 | CHAPTER VI.
WEDNESDAY. West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
WEDNESDAY.
THERE was a heavy shower the night succeeding
the picnic, and the morning following was as
balmy and bright as June mornings are wont to
be after a fall of rain. They were always early risers at
the farmhouse, but this morning Anna, who had slept but
little, arose earlier than usual, and leaning from the window
to inhale the bracing air and gather a bunch of roses
fresh with the glittering rain-drops, felt her spirits grow
lighter, and wondered at her discomposure of the previous
day. Particularly was she grieved that she should
have harbored a feeling of bitterness towards Lucy Harcourt,
who was not to blame for having won the love she
had been foolish enough to covet.
“He knew her first,” she said, “and if he has since
been pleased with me, the sight of her has won him back
to his allegiance, and it is right. She is a pretty creature,
but strangely unsuited, I fear, to be his wife,” and
then, as she remembered Lucy's wish to go with her
when next she visited the poor, she said:
“I'll take her to see the Widow Hobbs. That will
her as a rector's wife. I can go directly there from Prospect
Hill, where, I suppose, I must call with Aunt Meredith.”
Anna made herself believe that in doing this she was
acting only from a magnanimous desire to fit Lucy for
her work, if, indeed, she was to be Arthur's wife,—that
in taking the mantle from her own shoulders, and wrapping
it around her rival, she was doing a most amiable
deed, when down in her inmost heart, where the tempter
had put it, there was an unrecognized wish to see how
the little dainty girl would shrink from the miserable
abode, and recoil from the touch of the dirty hands,
which were sure to be laid upon her dress if the children
were at home, and she waited impatiently to start on her
errand of mercy.
It was four o'clock when, with her aunt, she arrived
at Colonel Hetherton's, and found the family assembled
upon the broad piazza,—Mr. Bellamy dutifully holding
the skein of worsted from which Miss Fanny was crocheting,
and Lucy playing with a kitten, whose movements
were scarcely more graceful than her own, as she sprang
up and ran to welcome Anna.
“Oh yes; I shall be delighted to go with you. Pray let
us start at once,” she exclaimed, when after a few moments'
conversation Anna told where she was going.
Lucy was very gayly dressed, and Anna smiled to herself
and bright ribbons would have upon the inmates of the
shanty where they were going. There was a remonstrance
from Mrs. Hetherton against her niece walking so
far, and Mrs. Meredith suggested that they should ride,
but to this Lucy objected. She meant to take Anna's
place among the poor when she was gone, she said, and
how was she ever to do it if she could not walk so little
ways as that. Anna, too, was averse to the riding, and
felt a kind of grim satisfaction when, after a time, the
little figure, which at first had skipped along with all the
airiness of a bird, began to lag, and even pant for breath,
as the way grew steeper and the path more stony and
rough. Anna's evil spirit was in the ascendant that
afternoon, steeling her heart against Lucy's doleful exclamations,
as one after another her delicate slippers were
torn, and the sharp thistles, of which the path was full,
penetrated to her soft flesh. Straight and unbending as
a young Indian, Anna walked on, shutting her ears
against the sighs of weariness which reached them from
time to time. But when there came a half-sobbing cry of
actual pain, she stopped suddenly and turned towards
Lucy, whose breath came gaspingly, and whose cheeks
were almost purple with the exertions she had made.
“I cannot go any farther until I rest,” she said, sinking
down exhausted upon a large flat rock beneath a walnut-tree.
Touched with pity at the sight of the heated face, from
which the sweat was dripping, Anna too sat down beside
her, and laying the curly head in her lap, she hated herself
cordially, as Lucy said:
“You've walked so fast I could not keep up. You do
not know, perhaps, how weak I am, and how little it
takes to tire me. They say my heart is diseased, and an
unusual excitement might kill me.”
“No, oh no!” Anna answered with a shudder, as she
thought of what might have been the result of her rashness,
and then she smoothed the wet hair, which, dried by
the warm sunbeams, coiled itself up in golden masses,
which her fingers softly threaded.
“I did not know it until that time in Venice when
Arthur talked to me so good, trying to make me feel that
it was not hard to die, even if I was so young and the
world so full of beauty,” Lucy went on, her voice sounding
very low, and her bright shoulder-knots of ribbon
trembling with the rapid beating of her heart. “When
he was talking to me I could be almost willing to die, but
the moment he was gone the doubts and fears came back,
and death was terrible again. I was always better with
Arthur. Everybody is, and I think your seeing so much
of him is one reason why you are so good.”
“No, no, I am not good,” and Anna's hands pressed
hard upon the girlish head lying in her lap. “I am
wicked beyond what you can guess. I led you this
longer road, and walked so fast on purpose to worry you.”
“To worry me. Why should you wish to do that?”
and lifting up her head, Lucy looked wonderingly at the
conscience-stricken Anna, who could not confess to the
jealousy, but who in all other respects answered truthfully:
“I think an evil spirit possessed me for a time, and I
wanted to show you that it was not so nice to visit the
poor as you seemed to think, but I am sorry, oh so sorry,
and you'll forgive me, won't you?”
A loving kiss was pressed upon her lips and a warm
cheek was laid against her own, as Lucy said, “Of course
I'll forgive you, though I do not quite understand why
you should wish to discourage me or tease me either,
when I liked you so much from the first moment I heard
your voice, and saw you in the choir. You don't dislike
me, do you?”
“No, oh no. I love you very dearly,” Anna replied,
her tears falling like rain upon the slight form she hugged
so passionately to her, and which she would willingly
have borne in her arms the remainder of the way, as a
kind of penance for her past misdeeds; but Lucy was
much better, and so the two, between whom there was
now a bond of love which nothing could sever, went on
together to the low dismal house where the Widow Hobbs
lived.
The gate was off the hinges, and Lucy's muslin was
fringe of her fleecy shawl was caught in the tall tufts of
thistle growing by the path. In a muddy pool of water,
a few rods from the house, a flock of ducks were swimming,
pelted occasionally by the group of dirty, ragged
children playing on the grass, and who, at sight of the
strangers and the basket Anna carried, sprang up like a
flock of pigeons, and came trooping towards her. It was
not the sweet, pastoral scene which Lucy had pictured to
herself, with Arthur for the background, and her ardor
was greatly dampened even before the threshold was
crossed, and she stood in the low, close room where the
sick woman lay, her eyes unnaturally bright, and turned
wistfully upon them as she entered. There were ashes
upon the hearth and ashes upon the floor, a hair-brush
upon the table and an empty plate upon the chair, with
swarms of flies sipping the few drops of molasses and
feeding upon the crumbs of bread left there by the elfish-looking
child now in the bed beside its mother. There
was nothing but poverty,—squalid, disgusting poverty,
visible everywhere, and Lucy grew sick and faint at the,
to her, unusual sight.
“They have not lived here long. We only found them
three weeks ago; they will look better by and by,” Anna
whispered, feeling that some apology was necessary for the
destitution and filth visible everywhere.
Daintily removing the plate to the table, and carefully
chair and looked dubiously on while Anna made the
sick woman more tidy in appearance, and then fed her
from the basket of provisions which Grandma Humphreys
had sent.
“I never could do that,” Lucy thought, as shoving off
the little dirty hand fingering her shoulder-knots she
watched Anna washing the poor woman's face, and bending
over her pillow as unhesitatingly as if it had been
covered with ruffled linen like those at Prospect Hill, instead
of the coarse soiled rag which hardly deserved the
name of pillow-case. “No, I never could do that,” and
the possible life with Arthur which the maiden had more
than once imagined began to look very dreary, when suddenly
a shadow darkened the door, and Lucy knew before
she turned her head that the rector was standing at her
back, and the blood tingled through her veins with a delicious
feeling; as, laying both his hands upon her shoulders,
and bending over her so that she felt his breath upon
her brow, he said:
“What, my lady Lucy here? I hardly expected to
find two ministering angels, though I was almost sure of
one,” and his eye rested on Anna with a wistful look of
tenderness, which neither she nor Lucy saw.
“Then you knew she was coming,” Lucy said, an uneasy
thought flashing across her mind as she remembered
the picnic, and the scene she had stumbled upon.
But Arthur's reply, “I did not know she was coming;
I only knew it was like her,” reassured her for a time,
making her resolve to emulate the virtues which Arthur
seemed to prize so highly. What a difference his presence
made in that wretched room. She did not mind
the poverty now, or care if her dress was stained with the
molasses left in the chair, and the inquisitive child with
tattered gown and bare, brown legs was welcome to examine
and admire the bright plaid ribbons as much as
she chose.
Lucy had no thought for anything but Arthur, and the
subdued expression of his face, as kneeling by the sick
woman's bedside he said the prayers she had hungered
for more than for the contents of Anna's basket, which
were now purloined by the children crouched upon the
hearth and fighting over the last bit of gingerbread.
“Hush-sh, little one,” and Lucy's hand rested on the
head of the principal belligerent, who, awed by the beauty
of her face and the authoritative tone of her voice, kept
quiet till the prayer was over and Arthur had risen from
his knees.
“Thank you, Lucy; I think I must constitute you my
deaconess when Miss Ruthven is gone. Your very
presence has a subduing effect upon the little savages. I
never knew them so quiet before so long a time,” Arthur
said to Lucy in a low tone, which, low as it was, reached
for what she felt was lost forever.
She was giving Lucy to Arthur Leighton, resolving
that by every means in her power she would further her
rival's cause, and the hot tears which dropped so fast
upon Mrs. Hobbs's pillow while Arthur said the prayer
were but the baptism of that vow, and not, as Lucy
thought, because she felt so sorry for the suffering woman
who had brought so much comfort to her.
“God bless you wherever you go,” she said, “and if
there is any great good which you desire, may He bring
it to pass.”
“He never will,—no, never,” was the sad response in
Anna's heart, as she joined the clergyman and Lucy, who
were standing outside the door, the former pointing to
the ruined slippers, and asking her how she ever expected
to walk home in such dilapidated things.
“I shall certainly have to carry you,” he said, “or
your blistered feet will evermore be thrust forward as a
reason why you cannot be my deaconess.”
He seemed to be in unusual spirits that afternoon, and
the party went gayly on, Anna keeping a watchful care
over Lucy, picking out the smoothest places, and passing
her arm round her waist as they were going up a hill.
“I think it would be better if you both leaned on me,”
the rector said, offering each an arm, and apologizing for
not having thought to do so before.
“I do not need it, thank you, but Miss Harcourt does.
I fear she is very tired,” said Anna, pointing to Lucy's
face, which was so white and ghastly and so like the face
seen once before in Venice, that without another word,
Arthur took the tired girl in his strong arms and carried
her safely to the summit of the hill.
“Please put me down; I can walk now,” Lucy
pleaded; but Arthur felt the rapid beatings of her heart,
and kept her in his arms until they reached Prospect
Hill, were Mrs. Meredith was anxiously awaiting their
return, her brow clouding with distrust when she saw
Mr. Leighton, for she was constantly fearing lest her
guilty secret should be exposed.
“I'll leave Hanover this very week, and remove her
from danger,” she thought, as she rose to say good-night.
“Just wait a minute, please. There's something I
want to say to Miss Ruthven,” Lucy cried, and leading
Anna to her own room, she knelt down by her side, and
looking up in her face, began:
“There's one question which I wish to ask, and you
must answer me truly. It is rude and inquisitive, perhaps,
but,—tell me,—has Arthur—ever—ever—”
Anna guessed what was coming, and with a sob, which
Lucy thought was a long-drawn breath, she kissed the
pretty, parted lips, and answered:
“No, darling, Arthur never did, and never will, but
coming so plain.”
Poor Anna! her heart gave one great throb as she
said this, and then lay like a dead weight in her bosom,
while with sparkling eyes and blushing cheeks, Lucy exclaimed:
“I am so glad,—so glad. I have only known you
since Sunday, but you seem like an old friend, and you
won't mind my telling you that ever since I first met
Arthur among the Alps, I have lived in a kind of ideal
world, of which he was the centre. I am an orphan,
you know, and an heiress, too. There is half a million,
they say; and Uncle Hetherton has charge of it. Now,
will you believe me, when I say that I would give every
dollar of this for Arthur's love if I could not have it
without?”
“I do believe you,” Anna replied, inexpressibly glad
that the gathering darkness hid her white face from view
as the childlike, unsuspecting girl went on: “The
world, I know, would say that a poor clergyman was not
a good match for me, but I do not care for that. Cousin
Fanny favors it, I am sure, and Uncle Hetherton would
not oppose me when he saw I was in earnest. Once the
world, which is a very meddlesome thing, picked out
Thornton Hastings, of New York, for me; but my! he
was too proud and lofty even to talk to me much, and I
would not speak to him after I heard of his saying that
a sensible man to make his wife.' Oh, wasn't I angry
though, and don't I hope that when he gets a wife she
will be exactly such a frivolous thing as I am.”
Even through the darkness Anna could see the blue
eyes flash, and the delicate nostrils dilate as Lucy gave
vent to her wrath against the luckless Thornton Hastings.
“You will meet him at Saratoga. He is always there
in the summer, but don't you speak to him, the hateful.
He'll be calling you frivolous next.”
An amused smile flitted aoross Anna's face as she
asked, “But won't you too be at Saratoga? I supposed
you were all going there.”
“Cela depend,” Lucy replied. “I would so much
rather stay here, the dressing, and dancing, and flirting
tire me so, and then you know what Arthur said about
taking me for his deaconess in your place.”
There was a call just then from the hall below. Mrs.
Meredith was getting impatient of the delay, and with a
good-by kiss, Anna went down the stairs, and stood out
upon the piazza, where her aunt was waiting. Mr.
Leighton had accepted Fanny's invitation to stay to tea,
and he handed the ladies to their carriage, lingering a
moment while he said his parting words, for he was
going out of town to-morrow, and when he returned
Anna would be gone.
“You will think of us sometimes,” he said, still holding
Anna's hand. “St. Mark's will be lonely without
you. God bless you and bring you safely back.”
There was a pressure of the hand, a lifting of Arthur's
hat, and then the carriage moved away; but Anna, looking
back, saw Arthur standing by Lucy's side, fastening
a rose-bud in her hair, and at that sight the gleam of
hope which for an instant had crept into her heart
passed away with a sigh.
| CHAPTER VI.
WEDNESDAY. West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's | |