Anne Part 16

"No--yes; I hardly know what I have expected," answered the chaplain, still a little suffocated, and speaking thickly. "I do not think I have expected anything."

"Is there any one else you would prefer to have Rast marry? Answer me that."

"No, no; certainly not."

"Is there any one you would prefer to have Anne marry?"

"Why need she marry at all?" said the chaplain, boldly, breaking through the chain of questions closing round him. "I am sure you yourself are a bright example, Miss Hinsdale, of the merits of single life."

But, to his surprise, Miss Lois turned upon him.

"What! have Anne live through my loneliness, my always-being-misunderstood-ness, my general sense of a useless ocean within me, its breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast?" she said, quoting vehemently from the only poem she knew.

"Never!"

While Dr. Gaston was still gazing at her, Rast turned to Pere Michaux.

"I am sure of your approval," he said, smiling confidently. "I have had no doubt of that."

"Haven't you?" said the priest, dryly.

"No, sir: you have always been my friend."

"And I shall continue to be," said Pere Michaux. But he rose as he spoke, and hobbled into the hall, closing the door behind him.

t.i.ta was hurrying through the garden on her way from the heights; he waited for her.

"Where have you been?" he asked, sternly.

The child seemed exhausted, her breath came in panting gasps; her skirt was torn, her hair streaming, and the dark red hue of her face was changed to a yellow pallor.

"I have run and run, I have followed and followed, I have listened with my ear on the ground; I have climbed trees to look, I have torn a path through bushes, and I have not found them," she said, huskily, a slight froth on her dry lips as she spoke, her eyes bright and feverish.

"They are here," said Pere Michaux; "they have been at home some time.

What can you have been about, Angelique?"

"I have told you," said the child, rolling her ap.r.o.n tightly in her small brown hands. "I followed his track. He went down the north path. I traced him for a mile; then I lost him. In the fir wood. Then I crept, and looked, and listened."

"You followed Rast, then, when I told you to go to Anne! Enough. I thought, at least, you were quick, t.i.ta; but it seems you are dull--dull as an owl," said the priest, turning away. He hobbled to the front door and sat down on the threshold. "After all my care," he said to himself, "to be foiled by a rolling stone!"

Through the open window he heard Miss Lois ask where Anne was. "Did she not come back with you, Rast?"

"Yes, but she was obliged to go directly to the kitchen. Something about the tea, I believe."

"Oh no; it was because she did not want to face us," said Miss Lois, archly. "I will go and bring her, the dear child!"

Pere Michaux smiled contemptuously in the twilight outside; but he seemed to have recovered his equanimity also. "Something about the tea!"

he said to himself. "Something about the tea!" He rose and hobbled into the sitting-room again with regained cheerfulness. Miss Lois was leading in Anne. "Here she is," said the old maid. "I found her; hiding, of course, and trembling."

Anne, smiling, turned down her cuffs, and began to light the lamp as usual. "I had to watch the broiling of the birds," she said. "You would not like to have them burned, would you?"

Pere Michaux now looked thoroughly happy. "By no means," he replied, hobbling over and patting her on the head--"by no means, my dear." Then he laughed contentedly, and sat down. The others might talk now; he was satisfied.

When the lamp was lighted, everybody kissed Anne formally, and wished her happiness, Pere Michaux going through the little rite with his finest Parisian courtesy. The boys added their caresses, and Gabriel said, "Of course _now_ you won't go away, Annet?"

"Yes, dear, I must go just the same," said the sister.

"Certainly," said Pere Michaux. "Erastus can not marry yet; he must go through college, and afterward establish himself in life."

"They could be married next spring," suggested Miss Lois: "we could help them at the beginning."

"Young p.r.o.nando is less of a man than I suppose, if he allows any one save himself to take care of his wife," said Pere Michaux, sententiously.

[Ill.u.s.tration: t.i.tA LISTENING.]

"Of course I shall not," said Rast, throwing back his handsome head with an air of pride.

"That is right; stand by your decision," said the priest. "And now let us have tea. Enough has happened for one day, I think, and Rast must go at dawn. He can write as many letters as he pleases, but in real life he has now to show us what metal he is made of; I do not doubt but that it will prove pure ore."

Dr. Gaston sat silent; he drank his tea, and every now and then looked at Anne. She was cheerful and contented; her eyes rested upon Rast with confidence; she smiled when he spoke as if she liked to hear his voice; but of consciousness, embarra.s.sment, hesitation, there was not a trace.

The chaplain rubbed his forehead again and again, and pushed his wig so far back that it looked like a brown aureole. But if he was perplexed, Miss Lois was not; the happy old maid supplied all the consciousness, archness, and sentimental necessities of the occasion. She had kept them suppressed for years, and had a large store on hand. She radiated romance.

While they were taking tea, t.i.ta entered, languid and indifferent as a city lady. No, she did not care for any tea, she said; and when the boys, all together, told her the great news, she merely smiled, fanned herself, and said she had long expected it.

Miss Lois looked up sharply, with the intention of contradicting this statement, but t.i.ta gazed back at her so calmly that she gave it up.

After Pere Michaux had left her in the hall, she had stolen to the back door of the sitting-room, laid her ear on the floor close to the crack under it, and overheard all. Then, trembling and silent, she crept up to her own room, bolted the door, and, throwing herself down upon the floor, rolled to and fro in a sort of frenzy. But she was a supple, light little creature, and made no sound. When her anger had spent itself, and she had risen to her feet, those below had no consciousness that the ceiling above them had been ironed all over on its upper side by the contact of a fierce little body, hot and palpitating wildly.

Pere Michaux threw himself into that evening with all the powers he possessed fully alert; there were given so many hours to fill, and he filled them. The young lover Rast, the sentimental Miss Lois, the perplexed old chaplain, even the boys, all gave way to his influence, and listened or laughed at his will. Only t.i.ta sat apart, silent and cold. Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock--it was certainly time to separate.

But the boys, although sleepy and irritable, refused to go to bed, and fought with each other on the hearth-rug. Midnight; the old priest's flow of fancy and wit was still in full play, and the circle unbroken.

At last Dr. Gaston found himself yawning. "The world will not stop, even if we do go to bed, my friends," he said, rising. "We certainly ought not to talk or listen longer to-night."

Pere Michaux rose also, and linked his arm in Rast's. "I will walk home with you, young sir," he said, cordially. "Miss Lois, we will take you as far as your gate."

Miss Lois was willing, but a little uncertain in her movements; inclined toward delay. Would Anne lend her a shawl? And, when the young girl had gone up stairs after it, would Rast take the candle into the hall, lest she should stumble on her way down?

"She will not stumble," said Pere Michaux. "She never stumbled in her life, Miss Lois. Of what are you thinking?"

Miss Lois put on the shawl; and then, when they had reached the gate, "Run back, Rast," she said; "I have left my knitting."

"Here it is," said the priest, promptly producing it. "I saw it on the table, and took charge of it."

Miss Lois was very much obliged; but she was sure she heard some one calling. Perhaps it was Anne. If Rast--

"Only a night-bird," said Pere Michaux, walking on. He left Miss Lois at the church-house; and then, linking his arm again in Rast's, accompanied him to his lodgings. "I am going to give you a parting present," he said--"a watch, the one I am wearing now. I have another, which will do very well for this region."

The priest's watch was a handsome one, and Rast was still young enough to feel an immense satisfaction in such a possession. He took it with many thanks, and frankly expressed delight. The old priest accompanied his gift with fatherly good wishes and advice. It was now so late that he would take a bed in the house, he thought. In this way, too, he would be with Rast, and see the last of him.

But love laughs at parsons.