CHAPTER XX.
"_Philip._ Madam, a day may sink or save a realm. _Mary._ A day may save a heart from breaking, too."--TENNYSON.
Mr. Heathcote retained his place beside mademoiselle through a wholelong hour. She had time to get over her fear that he would go away soon,time to adjust her powers, time to enlarge, and to do justice to herselfand several subjects adapted elegantly and with easy grace to theoccasion. In her hard-working life she had seldom enjoyed a greaterpleasure. For Jeanne-Armande had good blood in her veins; the ends ofher poor old fingers were finely moulded, and there had been a title inthe family long ago in Berri. And when at last monsieur did go, it wasnot hastily. The proper preliminaries were spoken, the first littlemovement made, and then, later, the slow rising, as if with reluctance,to the feet. Jeanne-Armande was satisfied, and smiled with honeyedgraciousness, as, after another moment's delay, he bowed and went backto the place behind, where Anne was sitting.
In truth, Heathcote had not been unwilling to take the hour himself; itwas not necessary to talk--Jeanne-Armande would talk for two. The sightof Anne had been unexpected; he had not decided what he should say toher even at Valley City, much less here. After an hour's thought, hetook his place beside her. And remarked upon--the beauty of the day.
Dexter would have said something faultless, and all the more so if hehad wished to disguise his thoughts. But all Heathcote said was, "What alovely day!"
"Yes," replied Anne. In her mind surged to and fro one constantrepetition: "Ah, my dear child, do you not see that I can not helploving you? and that you--love me also?" "Do you not see that I can nothelp loving you? and that you--love me also?"
"They improve things, after all," said Heathcote. "The last time I wentover this road the train-boy was a poor little cripple, and thereforeone couldn't quite throw his books on the floor." This was in allusionto the progress of a brisk youth through the car for the purpose ofdepositing upon the patient knees of each passenger a paper-coverednovel, a magazine or two, and a song-book.
--"And that you--love me also," ran Anne's thoughts, as she looked outon the gliding fields.
There was a silence. Then Heathcote moved nearer.
"Anne," he said, in a low tone, "I was very much disturbed when I foundthat you had gone. From the little I was able to learn, I fear you wereharshly treated by that hard old woman who calls herself your aunt."
"Not according to her view of it," said Anne, her face still turned tothe window.
"I wish you would look at me, instead of at those stupid fields," saidHeathcote, after a moment, in an aggrieved tone. "Here I have escapedfrom Caryl's under false pretenses, told dozens of lies, spent abroiling morning at a hole of a place called Lancaster, melted myself inthe hot city, and bought tickets for all across the continent, just forthe chance of seeing you a moment, and you will not even look at me."
But she had turned now. "Did you go out to the half-house?" she said,with a little movement of surprise.
"Yes," he answered, immediately meeting her eyes, and holding them withhis own. (They had not precisely the kind of expression which isappropriate to the man who has decided to perform the part of "merely akind friend." But then Heathcote always looked more than he said.)
"I am very sorry," she murmured--"I mean, sorry that you have followedme."
"Why are you sorry? You do not know how distressed I was when Mrs.Lorrington told me."
"Helen!" said Anne, her eyes falling at the sound of the name.
"She does not know where I am; no one knows. They think I have gone tothe mountains. But--I could not be at peace with myself, Anne, until Ihad seen you once more. Do you remember the last time we met, thatmorning in the garden?" She made a mute gesture which begged forsilence; but he went on: "I can never forget that look of yours. Intruth, I fear I have done all this, have come all this distance, and inspite of myself, for--another."
There was no one behind them; they had the last seat. Anne was thinking,wildly, "Oh, if he would but speak in any other tone--say anything elsethan that!" Then she turned, at bay. "Mrs. Lorrington told me that youwere engaged to her," she said, announcing it quietly, although her facewas very pale.
"Did she? It is partly true. But--I love _you_, Anne."
The last words that Ward Heathcote had intended to speak, when he tookthat seat beside her, he had now spoken; the last step he had intendedto take he had now taken. What did he mean? He did not know himself. Heonly knew that her face was exquisitely sweet to him, and that he wasirresistibly drawn toward her, whether he would or no. "I love you," herepeated.
What could be said to such a plain, direct wooer as this? Anne, holdingon desperately to her self-possession, and throwing up barriersmentally, made of all her resolutions and duties, her pride and herprayers, drew away, coldly answering: "However you may have forgottenyour own engagement, Mr. Heathcote, I have not forgotten mine. It is notright for you to speak and for me to hear such words."
"Right is nothing," said Heathcote, "if we love each other."
"We do not," replied Anne, falling into the trap.
"We do; at least _I_ do."
This avowal, again repeated, was so precious to the poor humiliatedpride of the woman's heart within her that she had to pause an instant."I was afraid you would think," she said, blushing brightly--"I wasafraid you would think that I--I mean, that I can not help being gladthat you--"
"That I love you? I do. But just as truly as I love you, Anne, you loveme. You can not deny it."
"I will not discuss the subject. I shall soon be married, Mr. Heathcote,and you--"
"Never mind me; I can take care of myself. And so you are going to marrya man you do not love?"
"I do love him. I loved him long before I knew you; I shall love himlong after you are forgotten. Leave me; I will not listen to you. Why doyou speak so to me? Why did you follow me?"
"Because, dear, I love you. I did not fully know it myself until now.Believe me, Anne, I had no more intention of speaking in this way when Isat down here than I had of following you when I first heard you hadgone; but the next morning I did it. Come, let everything go to thewinds, as I do, and say you love me; for I know you do."
The tears were in Anne's eyes now; she could not see. "Let me go tomademoiselle," she said, half rising as if to pass him. "It is cruel toinsult me."
"Do not attract attention; sit down for one moment. I will not keep youlong; but you shall listen to me. Insult you? Did I ever dream ofinsulting you? Is it an insult to ask you to be my wife? That is what Iask now. I acknowledge that I did not follow you with any suchintention. But now that I sit here beside you, I realize what you are tome. My darling, I love you, child as you have seemed. Look up, and tellme that you will be my wife."
"Never."
"Why?" said Heathcote, not in the least believing her, but watching theintense color flush her face and throat, and then die away.
"I shall marry Rast. And you--will marry Helen."
"As I said before, _I_ can take care of myself. The question is _you_."As he spoke he looked at her so insistently that, struggling andunwilling, she yet felt herself compelled to meet his eyes in return.
"Helen loves you dearly," she said, desperately.
They were looking full at each other now. In the close proximityrequired by the noise of the train, they could see the varying lightsand shadows in the depths of each other's eyes. The passengers' faceswere all turned forward; there was no one on a line with them; virtuallythey were alone.
"I do not know what your object is in bringing in Mrs. Lorrington's nameso often," said Heathcote. "She does not need your championship, Iassure you."
"How base to desert her so!"
"Not any more base than to marry a man you do not love," repliedHeathcote. "I hardly know anything more base than that. But marry _me_,my darling," he added, his voice softening as he bent toward her, "andyou shall see how I will love you."
"You said I could go," said the girl, turning from him, and putting
herhand over her eyes.
"You may go, if you are afraid. But I hardly think you a coward. No; letus have it out now. Here you are, engaged. Here I am, half engaged. Wemeet. Do you suppose I wish to love you? Not at all. You are by no meansthe wife I have intended to have. Do you wish to love me? No. You wishto be faithful to your engagement. In a worldly point of view we couldnot do a more foolish deed than to marry each other. You have nothing,and a burden of responsibilities; I have very little, and a much heavierburden of bad habits and idleness. What is the result? By some unknownenchantment I begin to love you, you begin to love me. The very factthat I am sitting here to-day conclusively proves the former. I am asfond of you as a school-boy, Anne. In truth, you have made me act like aschool-boy. This is a poor place to woo you in; but, dear, just look atme once, only once more."
But Anne would not look. In all her struggles and all her resolutions,all her jealousy and her humiliation, she had made no provision againstthis form of trial, namely, that he should love her like this.
"Oh, go, go; leave me," she murmured, hardly able to speak. He gatheredthe words more from the movement of her lips than from any sound.
"I will go if you wish it. But I shall come back," he said. And then,quietly, he left her alone, and returned to Jeanne-Armande.
The Frenchwoman was charmed; she had not expected him so soon. She saidto herself, with a breath of satisfaction, that her conversation hadfallen in fit places.
Alone, looking at the hills as they passed in procession, Anne collectedher scattered resolves, and fought her battle. In one way it was a sweetmoment to her. She had felt dyed with eternal shame at having given herlove unsought, uncared for; but he loved her--even if only a little, heloved her. This was balm to her wounded heart, and diffused itself likea glow; her cold hands grew warm, her life seemed to flow more freely.But soon the realization followed that now she must arm herself in newguise to resist the new temptation. She must keep her promise. She wouldmarry Rast, if he wished it, though the earth were moved, and the hillscarried into the midst of the sea. And Heathcote would be far happierwith Helen; his feeling for herself was but a fancy, and would pass, asno doubt many other fancies had passed. In addition, Helen loved him;her life was bound up in him, whether he knew it or no. Helen had beenher kindest friend; if all else were free, this alone would hold her."But I _am_ glad, glad to the bottom of my heart, that he did care forme, even if only a little," she thought, as she watched the hills. "Mytask is now to protect him from himself, and--and what is harder,myself from myself. I will do it. But I _am_ glad--I am glad." Quieted,she waited for his return.
When he came she would speak so calmly and firmly that his words wouldbe quelled. He would recognize the uselessness of further speech. Whenhe came. But he did not come. The hills changed to cliffs, the cliffs tomountains, the long miles grew into thirty and forty, yet he did notreturn. He had risen, but did not come to her; he had gone forward tothe smoking-car. He had, in truth, caught the reflection of her face ina mirror, and decided not to come. It is not difficult to makeresolutions; there is a fervidness in the work that elevates andstrengthens the heart. But once made, one needs to exercise them,otherwise they grow cold and torpid on one's hands.
Jeanne-Armande, finding herself alone, barricaded her seat with basketand umbrella, so as to be able to return thither (and perhaps have otherconversations), and came across to Anne.
"A most accomplished gentleman!" she said, with effusion. "Mrs.Lorrington, charming as she is, is yet to be herself congratulated. Hehas even been in Berri," she added, as though that was a chiefaccomplishment, "and may have beheld with his own eyes the chateau of myancestors." Rarely indeed did Jeanne-Armande allude to this chateau:persons with chateau ancestors might be required to sustain expenses notin accordance with her well-arranged rules.
"Where does this train stop?" asked Anne, with some irrelevance as tothe chateau.
"At Centerville, for what they call dinner; and at StringhamptonJunction in the evening. It is the fast express."
"Do we meet an eastward-bound train at Centerville?"
"I presume we do; but we shall not get out, so the crowd in thedining-room will not incommode us. The contents of my basket will besufficient. But if you wish a cup of coffee, it will be eight cents.There is a species of German cake at Centerville, remarkably fillingfor the price. They bring them through the cars."
"What time is it now?"
"About half past twelve; we reach Centerville at two. What age hasMonsieur Heathcote, my dear?"
"Thirty-two or thirty-three, I believe."
"A gentleman of independent fortune, I presume?"
"He is independent, but, I was told, not rich."
"The position I should have supposed," said mademoiselle. "Whatpenetrating eyes he possesses; penetrating, yet soft. There is somethingin his glance, coming from under those heavy brows, which isparticularly moving--one might almost say tender. Have you observed it?"
Yes, Anne had observed it.
Jeanne-Armande, protected as she supposed from indiscretion by theengagement to the charming Mrs. Lorrington, rambled on, enjoying thereal pleasure of being sentimental and romantic, without risk, cost, orloss of time, on this eventful day.
"I wish you could have seen Mr. Dexter, mademoiselle," said Anne, makingan effort to turn the tide. "He is considered handsome, and he has alarge fortune--"
"But not inherited, I presume," interposed mademoiselle, grandly. "Mr.Heathcote, as I understand, lives upon his paternal revenues."
If Heathcote had been there, he might have answered that he tried to,but never succeeded. He was not there, however; and Anne could onlyreply that she did not know.
"He has undoubtedly that air," said Jeanne-Armande, faithful to herdistinguished escort, and waving away all diversions in favor of unknownDexters. "Do you know when they are to be married?"
"No," said Anne, drearily, looking now at the cliffs which bounded thenarrow valley through which the train was rushing.
"Let us hope that it will be soon; for life is short at best. Though notromantic by nature, I own I should be pleased to possess a small portionof the wedding cake of that amiable pair," pursued Jeanne-Armande,fixing her eyes upon the suspended lamp of the car, lost in sentimentalreverie.
"I think I will buy a newspaper," said Anne, as the train-boy cametoward them.
"Buy a paper? By no means," said mademoiselle, descending hastily toearth again. "I have yesterday's paper, which I found on the ferry-boat.It is in good order; I smoothed it out carefully; you can read that."She produced it from some remote pocket, and Anne took refuge in itspages, while Jeanne-Armande closed her eyes under the helmet, no doubtto meditate further on the picture of felicity she had called up.
Anne felt all the weariness of long suspense. It was one o'clock; it washalf past one; it was nearly two; still he did not appear. Evenmademoiselle now roused herself, looked at her watch, and in her turnbegan to ask where he could be; but she had the comfort of asking italoud.
The speed was now perceptibly slackened, and the brakeman announced atthe door: "Cen--ter--ville. _Twen_--timinets for dinner," in a bar ofmusic not unlike a hoarse Gregorian chant. At this instant Heathcoteentered from the next car.
"Ah! there he is," said mademoiselle, with satisfaction. "Do you thinkhe will partake of a little taste with us?" He joined them, and sherepeated her question in the shape of a modest allusion to the contentsof her basket.
"No, thanks; I shall go out and walk up and down to breathe the air. Butfirst, will you not go with me, and see what they have? Perhaps we mightfind something not altogether uneatable."
Mademoiselle declined, with her most gracious smile. She would contentherself with the contents of her basket; but perhaps Anne--
The eastward-bound train was in, drawn up beside them.
"Yes," said Anne, "I should like to go." Then, as soon as they were inthe open air, "I only wish to speak to you for a moment," she began. "Ishall not go to the dining-room."
"Take my arm, then, and we will walk up and down."
"Yes, let us walk," she said, moving onward.
"We can not walk well unless you take my arm."
"I do not wish to walk well," she answered angrily.
He never would act according to her plan or theory. Here was all thispersistence about a trifle, while she was wrought up to matters of deepmoment.
"I do not care whether you wish to take it or not; you must. There!_Now_ what do you want to say to me?" He was not wrought up at all; hewas even smiling, and looking at her in the same old way. It was hard tobegin under such circumstances; but she did begin. "Mr. Heathcote, whileI thank you for all your kindness--"
"I have not been kind; I only said that I loved you. That is eitherabove or below kindness, certainly not on a level with that tepidfeeling."
But Anne would not listen, "While I thank you, I wish at the same timeto say that I understand quite well that it is but an impulse which--"
"It _was_ but an impulse, I grant," said Heathcote, again interruptingher, "but with roots too strong for me to break--as I have found to mydismay," he added, smiling, as he met her eyes.
"I wish you, I beg you, to return to New York on this train nowwaiting," said the girl, abandoning all her carefully composedsentences, and bringing forward her one desire with an earnestness whichcould not be doubted.
"I shall do nothing of the kind."
"But what is the use of going on?"
"I never cared much about use, Miss Douglas."
"And then there is the pain."
"Not for me."
"For me, then," she said, looking away from him across the net-work oftracks, and up the little village street ending in the blue side of themountain. "Putting everything else aside, do you care nothing for mypain?"
"I can not help caring more for the things you put aside, since _I_happen to be one of them."
"You are selfish," she said, hotly. "I ask you to leave me; I tell youyour presence pains me; and you will not go." She drew her arm from his,and turned toward the car. He lifted his hat, and went across to thedining-hall.
Mademoiselle was eating cold toast. She considered that toast retainedits freshness longer than plain bread. Anne sat down beside her. Shefelt a hope that Heathcote would perhaps take the city-bound train afterall. She heard the bell ring, and watched the passengers hasten forthfrom the dining-hall. The eastward-bound train was going--was gone; agolden space of sunshine and the empty rails were now where had been itsnoise and bell and steam.
"Our own passengers will soon be returning," said Jeanne-Armande,brushing away the crumbs, and looking at herself in the glass to see ifthe helmet was straight.
"May I sit here with you?" said Anne.
"Certainly, my dear. But Mr. Heathcote--will he not be disappointed?"
"No," replied the girl, dully. "I do not think he will care to talk tome this afternoon."
Jeanne-Armande said to herself that perhaps he would care to talk tosome one else. But she made no comment.
The train moved on. An hour passed, and he did not appear. TheFrenchwoman could not conceal her disappointment. "If he intended toleave the train at Centerville, I am surprised that he should not havereturned to make us his farewells," she said, acidly.
"He is not always attentive to such things," said Anne.
"On the contrary. _I_ have found him extremely attentive," retortedmademoiselle, veering again.
But at this stage Heathcote entered, and Anne's hope that he had leftthem was dashed to the ground. He noted the situation; and then he askedmademoiselle if she would not join him in the other seat for a while.The flattered Frenchwoman consented, and as he followed her he gave Annea glance which said, "Check." And Anne felt that it was "check" indeed.
He had no intention of troubling her; he would give her time to growtired.
But she was tired already.
At last, however, he did come. They were in plain sight now, people weresitting behind them; she could not childishly refuse to let him take thevacant place beside her. But at least, she thought, his words must beguarded, or people behind would make out what he said, even from themotion of his lips.
But Heathcote never cared for people.
"Dear," he said, bending toward her, "I am so glad to be with youagain!" After all, he had managed to place himself so that by supportinghis cheek with his hand, the people behind could not see his face atall, much less make out what he said.
Anne did not reply.
"Won't you even look at me? I must content myself, then, with yourprofile."
"You are ungenerous," she answered, in a tone as low as his own. "Itwill end in my feeling a contempt for you."
"And I--never felt so proud of myself in all my life before. For what amI doing? Throwing away all my fixed ideas of what life should be, foryour sake, and glad to do it."
"Mr. Heathcote, will you never believe that I am in earnest?"
"I know very well that you are in earnest. But I shall be equally inearnest in breaking down the barriers between us. When that Westernlover of yours is married to some one else, and Mrs. Lorringtonlikewise, _then_ shall we not be free?"
"Helen will never marry any one else."
"Why do you not say that Mr. Pronando never will?"
"Because I am not sure," she answered, with sad humility.
"Are you going to tell him all that has happened?"
"Yes."
"And leave the decision to him?"
"Yes."
"You will put yourself in a false position, then. If you really intendto marry him, it would be safer to tell him nothing," said Heathcote, inan impartial tone. "No man likes to hear that sort of thing, even if hiswife tells it herself. Though he may know she has loved some one else,he does not care to have it stated in words; he would rather leave itdisembodied." Anne was looking at him; a sudden pain, which she did nothave time to conceal, showed itself in her face as he spoke. "Youdarling child!" said Heathcote, laughing. "See how you look when I even_speak_ of your marrying any one save me!"
She shrank back, feeling the justice of his inference. Her resolutionremained unchanged; but she could not withstand entirely the personalpower of his presence. She gazed at the afternoon sunshine striking themountain-peaks, and asked herself how she could bear the long hours thatstill lay between her and the time of release--release from this narrowspace where she must sit beside him, and feel the dangerous subtleinfluence of his voice and eyes. Then suddenly an idea came to her, likea door opening silently before a prisoner in a cell. She kept her faceturned toward the window, while rapidly and with a beating heart shewent over its possibilities. Yes, it could be done. It should be done.With inward excitement she tried to arrange the details.
Heathcote had fallen into silence; but he seemed quite content to sitthere beside her without speaking. At last, having decided upon hercourse, and feeling nervously unable to endure his wordless presencelonger, she began to talk of Caryl's, Miss Vanhorn, mademoiselle, thehalf-house--anything and everything which possessed no real importance,and did not bear upon the subject between them. He answered her in hisbrief fashion. If she wished to pad the dangerous edges of the day witha few safe conventionalities, he had no objection; women would beconventional on a raft in mid-ocean. The afternoon moved on towardsunset. He thought the contest was over, that although she might stillmake objection, at heart she had yielded; and he was not unwilling torest. Why should they hurry? The whole of life was before them.
As night fell, they reached Stringhampton Junction, and the great enginestopped again. The passengers hastened hungrily into the littlesupper-room, and Heathcote urged mademoiselle to accompany him thither,and taste a cup of that compound found at railway stations called Japantea. Jeanne-Armande looked half inclined to accept this invitation, butAnne, answering for both, said: "No; we have all we need in our basket.You can, however, if you will be so kind, send us some tea." Thisdecision being in accordance with Jeanne-Armande's own rules, she didnot li
ke to contravene it, in spite of the satisfaction it would havegiven her to enter the supper-room with her decorous brown glovereposing upon such a coat sleeve. Heathcote bowed, and went out. Annewatched his figure entering the doorway of the brightly lightedsupper-room, which was separated by a wide space from the waiting train.Then she turned.
"Mademoiselle," she said, her burning haste contrasting with her clearcalm utterance of the moment before, "I beg you to leave this train withme without one instant's delay. The peace of my whole life depends uponit."
"What _can_ you mean?" said the bewildered teacher.
"I can not explain now; I will, later. But if you have any regard forme, any compassion, come at once."
"But our bags, our--"
"I will take them all."
"And our trunks--they are checked through to Valley City. Will there betime to take them off?" said Jeanne-Armande, confusedly. Then, with moreclearness, "But why should we go at all? I have no money to spend onfreaks."
"IT IS, OR SHOULD BE, OVER THERE."]
"This is Stringhampton Junction; we can cross here to the northern road,as you originally intended," explained Anne, rapidly. "All theadditional expense I will pay. Dear mademoiselle, have pity on me,and come. Else I shall go alone."
The voice was eloquent; Jeanne-Armande rose. Anne hurried her throughthe almost empty car toward the rear door.
"But where _are_ we going?"
"Out of the light," answered Anne.
They climbed down in the darkness on the other side of the train, andAnne led the way across the tracks at random, until they reached a safecountry road-side beyond, and felt the soft grass under their feet.
"Where _are_ we going?" said the Frenchwoman again, almost in tears."Monsieur Heathcote--what will he think of us?"
"It is from him I am fleeing," replied Anne. "And now we must find thecross-road train. Do you know where it is?"
"It is, or should be, over there," said Jeanne-Armande, waving herumbrella tragically.
But she followed: the young girl had turned leader now.
They found the cross-road train, entered, and took their seats. And thenAnne feverishly counted the seconds, expecting with each one to seeHeathcote's face at the door. But the little branch train did not waitfor supper; the few passengers were already in their places, and at lastthe bell rang, and the engine started northward, but so slowly that Annefound herself leaning forward, as though to hasten its speed. Then thewheels began to turn more rapidly--clank, clank, past the switches;rumble, rumble, over the bridge; by the dark line of the wood-pile; andthen onward into the dark defiles of the mountains. They were away.