Annie was silent for a moment, and then she said, “Fanny bade me tell you not to sell it.”
“Why! What possible interest can she have in it?” Jack asked in some surprise, and Annie replied “She said she might live there yet.”
“Fanny live at The Plateau! Impossible! What does she mean? Didn’t you tell her of our engagement?” Jack said.
“No,” Annie answered falteringly.
“Why not?” Jack demanded in surprise.
Hesitating a little Annie replied, “I hardly know. I tried to tell her two or three times, but something always stopped me, Jack,” and Annie began to finger the buttons on his coat, counting them to herself as she did so, “I do not believe Fanny ever cared very much for her husband.”
“I never supposed she did, but what has that to do with your not telling her?” Jack said, imprisoning the hand fingering his buttons.
Annie had not intended letting him know of the foolish fancy which had possessed her, but she could not very well help it now, and she continued: “She did care for you very much, and you for her, and if you were to see her, now that she is free, you might—perhaps—Oh, Jack,—you might care for her more than for me!”
Annie’s voice was not at all steady, and so low that Jack bent down to listen until his face touched hers. He heard her though and understood her perfectly.
“Annie,” he said, “Is it possible you do not know how dead is my love for Fanny,—dead and buried, and the ground above its grave stamped down so hard that it can never rise again. Don’t let that trouble you. Fanny’s freedom is nothing to me. She is nothing to me except a memory,—and your sister,—my sister, too, by and by. Is my little girl satisfied on that score?”