Anne: A Novel

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  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 merejoy of the present was enough for her; she thought not as yet of thefuture, of next month, next week, or even to-morrow. It sufficed thatthey 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 Reddesteemed it his duty, now that he was at home again, to entertain hisguest whenever, from his open eyes, he judged him ready forconversation; and Mrs. Redd, July, and Diana seemed to have grown intosix persons at least, from their continuous appearances at the door. Atlast, about five o'clock, Anne was left alone in the room, and hisimpatient eyes immediately summoned her. Smiling at his irritation, shesat down by the bedside and took up the fan.

  "You need not do that," he said; "or rather, yes, do. It will keep youhere, 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 withsilent 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 thanwas generous," she answered, almost gayly. She was fairly light-heartednow with happiness.

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

  And then she bent forward and looked at him with so much love that hisinmost 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 thelight from the soul within. He saw then what he had seen before--howdeep was her love for him. But this time there was in it no fear; onlyperfect trust.

  He turned his head away as if struggling with some hidden emotion. ButAnne, recovering herself, fell back into her former content, and beganto 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 storyapproached their past, and she made some chance inquiry, he stopped her."Do not ask questions," he said; "let us rest content with what wehave;" and she, willing to follow his fancy, smiled and refrained. Helay 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 shewas what she was that he had loved her, when all the habits and purposesof 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 sweetestexpression 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 inthe nearest village marry us?"

  "I would rather have Miss Lois come, and little Andre; still, Ward, itshall be as you wish."

  "WEAK, HOLDING ON BY THE TREES."]

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

  "Yes."

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

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

  "Kiss me," he said again; "only once more, love." There was a strangedulled look in his eyes; she missed the expression which had lain theresince the avowal of the day before. She turned; there was no one insight--the women had gone to the end of the garden. She bent over andkissed him with timid tenderness, and as her lips touched his cheek,tears stole from his eyes under the closed lashes. Then, as steps wereapproaching, he turned his face toward the wall, and covered his eyeswith his hand. She thought that he was tired, that he had been overtaxedby 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'sand git some of that yere fine meal; I reckon the captain will like acake of it for supper," said Mrs. Redd. "And, Di, you go down toDawson's and git a young chicken for briling. No one need say as how thecaptain don't have enough to eat yere."

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

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

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

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

  "Do not," he answered (and the voice was unlike Heathcote's). "I willmove along so that I can lean against this tree. Come where I can seeyou, 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, shecame and stood before him as he desired. He began to speak at once, andrapidly.

  "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 wholeface was altered.

  "I did not mean to deceive you; there was no plan. It was a wildtemptation that swept over me suddenly when I found that you werefree--not married as I had thought; that you still loved me, and thatyou--did not know. I said to myself, let me have the sweetness of herlove for one short day, one short day only, and then I will tell herall. Yet I might have let it go on for a while longer, Anne, if it hadnot been for your own words this afternoon: you would go with meanywhere, at any time, trusting me utterly, loving me as you only canlove. Your faith has humiliated me; your unquestioning trust has made meashamed. And so I have come to tell you the deception, and to tell youalso that I love you so that I will no longer trust myself. I do not saythat I can not, but that I will not. And I feel the strongestself-reproach of my life that I took advantage of your innocent faith todraw out, even for that short time, the proof which I did not need; forever since that morning in the garden, Anne, I have known that you lovedme. 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 denymyself. This is no excuse; I do not offer it as such. But remember whatkind 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 snowstatue, 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 shestretched 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 hisvoice 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, amidher own s
uffering, the deathly look upon his face, came to his side."You must go back to the house," she said. "Will my arm be enough? Orshall 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 loveand each other?"

  She returned his gaze. "Yes," she said, "it would--if happiness wereall."

  "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 herhands now, and she did not withdraw them.

  "No," she answered; "never. If happiness were all, I said. But it is notall. There is something nearer, higher than happiness." She paused. Thenrapidly and passionately these words broke from her: "Ward, Ward, youare 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; Itell you plainly you could never succeed; but it is not on that accountI speak. It is because it would kill me to lose my belief in you, mylove, my only, only love!"

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

  "But you are brave. And you _shall_ be true. Go back to Helen, and tryto 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. Lightwords are often spoken about a broken heart; but I think, if you fail menow, 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, sheturned and was gone.

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

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

  On the seventh morning a letter came; it was from Heathcote, and hadbeen forwarded from Peterson's Mill. She kept it until she had ahalf-hour to herself, and then, going to the bank of the river, she satdown under the trees and opened it. Slowly; for it might be for good, orit might be for evil; but, in any case, it was her last. She would notallow 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 heshould 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 melast year, I was deeply hurt; I searched for you, but could find noclew. Then I went back eastward, joined the camping party, and after aday or two returned with them to Caryl's. No one suspected where I hadbeen. From Caryl's we all went down to the city together, and the winterbegan.

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

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

  "All this time--I do not like to say it, yet it is part of thestory--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 didnot acquiesce. No word concerning marriage was spoken, even our formervague lovers' talk had ceased; for, after you hurt me so deeply, Anne, Ihad not the heart for it. My temper was anything but pleasant. Thewinter moved on; I had no plan; I let things take their course. But Ialways expected to find you in some way, to see you again, until--thatmarriage notice appeared. I took it to Helen. 'It is Anne, I suppose?' Isaid. She read it, and answered, 'Yes.' She was deceived, just as Iwas."

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

  The letter went on: "I think she had not suspected me before, Anne--Imean in connection with you: she was always thinking of Rachel. But shedid then, and I saw it. I was so cut up about it that I concealednothing. About a week after that she was thrown from her carriage. Theythought she was dying, and sent for me. Miss Teller was in the hallwaiting; she took me into the library, and said that the doctors thoughtHelen might live if they could only rouse her, but that she seemed to besinking 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 havesaid 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 waslying on a couch; I thought she was already dead. But when I bent overher and spoke her name, she opened her eyes, and knew me immediately. Iwas shocked by her death-like face. It was all so sudden. I had left herthe night before, dressed for a ball. She whispered to me to lift herin 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 amgoing to die,' she whispered, 'so I need not care any more, or try. Ihave always loved you, Ward. I loved you even when I married Richard.' Ithought her mind was wandering; and she must have seen that I did,because she spoke again, and this time aloud. 'I am perfectly myself. Itell you that I have always loved you; you _shall_ know it before Idie.' Miss Teller said, 'And he loves you also, my darling child; he hastold me so. Now, for _his_ sake you will try to recover and be hiswife.'

  "We were married two days later. The doctors advised it, because when Iwas not there Helen sank rapidly. I took care of the poor girl forweeks; she ate only from my hand. As she grew stronger, I taught her towalk again, and carried her in my arms up and down stairs. When at lastshe began to improve, she gained strength rapidly; she is now well, savethat 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 alwayskind 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 thatattack on Sumter it seemed to me the only thing to do). I will make noattempt to follow you. In short, I will do--as well as I can. It may notbe very well.

  W. H."

&nbs
p; * * * * *

  That was all. Anne, miserable, lonely, broken-hearted, as she was, feltthat she had in one way conquered. She leaned her head against the treetrunk, and sat for some time with her eyes closed. Then she tore theletter into fragments, threw them into the river, and watched the slowcurrent bear them away. When the last one had disappeared, she rose andwent back to the hospital.

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

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