Missouri Botanical Garden

PETER H. RAVEN LIBRARY

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K™cat»aio“*Eiehrs.,ee.dire« THOMAS MEEHAN, Propristor,

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Office, Upper Church & Chew sts., Gei
NEAR PHILADELPHIA.

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THE STORY OF ANNE M A TURIN

S3

Oh, I heard that she was an angel, of
course,” said Mrs. Hartley. “ That, one
takes for granted, and he gave me her pho-
tograph ; it is lying about somewhere. Look
on my little table under the newspaper, or
under my work. Pretty enough ; but you
never can tell from a photograph. What is
the matter with you, Anne ? ”

“ I only tripped against the stool,” said
Anne, hastily turning her back to the light,
and catching a glimpse of herself in the glass,
which frightened her.

She was thankful to go with the photo-
graph to the window after she had found it,
the waning light being an excuse for her.
The photograph was like a hundred others,
such as every one has seen. A pretty young
face, with the usual elaborate hair- dressing,
and the usual elaborate costume. As for
such things as expression or character, there
were none in the so-called portrait, which
might of course be the fault of the orig-
inal ; but this no one would dare to make
sure of. It seemed to Anne, looking at it
with her hot eyes, to swell and magnify, and
smile disdainfully at her, as she gazed at
it. She was still stupid with the blow, and,
at the same time, was making so desperate
an effort to restrain herself, that between the
stunned sensation of that shock, and the self-
restraint which she exercised, she seemed to
herself to be like marble or iron, rigid and
cold. The photograph fell out of her stiff
fingers, and she had to grope for it on the
floor, scarcely seeing it. All this occupied
her so long that Mrs. Hartley became im-
patient.

“ Well, have you nothing to say about it,
now that you have seen it ? ” she asked.

“ She is very pretty,” said Anne, slowly.
“ I hope Francis will be very happy with her.
Did he seem very much ”

“ Oh, he seemed all a young man ought
to be, as foolish as you please,” said Mrs.
Hartley ; ‘‘ but he is coming home to dinner
this evening, so you can question him to
your heart’s content. Give me a cup of
tea, Anne. I think I shall go to my room
and rest a little before dinner. Ihere is
nothing tires one like excitement,” said the
placid old lady ; and she continued to talk
about and about this great subject while she
drank her afternoon cup of tea.

How glad Anne was when she left the
room to take that nap before dinner ; how
thankful that she had a moment’s breathing-
time, and could, so to speak, look herself in
the face. This was precisely the first thing
she did when she was left to herself. She

went up to the mantel-piece and leaned her
arms upon it, and contemplated in the
mingled light, half twilight, half ruddy
gleams from the fire, the strange, forlorn,
woe- begone face, that seemed to look back
at her mournfully out of that rose-tinted
gloom. The giddiness was beginning to go
off a little, and the singing in her ears was
less than it had been ; the strange whirl and
revolution of earth and heaven had ceased,
and the things were settling down into their
places. What was it that had happened to
her? “ Nothing, nothing,” she said to her-
self, vehemently, the red blood of shame
rushing to her face in a painful and tingling
glow. Poor pretense; nothing was changed,
but everything was different. The whole
world and her life, and everything she was
acquainted with, or had any experience of,
seemed suddenly to have been snatched
from her and thrown into the past. The
very path she was treading seemed cut away
under her feet. She had stopped short,
startled, feeling deadly faint and sick when
the sudden precipice opened at her feet;
but there it was, and there did not seem
another step for her to take anywhere upon
solid ground. This sudden, wild conscious-
ness of the difference, however, though it
was bad enough, was not all. Bitter and
terrible shame that it should be so, scorched
up poor Anne. Shame flamed upon her in-
nocent cheeks. Her eyes fell before her
own gaze, ashamed to meet it. A man
feels no such shame to have given his love
to a woman who loves him not. He may
be angry, jealous, mortified, and vindictive ;
but he is not abashed. But the woman
who has given her heart unsought is more
than abashed. She feels herself smitten to
the earth as with a positive stain. Shame
embitters and impoisons all her suffering. It
is almost worse than a crime — ^it is a dis-
grace to her and to all womankind — or at
least so the girl feels in the first agony of
such a discovery, though her love may be
as pure and devoted and unselfish as any-
thing known in this world.

Then her thoughts all rushed to the ques-
tion of self-defense. She must not make a
show of herself and her emotions. She
must smile and congratulate and gossip as
if the event were one of the happiest which
could have occurred, as she had done with
a light heart when Letty and Susan were
married. Their weddings had been the
greatest gala-days she had ever known. She
had been bridesmaid to both, with a fresh
dress, and an important position, and much

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54 STORY OF AI^NMyM^ TURIN.

attention from everybody. She had taken
the most genuine interest in everything that
was done and said. Her life seemed to
date indeed from these great occasions.
And now must she go over all this, and
probably be bridesmaid again to Francis’s
wife? Her very heart grew sick at the
thought ; but she must do it, must keep up,
and give no one any reason to think — no
one — that her heart was broken.

She was still standing thus, when the door
opened, and Francis himself came into the
room. Anne’s heart gave a wild bound,
and then seemed to stand still ; but perhaps
it was best that it should happen so, for she
must have met him soon, and the room was
dark, and he could not see how she looked.
He came up to her where she stood, and
took her hand, as he had a way of doing.

‘‘ Well, Anne,” he said.

“ Well, Francis,” she returned faintly, as
by some mechanical action, and withdrew
her hand. She looked down into the fire,
which threw a ruddy reflection on her face
and disguised her paleness. She did not
feel able to look at him.

What’s the matter ? ” said Francis,
jauntily ; “ not displeased, are you ? Of
course my mother has told you,” and he
took her hand again. She dared not with-
draw it that time, but had to leave it in his
hold, though the poor little fingers tingled
to their tips with the misery and bitterness
and shame in her heart. All that he meant,
of course, was friendliness, cousinship —
while she — she, a woman, had allowed other
thoughts to get entrance into her mind !

“ I am not displeased,” she said, sum-
moning all her courage, “ except that you
did not give us any warning, Francis. You
might have told me something about her ;
I was rather hurt at that.”

“ Were you, dear ? ” he said, with a ten-
derness that was unusual, and he put his
other arm round her waist, as if somehow
this new change had increased instead of
diminishing his privileges. And Anne, poor
Anne, dared not resent it — dared not break
from him, as probably, laughing and blush-
ing, she would have done yesterday. She
had to stand still, making herself as stiff and
cold as she could, enduring the half em-
brace. “ If I had thought that, you should
have known everything from the beginning ;
but it has not been a very long business ;
and, until I knew her sentiments, I saw no
need to betray mine. It might have come
to nothing, and a man does not care to
make a fool of himself.”

“ Then tell me about her now,” said
Anne, holding firmly by the mantel-piece,
and desperately plunging to the center of
the misery at once.

Francis laughed.

“ I don’t know what I can say. I left
her photograph somewhere, and I suppose
my mother told you.”

“ Only that it was an excellent marriage,
nothing about her I

Once more Francis laughed. He shrugged
his shoulders, and bent down to look into
her face.

“ I suppose Letty and Susan raved of
him to your sympathetic ears, did they?
But men don’t go in for that sort of thing.
No ; I want you to tell me, Anne, my dear
little girl — look up, that I may see your face
— are you pleased ? ”

Francis ! of course I am pleased if you
are happy,” faltered poor Anne ; “ but how
can I tell otherwise, when I don’t know
her, and you won’t tell me anything about
her ? ”

“ Give me a kiss then and wish me joy,’^
he said.

Anne felt his cheek touch hers. There
seemed to ensue a moment in which every-
thing whirled round her — the fire-light, the
pale evening sky through the window, the
glimmer in the glass. Whether she should
faint in his arms, or break away from them,
seemed to hang upon a hair. But that hair-
breadth of strength still remained to her.
She escaped from his hold. She flew out
of the room and upstairs like a hunted
creature and dropped down upon her knees
in her own little chamber, hiding her face
on her bed. Had he suspected? Could
he know ? But in the passion that swept
over her, Anne was beyond entering very
closely into these questions. She dared not
cry aloud or even sob, though nature seemed
to rend her bosom ; but the darkness fell on
her mercifully, hiding her even from herself.

Mr. Francis Hartley remained behind and
contemplated himself in the glass as Anne
had done. He caressed his whiskers and
drew his fingers through his hair, and said
“ Poor little Anne ! ” to himself with the
ghost of a smile about the corners of his
mouth. Yes, Anne was piqued, there was
no doubt of it. Her little heart had been
touched. Poor, dear little thing! it was
not his fault ; he had never given her any
encouragement, and it was hard if a man
could not be kind to his little cousin with-
out raising hopes of that sort in her mind.
But he liked Anne none the worse for her

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