Constance Fenimore Woolson

"Man is a bundle of contradictions, tied together with fancies."—Persian Proverb.

Dire was the wrath of Helen Lorrington when, having carefully filled the measure of her lost sleep, she sent a little note across to Anne, and answer was returned that Miss Douglas was gone.

Mrs. Lorrington, with compliments to Miss Vanhorn, then begged (on a card) to be informed where Miss Douglas was gone. Miss Vanhorn, with compliments to Mrs. Lorrington (also on a card), returned answer that she did not know. Mrs. Lorrington, deeply grieved to disturb Miss Vanhorn a second time, then requested to be favored with Miss Douglas's address. Miss Vanhorn, with assurances that it was no disturbance, but always a pleasure to oblige Mrs. Lorrington, replied that she did not possess it. Then Helen waited until the old coupÉ rolled away for an afternoon drive, its solitary occupant inside, her profile visible between the two closed glass windows like an object mounted for a microscope, and going across, beguiled the mild Bessmer to tell all she knew. This was not much; but the result was great anger in Helen's mind, and a determination to avenge the harsh deed. Bessmer did not know causes, but she knew actions. Anne had been sent away in disgrace, the maid being forbidden to know even the direction the lonely traveller had taken. Helen, quick to solve riddles, solved this, at least as far as one side of it was concerned, and the quick, partially correct guesses of a quick-witted woman are often, by their very nearness, more misleading than any others. Mr. Dexter had been with Anne during the evening of the ball; probably he had asked her to be his wife. Anne, faithful to her engagement, had refused him; and Miss Vanhorn, faithful to her cruel nature, had sent her away in disgrace. And when Helen learned that Mr. Dexter had gone also—gone early in the morning before any one was stirring—she took it as confirmation of her theory, and was now quite sure. She would tell all the house, she said to herself. She began by telling Heathcote.

They were strolling in the garden. She turned toward the little arbor at the end of the path.

"Not there," said Heathcote.

"Why not? Have you been there so much with Rachel?" said his companion, in a sweet voice.

"Never, I think. But arbors are damp holes."

"Nevertheless, I am going there, and you are going with me."

"As you please."

"Ward, how much have you been with Rachel?" she asked, when they were seated in the little bower, which was overgrown with the old-fashioned vine called matrimony.

"Oh!" said Heathcote, with a sound of fatigue in his voice. "Are we never to have an end to that subject?"

"Yes; when you make an end."

"One likes to amuse one's self. You do."

"Whom do you mean now?" said Helen, diverted from her questions for the moment, as he intended she should be.

To tell the truth, Heathcote did not mean any one; but he never hesitated. So now he answered, promptly, "Dexter." He had long ago discovered that he could make any woman believe he was jealous of any man, no matter whom, even one to whom she had never spoken; it presupposed that the other man had been all the time a silent admirer, and on this point the grasp of the feminine imagination is wide and hopeful.

"How like you that is! Mr. Dexter is nothing to me."

"You have been out driving with him already," said Heathcote, pursuing his advantage; "and you have not been out with me."

"He has gone; so we need not quarrel about him."

"When did he go?"

"Early this morning. And to show you how unjust you are, he went because last evening Anne Douglas refused him."

"Then he was refused twice in one day," said Heathcote. "Mrs. Bannert refused him at six."

"How do you know?"

"She told me."

"Traitorous creature!"

"Oh no; she is an especial—I may say confidential—friend of mine."

"Then what am I?"

"Not a friend at all, I hope," said the man beside her. "Something more." He was pulling a spray of vine to pieces, and did not look up; but Helen was satisfied, and smiled to herself brightly. She now went back to Anne. "Did you know poor Anne was gone too, Ward?"

"Gone!" said Heathcote, starting. Then he controlled himself. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that Miss Vanhorn cruelly sent her away this afternoon without warning, and with only a little money; Bessmer was not even allowed to inquire what she intended to do, or where she was going. I have been haunted ever since I heard it by visions of the poor child arriving in New York all alone, and perhaps losing her way: she only knew that one up-town locality near Moreau's."

"Do you mean to say that no one knows where she has gone?"

"No one. Bessmer tells me that the old dragon was in one of her black rages. Mr. Dexter was with Anne for some time in the little parlor during the ball last evening, and Miss Vanhorn had the room made ready, as though she expected him. Here are the few lines the poor child left for me: they are constrained, and very unlike her; but I suppose she was too troubled to choose her words. She told me herself only the day before that she was very unhappy."

Heathcote took the little note, and slipped it into an inner pocket. He said nothing, and went on stripping the vine.

"There is one thing that puzzles me," continued Helen. "Bessmer heard the old woman say, violently, 'You have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is simply laughing at you.' Now Anne never threw herself at any man's feet—unless, indeed, it might be the feet of that boy on the island to whom she is engaged. I do not know how she acts when with him."

"It is a pity, since Bessmer overheard so much, that while she was about it she did not overhear more," said Heathcote, dryly.

"You need not suspect her: she is as honest as a cow, and as unimaginative. She happened to catch that sentence because she had entered the next room for something; but she went out again immediately, and heard no more. What I fear is that Miss Vanhorn has dismissed her entirely, and that I shall not see her again, even at Moreau's. In the note she says that she will send me her address when she can, which is oddly expressed, is it not? I suppose she means that she will send it when she knows where she is to be. Poor child! think of her to-night out in the hard world all alone!"

"I do think of her."

"It is good of you to care so much. But you know how much attached to her I am."

"Yes."

"She is an odd girl. Undeveloped, yet very strong. She would refuse a prince, a king, without a thought, and work all her life like a slave for the man she loved, whoever he might be. In truth, she has done what amounts to nearly the same thing, if my surmises are correct. Those children on the island were pensioned, and I presume the old dragon has stopped the pension."

"Have you no idea where she has gone?"

"Probably to Mademoiselle Pitre at Lancaster, on the Inside Road; I stopped there once to see her. It would be her first resource. I shall hear from her, of course, in a few days, and then I shall help her in every way in my power. We will not let her suffer, Ward."

"No."

Then there was a pause.

"Are you not chilly here, Helen?"

"It is damp," said Mrs. Lorrington, rising. She always followed the moods of this lethargic suitor of hers as closely as she could divine them; she took the advance in every oblique and even retrograde movement he made so swiftly that it generally seemed to have originated with herself. In five minutes they were in the house, and she had left him.

In what was called the office, a group of young men were discussing, over their cigars, a camping party; the mountains, whose blue sides lay along the western sky, afforded good hunting ground still, and were not as yet farmed out to clubs. The men now at Caryl's generally camped out for a few weeks every year; it was one of their habits. Heathcote, with his hands in the pockets of his sack-coat, walked up and down, listening. After a while, "I think I'll go with you," he said.

"Come along, then, old fellow; I wish you would."

"When are you going?"

"To-morrow morning—early."

"By wagon?"

"Train to the junction; then wagons."

"How long shall you stay?"

"A week or two."

"I'll go," said Heathcote. He threw away his cigar, and started toward his room. Helen was singing in the parlor as he passed; he paused outside for a moment to listen. Every one was present save Anne and Gregory Dexter; yet the long room wore to him already the desolate and empty aspect of summer resorts in September. He could see the singer plainly; he leaned against the wall and looked at her. He liked her; she fitted into all the grooves of his habits and tastes. And he thought she would marry him if he pushed the matter. While he was thus meditating, a soft little hand touched his arm in the darkness. "I saw you," said Rachel, in a whisper, "and came round to join you. You are looking at Helen; what a flute-like voice she has! Let us go out and listen to her on the piazza."

Mr. Heathcote would be delighted to go. He hated that parlor, with all those people sitting round in a row. How could Rachel stand it?

Rachel, with a pathetic sigh, answered, How could she do as she wished? She had no talent for deception.

Heathcote regretted this; he wished with all his heart that she had.

His heart was not all his to wish with, Rachel suggested, in a cooing murmur.

He answered that it was. And then they went out on the piazza.

Helen missed Rachel, and suspected, but sang on as sweetly as ever. At last, however, even Rachel could not keep the recreant admirer longer. He went off to his room, filled a travelling bag, lit a cigar, and then sat down to write a note:

"Dear Helen,—I have decided suddenly to go with the camping party to the mountains for a week or two; we leave early in the morning. I shall hope to find you still here when I return.

W. H."

He sealed this missive, threw it aside, and then began to study a railway guide. To a person going across to the mountains in a wagon, a knowledge of the latest time-tables was, of course, important.

The next morning, while her maid was coiling her fair hair, Mrs. Lorrington received the note, and bit her lips with vexation.

The hunting party drove over to the station soon after six, and waited there for the early train. Hosy sold them their tickets, and then came out to gain a little information in affable conversation. All the men save Heathcote were attired in the most extraordinary old clothes, and they wore among them an assortment of hats which might have won a prize in a collection. Hosy regarded them with wonder, but his sharp freckled face betrayed no sign. They were men, and he was above curiosity. He ate an apple reflectively, and took an inward inventory: "Hez clothes that I wouldn't be seen in, and sports 'em proud as you please. Hats like a pirate. The strangest set of fellers!"

As the branch road train, with a vast amount of self-important whistling, drew near the junction with the main line, Heathcote said carelessly that he thought he would run down to the city for a day or two, and join them later. There was hue and cry over this delinquency, but he paid his way to peace by promising to bring with him on his return a certain straw-packed basket, which, more than anything else, is a welcome sight to poor hard-worked hunters in a thirsty land. The wagons rolled away with their loads, and he was left to take the southern-bound express. He reached the city late in the evening, slept there, and early the next morning went out to Lancaster Station. When he stepped off the train, a boy and a red wagon were in waiting; nothing else save the green country.

"WHILE HER MAID WAS COILING HER FAIR HAIR."
"WHILE HER MAID WAS COILING HER FAIR HAIR.""Does a French lady named Pitre live in this neighborhood?" he inquired of the boy, who was holding the old mare's head watchfully, as though, if not restrained, she would impetuously follow the receding train. This was the boy with whom Jeanne-Armande had had her memorable contest over Anne's fare. Here was his chance to make up from the pockets of this stranger—fair prey, since he was a friend of hers—the money lost on that field.

"Miss Peters lives not fur off. I can drive you there if you want ter go."

Heathcote took his seat in the wagon, and slowly as possible the boy drove onward, choosing the most roundabout course, and bringing the neighborhood matrons to their windows to see that wagon pass a second time with the same stranger in it, going no one knew where. At last, all the cross-roads being exhausted, the boy stopped before the closed half-house.

"Is this the place? It looks uninhabited," said Heathcote.

"'T always looks so; she's such a screw, she is," replied Eli, addressed as "Li" by his friends.

Heathcote knocked; no answer. He went round to the back door, but found no sign of life.

"There is no one here. Would any one in the neighborhood know where she has gone?"

"Mr. Green might, over to the store," said Li.

"Drive there."

"I've got to meet the next train, but I'll take you as fur as the door; 'tain't but a step from there to the station. And you might as well pay me now," he added, carelessly, "because the mare she's very fiery, and won't stand." Pocketing his money—double price—he drove off, exultant. It was a mile and a half to the station, and a hot, cloudless morning.

Heathcote made acquaintance with Mr. Green, and asked his question. There was no one in the shop at the moment, and Mr. Green responded freely that he knew Miss Peters very well; in fact, they were old friends. She had gone to Valley City—had, in fact, left that very morning in the same red wagon which had brought the inquirer to his door; he, Green, looking out by chance, had seen her pass. What did she do in Valley City? Why, she taught—in fact, kept school. She had kept school there for ten years, and he, Green, was the only one in the neighborhood who knew it, since she—Miss Peters—wasn't much liked about there, perhaps on account of her being a Papist. But in such matters, he, Green, was liberal. Did she have any one with her? Yes, she had; in fact, Miss Douglas—same young lady as was there the fore part of the summer. No, they warn't going to stop at all in New York; going right through to the West. Hoped there was no bad news?

"No," replied Heathcote.

But his monosyllable without details convinced the hearer that there was, and before night the whole neighborhood was humming with conjecture. The darkest of the old suspicions about mademoiselle's past were now held to have been verified.

Heathcote walked back to the station over the red clay road, and looked for that boy. But Li had taken care to make good his retreat. By the delay two trains were missed, and he was obliged to wait; when he reached the city it was two o'clock, and it seemed to him that the pavements had never exhaled such withering heat. His rooms were closed; he went to the hotel, took a bath, took two, but could not recover either his coolness or his temper. Even after dinner he was still undecided. Should he go westward to Valley City by the ten o'clock train? or wait till morning? or throw it all up and join the other men at the mountains? It was a close evening. Anne was at that moment on the ferry-boat.

Mademoiselle had carefully misled her friend Mr. Green; so great was her caution, so intricate her manoeuvres, that she not only never once told him the truth, but also had taken the trouble to invent elaborate fictions concerning herself and her school at Valley City every time she closed the half-house and bade him good-by. The only person who knew where she really was was the Roman Catholic priest who had charge of the mission church at the railway-car shops three miles distant; to this secret agent was intrusted the duty of walking over once a week, without exciting the notice of the neighborhood, to see if the half-house remained safe and undisturbed. For this service mademoiselle paid a small sum each week to the mission; and it was money well earned. The priest, a lank, lonely, sad-eyed young Irishman, with big feet in low shoes, came down the track once in seven days to Lancaster, as if for a walk, taking the half-house within his varying circuit, and, with the tact of his nation and profession, never once betraying his real object. On this occasion Jeanne-Armande had even showed Mr. Green her tickets to Valley City: what could be surer?

At sunset, in the city, the air grew cooler, a salt breeze came up the harbor from the ocean, tossing bluely outside. Heathcote decided to take another glass of wine, and the morning train. To the mountains?

The next day he was somewhat disgustedly eating breakfast at New Macedonia; and going through the cars an hour later, came upon Anne. He had not expected to see her. He was as much surprised as she was.

Why had he followed her? He could hardly have given a clear answer, save perhaps that he was accustomed to follow his inclinations wherever they led him, without hinderance or question. For there existed no one in the world who had the right to question him; and therefore he was without the habit of accounting for what he did, even to himself. It may, perhaps, be considered remarkable that, with such a position and training, he was, as a man, no worse than he was; that is, that he should be so good a fellow, after all, when he had possessed such unlimited opportunities to be a bad one. But natural refinement and fine physical health had kept the balance from swaying far; and the last-named influence is more powerful than is realized. Many a man of fine mind—even genius—is with the dolts and the brutes in the great army of the fallen, owing to a miserable, weak, and disappointing body. Of course he should have learned, early in life, its deficiencies, should have guarded it, withheld it and himself from exertions which to his neighbor are naught; but he does not always learn this lesson. The human creature who goes through his allotted course with vigorous health and a physical presence fine enough to command the unconscious respect of all with whom he comes in contact has no conception of the humiliations and discouragements, the struggles and failures, which beset the path of his weak-bodied and physically insignificant brother. Heathcote, indolent as he was, had a superb constitution, for which and of which, ungratefully, he had never thought long enough to be thankful.

But why was he following Anne?

She had told him of her engagement. Even if he could have broken that engagement, did he wish to break it? He said to himself that it was because his chivalry, as a man, had been stirred by the maid's story of Miss Vanhorn's harsh words—words which he had at once construed as an allusion to himself. Was he not partially, perhaps wholly, responsible for her banishment? But, even if this were true, could he not have acted through Helen, who was by far the most fitting agent? Instead of this, here he was following her himself!

Why?

Simply because of one look he had had deep down into violet eyes.

He had not expected to find her so soon. In truth, he was following in rather a purposeless fashion, leaving much to chance, and making no plans. They had gone to Valley City; he would go to Valley City. Perhaps he should meet her in the street there; or perhaps he should leave a letter; perhaps he should do neither, but merely turn round, his impulse satisfied, and go home again. There was no need to decide now. He was on the way; that was enough. And more than enough.

Then, suddenly, he saw her.

She was sitting next the aisle. He put out his hand; she gave hers, and mechanically mentioned his name to mademoiselle, who, helmeted in her travelling bonnet surmounted by a green veil, presented a martial front to all beholders. There was no vacant place near; he remained standing.

"How fortunate that I have met you!" he said, with conventional cordiality. "The day promised to be intolerably long and dull."

Mademoiselle, who at a glance had taken in his appearance from head to foot as only a Frenchwoman can, inquired if he was going far, in a voice so harmonious, compared with the bonnet, that it was an agreeable surprise.

"To Valley City," replied Heathcote.

"We also are going to Valley City," said Jeanne-Armande, graciously. "It is a pity there happens to be no vacant place near for monsieur. If some of these good people—" Here she turned the helmet toward her neighbors behind.

"Pray do not give yourself any trouble," said Heathcote. "I was on my way to the last car, hoping to find more air and space. If I am so fortunate as to find there two vacant seats, may I not return for you? It will be a charity to my loneliness."

"And a pleasure, monsieur, to ourselves," said mademoiselle.

He bowed his thanks, and glanced again at Anne. She had not spoken, and had not looked at him since her first startled glance. But Jeanne-Armande was gracious for two; she was charmed to have a monsieur of such distinguished appearance standing in the aisle by their side, and she inwardly wished that she had worn her second instead of her third best gloves and veil.

"Mrs. Lorrington misses you sadly," said Heathcote to the silent averted face, more for the sake of saying something than with any special meaning.

A slight quiver in the downcast eyelids, but no answer.

"She hopes that you will soon send her your address."

"It is uncertain as yet where I shall be," murmured Anne.

"I thought you were to be at Valley City?"

She made no reply, but through her mind passed the thought that he could not know, then, their real destination. He had been speaking in a low voice; mademoiselle had not heard. But he could not carry on a conversation long with a person who would not answer. "I will go to the last car, and see if I can find those seats," he said, speaking to mademoiselle, and smiling as he spoke. She thought him charming.

As soon as he turned away, Anne said: "Please do not tell him that ours are excursion tickets, mademoiselle. Let him think that our destination is really Valley City."

"Certainly, if you wish it," replied Jeanne-Armande, who had a sympathy with all mysteries; this little speech of Anne's gave a new spice to the day. "He is one of the circle round your grandaunt, probably?"

"Yes; I met him at Caryl's."

"A most distinguished personage; entirely as it should be. And did I not overhear the name of the charming Mrs. Lorrington also?"

"He is a friend of Helen's. I think, I am not sure, but still I think that they are engaged," said Anne, bravely.

"And most appropriate. I do not know when I have been more comforted than by the culture and manner of that elegant friend of yours who sought you out at my little residence; I hope it may be my fortunate privilege to entertain her there again. From these two examples, I am naturally led to think that the circle round your grandaunt is one adjusted to that amiable poise so agreeable to the feelings of a lady."

Anne made no reply; the circle round her grandaunt seemed to her a world of dark and menacing terrors, from which she was fleeing with all the speed she could summon. But, one of these terrors had followed her.

Presently Heathcote returned. He had found two vacant seats, and the car was much better ventilated than this one; there was no dust, and no one was eating either pea-nuts or apples; the floor was clean; the covering of the seats seemed to have been recently renewed. Upon hearing the enumeration of all these advantages, mademoiselle arose immediately, and "monsieur" was extremely attentive in the matter of carrying shawls, packages, and baskets. But when they reached the car, they found that the two seats were not together; one was at the end, the other separated from it by the aisle and four intervening places.

"I hoped that you would be kind enough to give me the pleasure of being with you by turns," said Heathcote, gallantly, to mademoiselle, "since it was impossible to find seats together." As he spoke, he placed Jeanne-Armande in one of the seats, and Anne in the other; and then gravely, but with just the scintillation of a smile in his brown eyes, he took his own place, not beside Anne, but beside the delighted Frenchwoman, who could scarcely believe her good fortune to be real until she found him actually assisting her in the disposal of basket, shawl, bag, India-rubber shoes, and precious although baggy umbrella.