Anne: A Novel Read online

  CHAPTER X.

  "There are three sorts of egoists: those who live themselves and let others live; those who live themselves and don't let others live; and those who neither live themselves nor let others live."

  "With thoughts and feelings very simple but very strong."--TOURGUENIEFF.

  The winter passed. The new pupil studied with diligence, and insistedupon learning the beginnings of piano-playing so thoroughly that theresigned little German master with ear-rings woke up and began to askher whether she could not go through a course of ten years or so, andbecome "a real blayer, not like American blayers, who vant all to learnde same biece, and blay him mit de loud pedal down." Sometimes Helenbore her away to spend a Sunday; but there were no more New-Year's Days,or occasions for the gray silk. When together at Miss Teller's, the twosat over the dressing-room fire at night, talking with that delightfulmixture of confidence and sudden little bits of hypocrisy in which womendelight, and which undress seems to beget. The bits of hypocrisy,however, were all Helen's.

  She had long ago gathered from Anne her whole simple history; she wasfamiliar with the Agency, the fort, Miss Lois, Pere Michaux, Dr.Gaston, Rast, Tita, and the boys, even old Antoine and his dogs, Reneand Lebeau. Anne, glad to have a listener, had poured out a flood ofdetails from her lonely homesick heart, going back as far as her ownlost mother, and her young step-mother Angelique. But it was not untilone of these later midnight talks that the girl had spoken of her ownbetrothal. Helen was much surprised--the only surprise she had shown. "Ishould never have dreamed it, Crystal!" she exclaimed. "Never!" (Crystalwas her name for Anne.)

  "Why not?"

  "Because you are so--young."

  "But it often happens at my age. The fort ladies were married ateighteen and nineteen, and my own dear mother was only twenty."

  "You adore this Rast, I suppose?"

  "Yes, I like him."

  "Nonsense! You mean that you adore him."

  "Perhaps I do," said Anne, smiling. "I have noticed that our use ofwords is different."

  "And how long have you adored him?"

  "All my life."

  The little sentence came forth gravely and sincerely. Helen surveyed thespeaker with a quizzical expression in her narrow brown eyes. "No one'adores' all one's life," she answered. Then, as Anne did not take upthe challenge, she paused, and, after surveying her companion in silencefor a moment, added, "There is no time fixed as yet for this marriage?"

  "No; Rast has his position to make first. And I myself should be betterpleased to have four or five years to give to the children before we aremarried. I am anxious to educate the boys."

  "Bon!" said Helen. "All will yet end well, Virginie. My compliments toPaul. It is a pretty island pastoral, this little romance of yours; youhave my good wishes."

  The island pastoral was simple indeed compared with the net-work offancies and manoeuvres disclosed by Helen. Her life seemed to be a drama.Her personages were masked under fictitious names; the Poet, theHaunted Man, the Knight-errant, the Chanting Tenor, and the Bishop, allfigured in her recitals, to which Anne listened with intense interest.Helen was a brilliant story-teller. She could give the salient points ofa conversation, and these only. She colored everything, of course,according to her own fancy; but one could forgive her that for herskillful avoidance of dull details, whose stupid repetition, simplybecause they are true, is a habit with which many good people areafflicted.

  The narrations, of course, were of love and lovers: it is always so inthe midnight talks of women over the dying fire. Even the most secludedcountry girl will on such occasions unroll a list as long asLeporello's. The listener may know it is fictitious, and the narratormay know that she knows it. But there seems to be a fascination in thetelling and the hearing all the same.

  Helen amused herself greatly over the deep interest Anne took in herstories; to do her justice, they were generally true, the conversationsonly being more dramatic than the reality had been. This was not Helen'sfault; she performed her own part brilliantly, and even went over, onoccasion, and helped on the other side. But the American man is notdistinguished for conversational skill. This comes, not from dullness orlack of appreciation, but rather from overappreciation. Without therock-like slow self-confidence of the Englishman, the Frenchman'snever-failing wish to please, or the idealizing powers of the German,the American, with a quicker apprehension, does not appear so well inconversation as any one of these compeers. He takes in an idea soquickly that elaborate comment seems to him hardly worth while; and thushe only has a word or two where an Englishman has severalwell-intentioned sentences, a Frenchman an epigram, and a German a wholecloud of philosophical quotations and comments. But it is, more than allelse, the enormous strength which ridicule as an influence possesses inAmerica that makes him what he is; he shrinks from the slightestappearance of "fine talking," lest the ever-present harpies of mirthshould swoop down and feed upon his vitals.

  Helen's friends, therefore, might not always have recognized themselvesin her sparkling narratives, as far as their words were concerned; butit is only justice to them to add that she was never obliged toembellish their actions. She related to Anne apart, during their musiclessons, the latest events in a whisper, while Belzini gave two minutesto cream candy and rest; the stories became the fairy tales of theschool-girl's quiet life. Through all, she found her interest more andmore attracted by "the Bishop," who seemed, however, to be anything butan ecclesiastical personage.

  Miss Vanhorn had been filled with profound astonishment and annoyance byHelen's note. She knew Helen, and she knew Miss Teller: what could theywant of Anne? After due delay, she came in her carriage to find out.

  Tante, comprehending her motive, sent Anne up stairs to attire herselfin the second dress given by Helen--a plain black costume, simply butbecomingly made, and employed the delay in talking to her visitormellifluously on every conceivable subject save the desired one. Shetreated her to a dissertation on intaglii, to an argument or two onarchitecture, and was fervently asking her opinion of certain recentlyexhibited relics said to be by Benvenuto Cellini, when the door openedand Anne appeared.

  The young girl greeted her grandaunt with the same mixture of timidityand hope which she had shown at their first interview. But MissVanhorn's face stiffened into rigidity as she surveyed her.

  "She is impressed at last," thought the old Frenchwoman, folding herhands contentedly and leaning back in her chair, at rest (temporarily)from her labors.

  But if impressed, Miss Vanhorn had no intention of betraying herimpression for the amusement of her ancient enemy; she told Anne curtlyto put on her bonnet, that she had come to take her for a drive. Oncesafely in the carriage, she extracted from her niece, who willinglyanswered, every detail of her acquaintance with Helen, and the holidayvisit, bestowing with her own eyes, meanwhile, a close scrutiny upon theblack dress, with whose texture and simplicity even her angry annoyancecould find no fault.

  "She wants to get something out of you, of course," she said, abruptly,when the story was told; "Helen Lorrington is a thoroughly selfishwoman. I know her well. She introduced you, I suppose, as Miss Vanhorn'sniece?"

  "Oh no, grandaunt. She has no such thought."

  "What do you know of her thoughts! You continue to go there?"

  "Sometimes, on Sundays--when she asks me."

  "Very well. But you are not to go again when company is expected; Ipositively forbid it. You were not brought down from your island toattend evening parties. You hear me?"

  "Yes."

  "Perhaps you are planning for a situation here at Moreau's next winter?"said the old woman, after a pause, peering at Anne suspiciously.

  "I could not fill it, grandaunt; I could only teach in a countryschool."

  "At Newport, or some such place, then?"

  "I could not get a position of that kind."

  "Mrs. Lorrington could help you."

  "I have not asked her to help me."

  "I thought perhaps s
he had some such idea of her own," continued MissVanhorn. "You can probably prop up that fife-like voice of hers in a wayshe likes; and besides, you are a good foil for her, with your bigshoulders and bread-and-milk face. You little simpleton, don't you knowthat to even the most skillful flirt a woman friend of some kind orother is necessary as background and support?"

  "No, I did not know it," said Anne, in a disheartened voice.

  "What a friend for Helen Lorrington! No wonder she has pounced upon you!You would never see one of her manoeuvres, although done within an inchof you. With your believing eyes, and your sincerity, you are worth yourweight in silver to that straw-faced mermaid. But, after all, I do notinterfere. Let her only obtain a good situation for you next year, andpay you back in more useful coin than fine dresses, and I make noobjection."

  She settled herself anew in the corner of the carriage, and began theprocess of extracting a seed, while Anne, silent and dejected, gazedinto the snow-covered street, asking herself whether Helen and all thisworld were really as selfish and hypocritical as her grandauntrepresented. But these thoughts soon gave way to the predominant one,the one that always came to her when with Miss Vanhorn--the thought ofher mother.

  "During the summer, do you still live in the old country house on theHudson, grandaunt?"

  Miss Vanhorn, who had just secured a seed, dropped it. "I am not awarethat my old country house is anything to you," she answered, tartly,fitting on her flapping glove-fingers, and beginning a second search.

  A sob rose in Anne's throat; but she quelled it. Her mother had spentall her life, up to the time of her marriage, at that old riverhomestead.

  Soon after this, Madame Moreau sent out cards of invitation for one ofher musical evenings. Miss Vanhorn's card was accompanied by a littlenote in Tante's own handwriting.

  * * * * *

  "The invitation is merely a compliment which I give myself the pleasureof paying to a distinguished patron of my school" (wrote the old Frenchlady). "There will be nothing worthy of her ear--a simple school-girls'concert, in which Miss Douglas (who will have the kind assistance ofMrs. Lorrington) will take part. I can not urge, for so unimportant anaffair, the personal presence of Miss Vanhorn; but I beg her to acceptthe inclosed card as a respectful remembrance from

  "HORTENSE-PAULINE MOREAU."

  * * * * *

  "That will bring her," thought Tante, sealing the missive, in herold-fashioned way, with wax.

  She was right; Miss Vanhorn came.

  Anne sang first alone. Then with Helen.

  "Isn't that Mrs. Lorrington?" said a voice behind Miss Vanhorn.

  "Yes. My Louise tells me that she has taken up this Miss Douglasenthusiastically--comes here to sing with her almost every day."

  "Who is the girl?"

  Miss Vanhorn prepared an especially rigid expression of countenance forthe item of relationship which she supposed would follow. But nothingcame; Helen was evidently waiting for a more dramatic occasion. She feltherself respited; yet doubly angry and apprehensive.

  When the song was ended, there was much applause of the subdueddrawing-room kind--applause, however, plainly intended for Helen alone.Singularly enough, Miss Vanhorn resented this. "If I should take Anne,dress her properly, and introduce her as my niece, the Lorrington wouldbe nowhere," she thought, angrily. It was the first germ of the idea.

  It was not allowed to disappear. It grew and gathered strength slowly,as Tante and Helen intended it should; the two friendly conspiratorsnever relaxed for a day their efforts concerning it. Anne remainedunconscious of these manoeuvres; but the old grandaunt was annoyed, andurged, and flattered, and menaced forward with so much skill that itended in her proposing to Anne, one day in the early spring, that sheshould come and spend the summer with her, the children on the island tobe provided for meanwhile by an allowance, and Anne herself to have asecond winter at the Moreau school, if she wished it, so that she mightbe fitted for a higher position than otherwise she could have hoped toattain.

  "Oh, grandaunt!" cried the girl, taking the old loosely gloved hand inhers.

  "There is no occasion for shaking hands and grandaunting in that way,"said Miss Vanhorn. "If you wish to do what I propose, do it; I am notactuated by any new affection for you. You will take four days toconsider; at the end of that period, you may send me your answer. But,with your acceptance, I shall require the strictest obedience. And--noallusion whatever to your mother."

  "What are to be my duties?" asked Anne, in a low voice.

  "Whatever I require," answered the old woman, grimly.

  At first Anne thought of consulting Tante. But she had a strongunder-current of loyalty in her nature, and the tie of blood bound herto her grandaunt, after all: she decided to consult no one but herself.The third day was Sunday. In the twilight she sat alone on her narrowbed, by the window of the dormitory, thinking. It was a boisterous Marchevening; the wildest month of the twelve was on his mad errands asusual. Her thoughts were on the island with the children; would it notbe best for them that she should accept the offered allowance, and gowith this strange grandaunt of hers, enduring as best she might her coldseverity? Miss Lois's income was small; the allowance would make thelittle household comfortable. A second winter in New York would enableher to take a higher place as teacher, and also give the self-confidenceshe lacked. Yes; it was best.

  But a great and overwhelming loneliness rose in her heart at the thoughtof another long year's delay before she could be with those she loved.Rast's last letter was in her pocket; she took it out, and held it inher hand for comfort. In it he had written of the sure success of hisfuture; and Anne believed it as fully as he did. Her hand grew warmer asshe held the sheet, and as she recalled his sanguine words. She began tofeel courageous again. Then another thought came to her: must she tellMiss Vanhorn of her engagement? In their new conditions, would it not bedishonest to keep the truth back? "I do not see that it can be of anyinterest to her," she said to herself. "Still, I prefer to tell her."And then, having made her decision, she went to Tante.

  Tante was charmed with the news (and with the success of her plan). Shediscoursed upon family affection in very beautiful language. "You willfind a true well-spring of love in the heart of your venerablerelative," she remarked, raising her delicate handkerchief, like thesuggestion of a happiness that reached even to tears. "Long, long have Iheld your cherished grandaunt in a warm corner of my memory and heart."

  This was true as regarded the time and warmth; only the latter was of asomewhat peppery nature.

  The next morning Helen was told the news. She threw back her head incomic despair. "The old dragon has taken the game out of my hands atlast," she said, "and ended all the sport. Excuse the title, Anne. But Iam morally certain she has all sorts of vinegarish names for me. Andnow--am I to congratulate you upon your new home?"

  "It is more a matter of duty, I think, than congratulation," said Anne,thoughtfully. "And next, I must tell her of my engagement."

  "I wouldn't, if I were you, Crystal."

  "Why?"

  "She would rather have you free."

  "I shall be free, as far as she is concerned."

  "Do not be too sure of that. And take my advice--do not tell her."

  Anne, however, paid no heed to this admonition; some things she didsimply because she could not help doing them. She had intended to makeher little confession immediately; but Miss Vanhorn gave her noopportunity. "That is enough talking," she said. "I have neuralgia in myeyebrow."

  "But, grandaunt, I feel that I ought to tell you."

  "Tell me nothing. Don't you know how to be silent? Set about learning,then. When I have neuralgia in my eyebrow, you are to speak only fromnecessity; when I have it in the eye itself, you are not to speak atall. Find me a caraway, and don't bungle."

  She handed her velvet bag to Anne, and refitted the fingers of heryellow glove: evidently the young girl's duties were beginning.

  Several
days passed, but the neuralgia always prevented the story. Atlast the eyebrow was released, and then Anne spoke. "I wish to tellyou, grandaunt, before I come to you, that I am engaged--engaged to bemarried."

  "Who cares?" said Miss Vanhorn. "To the man in the moon, I suppose; mostschool-girls are."

  "No, to--"

  "Draw up my shawl," interrupted the old woman. "_I_ do not care who itis. Why do you keep on telling me?"

  "Because I did not wish to deceive you."

  "Wait till I ask you not to deceive me. Who is the boy?"

  "His name is Erastus Pronando," began Anne; "and--"

  "Pronando?" cried Katharine Vanhorn, in a loud, bewilderedvoice--"Pronando? And his father's name?"

  "John, I believe," said Anne, startled by the change in the old face."But he has been dead many years."

  Old Katharine rose; her hands trembled, her eyes flashed. "You will giveup this boy at once and forever," she said, violently, "or my compactwith you is at an end."

  "How can I, grandaunt? I have promised--"

  "I believe I am mistress of my own actions; and in this affair I willhave no sort of hesitation," continued the old woman, taking the wordsfrom Anne, and tapping a chair back angrily with her hand. "Decidenow--this moment. Break this engagement, and my agreement remains.Refuse to break it, and it falls. That is all."

  "You are unjust and cruel," said the girl, roused by these arbitrarywords.

  Miss Vanhorn waved her hand for silence.

  "If you will let me tell you, aunt--"

  The old woman bounded forward suddenly, as if on springs, seized herniece by both shoulders, and shook her with all her strength. "There!"she said, breathless. "_Will_ you stop talking! All I want is youranswer--yes, or no."

  The drawing-room of Madame Moreau had certainly never witnessed such asight as this. One of its young ladies shaken--yes, absolutely shakenlike a refractory child! The very chairs and tables seemed to tremble,and visibly hope that there was no one in the _salon des eleves_,behind.

  Anne was more startled than hurt by her grandaunt's violence. "I amsorry to displease you," she said, slowly and very gravely; "but I cannot break my engagement."

  Without a word, Miss Vanhorn drew her shawl round her shoulders, pinnedit, crossed the room, opened the door, and was gone. A moment later hercarriage rolled away, and Anne, alone in the drawing-room, listened tothe sound of the wheels growing fainter and fainter, with a chillymixture of blank surprise, disappointment, and grief filling her heart."But it _was_ right that I should tell her," she said to herself as shewent up stairs--"it _was_ right."

  Right and wrong always presented themselves to her as black and white.She knew no shading. She was wrong; there are grays. But, so far in herlife, she had not been taught by sad experience to see them. "It _was_right," she repeated to Helen, a little miserably, but stillsteadfastly.

  "I am not so sure of that," replied Mrs. Lorrington. "You have lost ayear's fixed income for those children, and a second winter here foryourself; and for what? For the sake of telling the dragon somethingwhich does not concern her, and which she did not wish to know."

  "But it was true."

  "Are we to go out with trumpets and tell everything we know, justbecause it is true? Is there not such a thing as egotisticaltruthfulness?"

  "It makes no difference," said Anne, despairingly. "I had to tell her."

  "You are stubborn, Crystal, and you see but one side of a question. Butnever fear; we will circumvent the dragon yet. I wonder, though, why shewas so wrought up by the name Pronando? Perhaps Aunt Gretta will know."

  Miss Teller did not know; but one of the husky-voiced old gentlemen whokept up the "barrier, sir, against modern innovation," remembered theparticulars (musty and dusty now) of Kate Vanhorn's engagement to one ofthe Pronandos--the wild one who ran away. He was younger than she was, ahandsome fellow (yes, yes, he remembered it all now), and "she wasterribly cut up about it, and went abroad immediately." Abroad--greatpanacea for American woes! To what continent can those who live "abroad"depart when trouble seizes _them_ in its pitiless claws?

  Time is not so all-erasing as we think. Old Katharine Vanhorn, atseventy, heard from the young lips of her grandniece the name which hadnot been mentioned in her presence for nearly half a century--the namewhich still had power to rouse in her heart the old bitter feeling. ForJohn Pronando had turned from her to an uneducated common girl--amarket-gardener's daughter. The proud Kate Vanhorn resented thedefection instantly; she broke the bond of her betrothal, and sailed forEngland before Pronando realized that she was offended. This idyl of thegardener's daughter was but one of his passing amusements; and so hewrote to his black-browed goddess. But she replied that if he soughtamusement of that kind during the short period of betrothal, he wouldseek it doubly after marriage, and _then_ it would not be so easy tosail for Europe. She considered that she had had an escape. Pronando,handsome, light-hearted, and careless, gave up his offended Juno withoutmuch heartache, and the episode of Phyllis being by this time finished,he strayed back to his Philadelphia home, to embroil himself as usualwith his family, and, later, to follow out the course ordained for himby fate. Kate Vanhorn had other suitors; but the old wound never healed.

  "Come and spend the summer with me," said Helen. "I trust I am asagreeable as the dragon."

  "No; I must stay here. Even as it is, she is doing a great deal for me;I have no real claim upon her," replied Anne, trying not to give way tothe loneliness that oppressed her.

  "Only that of being her nearest living relative, and natural heir."

  "I have not considered the question of inheritance," replied the islandgirl, proudly.

  "I know you have not; yet it is there. Old ladies, however, instead ofnatural heirs, are apt to prefer unnatural ones--cold-blooded Societies,Organizations, and the endless Heathen. But I am in earnest about thesummer, Crystal: spend it with me."

  "You are always generous to me," said Anne, gratefully.

  "No; I never was generous in my life. I do not know how to be generous.But this is the way it is: I am rich; I want a companion; and I like_you_. Your voice supports mine perfectly, and is not in the least tooloud--a thing I detest. Besides, we look well together. You are anexcellent background for me; you make me look poetic; whereas most womenmake me look like a caricature of myself--of what I really am. As thougha straw-bug should go out walking with a very attenuated grasshopper.Now if the straw-bug went out always with a plump young toad orwood-turtle, people might be found to admire even _his_ hair-likefineness of limb and yellow transparency, by force, you know, ofcontrast."

  Anne laughed; but there was also a slight change of expression in herface.

  "I can read you, Crystal," said Helen, laughing in her turn. "OldKatharine has already told you all those things--sweet old lady! Sheunderstands me so well! Come; call it selfishness or generosity, as youplease; but accept."

  "It is generosity, Helen; which, however, I must decline."

  "It must be very inconvenient to be so conscientious," said Mrs.Lorrington. "But mind, I do not give it up. What! lose so good alistener as you are? To whom, then, can I confide the latest particularsrespecting the Poet, the Bishop, the Knight-errant, and the HauntedMan?"

  "I like the Bishop," said Anne, smiling back at her friend. She hadacquired the idea, without words, that Helen liked him also.

  The story of Miss Vanhorn's change was, of course, related to Tante:Anne had great confidence both in the old Frenchwoman's kindness ofheart and excellent judgment.

  Tante listened, asked a question or two, and then said: "Yes, yes, Isee. For the present, nothing more can be done. She will allow you tofinish your year here, and as the time is of value to you, you shallcontinue your studies through the vacation. But not at my New Jerseyfarm, as she supposes; at a better place than that. You shall go toPitre."

  "A place, Tante?"

  "No; a friend of mine, and a woman."

  Mademoiselle Jeanne-Armande Pitre was not so old as Tante (Tante hadfri
ends of all ages); she was about fifty, but conveyed the impressionof never having been young. "She is an excellent teacher," continued theother Frenchwoman, "and so closely avaricious that she will be glad totake you even for the small sum you will pay. She is employed in aWestern seminary somewhere, but always returns to this little house ofhers for the summer vacation. Your opportunity for study with her willbe excellent; she has a rage for study. Write and tell your grandaunt,ma fille, what I have decided."

  "Ma fille" wrote; but Miss Vanhorn made no reply.

  Early in June, accompanied by "monsieur," Anne started on her littlejourney. The German music master said farewell with hearty regret. Hewas leaving also; he should not be with Madame Moreau another winter, hesaid. The Italian atmosphere stifled him, and the very sight of Belzinimade him "dremble vit a er-righteous er-rage." He gave Anne his address,and begged that she would send to him when she wanted new music; "music_vort_ someding." Monsieur Laurent, Anne's escort, was a nephew ofTante's, a fine-looking middle-aged Frenchman, who taught the verbs witha military air. But it was not so much his air as his dining-room whichgave him importance in the eyes of the school. The "salle a manger demonsieur" was a small half-dark apartment, where he took his meals byhimself. It was a mysterious place; monsieur was never seen there; itwas not known even at what hour he dined. But there were stories inwhispered circulation of soups, sauces, salads, and wines served therein secret, which made the listeners hungry even in the mere recital.They peered into the dim little room as they passed, but never sawanything save a brown linen table-cloth, an old caster, and one chair.It was stated, however, that this caster was not a common caster, butthat it held, instead of the ordinary pepper and mustard, variousliquids and spices of mysterious nature, delightfully and wickedlyFrench.

  In less than an hour the travellers reached Lancaster. Here monsieurplaced Anne in a red wagon which was in waiting, said good-by hastily(being, perhaps, in a hurry to return to his dining-room), and caughtthe down train back to the city. He had lived in America so long that hecould hurry like a native.

  The old horse attached to the red wagon walked slowly over a levelwinding road, switching his tail to and fro, and stopping now and thento cough, with the profundity which only a horse's cough possesses. Atlast, turning into a field, he stopped before what appeared to be afragment of a house.

  "Is this the place?" said Anne, surprised.

  "It's Miss Peter's," replied the boy driver.

  The appearance of Mademoiselle Pitre in person at the door now removedall doubt as to her abode. "I am glad to see you," she said, extending along yellow hand. "Enter."

  The house, which had never been finished, was old; the sides and backwere of brick, and the front of wood, temporarily boarded across. Thekitchen and one room made all the depth; above, there were three smallchambers. After a while, apparently, windows and a front door had beenset in the temporary boarding, and a flight of steps added. Mademoisellehad bought the house in its unfinished condition, and had graduallybecome an object of great unpopularity in the neighborhood because, asseason after season rolled by, she did nothing more to her purchase.What did she mean, then? Simple comment swelled into suspicion; thepenny-saving old maid was now considered a dark and mysterious person atLancaster. Opinions varied as to whether she had committed a crime inher youth, or intended to commit one in her age. At any rate, she wasnot like other people--in the country a heinous crime.

  The interior of this half-house was not uncomfortable, although arrangedwith the strictest economy. The chief room had been painted a brilliantblue by the skillful hands of mademoiselle herself; there was no carpet,but in summer one can spare a carpet; and Anne thought the bright color,the growing plants and flowers, the gayly colored crockery, the fourwhite cats, the sunshine, and the cool open space unfilled by furniture,quaintly foreign and attractive.

  The mistress of the house was tall and yellow. She was attired in ablack velvet bodice, and a muslin skirt whereon a waving design, like anendless procession of spindling beet roots, or fat leeches going roundand round, was depicted in dark crimson. This muslin was secretlyadmired in the neighborhood; but as mademoiselle never went to church,and, what was worse, made no change in her dress on the Sabbath-day, itwas considered a step toward rationalism to express the liking.

  Anne slept peacefully on her narrow bed, and went down to a savorybreakfast the next morning. The old Irish servant, Nora, who came outfrom the city every summer to live with mademoiselle, prepared withskill the few dishes the careful mistress ordered. But when the meal wasover, Anne soon discovered that the careful mistress was also an expertin teaching. Her French, Italian, music, and drawing were all reviewedand criticised, and then Jeanne-Armande put on her bonnet, and told herpupil to make ready for her first lesson in botany.

  "Am I to study botany?" said Anne, surprised.

  IN THE WOODS.]

  "All study botany who come to me," replied Jeanne-Armande, much in thetone of "Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate." "Is that all thebonnet you have? It is far too fine. I will buy you a Shaker at theshop." And with her tin flower case slung from her shoulder, shestarted down the road toward the country store at the corners; hereshe bought a Shaker bonnet for her pupil, selecting one that was bent,and demanding a reduction in price in consequence of the "irreparableinjury to the fibre of the fabric." The shop-keeper, an anxious littleman with a large family, did his best to keep on good terms with "theforeigner" privately, and to preserve on other occasions that appearanceof virtuous disapproval which the neighborhood required of him. He livedhaunted by a fear lest the Frenchwoman and her chief detractors shouldmeet face to face in the narrow confines of his domain; and he had longdetermined that in case of such event he would be down in the cellardrawing molasses--an operation universally known to consume time. Butthe sword of Damocles does not fall; in this instance, as in others,mademoiselle departed in safety, bearing Anne away to the woods, herface hidden in the depths of the Shaker.

  Wild flowers, that seem so fresh and young, are, singularly enough, theespecial prey of old maids. Young girls love the garden flowers;beautiful women surround themselves with hot-house hues and perfumes.But who goes into the woods, explores the rocky glens, braves theswamps? Always the ardent-hearted old maid, who, in her plain garb andthick shoes, is searching for the delicate little wild blossoms, theworld over.

  Jeanne-Armande had an absorbing love for flowers, a glowing enthusiasmfor botany. She now taught Anne the flower study with what Tante wouldhave called "a rage." More than once the pupil thought how strange itwas that fate should have forced into her hands at this late hour thetalisman that might once have been the key to her grandaunt's favor. Itdid not occur to her that Tante was the Fate.

  Letters had come from all on the island, and from Rast. Regarding hercourse in telling Miss Vanhorn of her engagement, Miss Lois wrote thatit was "quite unnecessary," and Dr. Gaston that it was "imprudent." EvenRast (this was hardest to bear) had written, "While I am proud, dearest,to have your name linked with mine, still, I like better to think of thetime when I can come and claim you in person, in the face of all thegrandaunts in the world, who, if they _knew_ nothing, could not in themean time harass and annoy you."

  Pere Michaux made no comment. Anne looked through Tita's letters forsome time expectantly, but no message in his small, clear handwritingappeared.

  The weeks passed. The pupil learned the real kindness of the teacher,and never thought of laughing at her oddities, until--Helen came.

  For Helen came: on her way home from her grandfather's bedside, whithershe had been summoned (as usual two or three times each year) "to seehim die."

  "Grandpapa always recovers as soon as I enter the door," she said. "Ishould think he would insist upon my living there as a safeguard! Thistime I did not even see him--he did not wish me in the room; and so,having half a day to spare, I decided to send my maid on, and stop overand see _you_, Crystal."

  Anne, delighted and excited, sat looking at her friend with
happy eyes."I am so glad, glad, to see you!" she said.

  "Then present me to your hostess and jailer. For I intend to remainovernight, and corrupt the household."

  Jeanne-Armande was charmed with their visitor; she said she was "a ladydecidedly as it should be." Helen accompanied them on their botany walk,observed the velvet bodice and beet-root muslin, complimented theceremonious courses of the meagre little dinner, and did not laugh untilthey were safely ensconced in Anne's cell for the night.

  "But, Crystal," she said, when she had imitated Jeanne-Armande, and Anneherself as pupil, with such quick and ridiculous fidelity that Anne wasobliged to bury her face in the pillow to stifle her laughter, "I have apurpose in coming here. The old dragon has appeared at Caryl's, whereAunt Gretta and I spent last summer, and where we intend to spend theremainder of this; she is even there to-night, caraway seeds, malice,and all. Now I want you to go back with me, as my guest for a week ortwo, and together we will annihilate her."

  "Do not call her by that name, Helen."

  "Not respectful enough? Grand Llama, then; the double l scintillateswith respect. The Grand Llama being present, I want to bring you on thescene as a charming, botanizing, singing niece whom she has strangelyneglected. Will you go?"

  "Of course I can not."

  "You have too many principles; and, mind you, principles are oftenshockingly egotistical and selfish. I would rather have a mountain ofsins piled up against me on the judgment-day, and a crowd of friendswhom I had helped and made happy, than the most snowy empty pious recordin the world, and no such following."

  "One does not necessitate the other," said Anne, after her usual pausewhen with Helen: she was always a little behind Helen's fluent phrases."One can have friends without sins."

  "Wait and see," said Helen.

  In the morning the brilliant visitor took her departure, and thehalf-house fell back into its usual quietude. Anne did not go withHelen; but Helen avowed her purpose of bringing her to Caryl's yet, inspite of fate. "I am not easily defeated," she said. "When I wish athing, it always happens. But, like the magicians, nobody notices howhard I have worked to have it happen."

  She departed. And within a week she filled Caryl's with descriptions ofJeanne-Armande, the velvet bodice, the beet-root skirt, the blue room,the white cats, and the dinner, together with the solitary pupil, whoseknowledge of _botany_ was something unparalleled in the history of thescience. Caryl's was amused with the descriptions, and cared nothing forthe reality. But when Miss Vanhorn heard the tale, it was the realitythat menaced her. No one knew as yet the name of the solitary pupil, northe relationship to herself; but of course Mrs. Lorrington was merelybiding her time. What was her purpose? In her heart she pondered overthis new knowledge of botany, expressly paraded by Helen; her own eyesand hands were not as sure and deft as formerly. Sometimes now when shestooped to gather a flower, it was only a leaf with the sun shining onit, or a growth of fungus, yellowly white. "Of course it is all a planof old Moreau's," she said to herself. "Anne would never have thought ofstudying botany to gain my favor; she hasn't wit enough. It is oldMoreau and the Lorrington together. Let us see what will be their nextstep."

  But Helen merely decorated her stories, and told nothing new. One daysome one asked: "But who is this girl? All this while you have not toldus; nor the place where this remarkable half-house is."

  "I am not at liberty to tell," replied Helen's clear even voice. "Thatis not permitted--at present."

  Miss Vanhorn fidgeted in her corner, and put up her glass to catch anywandering expressions that might be turning in her direction; but therewere none. "She is giving me a chance of having Anne here peaceably,"she thought. "If, after a reasonable time, I do not accept it, she willdeclare war, and the house will ring with my hard-heartedness.Fortunately I do not care for hard-heartedness."

  She went off on her solitary drive; mistook two flowers; stumbled andhurt her ankle; lost her magnifying-glass. On her way home she sat andmeditated. It would be comfortable to have young eyes and hands toassist her. Also, if Anne was really there in person, then, when all theduets were sung, and the novelty (as well as difficulty) over, Mrs.Lorrington would be the first to weary of her protegee, and would lether fall like a faded leaf. And that would be the end of that. Here asudden and new idea came to her: might not this very life at Caryl'sbreak up, of itself, the engagement which was so obnoxious? If sheshould bring Anne here and introduce her as her niece, might not hervery ignorance of the world and crude simplicity attract the attentionof some of the loungers at Caryl's, who, if they exerted themselves,would have little difficulty in effacing the memory of that boy on theisland? They would not, of course, be in earnest, but the result wouldbe accomplished all the same. Anne was impressionable, and truthfulnessitself. Yes, it could be done.

  Accompanied by her elderly maid, she went back to New York; and then outto the half-house.

  "I have changed my mind," she announced, abruptly, taking her seat uponJeanne-Armande's hard sofa. "You are to come with me. This is the blueroom, I suppose; and there are the four cats. Where is the bodicedwoman? Send her to me; and go pack your clothes immediately."

  "Am I to go to Caryl's--where Helen is?" said Anne, in excited surprise.

  "Yes; you will see your Helen. You understand, I presume, that she is atthe bottom of all this."

  "But--do you like Helen, grandaunt?"

  "I am extremely fond of her," replied Miss Vanhorn, dryly. "Run and makeready; and send the bodiced woman to me. I give you half an hour; nolonger."

  Jeanne-Armande came in with her gliding step. In her youth a lady'sfootfall was never heard. She wore long narrow cloth gaiters withoutheels, met at the ankles by two modest ruffles, whose edges were visiblewhen the wind blew. The exposure of even a hair's-breadth rim of anklewould have seemed to her an unpardonable impropriety. However, there wasno danger; the ruffles swept the ground.

  The Frenchwoman was grieved to part with her pupil; she had conceived areal affection for her in the busy spot which served her as a heart. Shesaid good-by in the privacy of the kitchen, that Miss Vanhorn might notsee the tears in her eyes; then she returned to the blue room and wentthrough a second farewell, with a dignity appropriate to the occasion.

  "Good-by," said Anne, coming back from the doorway to kiss her thincheek a second time. Then she whispered: "I may return to you after all,mademoiselle. Do not forget me."

  "The dear child!" said Jeanne-Armande, waving her handkerchief as thecarriage drove away. And there was a lump in her yellow old throat whichdid not disappear all day.