University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
AT NEWPORT.

MOVED by a strange impulse, Thornton Hastings
took himself and his fast bays to Newport instead
of Saratoga, and thither, the first week
in August, came Mrs. Meredith, with eight large trunks,
her niece, and her niece's wardrobe, which had cost the
pretty sum of eighteen hundred dollars.

Mrs. Meredith was not naturally lavish of her money,
except where her own interests were concerned, as they
were in Anna's case. Conscious of having come between
her niece and the man she loved, she determined that in
the procuring of a substitute for this man, no advantages
which dress could afford should be lacking. Besides,
Thornton Hastings was a perfect connoisseur in everything
pertaining to a lady's toilet, and it was with him
and his preference before her mind that Mrs. Meredith
opened her purse so widely and bought so extensively.
There were sun hats and round hats, and hats à la cavalier,—there
were bonnets and veils, and dresses, and
shawls of every color and kind, with the lesser matters
of sashes, and gloves, and slippers, and fans, the whole

making an array such as Anna had never seen before,
and from which she had at first shrank back appalled
and dismayed. But she was not now quite so
much of a novice as when she first reached New York,
the Saturday following the picnic at Prospect Hill. She
had passed successfully and safely through the hands of
mantua-makers, milliners, and hair-dressers since then.
She had laid aside every article brought from home.
She wore her hair in puffs and waterfalls, and her dresses
in the latest mode. She had seen the fashionable world
as represented at Saratoga, and sickening at the sight,
had gladly acquiesced in her aunt's proposal to go on to
Newport, where the air was purer, and the hotels not so
densely packed. She had been called a beauty and a
belle, but her heart was longing still for the leafy woods
and fresh, green fields of Hanover; and Newport, she
fancied, would be more like the country than sultry,
crowded Saratoga, and never since leaving home had she
looked so bright and pretty as the evening after her arrival
at the Ocean House, when, invigorated by the bath
she had taken in the morning, and gladdened by sight of
the glorious sea and the soothing tones it murmured in
her ear, she came down to the parlor, clad in simple
white, with only a bunch of violets in her hair, and no
other ornament than the handsome pearls her aunt had
given to her. Standing at the open window, with the
drapery of the lace curtain sweeping gracefully behind
her, she did not look much like the Anna who led the
choir in Hanover and visited the Widow Hobbs, nor yet
much like the picture which Thornton Hastings had
formed of the girl who he knew was there for his inspection.
He had been absent the entire day, and had
not seen Mrs. Meredith, when she arrived early in the
morning, but he found her card in his room, and a smile
curled his lip as he said:

“And so I have not escaped her.”

Thornton Hastings had proved a most treacherous
knight, and overthrown his general's plans entirely. Arthur's
letter had affected him strangely, for he readily
guessed how deeply wounded his sensitive friend had
been by Anna Ruthven's refusal, while added to this was
a fear lest Anna had been influenced by a thought of
himself, and what might possibly result from an acquaintance.
Thornton Hastings had been flattered and angled
for until he had grown somewhat vain, and it did not
strike him as at all improbable that the unsophisticated
Anna should have designs upon him.

“But I won't give her a chance,” he said, when he
finished Arthur's letter. “I thought once I might like
her, but I shan't, and I'll be revenged on her for refusing
the best man that ever breathed. I'll go to Newport
instead of Saratoga, and so be clear of the entire Meredith
clique, the Hethertons, the little Harcourt, and
all.”

This, then, was the secret of his being at the Ocean
House. He was keeping away from Anna Ruthven, who
never had heard of him but once, and that from Lucy
Harcourt. After that scene in the Glen, where Anna
had exclaimed against intriguing mothers and their bold,
shame-faced daughters, Mrs. Meredith had been too wise
a manœuvrer to mention Thornton Hastings, so that
Anna was wholly ignorant of his presence at Newport,
and looked up in unfeigned surprise at the tall, elegant
man whom her aunt presented as Mr. Hastings. With
all Thornton's affected indifference, there was still a curiosity
to see the girl who could say “no” to Arthur
Leighton, and he did not wait long after receiving Mrs.
Meredith's card before going down to find her.

“That's the girl, I'll lay a wager,” he thought of a
high-colored, showily dressed hoyden, who was whirling
around the room with Ned Peters, from Boston, and
whose corn-colored dress swept against his boots as he
entered the parlor.

How, then, was he disappointed in the apparition Mrs.
Meredith presented as “my niece,” the modest, self-possessed
young girl, whose cheeks grew not a whit the
redder, and whose pulse did not quicken at the sight of
him, though a gleam of something like curiosity shone
in the brown eyes which scanned him so quietly. She
was thinking of Lucy, and her injunction “not to speak
to the hateful if she saw him;” but she did speak to

him, and Mrs. Meredith fanned herself complacently as
she saw how fast they became acquainted.

“You don't dance,” Mr. Hastings said, as she declined
an invitation from Ned Peters, whom she had met at
Saratoga. “I am glad, for you will perhaps walk with
me outside upon the piazza. You won't take cold, I
think,” and he glanced thoughtfully at the white neck
and shoulders gleaming beneath the gauzy muslin.

Mrs. Meredith was in rhapsodies, and sat a full hour
with the tiresome dowagers around her, while up and
down the broad piazza Thornton Hastings walked with
Anna, talking to her as he seldom talked to women, and
feeling greatly surprised to find that what he said was
fully appreciated and understood. That he was pleased
with her he could not deny to himself, as he sat alone in
his room that night, feeling more and more how keenly
Arthur Leighton must have felt her refusal.

“But why did she refuse him?” he wished he knew,
and ere he slept he resolved to study Anna Ruthven
closely, and ascertain, if possible, the motive which
prompted her to discard a man like Arthur Leighton.

The next day brought the Hetherton party, all but
Lucy Harcourt, who, Fanny laughingly said, was just
now suffering from clergyman on the brain, and, as a certain
cure for the disease, had turned my Lady Bountiful,
and was playing the pretty patroness to all Mr. Leighton's
parishioners, especially a Widow Hobbs, whom she

had actually taken to ride in the carriage, and to whose
ragged children she had sent a bundle of cast-off party
dresses; and the tears ran down Fanny's cheeks as she
described the appearance of the elder Hobbs, who came
to church with a soiled pink silk skirt, her black, tattered
petticoat hanging down below, and one of Lucy's opera
hoods upon her head.

“And the clergyman on her brain? Does he appreciate
his situation? I have an interest there. He is an
old friend of mine,” Thornton Hastings asked.

He had been an amused listener to Fanny's gay badinage,
laughing merrily at the idea of Lucy's taking an old
woman out to air, and clothing her children in party
dresses. His opinion of Lucy, as she had said, was that
she was a pretty but frivolous plaything, and it showed
upon his face as he asked the question he did, watching
Anna furtively as Fanny replied:

“Oh yes, he is certainly smitten, and I must say I
never saw Lucy so thoroughly in earnest. Why, she
really seems to enjoy travelling all over Christendom to
find the hovels and huts, though she is mortally afraid
of the small-pox, and always carries with her a bit of
chloride of lime as a disinfecting agent. I am sure she
ought to win the parson. And so you know him, do
you?”

“Yes; we were in college together, and I esteem him

so highly that, had I a sister, there is no man living to
whom I would so readily give her as to him.”

He was looking now at Anna, whose face was very
pale, and who pressed a rose she held so tightly that the
sharp thorns pierced her flesh, and a drop of blood
stained the whiteness of her hand.

“See, you have hurt yourself,” Mr. Hastings said.
“Come to the water-pitcher and wash the stain away.”

She went with him mechanically, and let him hold
her hand in his while he wiped off the blood with
his own handkerchief, treating her with a tenderness for
which he could hardly account. He pitied her, and suspected
she had repented of her rashness, and because he
pitied her he asked her to ride with him that day after
the fast bays, of which he had written to Arthur. Many
admiring eyes were cast after them as they drove away,
and Mrs. Hetherton whispered softly to Mrs. Meredith:

“A match in progress, I see. You have done well for
your charming niece.”

And yet matrimony, as concerned himself, was very
far from Thornton Hastings' thoughts that afternoon,
when, because he saw that it pleased Anna to have him
do so, he talked to her of Arthur, hoping, in his unselfish
heart, that what he said in his praise might influence
her to reconsider her decision and give him a different
answer. This was the second day of Thornton
Hastings' acquaintance with Anna Ruthven, but as time

went on, bringing the usual routine of life at Newport,
the drives, the rides, the pleasant piazza talks, and the
quiet moonlight rambles, when Anna was always his companion,
Thornton Hastings came to feel an unwillingness
to surrender even to Arthur Leighton the beautiful girl
who pleased him better than any one he had known.

Mrs. Meredith's plans were working well, and so,
though the autumn days had come, and one after another
the devotees of fashion were dropping off, she lingered
on, and Thornton Hastings still rode and walked with
Anna Ruthven, until there came a night when they wandered
farther than usual from the hotel, and sat down together
on a height of land which overlooked the placid
waters, where the moonlight lay softly sleeping. It was
a most lovely night, and for awhile they listened in
silence to the music of the sea, and then talked of the
breaking-up which would come in a few days, when the
hotel was to be closed, and wondered if next year they
would come again to the old haunts and find them unchanged.

There was witchery in the hour, and Thornton felt its
spell, speaking out at last, and asking Anna if she would
be his wife. He would shield her so tenderly, he said,
protecting her from every care, and making her as happy
as love and money could make her. Then he told her of his
home in the far-off city, which needed only her presence
to make it a paradise, and then he waited for her answer,

watching anxiously the limp, white hands, which, when
he first began to talk, had fallen helplessly upon her lap,
and then had crept up to her face, which was turned
away from him, so that he could not see its expression,
or guess at the struggle going on in Anna's mind. She
was not wholly surprised, for she could not mistake the
nature of the interest which, for the last two weeks,
Thornton Hastings had manifested in her. But now
that the moment had come, it seemed to her that she
had never expected it, and she sat silent for a time, dreading
so much to speak the words which she knew would
inflict pain on one whom she respected so highly, but
whom she could not marry.

“Don't you like me, Anna?” Thornton asked at last,
his voice very low and tender, as he bent over her and
tried to take her hand.

“Yes, very much,” she answered; and emboldened by
her reply, Thornton lifted up her head, and was about to
kiss her forehead, when she started away from him, exclaiming:

“No, Mr. Hastings. You must not do that. I cannot
be your wife. It hurts me to tell you so, for I believe
you are sincere in your proposal; but it can never be.
Forgive me, and let us both forget this wretched summer.”

“It has not been wretched to me. It has been a very
happy summer, since I knew you at least,” Mr. Hastings
said, and then he asked again that she should reconsider

her decision. He could not take it as her final one. He
had loved her too much, had thought too much of making
her his own, to give her up so easily, he said, urging
so many reasons why she should think again, that Anna
said to him, at last:

“If you would rather have it so, I will wait a month,
but you must not hope that my answer will be different
then from what it is to-night. I want your friendship,
though, the same as if this had never happened. I like
you, because you have been kind to me, and made my
stay in Newport so much pleasanter than I thought it
could be. You have not talked to me like other men.
You have treated me as if I at least had common-sense.
I thank you for that; and I like you because—”

She did not finish the sentence, for she could not say
“Because you are Arthur's friend.” That would have
betrayed the miserable secret tugging at her heart, and
prompting her to refuse Thornton Hastings, who had also
thought of Arthur Leighton, wondering if it were thus
that she rejected him, and if in the background there
was another love standing between her and the two men
to win whom many a woman would almost have given
her right hand. To say that Thornton was not piqued
at her refusal would be false. He had not expected it,
accustomed as he was to adulation; but he tried to put that
feeling down, and his manner was even more kind and considerate
than ever as he walked back to the hotel, where

Mrs. Meredith was waiting for them, her practised eye
detecting at once that something was amiss. Thornton
Hastings knew Mrs. Meredith thoroughly, and, wishing
to shield Anna from her displeasure, he preferred stating
the facts himself to having them wrung from the pale,
agitated girl, who, bidding him good-night, went quickly
to her room; so, when she was gone, and he stood for a
moment alone with Mrs. Meredith, he said:

“I have proposed to your niece, but she cannot answer
me now. She wishes for a month's probation, which I
have granted, and I ask that she shall not be persecuted
about the matter. I must have an unbiassed answer.”

He bowed politely and walked away, while Mrs. Meredith
almost trod on air as she climbed the stairs and
sought her niece's chamber. Over the interview which
ensued that night we pass silently, and come to the next
morning, when Anna sat alone on the piazza at the rear
of the hotel, watching the playful gambols of some children
on the grass, and wondering if she ever could conscientiously
say yes to Thornton Hastings' suit. He was
coming towards her now, lifting his hat politely, and asking
what she would give for news from home.

“I found this on my table,” he said, holding up a
dainty little missive, on the corner of which was written
“In haste,” as if its contents were of the utmost importance.
“The boy must have made a mistake, or else
he thought it well to begin at once bringing your letters

to me,” he continued with a smile, as he handed Anna
the letter from Lucy Harcourt. “I have one, too, from
Arthur, which I will read while you are devouring yours,
and then, perhaps, you will take a little ride. The September
air is very bracing this morning,” he said, walking
away to the far end of the piazza while Anna broke
the seal of the envelope, hesitating a moment ere taking
the letter from it, and trembling as if she guessed what
it contained.

There was a quivering of the eyelids, a paling of the
lips as she glanced at the first few lines, then with the
low moaning cry, “No, no, oh no, not that,” she fell
upon her face.

To lift her in his arms and carry her to her room was
the work of an instant, and then, leaving her to Mrs.
Meredith's care, Thornton Hastings went back to finish
Arthur's letter, which might or might not throw light
upon the fainting-fit.

“Engaged to Lucy Harcourt! I never could have believed
it. He's right in saying that she is far more suitable
for me than him,” Thornton exclaimed, dashing aside
the letter and feeling conscious of a pang as he remembered
the bright airy little beauty in whom he had once
been strongly interested, even if he did call her frivolous
and ridicule her childish ways.

She was frivolous, too much so by far to be a clergyman's
wife, and for a full half-hour Thornton paced up
and down the room, meditating on Arthur's choice and
wondering how upon earth it ever happened.