Anne: A Novel

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  "Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity: The deep air listen'd round her as she rode, And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur Made her cheeks flame: ... the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she Not less thro' all bore up."--TENNYSON.

  Gregory Dexter kept his word. He telegraphed to Miss Teller and to MissTeller's lawyers. He thought of everything, even recalling to Anne'smind that she ought to write to her pupils and to the leader of thechoir, telling them that she expected to be absent from the city forseveral days. "It would be best to resign all the places at once," hesaid. "After this is over, they can easily come back to you if they wishto do so."

  "It may make a difference, then, in my position?" said Anne.

  "It will make the difference that you will no longer be an unknownpersonage," he answered, briefly.

  His dispatch had produced a profound sensation of wonder in the mind ofMiss Teller, and excitement in the minds of Miss Teller's lawyers.Helen's aunt, so far, had not been able to form a conjecture as to theidentity of the mysterious young girl who had visited her niece, andborne part in that remarkable conversation; Bagshot's descriptionbrought no image before her mind. The acquaintance with Anne Douglas,the school-girl at Madame Moreau's was such a short, unimportant, andnow distant episode in the brilliant, crowded life of her niece thatshe had forgotten it, or at least never thought of it in thisconnection. She had never heard Helen call Anne "Crystal." Herimagination was fixed upon a girl of the lower class, beautiful, andperhaps in her way even respectable--"one of those fancies which," sheacknowledged, "gentlemen sometimes have," the tears gathering in herpale eyes as she spoke, so repugnant was the idea to her, although shetried to accept it for Heathcote's sake. But how could Helen have knowna girl of this sort? Was this, too, one of those concealed trials whichwives of "men of the world" were obliged to endure?

  Neither did Isabel or Rachel think of Anne. To them she had been but aschool-girl, and they had not seen her or heard of her since that summerat Caryl's; she had passed out of their remembrance as entirely as outof their vision. Their idea of Helen's unknown visitor was similar tothat which occupied the mind of Miss Teller. And in their hearts theyhad speculated upon the possibility of using money with such a person,inducing her to come forward, name herself, and deny Bagshot's testimonypoint-blank, or at least the dangerous portions of it. It could notmatter much to a girl of that sort what she had to say, provided shewere well paid for it.

  Miss Teller and the lawyers were waiting to receive Anne, when, late inthe evening, she arrived, accompanied by Mr. Dexter. The lawyers had togive way first to Miss Teller.

  "Oh, Anne, dear child!" she cried, embracing the young girl warmly; "Inever dreamed it was you. And you have come all this way to help us! Ido not in the least understand how; but never mind--never mind. Godbless you!" She sobbed as she spoke. Then seeing Dexter, who wasstanding at some distance, she called him to her, and blessed him also.He received her greeting in silence. He had brought Anne, but he was inno mood to appreciate benedictions.

  And now the lawyers stepped forward, arranging chairs at the table in asuggestive way, opening papers, and consulting note-books. Anne lookedtoward Dexter for directions; his eyes told her to seat herself in oneof the arm-chairs. He then withdrew to another part of the large room,and Miss Teller, having vainly endeavored to beckon him to her side, sothat he might be within reach of her tearful whispers andsympathy-seeking finger, resigned herself to excited listening andsilence.

  When Anne Douglas appeared on the witness-stand in the Heathcote murdertrial, a buzz of curiosity and surprise ran round the crowdedcourt-room.

  "A young girl!" was the first whisper. Then, "Pretty, rather," from thewomen, and "Beautiful!" from the men.

  Isabel grasped Rachel's arm. "Is that Anne Douglas?" she said, in awonder-struck voice. "You remember her--the school-girl, Miss Vanhorn'sniece, who was at Caryl's that summer? Helen always liked her; and WardHeathcote used to talk to her now and then, although Mr. Dexter paid hermore real attention."

  "I remember her," said Rachel, coldly; "but I do not recollect the othercircumstances you mention."

  "It _is_ Anne," continued Isabel, too much absorbed to notice Rachel'smanner. "But older, and a thousand times handsomer. Rachel, that girl isbeautiful!"

  Anne's eyes were downcast. She feared to see Heathcote, and she did noteven know in what part of the room he was placed. She remained thuswhile she was identified by Bagshot and Simpson, while she gave hername, and went through the preliminary forms; when at last she did raiseher eyes, she looked only at the lawyers who addressed her.

  And now the ordeal opened. All, or almost all, of that which she hadtold Gregory Dexter she was now required to repeat here, before thiscrowded, listening court-room, this sea of faces, these watchinglawyers, the judge, and the dreaded jury. She had never been in acourt-room before. For one moment, when she first looked up, her couragefailed, and those who were watching her saw that it had failed. Thentoward whom did her frightened glance turn as if for aid?

  "Rachel, it is Gregory Dexter," said Isabel, again grasping hercompanion's arm excitedly.

  "Pray, Isabel, be more quiet," answered Mrs. Bannert. But her own heartthrobbed quickly for a moment as she recognized the man who had told herwhat he thought of her plainly in crude and plebeian Saxon phraseology.

  Anne was now speaking. Bagshot's testimony was read to her phrase byphrase. Phrase by phrase she corroborated its truthfulness, but addedwhat had preceded and followed. In this manner all the overheardsentences were repeated amid close attention, the interest increasingwith every word.

  But still it was evident that all were waiting; the attitude was plainlyone of alert expectancy.

  For what were they waiting? For the confession of love, to whose"extraordinary words" the New York journals had called attention.

  At last it came. An old lawyer read the sentences aloud, slowly,markedly; while the fall of a feather could have been heard in thecrowded room, and all eyes were fastened pitilessly upon the defenselessgirl; for she seemed at that moment utterly forsaken and defenseless.

  "'You say that I can not love,'" slowly read the lawyer, in his clear,dry voice; "'that it is not in my nature. You know nothing about it. Youhave thought me a child; I am a child no longer. I love Ward Heathcote,your husband, with my whole heart. It was a delight to me simply to benear him, to hear his voice. When he spoke my name, all my being wenttoward him. I loved him--loved him--so deeply that everything else onthe face of the earth is as nothing to me compared with it. I would havebeen gladly your servant, yes, _yours_, only to be in the same housewith him, though I were of no more account in his eyes than the dog onthe mat before his door.'"

  There was an instant of dead silence after these last passionate wordshad fallen strangely from the old lawyer's thin lips. Then, "Are theseyour words?" he asked.

  "They are," replied Anne.

  In that supreme moment her glance, vaguely turned away from thequestioner, met the direct gaze of the prisoner. Until now she had notseen him. It was but an instant that their eyes held each other, but inthat instant the thronged court-room faded from her sight, and her face,which, while the lawyer read, had been white and still as marble, wasnow, though still colorless, so transfigured, so uplifted, so beautifulin its pure sacrifice, that men leaned forward to see her more closely,to print, as it were, that exquisite image upon their memories forever.

  Then the crowd took its breath again audibly; the sight was over. Annehad sunk down and covered her face with her hands, and Miss Teller, muchagitated, was sending her a glass of water.

  Even the law is human sometimes, and there was now a short delay.

  So far, while the testimony of the new witness had been dramatic, and inits interest absorbing, it had not proved much, or shaken to any gre
atextent the theory of the prosecution. On the contrary, more than evernow were people inclined to believe that this lovely young girl was inreality the wife's rival. Men whispered to each other, significantly,"Heathcote knew what he was about. That is the most beautiful girl Iever saw in my life; and nothing can alter _that_."

  "But now the tide turned. The examination proceeded, and the twounfinished sentences which Bagshot had repeated were read. Annecorrected them.

  "'You can not conquer hate,'" read the lawyer.

  "Mrs. Heathcote did not say that," began Anne; but her voice was stilltremulous, and she paused a moment in order to control it.

  "We wish to remark here," said one of Miss Teller's lawyers, "that whilethe witness named Minerva Bagshot is possessed of an extraordinarymemory, and while she has also repeated what she overheard with acorrectness and honesty which are indeed remarkable in a person whowould deliberately open a door and _listen_, in this instance hercareful and conscientious ears will be found to have been mistaken."

  He was not allowed to say more. But as he had said all he wished to say,he bore his enforced silence with equanimity.

  "Mrs. Heathcote wished me to come and live with her," continued Anne."She said, not what Mrs. Bagshot has reported, but, 'You can not conquer_fate_.' And then she added, 'We two _must_ be together, Anne; we arebound by a tie which can not be severed, even though we may wish it. Youmust bear with me, and I must suffer you. It is our fate.'"

  This produced an effect; it directly contradicted the impression made byBagshot's phrase, namely, that the two women had parted in anger andhate, the wife especially being in a mood of desperation. True, it wasbut Anne's word against Bagshot's, and the strange tendency towardbelieving the worst, which is often seen at criminal trials, inclinedmost minds toward the elder woman's story. Still, the lawyers for thedefense were hopeful.

  The last sentence, or portion of a sentence, was now read: "'If he hadlived, one of us must have died.'"

  It had been decided that Anne should here give all that Helen had said,without omission, as she had given it to Dexter.

  "Yes," she answered; "Mrs. Heathcote used those words. But it was in thefollowing connection. When we had said good-by, and I had promised tocome again after the funeral, she went with me toward the door. 'If hehad lived,' she said, 'one of us must have died.' Then she paused aninstant, and her voice sank. 'Changed or died,' she added. 'And as weare not the kind of women who change, it would have ended in the wearingout of the life of one of us--the one who loved the most. And peoplewould have called it by some other name, and that would have been theend. But now it is _he_ who has been taken, and--oh! I can not bearit--I can not, can not bear it!'"

  She repeated these words of Helen's with such realistic power that tearscame to many eyes. Rachel Bannert for the first time veiled her face.All the feeling in her, such as it was, was concentrated upon Heathcote,and Helen's bitter cry of grief, repeated by Anne, had been the secretcry of her own heart every minute since danger first menaced him.

  Anne's words had produced a sensation; still, they were but herunsupported words.

  But now something else was brought forward; proof which, so far as itwent, at least, was tangible. Anne was testifying that, before she wentaway, Helen had taken from her own neck a locket and given it to her asa token of renewed affection; and the locket was produced. The defensewould prove by Bagshot herself that this locket on its chain was roundher mistress's neck on the morning of that day, and Mrs. Heathcote musttherefore have removed it herself and given it to the present witness,since the latter could hardly have taken it from her by force withoutbeing overheard, the door being so very conveniently ajar.

  And now the next proof was produced, the hurried note written to Anne byHelen, after the tidings of her husband's safety had been received.After the writing had been identified as Helen's, the note was read.

  * * * * *

  "DEAR ANNE,--Ward is safe. It was a mistake. I have just received adispatch. He is wounded, but not dangerously, and I write this on my wayto the train, for I am going to him; that is, if I can get through. Allis different now. I trust you. But I love him too much not to try andmake him love _me_ the most, if I possibly can.

  HELEN."

  * * * * *

  This was evidence clear and decided. It was no longer Anne's word, butHelen's own. Whatever else the listeners continued to believe, they mustgive up the idea that the wife and this young girl had parted in angerand hate; for if the locket as proof could be evaded, the note couldnot.

  But this was not all. An excitement more marked than any save thatproduced when Anne acknowledged the confession arose in the court-roomwhen the lawyers for the defense announced that they would now bringforward a second letter--a letter written by Mrs. Heathcote to thewitness in the inn at Timloesville on the evening of her death--her lastletter, what might be called her last utterance on earth. It had beenshown that Mrs. Heathcote was seen writing; it would be proved that aletter was given to a colored lad employed in the hotel soon afterCaptain Heathcote left the room, and that this lad ran across the streetto the post-office and dropped it into the mail-box. Not being able toread, he had not made out the address.

  When the handwriting of this letter also had been identified, it was,amid eager attention, read aloud. The feeling was as if the dead wifeherself were speaking to them from the grave.

  * * * * *

  "TIMLOESVILLE, _June 10, half past 8_ P.M.

  "DEAR ANNE,--I sent you a few lines from New York, written on my way tothe train, but now that I have time, I feel that something more is dueto you. I found Ward at a little hospital, his right arm injured, butnot seriously. He will not be able to use it readily for some time; itis in a sling. But he is so much better that they have allowed us tostart homeward. We are travelling slowly--more, however, on my accountthan his. I long to have the journey over.

  "Dear Anne, I have thought over all our conversation--all that you toldme, all that I replied. I am so inexpressibly happy to-night, as I sithere writing, that I can and will do you justice, and tell all thetruth--the part that I have hitherto withheld. And that is, Anne, thatyour influence over him _was_ for good, and that your pain and efforthave not been thrown away. You asked him to bear his part in lifebravely, and he has borne it; you asked him to come back to me, and hedid come back. If you were any other woman on earth, I would neverconfess this--confess that I owe to _you_ my happiness of last winter,when he changed, even in his letters, to greater kindness; confess thatit was your influence which made him, when he came home later, so muchmore watchful and gentle in his care of, his manner toward, me. Inoticed the change on the first instant, the first letter, and it mademy heart bound. If it had been possible, I should have gone to him then,but it was not. He had rejoined his regiment, and I could only watchfor his letters like a girl of sixteen. When he did come home, I countedevery hour of that short visit as so much happiness greater than I hadever known before. For I had always loved him, and _now_ he loved me.

  "Do not contradict me; he does love me. At least he is so dear to me,and so kind and tender, that I do not know whether he does or not, butam content. You are a better, nobler woman; yet _I_ have the happiness.

  "He does not know that I have seen you, and I shall never tell him. Hedoes not know that I know what an effort he has made. But every kind actand tone goes to my heart. For I _did_ deceive him, Anne; and if it hadnot been for that deception, probably he would not now be my husband--hewould be free.

  "Yet good has come out of evil this time, perhaps on account of my deeplove. No wife was ever so thankfully happy as I am to-night, and on myknees I have thanked my Creator for giving me that which makes my lifeone long joy.

  "He has come in, and is sitting opposite, reading. He does not know towhom I am writing--does not dream what I am saying. And he must neverknow: I can not rise to _that_.

  "No, Anne, we must not meet,
at least for the present. It is better so,and you yourself will feel that it is. But when I reach home I willwrite again, and _then_ you will answer.

  "Always, with warm love, your friend,

  HELEN."

  * * * * *

  During the reading of this letter, the prisoner for the first time satwith his head bowed, his face shaded by his hand. Miss Teller's sobscould be heard. Anne, too, broke down, and wept silently.

  "When I reach home I will write again, and _then_ you will answer."Helen _had_ reached home, and Anne--had answered.