Part 41 (1/2)

”I mean that I can not marry Mr. Dexter.”

”No one asks you to marry him now.”

”I can never marry him.”

”Why?” said Miss Vanhorn, with rising color. ”Be careful what you say.

No lies.”

”I--I am engaged to Rast.”

”Lie number one. Look at me. If your engagement was ended, _then_ would you marry Mr. Dexter?”

Anne half rose, as if to escape, but sank back again. ”I could not marry him, because I do not love him,” she answered.

”And whom do you love, that you know so much about it, and have your 'do not' and 'can not' so promptly ready? Never tell me that it is that boy upon the island who has taught you all these new ways, this faltering and fear of looking in my face, of which you knew nothing when you came.

Do you wish me to tell you what I think of you?”

”No,” cried the girl, rus.h.i.+ng forward, and falling on her knees beside the arm-chair; ”tell me nothing. Only let me go away. I can not, can not stay here; I am too wretched, too weak. You can not have a lower opinion of me than I have of myself at this moment. If you have any compa.s.sion for me--for the memory of my mother--say no more, and let me go.” She bowed her head upon the arm of the chair and sobbed aloud.

But Miss Vanhorn rose and walked away. ”I know what this means,” she said, standing in the centre of the room. ”Like mother, like daughter.

Only Alida ran after a man who loved her, although her inferior, while you have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is simply laughing at you. Don't you know, you fool, that Ward Heathcote will marry Helen Lorrington--the woman you pretend to be grateful to, and call your dearest friend? Helen Lorrington will be in every way a suitable wife for him. It has long been generally understood. The idea of _your_ trying to thrust yourself between them is preposterous--I may say a maniac's folly.”

”I am not trying: only let me go,” sobbed Anne, still kneeling by the chair.

”You think I have not seen,” continued Miss Vanhorn, her wrath rising with every bitter word; ”but I have. Only I never dreamed that it was as bad as this. I never dreamed that Alida's daughter could be bold and immodest--worse than her mother, who was only love-mad.”

Anne started to her feet. ”Miss Vanhorn,” she said, ”I will not hear this, either of myself or my mother. It is not true.”

”As to not hearing it, you are right; you will not hear my voice often in the future. I wash my hands of you. You are an ungrateful girl, and will come to an evil end. When I think of the enormous selfishness you now show in thus throwing away, for a mere matter of personal obstinacy, the bread of your sister and brothers, and leaving them to starve, I stand appalled. What do you expect?”

”Nothing--save to go.”

”And you _shall_ go.”

”To-day?”

”This afternoon, at three.” As she said this, Miss Vanhorn seated herself with her back toward Anne, and took up a book, as though there was no one in the room.

”Do you want me any longer, grandaunt?”

”Never call me by that name again. Go to your room; Bessmer will attend to you. At two o'clock I will see you for a moment before you go.”

Without a reply, Anne obeyed. Her tears were dried as if by fever; words had been spoken which could not be forgiven. Inaction was impossible; she began to pack. Then, remembering who had given her all these clothes, she paused, uncertain what to do. After reflection, she decided to take with her only those she had brought from the half-house; and in this she was not actuated by any spirit of retaliation, her idea was that her grandaunt would demand the gifts in any case. Miss Vanhorn was not generous. She worked steadily; she did not wish to think; yet still the crowding feelings pursued her, caught up with her, and then went along with her, thrusting their faces close to hers, and forcing recognition. Was she, as Miss Vanhorn had said, enormously selfish in thus sacrificing the new comfort of the pinched household on the island to her own obstinacy? But, as she folded the plain garments brought from that home, she knew that it was not selfishness; as she replaced the filmy ball dress in its box, she said to herself that she could not deceive Mr. Dexter by so much even as a silence. Then, as she wrapped the white parasol in its coverings, the old burning, throbbing misery rolled over her, followed by the hot jealousy which she thought she had conquered; she seized the two dresses given by Helen, and added them to those left behind. But the action brought shame, and she replaced them.

And now all the clothes faced her from the open trunks; those from the island, those which Rast had seen, murmured, ”Faithless!” Helen's gifts whispered, ”Ingrat.i.tude!” and those of her grandaunt called more loudly, ”Fool!” She closed the lids, and turned toward the window; she tried to busy her mind with the future: surely thought and plans were needed. She was no longer confident, as she had been when she first left her Northern island; she knew now how wide the world was, and how cold. She could not apply at the doors of schools without letters or recommendations; she could not live alone. Her one hope began and ended in Jeanne-Armande. She dressed herself in travelling garb and sat down to wait. It was nearly noon, probably she would not see Helen, as she always slept through the morning after a ball, preserving by this changeless care the smooth fairness of her delicate complexion. She decided to write a note of farewell, and leave it with Bessmer; but again and again she tore up her beginnings, until the floor was strewn with fragments. She had so very much not to say. At last she succeeded in putting together a few sentences, which told nothing, save that she was going away; she bade her good-by, and thanked her for all her kindness, signing, without any preliminary phrases (for was she ”affectionately” or ”sincerely” Helen's ”friend”?), merely her name, Anne Douglas.

At one o'clock Bessmer entered with luncheon. Evidently she had received orders to enter into no conversation with the prisoner; but she took the note, and promised to deliver it with her own hands. At two the door opened, and Miss Vanhorn came in.

The old woman's eye took in at a glance the closed trunks and the travelling dress. She had meant to try her niece, to punish her; but even then she could not believe that the girl would really throw away forever all the advantages she had placed within her grasp. She sat down, and after waiting a moment, closed her eyes. ”Anne Douglas,” she began, ”daughter of my misguided niece Alida Clanssen, I have come for a final decision. Answer my questions. First, have you, or have you not, one hundred dollars in the world?”

”I have not.”