Chapter IX: Annie’s Story Continued

THE LETTER.

There certainly are times in one’s life when there comes a presentiment of impending evil, and such a time was that when something told me that the reading of the letter in my lap would not leave me just as it found me. But there was no thought of Fanny in my mind until I opened it, and saw that it contained a note directed to Jack in her handwriting, a little unsteady and crooked, but unmistakably hers. There was a trembling in my hands, a weakness in my wrists and back, and I felt my eyes growing hot and dim, as, putting the note on the table, I resolutely turned to the beginning of the letter and read:

“WASHINGTON, NOVEMBER 21ST, 18—. Thursday
Evening, after 11 o’clock, with my
trunk packed for the journey, and everybody
in the house asleep but myself, who
feel as if I should never sleep again.

“DEAR ANNIE,

“I am writing to you for the last time as Fanny Hathern. When this
reaches you I shall be on the sea,—going to Europe with Col. Errington
as his wife!”

If some one had written to me that Fanny was dead, the shock would not have been so great, although different. Consciousness did not forsake me, but for a brief space hearing and seeing did, except that rings of fire danced before my eyes, and in my ears there was a roaring, far-off noise, as if some one were repeating over and over again “with Col. Errington as his wife.” I have been told that when one is near drowning, all the incidents of his life are unrolled before him. I was neither drowning, nor dying, but I seemed to see at a glance all Fan’s past as connected with Jack, and her present as connected with Col. Errington, and I scarcely needed to read her letter to know how it had happened. When sight and sound came back, I was conscious of a feeling of intense heat as if I was smothering. I must have air, and dragging myself to the window I opened it, and with the rain beating upon me, although I did not feel it, I read the letter through. It was written half in badinage, half in extenuation, and had in it a ring of pain which told me that there was enough of the old Fan left to torture the new one with remorse when she had time to realize what she had done, and to learn the difference between a heart which beat for her alone, and one which cared for her only as she ministered to its selfishness and pride.

“Don’t condemn me utterly,” she wrote, “until you read my letter and know how it has come about, if indeed I can tell you. I believe it has been coming ever since that day when Col. Errington came to The Elms with his sister and found us picking grapes. He says it began when he raided our house with his troops and I talked so saucily to him. I could have killed him then in my hatred of everything wearing the Federal uniform. I have at times almost wished I had done so, when I have felt his meshes closing round me until I had no power to resist. Do you remember the old geography we studied years ago, when Mr. Allen from the north was our teacher? There was in it a picture of the so-called Maelstrom on the coast of Norway, with a ship which had got into the whirl going down, the faces and hands of the ill-fated passengers upturned and imploring help, which could not reach them. That picture had a great fascination for me, especially after Mr. Allen explained it to us so vividly that I felt my hair prickle at the roots, and could see it all so distinctly. The pleasure boat full of giddy young people skirting around the edge of the whirlpool into whose circle they were being gradually drawn;—sailing pleasantly and smoothly round and round, each time swifter than before until at last the line was crossed over which there was no return. Human skill was of no avail. Human aid could not reach them, and they were drawn on and on, nearer and nearer to the roaring mass of angry waters into which they entered at last and went down to the depths below, where, according to his statement the sea floor is strewed with the wrecks of boats and white with human bones. This picture was bad enough, but it was worse still when he drew a moral lesson from it and told us how our little faults, if not overcome would grow until we could not control them and they would drag us on to the great Maelstrom of sin into which we would plunge, head first, I think he said, and go _down_, _down_, _down_,—not to the bottom of the sea,—but to _hell_,—and he emphasized the last word with a blow on the table with his big ruler which made me nearly jump out of my skin. I was scared almost to death, and began to think of all the bad things I had done, putting beech nuts in Charlie’s bed, and a little mud-turtle in the pocket of Phyllis’s Sunday gown, calling you a fool, and spitting at Jack, when he tried to kiss me. I could not sleep for thinking about it, and finally made Phyllis my confessor and told her of my fear of the Maelstrom of sin.

“‘Laws, honey,’ she said, stroking my hair, ‘don’t you worry. What’s you got to do any way with Moll Stroon’s sin? Let her take keer of it herself. You’se nothin’ to do with it. What was it any way? And who was Moll Stroon?’

“I laughed till I cried at her mistake, and called her an old idiot, and didn’t worry any more about Moll Stroon’s sin. I have since read that the Maelstrom, as we regarded it, is a myth, or at the most a very narrow strait on the coast of Norway through which the sea pours rapidly four times a day with the ebb and flow of the tide,—that when it meets a strong wind from the opposite direction, the water bubbles and boils and seethes like a cauldron, but nothing is ever drawn into it except foolish whales who are too big to turn round and go back. Why have I dwelt so long on this Maelstrom? I don’t know, unless it is to show you how, ever since I left home, I have been hanging on the verge of a moral whirlpool, sliding over one circular wave after another until I grew dizzy and have finally tumbled in. To use a slang phrase, ‘that is about the size of it.’ Col. Errington says that he never forgot me for a day after the first time he saw me, and I stood up so bravely and told him what I thought of him; that when he saw me the second time on the ladder with grape stains on my face and I as unconcerned about my personal appearance as if I had been a queen and he my subject, he registered a vow that if possible he would make me his wife. You know he did write, offering me his hand. I never answered his letter, and that cooled his ardor, until he came the third time and found us at The Plateau. The knowledge that I was engaged to Jack dampened him a little, but he did not despair, and when he succeeded in getting me to Washington and under his influence he felt tolerably sure of success, seeing as he did how fond I was of everything which riches can give. He has never said a word against Jack. That would have defeated his plan, but in a thousand ways I cannot describe he has made me feel how wholly unfitted I am to be the wife of a poor man, and how eminently fitted to shine in a society different from anything in Lovering. He has made me feel, too, that Jack is countrified and that after a while I should grow away from him and perhaps be ashamed of him,—a state of things which would make me wretched. I know there is more real goodness in Jack’s little finger than in the Colonel’s whole body and told him so. He only laughed and said he had no doubt of it, but he believed I would be happier with his whole body bad as it was than with Jack’s good little finger. If he has never said anything derogatory of Jack he has of Lovering, which seen with his eyes and my recent experience of something better seems to me the dullest place on earth, and one in which I couldn’t possibly live again. You don’t know anything about it Annie; you who have never been anywhere except to Boston. Then it was a funeral at which you could not be very gay. You only saw the usual sights of the city with Carl. You know nothing of grand hotels, with suites of rooms and obsequious waiters, who come at your nod, because you belong to the Errington party,—of fine turnouts with coachmen and footmen in livery, and people looking admiringly after you;—of elegant houses, such as there are in New York and Washington, and especially Col. Errington’s, where everything is the most expensive kind, with hosts of servants to do your bidding;—of splendid dresses and jewels such as ladies wear to dinners and receptions; boxes at the opera, and all the pleasant gossip, a knowledge of these things brings to those who are in the swim. This is society, and I like it and it has been offered me a good many times in return for myself, and a good many times I have refused it, but when I thought the matter settled the Colonel has changed his base of operations and commenced the siege again. His love-making has never been open and impetuous like Jack’s, but done persistently and in that delicate, persuasive way so hard to resist. Neither Miss Errington nor Katy have a suspicion of it. Indeed, his sister expects to go with him to New York to-morrow and see him off on Saturday, and she has asked Katy and me to accompany her. I declined, but I believe Katy intends to go. I hardly think she will, and I dread the scene in the morning when they must know the truth.

“I did not decide until this afternoon. I drove with the Colonel this morning far out into the country. We were gone two or three hours, and he improved his opportunity, urging every possible reason why I should not marry Jack and should marry him. In Lovering I would be a nonentity, darning my husband’s socks and looking after the kitchen to see things were not wasted. In Washington I would be a leader in society, quoted and admired, with every wish gratified, and the finest establishment in the city. He would build a house for me, he said, much handsomer than the one he now occupies, and he took me around to see the site on one of the pleasantest and most fashionable avenues. He would have two or three plans sent to us for approval in Europe, and it could be commenced at once. As soon as we had the measurements of the rooms I could, if I liked, order the carpets and rugs, together with the furniture. There were to be draperies from Paris, pictures and statuary from Rome and Florence, china and linen from Dresden and England, and bric-a-brac from everywhere. There was to be a cottage at Newport in the summer,—trips to Florida in the winter, where, if I liked, he would build a pretty villa near some one of the many lakes which abound in the southern part of the state. He knows a spot which will just suit me in Orange County. I think it was this villa, which he described so vividly, with its broad piazza,—vine covered and cool,—its palms and magnolias and orange trees and roses, and fanciful rowboat on the lake, which moved me the most. I can have you and Paul there. The place will suit you better than the gayeties of Washington, or Newport, and in imagination I have already filled the wide piazza of Palmetto Villa with chairs and stools, and a little round table for books or work, or afternoon tea, and I have put Paul into a hammock and you into an easy chair, and have with you looked across the road to Lake Hathern sparkling in the sunlight, and have inhaled the perfume of orange blossoms and the delicious Florida air, freighted with the odor of many flowers. And by and by carriages come out from Orlando, a pretty town close by, with people to call upon us, English and Americans, and our grounds are bright with the flutter of gay dresses, and the house is filled with the chatter of small talk,—admiration of the place, and implied compliments of the beautiful hostess,—that is I, who carries herself like a duchess, and says to herself, ‘This is life; I did well not to refuse it.’ Isn’t that a charming picture? I thought so and began to waver.

“On our return to the house the Colonel found a telegram from the White Star office, asking if he still wished them to reserve the staterooms he had looked at when in the city last week. If so, he must let them know at once, as another party wanted them. He had been so sure that I would go with him, he said, that he had partially engaged the rooms, and now I must decide.

“‘Give me an hour,’ I said, and after my lunch I went directly to my room, pleading a headache, which would keep me from going out with Miss Errington and Katy, who were to make some purchases for Lovering. I locked the door, took off my dress, put on a wrapper, let down my hair, unbuttoned my boots, looked in the glass, and then sat down to weigh the pro’s and con’s of the situation.

“Do you remember that queer little thing which I once recited at school, ‘The Philosopher’s Scales,’ which were not made to weigh sugar and tea, but qualities, feelings, thoughts and sense. The first thing he tried, we are told, was the head of Voltaire pitted against the prayer of the penitent thief, with the result that the head flew up and the prayer down. Then

‘A lord and a lady went up at full sail,
When a bee chanced to light in the opposite scale.’

Then at last,

‘The whole world was bowled in at the grate,
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight,
When the scale with the soul in’t so mightily fell,
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell!’

“All this recurred to me so vividly this afternoon and keeps repeating itself over and over in my brain as I sit writing this to you. I am a little girl again in the old school-house at Lovering. It is Wednesday afternoon, and outside under the trees several horses are tied, with here and there a negro in attendance. Inside, the western sun comes through the windows and lies in great splashes of light on the floor. On his little perch of a platform Mr. Allen, of Maelstrom notoriety, sits calling the names of those who are to recite or declaim, his voice sounding like thunder when he says ‘Fanny Hathern: The Philosopher’s Scales.’ In her red merino gown and white apron _Fanny Hathern_ walks from her seat to the platform, the distance seeming a mile, and her heart thumping like a trip-hammer, as she tries to remember whether it was the _prayer_ of Voltaire and the _skull_ of the thief, or _vice versa_. There is company in school that afternoon, the Trustees, of whom the girl’s father is one, and hence her anxiety to acquit herself creditably with her scales. You are there and Charlie, and Jack is in the corner just where the little girl can see him, as she curtsies straight down and begins, with her eyes fixed on him, for she knows his lips will try to form the words if she wavers. He has helped her learn the piece and heard her rehearse it many times, telling her how to manage her voice, for Jack is a natural orator. The little girl acquits herself very creditably and goes back to her seat, passing so near to Jack that she hears distinctly his whispered words, ‘You did it tip-top.’

“Dear old Jack, who always thought I did everything ‘tip-top,’ and who brought me the biggest apples he could find in the bin, who put so many sugar hearts and raisins into my desk, and carried me in his arms across the puddles of water, when I was afraid of spoiling my new shoes. What will he think of me now, I wonder? Believe me, Annie, my face is wet with tears as I recall those far-off days and think of Jack, who would never serve me as I am serving him. It is raining heavily to-night and the wind howls at my window with a sound in it like a human sob or moan,—like Jack’s voice calling to me through the storm, and saying it is not too late to draw back. There it comes again, the moan,—making me creep all over, there is something so uncanny in the sound at this hour of the night. It is _not_ too late to draw back, and I’ll do it, too. If the Colonel is still up,—if there is a light over or under his door, I will knock and tell him I have changed my mind, that I cannot break Jack’s heart—I have been out into the hall and the whole length of it, treading very cautiously lest Miss Errington or Katy should hear me. There was no light over or under the Colonel’s door. He was fast asleep, snoring horribly at intervals, and it was these snores which I mistook for Jack’s moaning in the wind. I cannot draw back. It is too late. I believe I am half crazed and don’t know what I am writing, or have written. I remember I had reached the ‘Philosopher’s Scales’ when I digressed so widely, so I will return to that point and the time this afternoon when I sat down to weigh the pro’s and con’s,—the _pro’s_ for my marrying the Colonel, and the _con’s_ against it. Into the _con_ I put Jack, young, handsome, true as steel, good every way, with no fault whatever except that he is poor, knows but little of fashionable society and cares less, wears old-fashioned coats and slouch hats, with his trousers in his boots when the roads are muddy. That was Jack, and of course the _con_ went down with a whack as there was nothing to balance it. Then I took the Colonel, years older than I am, growing bald on the top of his head and a little deaf in one ear, with some grey in his hair and whiskers, and no power to thrill or quicken my pulse when he touches my hand, as Jack has. Good habits, distinguished looking, remarkably well preserved, polished manners, perfect knowledge of the world and every shade of etiquette, and always habited in the last style from his collar to his boots. That was the Colonel, and I put him into the _pro_ scale, which was up in the air and swung and teetered, but did not make Jack, who was down, budge an inch. The _con_ was ahead, and I was glad, but I meant to be fair, and took up Lovering next, asking what besides Jack and you and Paul it had to offer me in exchange for the world of society I liked so much. Two or three picnics in the summer when the people eat their lunch on the ground in the woods, with bugs and ants crawling over them, and pretend they like it. A few tea parties, where the talk is mostly of the good times before the war and the bad times since. Possibly a circus. (By the way, I hear Buffalo Bill is going to Richmond next spring. If he does, sell your best bonnet and go and see him and take Paul.) So much for summer dissipation. In the winter it is a little better. A singing school, amateur theatricals for the churches, or Y. M. C. A.’s, or W. C. T. U.’s, of which half the people approve and the other half disapprove. Occasionally a lecture and concert and travelling play actors, who are second class, or they would not come to Lovering. The negro revival, which is lively, and the Sewing Society or Guild once a month, with tea, one kind of cake, no napkins, and gossip. As Mrs. Jack Fullerton I might in time become President of the Guild and walk miles to find a place for it to meet; that would perhaps be some compensation for the dullness of the place, and relieve the ennui of living alone at The Plateau, with you at the other end of the town. Think how bored I should be after the novelty of counting my silver and dishes had worn off. There would be nothing left me to do but to hob-a-nob with the cook and watch for Jack, who would in time be as bored as I. That is Lovering life and I put it in the scale with Jack, expecting that, like the lord and the lady, he would go up at full sail. He only stirred a very little and looked at me so steadfastly with his honest, trusting eyes, that I still hoped he would win.

“I must, however, be fair to the Colonel, and I piled on top of him the trip to Europe, jewels and dresses and travel and a French maid. The new house and grounds in Washington, the cottage at Newport, Palmetto Villa in Florida, a box at the opera, horses and carriages, and all the money I want to spend, with nothing to do except to enjoy it. This settled the matter and the _pro’s_ went down so fast and the _con_ went up so swiftly, that Jack and Lovering were thrown out and vanished entirely. The die was cast, and without a moment’s hesitation I made myself presentable and went to the library, where I found the Colonel, calm and cool and polishing his thumb nail with one of those little brushes which come for that purpose: He has a full set. Rather effeminate, I think. I did not stop a minute lest my courage should fail, for something was tugging at my heart, which felt like a lump of ice.

“‘I am going with you to Europe,’ I said, the words half choking me.

“He stopped polishing his thumb nail, and drawing me to him——Well, no matter what he did, except that it was all very dignified and circumspect, and not at all like Jack, who nearly ate me up when I promised to marry him. Poor Jack! I have said that to myself many times since my interview with the Colonel, which did not last long. I was in a hurry to get away from him, his hands were so cold and clammy, not at all like Jack’s. But then he is a man of an entirely different temperament, and may be just as kind. He was very glad for my decision, he said, and he trusted I would never regret it; he should certainly try to make me happy. I didn’t tell him I was regretting it even then. Disengaging myself from him I went to my room and cried as if my heart would break. I heard him go out and knew that in a few moments there would flash across the electric wires to the White Star office in New York the message ‘Keep the staterooms, Nos. —— and —— for me. G. Errington.’ The deed was done, and when about five o’clock Miss Errington and Katy came in from their shopping I was lying on the couch in my room with a headache which was not feigned. Katy was full of purchases made for you and Paul and Phyllis and Jack, while Miss Errington had been busy collecting a few things for her brother’s comfort on the sea. You know she was intending to go with him to New York and take Katy with her, and my conscience smote me as I heard her talking about it and planning that I should not be lonely during her absence. The Colonel told me to have my trunk packed to-night, taking as little as possible. I was to say nothing to anyone, but leave it for him to tell his sister in the morning before I came down to breakfast. Ah me, how I dread the scorn in her eyes and the surprise in Katy’s when they know all. Miss Errington is a splendid woman; rather peculiar in some respects and nearly as determined as her brother when once her mind is made up. She has been most kind and generous to me and seems to like me very much. But Katy is her favorite. She has spoken of taking her abroad. If she is still of this mind, don’t oppose it, although it will leave you very lonely. Let Katy see the world. She is exceedingly beautiful, with a face and voice like an angel. She ought to make a brilliant match, and with Miss Errington to chaperone her, I think she will, and forget her foolishness about the stage. There is no one in Lovering for her, but with Miss Errington her chances are many. I suspect she has a fancy for Carl, but that will never amount to anything. He scatters too much. I hear of him here and there and everywhere, sipping sweets from many flowers and caring particularly for none.

“It is one o’clock in the morning. I have still my note to write to Jack, a harder task than writing to you, so I will leave this letter and finish it in New York after the deed is done and I can tell you of the manner with which the news was received by Miss Errington and Katy.

“Saturday, Nov. 23d, 5th Avenue Hotel,
10 o’clock in the morning.

“DEAR ANNIE,

“I have on my traveling gown and jacket,—the tailor-made one, which is
very becoming, with gilt buttons and braid. On the table is a fur
lined cloak, with shawls and wraps enough to have warmed even Harry
Gill, if anything could have thawed that chattering wretch. I feel
some like him, for my hands and feet are icy cold. But I must finish
my letter commenced in Washington and tell you of the row we had when
it was known that I was to marry the Colonel. He told his sister in
the library before breakfast, when she came in ready for the journey
she expected to take. At first she refused to believe it, and I was
sent for to confirm the news. I went with my knees shaking under me
and in a condition more like Harry Gill than ever. She was white to
her lips, and her eyes burned like coals of fire as she demanded if
what she had heard was true.

“‘Answer her, Fanny. She does not believe me,’ the Colonel said.

“I was never afraid to speak before, but something in Miss Errington’s
manner and attitude cowed me completely and I hesitated before
stammering out that it was true, and I was going to marry her brother.

“‘If you will excuse me I will leave you to settle it between
yourselves, as I have something to see to. But don’t be long, there is
not much time to lose,’ the Colonel said, in his usual suave manner.

“Bowing politely he disappeared, while his sister stood clutching the
back of a chair, tall and erect and confronting me like some dreadful
Nemesis. I knew I deserved the worst that she could say or think of
me, and cowered before her while she regarded me with unutterable
disdain.

“‘Miss Hathern,’ she began, ‘If there were no reason why it should not
be, I might be glad to receive you as my brother’s wife, but to break
your engagement with another man so suddenly is monstrous. Have you
weighed the subject well?’

“I thought of the Scales, but knew she would not understand that, or
the Maelstrom either. She was matter of fact and I must answer her in
the same spirit. As well as I could I tried to explain till she had a
tolerably fair insight as to the real motives which actuated me.

“‘I see,’ she said, sarcastically. ‘Because the man is poor you are
throwing him over and selling yourself for money and freedom. I pity
you when you waken to know what you have done. My brother is dear to
me, of course, but I know him, and he will not be a pleasant man for a
woman of your spirit to live with. Everything in his power must bend
to his will or break. He may not beat you, although he does his horses
and dogs, when they disobey, but he will bend you until you have no
free will of your own, and the time will come when you will long with
inexpressible longing for the love and tenderness and consideration of
the man you are discarding.’

“At this moment Katy came rushing in. She had heard the news from the
Colonel, and throwing her arms around my neck sobbed hysterically,
begging me to give it up for all our sakes,—Jack’s, your’s, Paul’s,
Phyllis’s, father’s and Charlie’s, and I think she mentioned The Boy,
but am not sure. It was a sin to Jack, she said, and a disgrace to our
family, and would make me a by-word with every decent person in
Lovering.

“Between Katy’s tears and Miss Errington’s scorn I was so limp and
crushed that I might have given it up if the Colonel had not come to
my rescue.

“‘There has been enough of this,’ he said, sternly, ‘come to
breakfast, time is passing.’

“He put his arm around me and led me to the dining-room, where we
breakfasted alone. Katy was upstairs crying and Miss Errington was
ordering her valise to be taken to her room, as she would not need it
now. Her brother, who had recovered his composure and was as quiet and
calm and cool as ever, suggested that she still go with us and take
Katy. But she declined. Katy, I think, wished to go, and clung to me
at parting in a way which wholly upset me.

“‘Remember Jack,’ she whispered to me, ‘have pity on him and give it
up. It is not too late, and will not be till the very last.’

“Was there ever a girl more wretched on her wedding day than I was, I
wonder? Of the journey to New York I can recall very little, except
that the Colonel was unremitting in his care for my comfort, and that
once when he spread his rug across my lap I smiled on him and said
‘You are very kind.’ Aside from that I hardly spoke, but sat leaning
back in my chair with my eyes closed, sometimes asleep, for I was
perfectly exhausted, and sometimes thinking, always the same thought,
‘It is not too late yet.’ The words were whispered into my ears
continually by something which seemed to be sitting on my shoulder and
croaking, until I was nearly mad. There was, however, a comfort in
knowing that I could still draw back, and I counted how many hours
probation were left me before it would be too late. Jack will hardly
suffer more than I did during that rapid journey, when to everything
else, was added homesickness for The Elms, and you and the dear old
life I was throwing away. It was a kind of nightmare, I think, and by
the time our train was nearing Jersey City I had made up my mind to
jump from the car the moment we stopped and lose myself in the crowd;
in short, to run away! The bustle and excitement at the station and
the hurrying to the boat revived me. The thing on my shoulder stopped
its croaking, and the Colonel had my arm in his and held my hand
tightly as if he divined my thoughts. So the newspapers lost an
exciting paragraph headed ‘Strange disappearance of a bride on her
wedding day.’

“When we reached the hotel and were ushered into the suite of rooms
the Colonel had ordered for us I felt better, and when Mr. and Mrs.
Darcy, friends of the Colonel, who board at the hotel and whom I had
met when I stopped there with Miss Errington, came in to see me and
made much of me as the future Mrs. Errington, I was quite myself, and
all through dinner, which they took with us and which was served in
our private parlor, I was in high spirits, too high, I fear, as I saw
them look curiously at me once or twice, as if wondering whether I
were quite sane. After dinner the three conferred in low tones, while
I stood with my back to them looking into the busy street below and
vaguely wondering if it would break one’s neck to jump from the second
story to the sidewalk, and if one could so manage as not to land on
the head of some pedestrian. I heard the Colonel say, ‘As soon as
possible now. I have dispatched a messenger boy.’ I knew what he meant
and grew hot and cold again in a minute, while the creature on my
shoulder began its warning cry, ‘Not too late yet,’ and pressed so
close to my ears that I fancied it touched my hair with its wings. In
the car I had thought of Poe’s raven, but now I said to myself, ‘It is
a bat.’ I have a mortal terror of bats and put up my hand to brush it
away. But it stayed and clamored louder and louder, while I kept
trying to brush it off, until Mrs. Darcy came to me and said, ‘There
is a lock of hair loose on your neck. I think that is what annoys you.
Let me fix it.’

“She took out a hairpin and fastened the refractory lock, while I
wondered if she would see the thing on my shoulder. She didn’t, and I
began to fear I was losing my mind, and made a great effort to pull
myself together. There was a knock at the door and the Rev. Mr.
Gillson came in, book in hand, ready for business. I was presented to
him, and the Colonel explained as a reason for this seemingly sudden
marriage that I could not decide to brave the ocean in the winter
until the night before. The clergyman bowed and looked very
searchingly at me as I stood in the corner with a face white as a
corpse. If Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had not been his parishioners he might
have questioned me, thinking me an unwilling bride. But they were my
vouchers and Col. Errington was well known to him by reputation. It
was all right and the ceremony began, while the bat, if bat it were,
shrieked and fluttered and flapped, until it seemed to me they must
all hear it. But when the Colonel took the ring, it gave one
despairing cry, ‘Too late, too late!’ and flew away, leaving me calm
and quiet, with a strange hallucination of the brain. It was Jack
putting the ring on my finger,—Jack’s voice, which said, ‘With this
ring I thee wed, with all my worldly goods I thee endow.’ I smiled as
I thought how few were his worldly goods, compared to what might have
been mine, but I was glad that the nightmare was over, the horrid
dream passed, and I awake again in the old spare room at home with
Jack at my side. I was very much awake when Mr. and Mrs. Darcy kissed
me and called me ‘Mrs. Errington,’ while somebody, who was not Jack,
kissed me and called me his wife. The room at The Elms resolved itself
into the parlor at the hotel, and Jack was lost to me forever by my
own act, and I felt like a block of stone as I received the
congratulations of the clergyman and felt that the Colonel’s eyes were
upon me.

“I have read somewhere that in the great crises of one’s life the most
ridiculous thoughts will sometimes intrude, and there came to me a
saying I have heard father use so often when I was fretting over some
disaster, ‘Never cry for spilled milk!’ It helped me wonderfully. I
had spilled all mine,—a brimming pail, and drowned my heart in doing
it. I could never undo what I had done, but I could make the best of
it, and I mean to. I have written you thus fully because I wanted you
to know that I am not altogether callous, and that I did struggle
against my fate. A stronger will than mine conquered me. I am Col.
Errington’s wife and shall be faithful to him, and however my heart
may ache for the might have been, no one, not even you, shall know it.
My husband——. I have written the word, and feel better,—is very kind
and generous. He knows I did not marry him for love, and I think he
means me to have my price,—_all the money I want_. His wedding present
is $10,000, to do with as I please. Half of it I shall send to you, as
I know how low our finances are. He does not object. He thought I
would do it, he said, and has made arrangements to send it before we
sail. He has bought me a lovely fur cloak for the voyage, and given me
two one hundred dollar bills for pin money. More than I ever had in
all my life. One of the bills I am sending to Jack in payment for what
he sent me on the pretense of buying Black Beauty. I bought the
tailor-made gown with it, my wedding gown, which I am wearing now, and
which I can not bear to think was bought with Jack’s money. Make him
take it. Tell him it is to buy Black Beauty back, and don’t let him
hate me. Tell him I did love him dearly and am afraid I do now when to
do so is a sin. I am another man’s wife, and my husband has come in
and says I have but little more time, as he wishes to get settled in
our staterooms before the ship sails. I wonder if I shall throw myself
into the sea. Perhaps. If you hear of an ‘accidental drowning of the
lovely young bride of the Hon. George W. Errington,’—that’s the way
they will word it,—you will know it was not accidental, but keep it to
yourself.

“I have not time to read what I have written. If I had I probably
should not send it. I think I have told you everything in a wild,
disconnected and perhaps contradictory way, and I have felt
disconnected and wild as I told it. You may show this letter to Miss
Errington, who still intends going to The Elms with Katy. Perhaps she
will feel less hard towards me. You may also tell Jack some things
that are in it and which I could not write to him. Oh, Jack, oh Annie!
Good-bye, Good-bye! I put my arms around your necks and kiss you both.
God bless you. Write to me and tell me about Jack. The Colonel will
cable from Queenstown. He is getting impatient and to save time has
directed the envelope for me. Good-bye, again.

“FANNY HATHERN ERRINGTON. Ah me!”