[figure description] Page 368.[end figure description]

THROUGH the rich curtains which shaded the
windows of a room looking out on Fifth Avenue
the late October sun was shining; and as
its red light played among the flowers on the carpet, a
pale young girl sat watching it and thinking of the Hanover
hills, now decked in their autumnal glory, and of
the ivy on St. Mark's, growing so bright and beautiful
beneath the autumnal frosts. Anna had been very sick
since that morning in September when she sat on the
piazza at the Ocean House and read Lucy Harcourt's
letter. The faint was a precursor of fever, the physician
said when summoned to her aid; and in a tremor of fear
and distress Mrs. Meredith had had her removed at once
to New York, and that was the last Anna remembered.
From the moment her aching head had touched the soft
pillows in Aunt Meredith's home, all consciousness had
fled, and for weeks she had hovered so near to death that
the telegraph-wires bore daily messages to Hanover,
where the aged couple who had cared for her since her
childhood wept, and prayed, and watched for tidings

[figure description] Page 369.[end figure description]

from their darling. They could not go to her, for
Grandpa Humphreys had broken his leg, and his wife
could not leave him; so they waited with what patience
they could for the daily bulletins which Mrs. Meredith
sent, appreciating their anxiety, and feeling glad withal
of anything which kept them from New York.

“She had best be prayed for in church,” the old man
said; and so, Sunday after Sunday, Arthur read the
prayer for the sick, his voice trembling as it had never
trembled before, and a keener sorrow in his heart than
he had ever known when saying the solemn words.

Heretofore the persons prayed for had been comparative
strangers,—people in whom he felt only the interest
a pastor feels in all his flock; but now it was Anna,
whose case he took to God, and he always smothered a
sob during the moment he waited for the fervent response
the congregation made, the Amen which came from the
per where Lucy sat being louder and heartier than all
the rest, and having in it a sound of the tears which
dropped so fast on Lucy's book, as she asked that her
dear friend might not die. Oh, how he longed to go to
her! But this he could not do, and so he had sent
Lucy, who bent so tenderly above the sick girl, whispering
loving words in her ear, and dropping kisses upon
the lips which uttered no response, save once, when
Lucy said, “Do you remember Arthur?”

Then they murmured faintly: “Yes,—Arthur,—I

[figure description] Page 370.[end figure description]

remember him, and the Christmas song, and the gathering
in the church. But that was long ago; there's much
happened since then.”

“And I am to marry Arthur,” Lucy had said again;
but this time there was no sign that she was understood,
and that afternoon she went back to Hanover loaded
with tickets for the children of St. Mark's and new books
for the Sunday-school, and accompanied by Valencia,
who, having had a serious difference with her mistress,
Mrs. Meredith, had offered her services to Miss Harcourt,
and been at once accepted.

That was near the middle of October; now it was the
last, and Anna was so much better that she set up for an
hour or more and listened with some degree of interest
to what Mrs. Meredith told her of the days when she
lay so unconscious of all that was passing around her,
never heeding the kindly voice of Thornton Hastings,
who more than once had stood by her pillow with his
hand on her feverish brow, and tokens of whose thoughtfulness
were visible in the choice bouquets he sent each
day, with notes of anxious inquiry when he did not come
himself. Anna had not seen him yet since her convalescence.
She would rather not see any one until strong
enough to talk, she said. And so Thornton waited
patiently for the interview she had promised him when
she should be stronger, but every day he sent her fruit,
and flowers, and books which he thought would interest

[figure description] Page 371.[end figure description]

her, and which always made her cheeks grow hot and
her heart beat regretfully, for she knew of the answer
she must give him when he came, and she shrank from
wounding him.

“He is too good, too noble, to have an unwilling
wife,” she thought; but that did not make it the less
hard to tell him so, and when at last she was well enough
to see him, she waited his coming nervously, starting
when she heard his step, and trembling like a leaf as he
drew near her chair.

It was a very thin, wasted hand which he took in his,
holding it for a moment between his own, and then laying
it gently back upon her lap. He had come for the
answer to a question put six weeks before, and Anna
gave it to him,—kindly, considerately, but decidedly.
She could not be his wife, she said, because she did not
love him as he ought to be loved.

“It is nothing personal,” she added, working nervously
at the heavy fringe of her shawl. “I respect you
more than any man I ever knew,—except one; and had
I met you years ago,—before—before—”

“I understand you,” Thornton said, coming to her
aid. “You have tried to love me, but you cannot, because
your affections are given to another.”

Anna bowed her head in silence; then, after a moment,
she continued:

“You must forgive me, Mr. Hastings, for not telling

[figure description] Page 372.[end figure description]

you this at once. I did not know then but I could love
you; at least, I meant to try, for you see this other one,”—
the fingers got terribly tangled in the fringe as Anna
gasped for breath and went on,—“he does not know,
and never will,—that is,—he never cared for me, nor
guessed how foolish I was to give him my love unsought.”

“Then it is not Arthur Leighton, and that is why you
refused him too,” Mr. Hastings said involuntarily; and
Anna looked quickly up, her cheeks growing paler than
they were before, as she replied: “I don't know what
you mean. I never refused Mr. Leighton,—never!”

“You never refused Mr. Leighton?” Thornton exclaimed,
forgetting all discretion in his surprise at this
flat contradiction. “I have Arthur's word for it, written
to me last June, while Mrs. Meredith was there, I
think.”

“He surely could not have meant it, because it never
occurred; there is some mistake,” Anna found strength
to say; and then she lay back in her easy-chair panting
for breath, her brain all in a whirl as she thought of the
possibility that she was once so near the greatest happiness
she had ever desired, and which was lost to her
now.

He brought her smelling-salts; he gave her ice-water
to drink, and then, kneeling beside her, he fanned her
gently, while he continued: “There surely is a mistake,

[figure description] Page 373.[end figure description]

and, I fear, a great wrong, too, somewhere. Were all
your servants trusty? Was there no one who would
withhold a letter if he had written? Were you always
at home when he called?”

Thornton questioned her rapidly, for there was a suspicion
in his mind as to the real culprit, but he would
not hint it to Anna unless she suggested it herself. And
this she was not likely to do. Mrs. Meredith had been
too kind to her during the past summer, and especially
during her recent illness, to allow of such a thought concerning
her; and in a maze of perplexity she replied to
his inquiries: “We keep but one servant,—Esther,—and
she I know is trusty. Besides, who could have refused
him for me? Grandfather would not, I know, because—
because—” she hesitated a little, and her cheeks
blushed scarlet as she added, “I sometimes thought he
wanted it to be.”

It Thornton had previously had a doubt as to the other
man who stood between himself and Anna, that doubt was
now removed, and laying aside all thoughts of self, he
exclaimed:

“I tell you there is a great wrong somewhere. Arthur
never told an untruth; he thought that you refused him;
he thinks so still, and I shall never rest till I have solved
the mystery. I will write to him to-day.”

For an instant there swept over Anna a feeling of unutterable
joy as she thought what the end might be; then,

[figure description] Page 374.[end figure description]

as she remembered Lucy, her heart seemed to stop its beating,
and with a moan she stretched her hands towards
Thornton, who had risen as if to leave her.

“No, no, you must not interfere,” she said. “It is
too late, too late. Don't you remember Lucy? don't you
know she is to be his wife? Lucy must not be sacrificed
for me. I can bear it the best.”

She knew she had betrayed her secret, and she tried to
take it back, but Thornton interrupted her with, “Never
mind now, Anna. I guessed it all before, and it hurts
my self-pride less to know that it is Arthur whom you
prefer to me. I do not blame you for it.”

He smoothed her hair pityingly, while he stood over
her a moment, wondering what his duty was. Anna told
him plainly what it was. He must leave Arthur and
Lucy alone. She insisted upon having it so, and he promised
her at last that he would not interfere. Then taking
her hand, he pressed it a moment between his own and
went out from her presence. In the hall below he met
with Mrs. Meredith, who he knew was waiting anxiously
to hear the result of that long interview.

“Your niece will never be my wife, and I am satisfied
to have it so,” he said; then, as he saw the lowering of
her brow, he continued, “I have long suspected that she
loved another, and my suspicions are confirmed, though
there's something I cannot understand,” and fixing his
eyes searchingly upon Mrs. Meredith, he told what Arthur

[figure description] Page 375.[end figure description]

had written and of Anna's denial of the same. “Somebody
played her false,” he said, rather enjoying the look
of terror and shame which crept into the haughty woman's
eyes, as she tried to appear natural and express her own
surprise at what she heard.

“I was right in my conjecture,” Thornton thought as he
took his leave of Mrs. Meredith, who could not face Anna
then, but paced restlessly up and down her spacious
rooms, wondering how much Thornton suspected, and what
the end would be.

She had sinned for naught; Anna had upset all her
cherished plans, and could she have gone back for a few
months and done her work again, she would have left the
letter lying where she found it. But that could not be
now. She must reap as she had sown, and resolving
finally to hope for the best and abide the result, she went
up to Anna, who, having no suspicion of her, hurt her
ten times more cruelly, by the perfect faith with which she
confided the story to her, than bitter reproaches would
have done.

“I know you wanted me to marry Mr. Hastings,”
Anna said, “and I would if I could have done so conscientiously,
but I could not, for I may confess it now to
you. I did love Arthur so much, and I hoped that he
loved me.”

The cold, hard woman, who had brought this grief upon
her niece, could only answer that it did not matter. She

[figure description] Page 376.[end figure description]

was not very sorry, although she had wanted her to
marry Mr. Hastings, but she must not fret about that
now, or about anything. She would be better by and by,
and forget that she ever cared for Arthur Leighton.

“At least,” and she spoke entreatingly now, “you will
not demean yourself to let him know of the mistake. It
would scarcely be womanly, and he may have gotten over
it. Present circumstances seem to prove as much.”

Mrs. Meredith felt now that her secret was comparatively
safe, and with her spirits lighter she kissed her
niece lovingly and told her of a trip to Europe which she
had in view, promising that Anna should go with her,
and so not be at home when the marriage of Arthur and
Lucy took place.

It was appointed for the 15th of January, that being
the day when Lucy came of age, and the very afternoon
succeeding Anna's interview with Mr. Hastings the little
lady came down to New York to direct about her bridal
trousseau making, in the city. She was brimming over
with happiness and her face was a perfect gleam of sunshine,
when she came next day to Anna's room, and
throwing off her wrappings plunged at once into the subject
uppermost in her thoughts, telling first how she and
Arthur had quarrelled,—“not quarrelled as uncle and
aunt Hetherton and lots of people do, but differed so seriously
that I cried and had to give up, too,” she said. “I
wanted you for bridesmaid, and do you think, he objected;

[figure description] Page 377.[end figure description]

not objected to you, but to bridesmaids generally, and
he carried his point, so that we are just to stand up stiff
and straight alone, except as you'll all be round me in
the aisle. You'll be well by that time, and I want you
very near to me,” Lucy said, squeezing the icy hand,
whose coldness made her start and exclaim, “Why,
Anna, how cold you are, and how pale you are looking.
You have been so sick, and I am so well; it don't seem
quite right, does it? And Arthur, too, is so thin that I
have coaxed him to raise whiskers to cover the hollows in
his cheeks. He looks a heap better now, though he was
always handsome. I do so wonder that you two never
fell in love, and I tell him so most every time I see him,
for I always think of you then.”

It was terrible to Anna to sit and hear all this, and
the room grew dark as she listened, but she forced back
her pain, and stroking the curly head almost resting on
her lap, and said kindly, “You love him very much, don't
you, darling,—so much that it would be hard to give him
up?”

“Yes, oh yes, I could not give him up now, except to
God. I trust I could do that, though once I could not, I
am sure,” and nestling closer to Anna, Lucy whispered
to her of the hope that she was better than she used to
be,—that daily intercourse with Arthur had not been
without its effect, and now she believed she tried to do
right from a higher motive than just to please him.

[figure description] Page 378.[end figure description]

“God bless you, darling,” was Anna's response, as she
clasped the hand of the young girl, who was now far more
worthy to be Arthur's wife than once she had been.

If Anna had ever had a thought of telling Arthur, it
would have been put aside by that interview with Lucy.
She could not harm that pure, loving, trusting girl, and
she sent her from her with a kiss and a blessing, praying
silently that she might never know a shadow of the pain
which she was suffering.

p605-384

Previous section

Next section