Anne: A Novel

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  "I have no other than a woman's reason: I think him so because I think him so."

  --SHAKSPEARE.

  Summer was at its height. Multomah had returned to its rural quietude;the farmers were busy afield, the court-room was closed, the crowd gone.The interest in the Heathcote case, and the interest in Ward Heathcote,remained as great as ever in the small circle of which he and Helen hadformed part; but nothing more could happen until November, and as, inthe mean time, the summer was before them, they had found a diversion ofthought in discovering an island off the coast of Maine, and betakingthemselves thither, leaving to mistaken followers the belief thatCaryl's still remained an exclusive and fashionable resort. Beyond thissmall circle, the attention of the nation at large was absorbed in a fargreater story--the story of the Seven Days round Richmond.

  Word had come to Anne from the northern island that the little boy,whose failing health had for so many months engrossed all Miss Lois'stime and care, had closed his tired eyes upon this world's pain forever.He would no longer need the little crutch, which they had both grievedto think must always be his support; and Miss Lois coming home to thesilent church-house after the burial in the little cemetery on theheight, and seeing it there in its corner, had burst into bitter tears.For the child, in his helplessness and suffering, had grown into hervery heart. But now Anne needed her--that other child whom she had lovedso long and so well. And so, after that one fit of weeping, she coveredher grief from sight, put a weight of silent remembrance upon it, andwith much energy journeyed southward.

  For Anne, Miss Lois, and Miss Teller were now linked together by apurpose, a feminine purpose, founded upon faith only, and with outlinesvague, yet one none the less to be carried out: to go to Timloesville orits neighborhood, and search for the murderer there.

  Miss Teller, who had found occupation in various small schemes foradditions to Heathcote's comfort during the summer, rose to excitementwhen the new idea was presented to her.

  "We must have advice about it," she began; "we must consult--" Then seeingin the young face, upon whose expressions she had already come to rely,a non-agreement, she paused.

  "The best skill of detectives has already been used," said Anne; "theyfollowed a track, worked from a beginning. We should follow no track,and accept no beginning, save the immovable certainty that he wasinnocent." She was silent a moment; then with a sigh which was a sad,yet not a hopeless, one, "Dear Miss Teller," she added, "it is said thatwomen divine a truth sometimes by intuition, and against allprobability. It is to this instinct--if such there be--that we musttrust now."

  Miss Teller studied these suggestions with respect; but they seemedlarge and indistinct. In spite of herself her mind reverted to certainarticles of furniture which she had looked at the day before, furniturewhich was to make his narrow room more comfortable. But she caughtherself in these wanderings, brought back her straying thoughtspromptly, and fastened them to the main subject with a question--like apin.

  "But how could I go to Timloesville at present, when I have so muchplanned out to do here? Oh, Anne, I could not leave him here, shut up inthat dreary place."

  "It seems to me safer that you should not go," replied the girl; "itmight be noticed, especially as it is known that you took this house forthe summer. But I could go. And there is Miss Lois. She is free now, andthe church-house must be very lonely." The tears sprang again as shethought of Andre, the last of the little black-eyed children who hadbeen so dear.

  They talked over the plan. No man being there to weigh it with a coolermasculine judgment, it seemed to them a richly promising one. Anne wasimaginative, and Miss Teller reflected Anne. They both felt, however,that its accomplishment depended upon Miss Lois. But Anne's confidencein Miss Lois was great.

  "I know of no one for whom I have a deeper respect than for thatremarkable woman," said Miss Teller, reverentially. "It will be a greatgratification to see her."

  "But it would be best, I think, that she should not come here," repliedAnne. "I should bid you good-by, and go away; every one would see me go.Then in New York I could meet Miss Lois, and we could go together toTimloesville by another route. At Timloesville nobody would know MissLois, and I should keep myself in a measure concealed; there were only afew persons from Timloesville at the trial, and I think I could evadethem."

  "I should have liked much to meet Miss Hinsdale," said Miss Margaretta,in a tone of regret. "But you know best."

  "Oh, no, no," said Anne, letting her arms fall in sudden despondency. "Isometimes think that I know nothing, and worse than nothing! Momentscome when I would give years of my life for one hour, only one, oftrusting reliance upon some one wiser, stronger, than I--who would tellme what I ought to do."

  But this cry of the young heart (brave, but yet so young) distressedMiss Margaretta. If the pilot should lose courage, what would become ofthe passengers? She felt herself looking into chaos.

  Anne saw this. And controlled herself again.

  "When should you start?" said the elder lady, relieved, and bringingforward a date. Miss Margaretta always found great support in dates.

  "I can not tell yet. We must first hear from Miss Lois."

  "I will write to her myself," said Miss Margaretta, putting on herspectacles and setting to work at once. It was a relief to be engagedupon something tangible.

  And write she did. The pages she sent to Miss Lois, and the pages withwhich Miss Lois replied were many, eloquent, and underlined. Before thecorrespondence was ended they had scientifically discovered, convicted,and hanged the murderer, and religiously buried him.

  Miss Lois was the most devoted partisan the accused man had gained. Shewas pleader, audience, public opinion, detective, judge, and finalclergyman, in one. She had never seen Heathcote. That made nodifference. She was sure he was a concentration of virtue, and thevictim not of circumstances (that was far too mild), but of a "plot"(she wanted to say "popish," but was restrained by her regard for PereMichaux).

  Miss Teller saw Heathcote daily. So far, she had not felt it necessarythat Anne should accompany her. But shortly before the time fixed forthe young girl's departure she was seized with the idea that it wasAnne's duty to see him once. For perhaps he could tell her somethingwhich would be of use at Timloesville.

  "I would rather not; it is not necessary," replied Anne. "You can tellme."

  "You should not think of yourself; in such cases ourselves are nothing,"said Miss Teller. "The sheriff and the persons in charge under him arepossessed of excellent dispositions, as I have had occasion to prove; noone need know of your visit, and I should of course accompany you."

  Anne heard her in silence. She was asking herself whether this gentlelady had lost all memory of her own youth, and whether that youth hadheld no feelings which would make her comprehend the depth of that whichshe was asking now.

  But Miss Teller was not thinking of her youth, or of herself, or ofAnne. She had but one thought, one motive--Helen's husband, and how tosave him; all the rest seemed to her unimportant. She had in factforgotten it. "I do not see how you can hesitate," she said, the tearssuffusing her light eyes, "when it is for our dear Helen's sake."

  "Yes," replied Anne; "but Helen is dead. How can we know--how can we besure--what she would wish?" She seemed to be speaking to herself. Sherose, walked to the window, and stood there looking out.

  "She would wish to have him saved, would she not?" answered Miss Teller."I consider it quite necessary that you should see him before you go.For you could not depend upon my report of what he says. It has, I amsorry to say, been represented to me more than once that I have atendency to forget what has been variously mentioned as the knob, thepoint, the gist of a thing."

  Anne did not turn.

  Miss Teller noted this obstinacy with surprise.

  "It is mysterious to me that after the great ordeal of that trial, Anne,you should demur over such a simple thing as this," she said, gently.

  But to Anne the sea of fac
es in the court-room seemed now less difficultthan that quiet cell with its one occupant. Then she asked herselfwhether this were not an unworthy feeling, a weak one? One to be putdown at once, and with a strong hand. She yielded. The visit wasappointed for the next day.

  The county jail with its stone hall; a locked door. They were entering;the jailer retired.

  The prisoner rose to receive them; he knew that they were coming, andwas prepared. Miss Teller kissed him; he brought forward his two chairs.Then turning to Anne, he said, "It is kind of you to come;" and for amoment they looked at each other.

  It was as if they had met in another world, in a far gray land beyondall human error and human dread. Anne felt this suddenly; if not like achill, it was like the touch of an all-enveloping sadness, which wouldnot pass away. Her fear left her; it seemed to her then that it wouldnever come back.

  As she looked at him she saw that he was greatly changed; her one glancein the court-room had not told her how greatly. Part of it was duedoubtless to the effects of his wound, to the unaccustomed confinementin the heats of a lowland summer; his face, though still bronzed, wasthin, his clothes hung loosely from his broad shoulders. But the markedalteration was in his expression. This was so widely different fromthat of the brown-eyed lounger of Caryl's, that it seemed another manwho was standing there, and not the same. Heathcote's eyes were stillbrown; but their look was so changed that Gregory Dexter would neverhave occasion to find fault with it again. His half-indolentcarelessness had given place to a stern reticence; his indifference, toa measured self-control. And Anne knew, as though a prophetic visionwere passing, that he would carry that changed face always, to hislife's end.

  Miss Teller had related to him their plan, their womans' plan. He wasstrongly, unyieldingly, opposed to it. Miss Teller came home every day,won over to his view, and then as regularly changed her mind, in talkingwith Anne, and went back--to be converted over again. But he knew thatAnne had persisted. He knew that he was now expected to search hismemory, and see if he could not find there something new. Miss Teller,with a touching eagerness to be of use and business-like, arranged pen,paper, and ink upon the table, and sat down to take notes. She was stilla majestic personage, in spite of her grief and anxiety; her height,profile, and flowing draperies were as imposing as ever. But in otherways she had grown suddenly old; her light complexion was nowover-spread with a net-work of fine small wrinkles, the last faintblonde of her hair was silvered, and in her cheeks and about her mouththere was a pathetic alteration, the final predominance of old age, andits ineffective helplessness over her own mild personality.

  But while they waited, he found that he could not speak. When he sawthem sitting there in their mourning garb for Helen, when he felt thatAnne too was within the circle of this grief and danger and pain, Anne,in all her pure fair youth and trust and courage, something rose in histhroat and stopped utterance. All the past and his own part in itunrolled itself before him like a judgment; all the present, and herbrave effort for him; the future, near and dark. For Heathcote, likeDexter, believed that the chances were adverse; and even should heescape conviction, he believed that the cloud upon him would never becleared away entirely, but that it would rest like a pall over theremainder of his life. At that moment, in his suffering, he felt thatuncleared acquittal, conviction, the worst that could come to him, hecould bear without a murmur were it only possible to separate Anne--Anneboth in the past and present--from his own dark lot. He rose suddenlyfrom the bench where he had seated himself, turned his back to them,went to his little grated window, and stood there looking out.

  Miss Teller followed him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. "DearWard," she said, "I do not wonder that you are overcome." And she tookout her handkerchief.

  He mastered himself and came back to the table. Miss Teller, who, havingonce begun, was unable to stop so quickly, remained where she was. Anne,to break the painful pause, began to ask her written questions from theslip of paper she had brought.

  "Can you recall anything concerning the man who came by and spoke to youwhile you were bathing?" she said, looking at him gravely.

  "No. I could not see him; it was very dark."

  "What did he say?"

  "He asked if the water was cold."

  "How did he say it?"

  "Simply, 'Is the water cold?'"

  "Was there any foreign accent or tone, any peculiarity of pronunciationor trace of dialect, no matter how slight, in his voice or utterance?"

  "I do not recall any. Stay, he may have given something of the sound ofg to the word--said 'gold,' instead of 'cold.' But the variation wasscarcely noticeable. Country people talk in all sorts of ways."

  Miss Teller hurriedly returned to her chair, after wiping her eyes,wrote down "gold" and "cold" in large letters on her sheet of paper, andsurveyed them critically.

  "Is there nothing else you can think of?" pursued Anne.

  "No. Why do you dwell upon him?"

  "Because he is the man."

  "Oh, Anne, is he?--is he?" cried Miss Teller, with as much excitement asthough Anne had proved it.

  "There is no probability. They have not even been able to find him,"said Heathcote.

  "Of course it is only my feeling," said the girl.

  "But what _Anne_ feels is no child's play," commented Miss Teller.

  This remark, made in nervousness and without much meaning, seemed totouch Heathcote; he turned to the window again.

  "Will you please describe to me exactly what you did from the time youleft the inn to take the first walk until you came back after theriver-bath?" continued Anne.

  He repeated his account of the evening's events as he had first givenit, with hardly the variation of a word.

  "Are you sure that you took two towels? Might it not be possible thatyou took only one? For then the second, found at the end of the meadowtrail, might have been taken by the murderer."

  "No; I took two. I remember it because I put first one in my pocket, andthen, with some difficulty, the other, and I spoke to Helen laughinglyabout my left-handed awkwardness." It was the first time he had spokenhis wife's name, and his voice was very grave and sweet as he pronouncedit.

  Poor Miss Teller broke down again. And Anne began to see her littlepaper of questions through a blur. But the look of Heathcote's facesaved her. Why should he have anything more to bear? She went on quicklywith her inquiry.

  "Was there much money in the purse?"

  "I think not. She gave me almost all she had brought with her as soon aswe met."

  "Is it a large river?"

  "Rather deep; in breadth only a mill-stream."

  Then there was a silence. It seemed as if they all felt how little therewas to work with, to hope for.

  "Will you let Miss Teller draw on a sheet of paper the outline of yourleft hand?" continued Anne.

  He obeyed without comment.

  "Now please place your hand in this position, and let her draw thefinger-tips." As she spoke, she extended her own left hand, with thefinger-tips touching the table, as if she was going to grasp somethingwhich lay underneath.

  But Heathcote drew back. A flush rose in his cheeks. "I will havenothing to do with it," he said.

  "Oh, Ward, when Anne asks you?" said Miss Teller, in distress.

  "_I_ do not wish her to go to Timloesville," he said, with emphasis; "Ihave been utterly against it from the first. It is a plan made withoutreason, and directly against my feelings, my wishes, and my consent. Itis unnecessary. It will be useless. And, worse than this, it may bringher into great trouble. Send as many detectives as you please, but donot send her. It is the misfortune of your position and hers that atsuch a moment you have no one to control you, no man, I mean, to whosebetter judgment you would defer. My wishes are nothing to you; youoverride them. You are, in fact, taking advantage of my helplessness."

  He spoke to Miss Teller. But Anne, flushing a little at his tone,answered him.

  "I can not explain the hope that is in me," she said; "but s
uch a hope Icertainly have. I will not be imprudent; Miss Lois shall do everything;I will be very guarded. If we are not suspected (and we shall not be;women are clever in such things), where is the danger? It will bebut--but spending a few weeks in the country." She ended hesitatingly,ineffectively. Then, "To sit still and do nothing, to wait--isunendurable!" broke from her in a changed tone. "It is useless to opposeme. I shall go."

  Heathcote did not reply.

  "No one is to know of it, dear Ward, save ourselves and Miss Hinsdale,"said Miss Teller, pleadingly.

  "And Mr. Dexter," added Anne.

  Heathcote now looked at her. "Dexter has done more for me than I couldhave expected," he said. "I never knew him well; I fancied, too, that hedid not like me."

  "HE OBEYED WITHOUT COMMENT."]

  "Oh, there you are quite mistaken, Ward. He is your most devotedfriend," said Miss Teller.

  But a change in Anne's face had struck Heathcote. "He thinks me guilty,"he said.

  "Never! never!" cried Miss Teller. "Tell him no, Anne. Tell him no."

  But Anne could not. "He said--" she began; then remembering thatDexter's words, "If I try, it will be for yours," were hardly a promise,she stopped.

  "It is of small consequence. Those who could believe me guilty maycontinue to believe it," said Heathcote. But his face showed that hefelt the sting.

  He had never cared to be liked by all, or even by many; but when theblow fell it had been an overwhelming surprise to him that any one, eventhe dullest farm laborer, should suppose it possible that he, WardHeathcote, could be guilty of such a deed.

  It was the lesson which careless men, such as he had been, learnsometimes if brought face to face with the direct homely judgment of theplain people of the land.

  "Oh, Anne, how can you have him for your friend? And I, who trusted himso!" said Miss Teller, with indignant grief.

  "As Mr. Heathcote has said, it is of small consequence," answered Anne,steadily. "Mr. Dexter brought me here, in spite of his--his feeling, andthat should be more to his credit, I think, than as though he hadbeen--one of us. And now, Miss Teller, if there is nothing more tolearn, I should like to go."

  She rose. Heathcote made a motion as if to detain her, then his handfell, and he rose also.

  "I suppose we can stay until Jason Longworthy knocks?" said MissMargaretta, hesitatingly.

  "I would rather go now, please," said Anne.

  For a slow tremor was taking possession of her; the country prison,which had not before had a dangerous look, seemed now to be growing darkand cruel; the iron-barred window was like a menace. It seemed to saythat they might talk; but that the prisoner was theirs.

  Miss Margaretta rose, disappointed but obedient; she bade Heathcotegood-by, and said that she would come again on the morrow.

  Then he stepped forward. "I shall not see you again," he said to Anne,holding out his hand. He had not offered to take her hand before.

  She gave him hers, and he held it for a moment. No word was spoken; itwas a mute farewell. Then she passed out, followed by Miss Teller, andthe door was closed behind them.

  "Why, you had twenty minutes more," said Jason Longworthy, the deputy,keeping watch in the hall outside.