Anne: A Novel Read online

  CHAPTER VIII.

  "Shades of evening, close not o'er us, Leave our lonely bark awhile; Morn, alas! will not restore us Yonder dear and fading isle. Though 'neath distant skies we wander, Still with thee our thoughts must dwell: Absence makes the heart grow fonder-- Isle of beauty, fare thee well!"

  --THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

  "We are engaged."

  Dr. Gaston, who was standing, sat down as though struck down. Miss Loisjumped up, and began to laugh and cry in a breath. Pere Michaux, who wassitting with his injured foot resting on a stool, ground his hands downsuddenly on the arms of his chair with a sharp displeasure visible foran instant on his face. But only for an instant; it was gone before anyone saw it.

  "Oh, my darling boy!" said Miss Lois, with her arms round Rast's neck."I always knew you would. You are made for each other, and always were._Now_ we shall have you both with us always, thank the Lord!" Then shesobbed again, and took a fresh and tighter hold of him. "I'll take theboys, dear; you need not be troubled with them. And I'll come over hereand live, so that you and Annet can have the church-house; it's in muchbetter repair; only there should be a new chimney. The dearest wish ofmy heart is now fulfilled, and I am quite ready to die."

  Rast was kind always; it was simply impossible for him to say or doanything which could hurt the feelings of any one present. Such a courseis sometimes contradictory, since those who are absent likewise havetheir feelings; but it is always at the moment agreeable. He kissed MissLois affectionately, thanked her, and led her to her chair; nor did hestop there, but stood beside her with her hand in his until she began torecover her composure, wipe her eyes, and smile. Then he went across toDr. Gaston, his faithful and early friend.

  "I hope I have your approval, sir?" he said, looking very tall andhandsome as he stood by the old man's chair.

  "Yes, yes," said the chaplain, extending his hand. "I was--I wasstartled at first, of course; you have both seemed like children to me.But if it must be, it must be. Only--make her happy, Rast; make herhappy."

  "I shall try, sir."

  "Come, doctor, acknowledge that you have always expected it," said MissLois, breaking into permanent sunshine, and beginning to wipe herspectacles in a business-like way, which showed that the moisture wasended for the present.

  "No--yes; I hardly know what I have expected," answered the chaplain,still a little suffocated, and speaking thickly. "I do not think I haveexpected anything."

  "Is there any one else you would prefer to have Rast marry? Answer methat."

  "No, no; certainly not."

  "Is there any one you would prefer to have Anne marry?"

  "Why need she marry at all?" said the chaplain, boldly, breakingthrough the chain of questions closing round him. "I am sure youyourself are a bright example, Miss Hinsdale, of the merits of singlelife."

  But, to his surprise, Miss Lois turned upon him.

  "What! have Anne live through my loneliness, myalways-being-misunderstood-ness, my general sense of a useless oceanwithin me, its breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-boundcoast?" she said, quoting vehemently from the only poem she knew."Never!"

  While Dr. Gaston was still gazing at her, Rast turned to Pere Michaux."I am sure of your approval," he said, smiling confidently. "I have hadno doubt of that."

  "Haven't you?" said the priest, dryly.

  "No, sir: you have always been my friend."

  "And I shall continue to be," said Pere Michaux. But he rose as hespoke, and hobbled into the hall, closing the door behind him.

  Tita was hurrying through the garden on her way from the heights; hewaited for her.

  "Where have you been?" he asked, sternly.

  The child seemed exhausted, her breath came in panting gasps; her skirtwas torn, her hair streaming, and the dark red hue of her face waschanged to a yellow pallor.

  "I have run and run, I have followed and followed, I have listened withmy ear on the ground; I have climbed trees to look, I have torn a paththrough bushes, and I have not found them," she said, huskily, a slightfroth on her dry lips as she spoke, her eyes bright and feverish.

  "They are here," said Pere Michaux; "they have been at home some time.What can you have been about, Angelique?"

  "I have told you," said the child, rolling her apron tightly in hersmall brown hands. "I followed his track. He went down the north path. Itraced him for a mile; then I lost him. In the fir wood. Then I crept,and looked, and listened."

  "You followed Rast, then, when I told you to go to Anne! Enough. Ithought, at least, you were quick, Tita; but it seems you are dull--dullas an owl," said the priest, turning away. He hobbled to the front doorand sat down on the threshold. "After all my care," he said to himself,"to be foiled by a rolling stone!"

  Through the open window he heard Miss Lois ask where Anne was. "Did shenot come back with you, Rast?"

  "Yes, but she was obliged to go directly to the kitchen. Something aboutthe tea, I believe."

  "Oh no; it was because she did not want to face us," said Miss Lois,archly. "I will go and bring her, the dear child!"

  Pere Michaux smiled contemptuously in the twilight outside; but heseemed to have recovered his equanimity also. "Something about the tea!"he said to himself. "Something about the tea!" He rose and hobbled intothe sitting-room again with regained cheerfulness. Miss Lois was leadingin Anne. "Here she is," said the old maid. "I found her; hiding, ofcourse, and trembling."

  Anne, smiling, turned down her cuffs, and began to light the lamp asusual. "I had to watch the broiling of the birds," she said. "You wouldnot like to have them burned, would you?"

  Pere Michaux now looked thoroughly happy. "By no means," he replied,hobbling over and patting her on the head--"by no means, my dear." Thenhe laughed contentedly, and sat down. The others might talk now; he wassatisfied.

  When the lamp was lighted, everybody kissed Anne formally, and wishedher happiness, Pere Michaux going through the little rite with hisfinest Parisian courtesy. The boys added their caresses, and Gabrielsaid, "Of course _now_ you won't go away, Annet?"

  "Yes, dear, I must go just the same," said the sister.

  "Certainly," said Pere Michaux. "Erastus can not marry yet; he must gothrough college, and afterward establish himself in life."

  "They could be married next spring," suggested Miss Lois: "we could helpthem at the beginning."

  "Young Pronando is less of a man than I suppose, if he allows any onesave himself to take care of his wife," said Pere Michaux,sententiously.

  TITA LISTENING.]

  "Of course I shall not," said Rast, throwing back his handsome head withan air of pride.

  "That is right; stand by your decision," said the priest. "And now letus have tea. Enough has happened for one day, I think, and Rast must goat dawn. He can write as many letters as he pleases, but in real life hehas now to show us what metal he is made of; I do not doubt but that itwill prove pure ore."

  Dr. Gaston sat silent; he drank his tea, and every now and then lookedat Anne. She was cheerful and contented; her eyes rested upon Rast withconfidence; she smiled when he spoke as if she liked to hear his voice;but of consciousness, embarrassment, hesitation, there was not a trace.The chaplain rubbed his forehead again and again, and pushed his wig sofar back that it looked like a brown aureole. But if he was perplexed,Miss Lois was not; the happy old maid supplied all the consciousness,archness, and sentimental necessities of the occasion. She had kept themsuppressed for years, and had a large store on hand. She radiatedromance.

  While they were taking tea, Tita entered, languid and indifferent as acity lady. No, she did not care for any tea, she said; and when theboys, all together, told her the great news, she merely smiled, fannedherself, and said she had long expected it.

  Miss Lois looked up sharply, with the intention of contradicting thisstatement, but Tita gazed back at her so calmly that she gave it up.

  After Pere Michaux had left her in the hall, she had stolen to the back
door of the sitting-room, laid her ear on the floor close to the crackunder it, and overheard all. Then, trembling and silent, she crept up toher own room, bolted the door, and, throwing herself down upon thefloor, rolled to and fro in a sort of frenzy. But she was a supple,light little creature, and made no sound. When her anger had spentitself, and she had risen to her feet, those below had no consciousnessthat the ceiling above them had been ironed all over on its upper sideby the contact of a fierce little body, hot and palpitating wildly.

  Pere Michaux threw himself into that evening with all the powers hepossessed fully alert; there were given so many hours to fill, and hefilled them. The young lover Rast, the sentimental Miss Lois, theperplexed old chaplain, even the boys, all gave way to his influence,and listened or laughed at his will. Only Tita sat apart, silent andcold. Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock--it was certainly time to separate.But the boys, although sleepy and irritable, refused to go to bed, andfought with each other on the hearth-rug. Midnight; the old priest'sflow of fancy and wit was still in full play, and the circle unbroken.

  At last Dr. Gaston found himself yawning. "The world will not stop, evenif we do go to bed, my friends," he said, rising. "We certainly oughtnot to talk or listen longer to-night."

  Pere Michaux rose also, and linked his arm in Rast's. "I will walk homewith you, young sir," he said, cordially. "Miss Lois, we will take youas far as your gate."

  Miss Lois was willing, but a little uncertain in her movements; inclinedtoward delay. Would Anne lend her a shawl? And, when the young girl hadgone up stairs after it, would Rast take the candle into the hall, lestshe should stumble on her way down?

  "She will not stumble," said Pere Michaux. "She never stumbled in herlife, Miss Lois. Of what are you thinking?"

  Miss Lois put on the shawl; and then, when they had reached the gate,"Run back, Rast," she said; "I have left my knitting."

  "Here it is," said the priest, promptly producing it. "I saw it on thetable, and took charge of it."

  Miss Lois was very much obliged; but she was sure she heard some onecalling. Perhaps it was Anne. If Rast--

  "Only a night-bird," said Pere Michaux, walking on. He left Miss Lois atthe church-house; and then, linking his arm again in Rast's, accompaniedhim to his lodgings. "I am going to give you a parting present," hesaid--"a watch, the one I am wearing now. I have another, which will dovery well for this region."

  The priest's watch was a handsome one, and Rast was still young enoughto feel an immense satisfaction in such a possession. He took it withmany thanks, and frankly expressed delight. The old priest accompaniedhis gift with fatherly good wishes and advice. It was now so late thathe would take a bed in the house, he thought. In this way, too, he wouldbe with Rast, and see the last of him.

  But love laughs at parsons.

  Pere Michaux saw his charge to bed, and went to bed himself in anadjoining room. He slept soundly; but at the first peep of dawn hischarge was gone--gone to meet Anne on the heights, as agreed betweenthem the night before.

  O wise Pere Michaux!

  The sun was not yet above the horizon, but Anne was there. The youthtook her hands in his, and looked at her earnestly. He was halfsurprised himself at what he had done, and he looked at her again to seehow it had happened. All his life from earliest childhood she had beenhis dearest companion and friend; but now she was his betrothed wife,would she be in any way different? The sun came up, and showed that shewas just the same--calm, clear-eyed, and sweet-voiced. What more couldhe ask?

  "_Do_ you love me, Annet?" he said more than once, looking at her asthough she ought to be some new and only half-comprehended person.

  "You know I do," she answered. Then, as he asked again, "Why do you askme?" she said. "Has not my whole life shown it?"

  "Yes," he answered, growing more calm. "I believe you _have_ loved meall your life, Annet."

  "I have," replied the girl.

  He kissed her gently. "I shall always be kind to you," he said. Then,with a half-sigh, "You will like to live here?"

  "It is my home, Rast. However, other places will not seem strange afterI have seen the great city. For of course I must go to New York, justthe same, to learn to be a teacher, and help the children: we may beseparated for years."

  "Oh no; I shall be able to take care of you all before long," said Rast,grandly. "As soon as I have been through college I shall look about anddecide upon something. Would you like me to be a lawyer? Or a surgeon?Then there is always the army. Or we might have a farm."

  "There is only Frobisher's."

  "Oh, you mean here on the island? Well, Frobisher's would do. We couldrepair the old house, and have a pony-cart, and drive in to town." Herethe steamer sounded its first whistle. That meant that it would start inhalf an hour. Rast left the future and his plans in mid-air, and tookAnne in his arms with real emotion. "Good-by, dear, good-by," he said."Do not grieve, or allow yourself to be lonely. I shall see you soon insome way, even if I have to go to New York for the purpose. Rememberthat you are my betrothed wife now. That thought will comfort you."

  "Yes," said Anne, her sincere eyes meeting his. Then she clung to himfor a few moments, sobbing. "You must go away, and I must go away," shesaid, amid her tears: "nothing is the same any more. Father is dead, andthe whole world will be between us. Nothing is the same any more.Nothing is the same."

  "Distance is nothing nowadays," said the youth, soothing her; "I canreach you in almost no time, Annet."

  "Yes, but nothing is the same any more; nothing ever will be the sameever again," she sobbed, oppressed for the first time in her life by thevague uncertainties of the future.

  "Oh yes, it will," said her companion, decidedly. "I will come back hereif you wish it so much, and you shall come back, and we will live hereon this same old island all our lives. A man has but to choose his home,you know."

  Anne looked somewhat comforted. Yet only part of her responded to hiswords; she still felt that nothing would ever be quite the same again.She could not bring back her father; she could not bring back their longhappy childhood. The door was closed behind them, and they must now goout into the wide world.

  The second whistle sounded--another fifteen minutes gone. They ran downthe steep path together, meeting Miss Lois on her way up, a greenwoollen hood on her head as a protection against the morning air.

  "You will want a ring, my dears," she said, breathlessly, as she kissedthem--"an engagement ring; it is the custom, and fortunately I have onefor you."

  With a mixture of smiles and tears of delight and excitement, she tookfrom a little box an old-fashioned ring, and handed it to Rast.

  "It was your mother's, dear," she said to Anne; "your father gave it tome as a memento of her when you were a baby. It is most fit that youshould wear it."

  Rast examined the slender little circlet without much admiration. It wasa hoop of very small rubies placed close together, with as little goldvisible as was possible. "I meant to give Annet a diamond," he said,with the tone of a young duke.

  "Oh no, Rast," exclaimed the girl.

  "But take this for the present," urged the old maid. "You must not lether go from you without one; it would be a bad sign. Put it on yourself,Rast; I want to see you do it."

  Rast slipped the circlet into its place on Anne's finger, and then, witha little flourish which became him well, he uncovered his head, bent hisknee, and raised the hand to his lips.

  "But you have put it on the right hand," said Miss Lois, in dismay.

  "It does not make any difference," said Rast. "And besides, I like theright hand; it means more."

  Rast did not admire the old-fashioned ring, but to Anne it was bothbeautiful and sacred. She gazed at it with a lovely light in her eyes,and an earnest thoughtfulness. Any one could see how gravely sheregarded the little ceremony.

  When they came back to the house, Dr. Gaston was already there, and PereMichaux was limping up the path from the gate. He caught sight of Rastand Anne together. "Check!" he said to himself. "So much for bei
ng astupid old man. Outwitted yesterday by a rolling stone, and to-day byyour own inconceivable dullness. And you gave away your watch--didyou?--to prevent what has happened! The girl has probably bound herselfformally, and now you will have her conscience against you as well asall the rest. Bah!"

  But while thinking this, he came forward and greeted them all happilyand cheerfully, whereas the old chaplain, who really had no especialobjection to the engagement, was cross and silent, and hardly greetedanybody. He knew that he was ill-tempered, and wondered why he shouldbe. "Anything unexpected is apt to disturb the mind," he remarked,apologetically, to the priest, taking out his handkerchief andrubbing his forehead violently, as if to restore equanimity bycounter-circulation. But however cross or quiet the others might be,Miss Lois beamed for all; she shed forth radiance like Roman candleseven at that early hour, when the air was still chill and the sky graywith mist. The boys came down stairs with their clothes half on, andthen Rast said good-by, and hurried down to the pier, and they all stoodtogether on the old piazza, and watched the steamer back out into thestream, turn round, and start westward, the point of the island soonhiding it from view. Then Dr. Gaston took his unaccountable ill temperhomeward, Pere Michaux set sail for the hermitage, Anne sat down to sew,and only Miss Lois let every-day life take care of itself, and cried on.

  "I know there will be no more storms," she said; "it isn't that. But itis everything that has happened, Anne dear: the engagement, and theromance of it all!"

  Tita now entered: she had not appeared before. She required that freshcoffee should be prepared for her, and she obtained it. For the Irishsoldier's wife was almost as much afraid of her as the boys were. Sheglanced at Miss Lois's happy tears, at Anne's ruby ring, at the generaldisorder.

  "And all this for a mere boy!" she said, superbly.

  Miss Lois stopped crying from sheer astonishment. "And pray, may I ask,what are you?" she demanded.

  "A girl; and about on a line with the boy referred to," replied MissTita, composedly. "Anne is much too old."

  The boys gave a laugh of scorn. Tita turned and looked at them, and theytook to the woods for the day. Miss Lois cried no more, but began tosew; there was a vague dread in her heart as to what the winter would bewith Tita in the church-house. "If I could only cut off her hair!" shethought, with a remembrance of Samson. "Never was such hair seen on anychild before."

  As Tita sat on her low bench, the two long thick braids of her blackhair certainly did touch the floor; and most New England women, who,whether from the nipping climate or their Roundhead origin, have, as aclass, rather scanty locks, would have agreed with Miss Lois that "sucha mane" was unnatural on a girl of that age--indeed, intolerable.

  Amid much sewing, planning, and busy labor, time flew on. Dr. Gaston didnot pretend to do anything else now save come down early in the morningto the Agency, and remain nearly all day, sitting in an arm-chair,sometimes with a book before him, but hardly turning a page. His dearyoung pupil, his almost child, was going away. He tried not to think howlonely he should be without her. Pere Michaux came frequently; he spoketo Tita with a new severity, and often with a slight shade of sarcasm inhis voice. "Are you not a little too severe with her?" asked Miss Loisone day, really fearing lest Tita, in revenge, might go out on some darknight and set fire to the house.

  "He is my priest, isn't he, and not yours? He shall order me to do whathe pleases, and I shall do it," answered the small person whom she hadintended to defend.

  And now every day more and more beautiful grew the hues on the trees; itwas a last intensity of color before the long, cold, dead-white winter.All the maple and oak leaves were now scarlet, orange, or crimson, eachhue vivid; they died in a glory to which no tropical leaf ever attains.The air was warm, hazy, and still--the true air of Indian summer; and asif to justify the term, the Indians on the mainland and islands werebusy bringing potatoes and game to the village to sell, fishing, cuttingwood, and begging, full of a tardy activity before the approach ofwinter. Anne watched them crossing in their canoes, and landing on thebeach, and when occasionally the submissive, gentle-eyed squaws,carrying their little pappooses, came to the kitchen door to beg, sheherself went out to see them, and bade the servant give them something.They were Chippewas, dark-skinned and silent, wearing short calicoskirts, and a blanket drawn over their heads. Patient and uncomplainingby nature, they performed almost all the labor on their small farms,cooked for their lords and masters, and took care of the children, astheir share of the duties of life, the husbands being warriors, andabove common toil. Anne knew some of these Chippewa women personally,and could talk to them in their own tongue; but it was not oldacquaintance which made her go out and see them now. It was the feelingthat they belonged to the island, to the life which she must soon leavebehind. She felt herself clinging to everything--to the trees, to thewhite cliffs, to the very sunshine--like a person dragged along againsthis will, who catches at every straw.

  The day came at last; the eastern-bound steamer was at the pier; Annemust go. Dr. Gaston's eyes were wet; with choked utterance he gave herhis benediction. Miss Lois was depressed; but her depression had littleopportunity to make itself felt, on account of the clamor and wildbehavior of the boys, which demanded her constant attention. The clamor,however, was not so alarming as the velvety goodness of Tita. What couldthe child be planning? The poor old maid sighed, as she asked herselfthis question, over the life that lay before her. But twenty such liveswould not wear out Lois Hinsdale. Pere Michaux was in excellent spirits,and kept them all in order. He calmed the boys, encouraged Anne, cheeredthe old chaplain and Miss Lois, led them all down the street and onboard the boat, then back on the pier again, where they could see Annestanding on the high deck above them. He shook the boys when they howledin their grief too loudly, and as the steamer moved out into the streamhe gave his arm to Miss Lois, who, for the moment forgetting everythingsave that the dear little baby whom she had loved so long was goingaway, burst into convulsive tears. Tita sat on the edge of the pier, andwatched the boat silently. She did not speak or wave her handkerchief;she shed no tears. But long after the others had gone home, when thesteamer was a mere speck low down on the eastern horizon, she sat therestill.

  Yes, Anne was gone.

  And now that she was gone, it was astonishing to see what a void wasleft. No one had especially valued or praised her while she was there;she was a matter of course. But now that she was absent, the whole lifeof the village seemed changed. There was no one to lead the music onSundays, standing by the organ and singing clearly, and Miss Lois'splaying seemed now doubly dull and mechanical. There was no one going upto the fort at a certain hour every morning, passing the windows wherethe fort ladies sat, with books under her arm. There was no one workingin the Agency garden; no one coming with a quick step into the butcher'slittle shop to see what he had, and consult him, not without hiddenanxiety, as to the possibility of a rise in prices. There was no onesewing on the piazza, or going out to find the boys, or sailing over tothe hermitage with the four black-eyed children, who plainly enoughneeded even more holy instruction than they obtained. They all kneweverything she did, and all her ways. And as it was a small community,they missed her sadly. The old Agency, too, seemed to become suddenlydilapidated, almost ruinous; the boys were undeniably rascals, and Tita"a little minx." Miss Lois was without doubt a dogmatic old maid, andthe chaplain not what he used to be, poor old man--fast breaking up.Only Pere Michaux bore the test unaltered. But then he had not leanedupon this young girl as the others had leaned--the house and garden, thechaplain as well as the children: the strong young nature had in one waysupported them all.

  Meanwhile the girl herself was journeying down the lake. She stood atthe stern, watching the island grow distant, grow purple, grow lower andlower on the surface of the water, until at last it disappeared; thenshe covered her face and wept. After this, like one who leaves thevanished past behind him, and resolutely faces the future, she wentforward to the bow and took her seat there. Night came
on; she remainedon deck through the evening: it seemed less lonely there than among thepassengers in the cabin. She knew the captain; and she had beenespecially placed in his charge, also, by Pere Michaux, as far as one ofthe lower-lake ports, where she was to be met by a priest and taken tothe eastern-bound train. The captain, a weather-beaten man, past middleage, came after a while and sat down near her.

  "What is that red light over the shore-line?" said Anne to her taciturncompanion, who sat and smoked near by, protecting her paternally by hispresence, but having apparently few words, and those husky, at hiscommand.

  "Fire in the woods."

  "Is it not rather late in the season for a forest fire?"

  "Well, there it is," answered the captain, declining discussion of thepoint in face of obvious fact.

  Anne had already questioned him on the subject of light-houses. Would helike to live in a light-house?

  No, he would not.

  But they might be pleasant places in summer, with the blue water allround them: she had often thought she would like to live in one.

  Well, _he_ wouldn't.

  But why?

  Resky places sometimes when the wind blew: give him a good stiddy boat,now.

  After a time they came nearer to the burning forest. Anne could see thegreat columns of flame shoot up into the sky; the woods were on fire formiles. She knew that the birds were flying, dizzy and blinded, beforethe terrible conqueror, that the wild-cats were crying like children,that the small wolves were howling, and that the more timid woodcreatures were cowering behind fallen trunks, their eyes dilated andears laid flat in terror. She knew all this because she had often heardit described, fires miles long in the pine forests being frequentoccurrences in the late summer and early autumn; but she had neverbefore seen with her own eyes the lurid splendor, as there was nounbroken stretch of pineries on the Straits. She sat silently watchingthe great clouds of red light roll up into the dark sky, and the showerof sparks higher still. The advance-guard was of lapping tongues thatcaught at and curled through the green wood far in front; then came awall of clear orange-colored roaring fire, then the steady incandescencethat was consuming the hearts of the great trees, and behind, the longrange of dying fires like coals, only each coal was a tree. It grewlate; she went to her state-room in order that the captain might berelieved from his duty of guard. But for several hours longer she sat byher small window, watching the flames, which turned to a long red lineas the steamer's course carried her farther from the shore. She wasthinking of those she had left behind, and of the island; of Rast, andher own betrothal. The betrothal seemed to her quite natural; they hadalways been together in the past, and now they would always be togetherin the future; she was content that it was so. She knew so little of theoutside world that few forebodings as to her own immediate presenttroubled her. She was on her way to a school where she would study hard,so as soon to be able to teach, and help the children; the boys were tobe educated one by one, and after the first year, perhaps, she couldsend for Tita, since Miss Lois never understood the child aright,failing to comprehend her peculiar nature, and making her, poor littlething, uncomfortable. It would be a double relief--to Miss Lois as wellas Tita. It was a pity that her grand-aunt was so hard and ill-tempered;but probably she was old and infirm. Perhaps if she could see Tita, shemight take a fancy to the child; Tita was so small and so soft-voiced,whereas she, Anne, was so overgrown and awkward. She gave a thought ofregret to her own deficiencies, but hardly a sigh. They were matters offact which she had long ago accepted. The coast fire had now faded intoa line of red dots and a dull light above them; she knelt down andprayed, not without the sadness which a lonely young traveller mightnaturally feel on the broad dark lake.

  At the lower-lake port she was met by an old French priest, one of PereMichaux's friends, who took her to the railway station in a carriage,bought her ticket, checked her trunk, gave her a few careful words ofinstruction as to the journey, and then, business matters over, sat downby her side and talked to her with enchanting politeness and ease untilthe moment of departure. Pere Michaux had arranged this: although not oftheir faith, Anne was to travel all the way to New York in the care ofthe Roman Catholic Church, represented by its priests, handed from oneto the next, and met at the entrance of the great city by another, whowould cross the river for the purpose, in order that her young islandeyes might not be confused by the crowd and turmoil. At first Dr. Gastonhad talked of escorting Anne in person; but it was so long since he hadtravelled anywhere, and he was so absent-minded, that it was evidenteven to himself that Anne would in reality escort him. Miss Lois had thechildren, and of course could not leave them.

  "I would go myself if there was any necessity for it," said PereMichaux, "but there is not. Let me arrange it, and I promise you thatAnne shall reach her school in safety; I will have competent persons tomeet her all along the route--unless, indeed, you have friends of yourown upon whom you prefer to rely?"

  This was one of the little winds which Pere Michaux occasionally sentover the self-esteem of his two Protestant companions: he could not helpit. Dr. Gaston frowned: he had not an acquaintance between New York andthe island, and Pere Michaux knew it. But Miss Lois, undaunted, rushedinto the fray.

  "Oh, certainly, it would be quite easy for us to have her met by friendson the way," she began, making for the moment common and Protestantcause with Dr. Gaston; "it would require only a few letters. In NewEngland I should have my own family connections to call upon--persons ofthe highest respectability, descendants, most of them, of the celebratedpatriot Israel Putnam."

  "Certainly," replied Pere Michaux. "I understand. Then I will leave Anneto you."

  "But unfortunately, as Anne is going to New York, not Boston, myconnections do not live along the route, exactly," continued Miss Lois,the adverb standing for a small matter of a thousand miles or so; "nor,"she added, again admitting Dr. Gaston to a partnership, "can we makethem."

  "There remain, then, the pastors of your church," said the priest.

  "Certainly--the pastors. It will be the simplest thing in the world forDr. Gaston to write to them; they will be delighted to take charge ofany friend of ours."

  The chaplain pushed his wig back a little, and murmured, "ChurchAlmanac."

  Miss Lois glanced at him angrily. "I am sure I do not know what Dr.Gaston means by mentioning 'Church Almanac' in that way," she said,sharply. "We know most of the prominent pastors, of course. Dr.Shepherd, for instance, and Dr. Dell."

  Dr. Shepherd and Dr. Dell, who occasionally came up to the island duringthe summer for a few days of rest, lived in the lower-lake town whereAnne's long railway journey began. They were not pastors, but rectors,and the misuse of the terms grated on the chaplain's Anglican ear. Buthe was a patient man, and accustomed now to the heterogeneous phrasingof the Western border.

  "And besides," added Miss Lois, triumphantly, "there is the bishop!"

  Now the bishop lived five miles farther. It was not evident, therefore,to the ordinary mind what aid these reverend gentlemen could give toAnne, all living, as they did, at the western beginning of her railwayjourney; but Miss Lois, who, like others of her sex, possessed thepower (unattainable by man) of rising above mere logical sequence, feltthat she had conquered.

  "I have no bishops to offer," said Pere Michaux, with mock humility;"only ordinary priests. I will therefore leave Anne to your care, MissLois--yours and Dr. Gaston's."

  So the discussion ended, and Miss Lois came off with Protestant colorsflying. None the less Pere Michaux wrote his letters; and Dr. Gaston didnot write his. For the two men understood each other. There was no needfor the old chaplain to say, plainly, "I have lived out of the world solong that I have not a single clerical friend this side of New York uponwhom I can call"; the priest comprehended it without words. And therewas no need for Pere Michaux to parade the close ties and net-work ofcommunication which prevailed in the ancient Church to which hebelonged; the chaplain knew them without the telling. Each understoodthe other;
and being men, they could do without the small teasingcomments, like the buzzing of flies, with which women enliven theirdays. Thus it happened that Anne Douglas travelled from the northernisland across to the great city on the ocean border in the charge of theRoman Catholic Church.

  She arrived in New York worn out and bewildered, and having lost hersense of comparison by the strangeness and fatigue of the long journey,she did not appreciate the city's size, the crowded streets, and roar oftraffic, but regarded everything vaguely, like a tired child who hasneither surprise nor attention to give.

  At length the carriage stopped; she went up a broad flight of stonesteps; she was entering an open door. Some one was speaking to her; shewas in a room where there were chairs, and she sank down. The priest whohad brought her from the other side of the river was exchanging a fewwords with a lady; he was going; he was gone. The lady was coming towardher.

  "You are very tired, my child;" she said. "Let me take you a moment toTante, and then you can go to your room."

  "To Tante?" said Anne.

  "Yes, to Tante, or Madame Moreau, the principal of the school. Sheexpects you."