CHAPTER XVII.
A NEW LIGHT.
When Anna Burns awoke from that deathly fainting fit, Mrs. Savage was leaning over her, with pain and sorrow in her fine features. The unhappy girl looked so white and broken in her insensibility that it touched her to the heart.
“Poor child! it is a sad pity,” she murmured, lifting Anna’s head to her lap. “But these things, happily, do not prove fatal. She should not have lifted her eyes to my Horace. Dear fellow! no wonder he thinks her pretty.”
“Let me go home, lady! Let me go home!” said Anna, drearily. “I will do any thing you say, only let me go home!”
“Wait a little, my child; take a glass of wine, it will make you strong. I want to say a few words now.”
“I will wait,” said Anna; “but no wine; grandmother will make me some tea when I get home.”
“I—I wished to say a word more about my son.”
“Well, madam, I will try and listen.”
“I have said that it would be his total ruin if——”
“If he married me. Yes; I know—I know; please do not say it over again, it kills me.”
“I think, Anna Burns, you love him well enough to save him.”
“I—I love him well enough for—for almost any thing.”
“There is but one thing you can do for him.”
Anna lifted her large, questioning eyes to meet those of Mrs. Savage—and that look made speech unnecessary.
“Your eyes ask me what it is you can do.”
“Yes.” The words fell faintly from those white lips, as they began to quiver again.
“Keep out of his way. Leave the place you live in—I will supply the means. Move to some other city. Go into the country; do any thing but see him again.”
Again Anna lifted those eyes to the proud woman’s face; and this time the fine, blue eyes of the lady fell under her glance.
“Is there no other way?”
“None in the world. Listen, child. You are pretty, I admit—lady-like, refined, surpassingly so; but my son has a position to maintain, a career of ambition before him. We have no other child, and have founded high hopes on him. This marriage, if he, indeed, thinks of it, would destroy them all. His father never would be brought to sanction it; he never would recognize you. As for me, I should forgive him, perhaps, but you, never!”
“It will not happen, lady. I shall never need your forgiveness. You did not know that Mr. Savage had thought better of it already—that he does not speak to me in the street. That——”
Anna stopped, for a quick rush of tears was choking her.
“Indeed! Is this true?”
“Indeed, indeed it is, lady!”
“And what is the reason?”
“Perhaps he is obeying your command, lady?”
“No, I have never spoken of this—never heard of it till this morning.”
“Then he must have been angry with me about——”
“Well, about what?”
“About Mr. Ward.”
“Mr. Ward—what of him? Is it the Ward I know—the great friend of young Gould?”
“I—I think so. He has been cruel to me; he would come to live in the house.”
“Live in the same house with you?”
“Yes, he would do it. We did not know about it at the time. Then he contrived to meet me on the stairs, and follow me into the street. Mr. Savage saw him there one day. It was then he did not speak to me. But I was not to blame. Oh, lady! pity me a little; for since then, I have been so miserable.”
“It will not last. I give you my experience that it will not last. I will inquire about young Ward. He has no family or connections to speak of. There could be no objections to that match, if he really fancies you, I should suppose. Come, come, cheer up; the other is out of the question, you know; but if young Ward comes forward, I should not in the least mind giving you a wedding outfit, and a neat little sum of money. Take these things into consideration, like a good girl. This fancy for my son will soon exhaust itself.”
Anna stood up firmly now, and drew the shawl, that had partly fallen off, about her person with a proud grace that astonished the woman who had wounded her so.
“Lady, be content; I will not, if possible, see your son again; but to speak of another, especially that man, is worse than cruel, it is insulting.”
The red flush of a haughty spirit, ashamed of itself, swept over the lady’s face.
“I did not mean to wound or insult you,” she said.
“No, lady; you only forgot that a poor girl who works hard for her living may have a little pride, and some shadow of delicacy.”
“Indeed, I do not forget any thing of the kind; but I am anxious to save my son from a step that I honestly believe he would repent of, and have frankly asked you to help me. Another woman would have taken different and harsher means; I stoop to entreat, implore you to give him up.”
“Lady, I have—I do.”
“This fact about young Ward will, if you manage it wisely, be a great assistance. My son is proud and peculiarly sensitive. If he supposed that you encouraged this young man, it would go far to cure him of his folly.”
“What do you mean, lady?”
“This. He now thinks, doubtless, that you have encouraged young Ward to come under the same roof with you. He has already seen him with you in the street. Do not undeceive him—that will be his cure.”
“But what will he, what can he think of me?”
“No matter what he thinks. You will never meet again; and if you should, all this foolish passion will have been swept away on both sides. Then you can inform him with safety.”
“Lady, do not ask me to act in this way. I can give up his love, but not his respect.”
“Not for a time? If it will restore him to himself—to the parents who love him better than themselves?”
“I could not force myself to do that, madam.”
“But he may return to you.”
Anna’s eyes sparkled through the tears that hung on those curling lashes. Mrs. Savage saw the look, and her own eyes flashed angrily.
“You wish it. I see you wish it,” she said.
“If I do, it is because even a new pain would be something like a relief to the dull ache here,” answered the young girl, laying a hand on her heart. “You have my promise, lady, not to see your son again, if I can help it. After that, any conditions you may make are of little importance. You are right; it does not matter what he thinks of me. Do with me as you will, I cannot be more wretched than I am.”
Anna sat down in a chair, simply because she was too weak for the upright position she had bravely maintained till then; but her face was turned upon the proud woman with a look that seemed to be making a last plead for her life.
“I wish it could be avoided. Do believe me, I am giving myself almost as much pain as you can feel; but firmness here is mercy. Promise not to see my son again.”
“I have—I have!”
These words were uttered in a cry of absolute anguish, that drove the blood from Mrs. Savage’s face; but she was firm as a rock, notwithstanding this strain on her sympathy.
“Promise, if you should be forced to see him, that no explanations shall be made. Let him keep his present impression, injurious as it may be, regarding young Ward.”
Poor Anna Burns! These were hard conditions, harder than she knew of; for, brought up by that pure and gentle old woman, more carefully than most city belles ever were, she had no idea that any one could think worse of her than that she had encouraged the honorable attentions of this man Ward. But that thought alone was enough to make her young heart swell with bitter humiliation.
“Lady, he cannot believe it. He never will believe that I could turn from him to that dreadful man,” she cried, in a passion of resentment. “There is not a girl on earth who could be so insane.”
“But it seems he does believe it,” answered the lady.
Anna’s uplifted hand fell heavily into her lap.
“True! true!” she repeated, in a heart-broken voice. “He saw us together; he would not speak to me.”
She got up wearily now, and besought Mrs. Savage to let her depart.
“I have promised every thing,” she said. “There is nothing more that you can want of me.”
“But I, too, have promised something.”
“What?”
“Help, protection, money, if you need it.”
Anna turned upon her like a hunted doe, her cheeks red with passionate pride, her eyes on fire.
“Madam, I give you back your son, I do not sell him.”
“Then you reject kindness. You will accept nothing?” faltered Mrs. Savage.
Anna did not answer, but walked quietly out of the room, with her hand clenched under the scant shawl, and her lips pressed firmly together. For the first time in her life she was really in a passion.
Mrs. Savage, shocked by the surprise of this outbreak, stood speechless till the girl had disappeared. When she did find words, they came in a burst of admiration.
“Upon my word, she is a splendid young creature! I do not wonder that Horace is infatuated with her. She absolutely makes me ashamed of myself. If it were not for Georgiana——No, no! it never can be.”
As Anna was going home, stepping proudly, from the pure force of such resentment, as few women could feel and retain their dignity, she met little Joseph, with a bundle of papers under his arm.
“Please, will you buy a paper, Miss? Ledger! Telegraph! Bulletin!” he said, with a rogueish little laugh. “Only five cents!”
Anna recognized this gentle pleasantry, and turning upon him, tried to smile, but instead of the smile came a burst of tears that seemed to freeze little Joseph in his tracks.
“Why, Anna, what is the matter?” he said, laying his papers on the side-walk, and clinging to her hand, which was grasping the shawl hard in her anguish. “Why, how it trembles! Poor little hand! Poor, darling sister! what is it that makes you cry so? Stoop down, Anna, and let me kiss you. Nobody is in sight. There! There! Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
“Yes, darling, yes!” faltered Anna, striving to hide the ache at her heart with a smile that was so mournful that it almost made the gentle boy cry too.
“There is a man coming round the corner, or I’d give you plenty of ’em! Indeed, I would!” he said, feeling in his pocket and drawing forth some crumpled money. “I’ve had pretty good luck to-day, Anna; only see! Suppose we go out on a bender, and get a plate of icecream between us?”
Anna shook her head, and drew the veil over her face.
“What is that for? Don’t you see it is Mr. Savage.”
Anna snatched her shawl from the boy’s grasp, and hurrying past him, turned the next corner.
Horace Savage quickened his step as he saw the boy, who had gathered up his papers, and stood looking after his sister, surprised by her strange conduct.
“Ah, ha! my little friend, is it you?” said Savage, speaking with great kindness. “How is trade to-day? Hand me out two or three papers, that’s a fine fellow.”
Joseph forgot his usual alacrity, but stood looking toward the corner where his sister had disappeared in sad bewilderment.
“What did she run away for?” he said at last, appealing to the young man. “Is she afraid of you?”
“Of whom are you speaking, Joseph?”
“Of sister Anna, to-be-sure.”
“I saw a lady going round the corner, but did not observe her much—was that your sister?”
“Yes it was. Some one has been making her cry. Who is it, I wonder?”
“How should I know?” answered the young man, smiling a little at the boy’s earnestness. “Was she really crying?”
“Not at first; she was walking along as proud as a queen, with her head up, and her cheeks as red as two peaches; but when I spoke to her and asked her to buy some papers—all in fun, you know—she burst right out a crying. I declare, sir, it was enough to break one’s heart. If I hadn’t been a fellow in business, with property to take care of, I should have burst out crying with her. I don’t know what has come over sister Anna, to go on as she does.”
“Why, how does she go on?” inquired Horace, prompted to the question by the love which would not be crowded out of his heart. “She ought to be very happy, I should think.”
“But she isn’t, sir. She doesn’t eat as much as a chipper-bird; and as for sleep, grandma says she don’t close her eyes sometimes all night.”
“Indeed! What can trouble her so, Joseph?”
“I’ll tell _you_ what I think it is,” answered Joseph, lifting his innocent young face toward that of the young man, “I believe it’s that Mr. Ward’s being in the house. He torments sister Anna, and she——Well, I really do believe she can’t bear him.”
“Can’t bear him, Joseph?” cried Savage, with a sudden glow of the whole countenance.
“Yes, it’s almost that, wicked as it is. I’m sure of it. Just as likely as not he has been following her out again, and trying to make her walk with him. That always makes her come back with red cheeks, and such angry eyes, that one doesn’t hardly know her.”
“Are you sure that she does not like him, Joseph?”
“Like? Why, she hates him. Only sister Anna can’t hate much, you know—it isn’t in her.”
“But why does Mr. Ward follow your sister into the street, when he could so easily visit her at home?”
“No he can’t, though. Anna goes into the bedroom if he only knocks. As for grandma, why she sits up so straight, and looks at him so steady, that he makes believe to ask for something, and goes away mad enough.”
“Then he is never welcomed in your room?”
“Welcomed! I should rather think not. Why, Mr. Savage, he isn’t the least bit of a gentleman. When grandma went down to his room and told him how inconvenient and unpleasant it was to have him there, and Anna so young, he almost laughed at her. Grandma’s eyes were as bright as stars, I can tell you, when she came up stairs again. She’s a real lady, is grandma, and it isn’t often that any one dares to treat her so.”
“Did your grandmother really ask Mr. Ward to go away?”
“Yes, she did, right to his face.”
“Joseph, I have been keeping you a long time, breaking up business, and that isn’t fair. There is money enough for your whole stock. I can’t carry it away, you see; but sell the papers out at half price and go home.”
Joseph took the offered money, and insisted on forcing some copies of his stock on Savage, who took them in order to give a business air to the transaction.
“Don’t say any thing to your sister about what we’ve been talking of, Joseph,” he said, a little anxiously. “It might annoy her, you know, if she thought I knew she had been crying in the street.”
“No,” said Joseph, confidentially. “I wouldn’t say any thing to make her feel bad for the world.”
“But you are quite certain of all you’ve told me, little Joseph?”
“Certain? Of course I am. But, Mr. Savage, if you’d just as lief call me Joseph without the little, I’d rather. When a boy gets into business for himself, it’s apt to hurt him in the way of trade to be called ‘little,’ our Robert says. It isn’t me, remember—I don’t mind; but our Robert is a capital business man, and he’s very particular about it ‘in a commercial point of view’—these are his very words.”
“Well, Joseph, I’ll be careful.”
“Thank you, sir; I hope you’ll be coming to see us soon. Grandma is always glad to see you.”
“And no one else, Joseph?”
“Of course, we’re all glad,” answered the boy, instinctively keeping his sister in the background; “Robert and I, particularly.”
I am not quite certain that Horace Savage felt so grateful for this delicate reserve as he ought to have been; but one thing is certain, he did not go out of town that night, and was in better spirits, during the day than had been usual to him for a week past. His mother was greatly surprised to see him come home that afternoon as usual; but received his excuses for what seemed a capricious change of mind with great good humor.
“Fortunately,” she said to herself, “I saw the girl before he relented. She will keep her word, poor thing, though he may make it hard for her.”
It was wonderful what confidence this woman of the world placed in the young creature whose life she was breaking up. Like a wise diplomat, she let her son take his own way unquestioned.