she had seen the other stirred.

  "Rachel Bannert!" repeated Helen, with a tone of bitter scorn. Then shepaused. "Anne, you are a true-hearted child, and I _will_ tell you. Ilove Ward Heathcote with my whole heart and soul."

  She spoke in clear tones, and did not turn away or hide her face; shelay looking up at the moonlight on the rough white wall. It was Anne whoturned, shivering, and shading her eyes with her hand.

  "I love him so much," Helen continued, "that if he should leave me, Ibelieve I should die. Not suddenly, or with any sensation, of course. Ionly mean that I should not be able to live."

  Again there was silence. Then the clear soft voice went on.

  "I have always loved him. Ever since I can remember. Do not be shocked,but I loved him even when I married Richard. I was very young, and didit in a sort of desperate revenge because he did not, would not, carefor me. I was not punished for my madness, for Richard loved me dearly,and died so soon, poor fellow, that he never discovered the truth. Andthen it all began over again. Only _this_ time Ward was--different."

  Another silence followed. Anne did not move or speak.

  "Do not be unhappy about me, child," said Helen at last, turning on herarm to look at her companion; "all will come right in time. It was onlythat I was vexed about this evening. For he has not seemed quite himselflately, and of course I attribute it to Rachel: her deadly sweetness islike that of nightshade and tube-roses combined. Now tell me aboutyourself: how comes on the quarrel with the Llama?"

  "I hardly know."

  "I saw you stealing away in your white lace with Gregory Dexter thisevening," pursued Helen. "He was as agreeable as ever this morning.However, there it is again; just before six, Nightshade strolled offtoward the ravine 'to see the sunset' (one sees the sunset so well fromthere, you know, facing the east), and Dexter seemed also to haveforgotten the points of the compass, for--he followed her."

  "Then it was Mrs. Bannert," said Anne, half unconsciously.

  "It is always Mrs. Bannert. I do not in the least know what you mean,but--it is alway
s Mrs. Bannert. What did he say about her?"

  "Of course I can not tell you, Helen. But--I really thought it was you."

  "What should _I_ have to do with it? How you play at cross-purposes,Crystal! Is it possible that during all this time you have notdiscovered how infatuated our Gregory is with Rachel? Ward is onlyamusing himself; but Gregory is, in one sense, carried away. However, Idoubt if it lasts, and I really think he has a warm regard for you, aserious one. It is a pity you could not--"

  Anne stopped the sentence with a gesture.

  "Yes, I see that little ring," said Helen. "But the world is a puzzle,and we often follow several paths before we find the right one. How coldyour hands are! The nights are no longer like summer, and the moon isMedusa. The autumn moon is a cruel moon always, reminding us of thebroken hopes and promises of the lost summer. I must go, Crystal. Youare pale and weary; the summer with the Llama has been too hard. Ibelieve you will be glad to be safely back at Moreau's again. But I cannot come over now and tell you romances, can I? You know the personages,and the charm will be gone. To-morrow I am going to ride. You have notseen me in my habit? I assure you even a mermaid can not compare withme. Do you know, I should be happy for life if I could but induce Rachelto show herself once on horseback by my side: on horseback Rachellooks--excuse the word, but it expresses it--sploshy. The trouble isthat she knows it, and will not go; she prefers moonlight, a piazza,and sylphide roses in her hair, with the background of fluffy whiteshawl."

  Then, with a little more light nonsense, Helen went away--went at last.Anne bolted the door, threw herself down upon her knees beside the bed,with her arms stretched out and her face hidden. There had been but thiswanting to her misery, and now it was added: Helen loved him.

  For she was not deceived by the flippant phrases which had surrounded theavowal: Helen would talk flippantly on her death-bed. None the less wasshe in earnest when she spoke those few words. In such matters a womancan read a woman: there is a tone of voice which can not becounterfeited. It tells all.