“I knew that woman did not believe in Anna’s piety, but I did, and the belief gave me comfort as I gazed up into the clear blue sky and said to myself, ‘She is there.’
“Dimly I began to perceive why Mrs. West could not tell Robin that his mother was in heaven sure; but I was glad I had done so, without reasoning in the least upon the matter. I exonerated Anna, and only wrote bitter things against poor Richard, saying to the woman, ‘And Richard kissed her when she was dying?’
“‘Yes, up there where you sleep. That was Anna’s room, where she died, and where Robin was born. I didn’t see it, but them that told me did. Richard fell as flat as if struck with lightning when he came up from the office and heard what had happened, and six hours after, when they said she was dyin’ and had asked for him, he had to be carried, he was so limpsy and weak. She never noticed the child an atom, or acted as if there was one, but would whisper, ‘Forgive,—I can’t tell,—I promised not. It’s all right,—all right.’ What she meant nobody knows, for she died just that way, with Richard’s arm around her, and the doctor a-holdin’ him, for he was whiter than a rag, and after she was dead he went into a ravin’ fever, which lasted for weeks and weeks, till the allopaths give him up. Then the homœopaths come in and cured him, and that’s why he turned into a sugar-pill doctor. He was one of the blisterin’ and jollup kind before his sickness, but after that he changed, and they do say he’s mighty skilful. As soon as he got well they sold West Lawn, and Mrs. West has never seemed like the same woman since. Folks thinks they’s poor, though what’s become of the property nobody knows. Anyways the doctor supports his mother, sendin’ her money every now and agen.’
“‘But why,’ I asked, ‘did Mrs. Randall and Bell Verner never hear of all this?’
“‘Easy enough,’ was the reply. ‘Judge Verner only moved here last fall, and Mr. Randall last spring. West Lawn has changed hands three times since the doctor owned it; so it’s natural that his name shouldn’t appear in the sale. Then, it’s seven years since it all happened, and a gossiping place like Morrisville, where there are upwards of three thousand folks, don’t harp on one string forever; only them that was interested, like me, remembers.’
“This was true in detail, and was a good reason why neither Bell nor Mattie had ever heard of Anna West, I thought, as I dragged my steps homeward, hardly knowing when I reached there, and feeling glad that Mattie was still confined to her bed, as this left me free to repair at once to my own room,—Anna’s room,—where she died, with her head on Richard’s arm, and he so weak that he had to be supported. Poor Richard! I do pity him, knowing now why he so often seems sad. But what was it? How is it, and what makes my brain whirl so fast? Anna said with her dying breath that it was all right, and I believe her. I will not cast at her a stone. She is in heaven sure; yes, Robin, sure. And Richard fell as if smitten with lightning when he heard of it! That betokened innocence on his part. Then why this horrid feeling? Is it sorrow that he cared for and loved her? I don’t know; everything seems so far off that I cannot find it. What is the record? Let me see.
“Richard once lived here in this grand house; he has met with reverses, nobody knows what; he has a brother somewhere, nobody knows where; he supports his mother, and this accounts for what I termed his stinginess. How I hate myself, and how noble Dr. West would appear were it not for,—for,—I cannot say it,—the horrible possibility, and I,—I guess,—I think,—I am very sure I did care for him more than I supposed.
“July 23d.
“I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest doses of medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die. It was a heavy cold, taken when sitting upon the common, I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she came in to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am sure my head would never have ached so hard if I had not heard that dreadful story. I have thought a great deal while Mattie believed me sleeping, and the result of it is this: I hate Dr. West, and never desire to see him again! There is something wrong, and I’ve no faith in anybody.
“There’s a letter from Margaret lying on the table. They are at the Clarendon, which is a new hotel, smaller than either the United States or Union Hall, but makes up for its size in its freshness, its quiet, and air of homelike comfort. At least so Margaret says; and although she complains that she does not see so many people as she would at the larger houses, she seems contented, and speaks in raptures of her nice large rooms and their gentlemanly host. I am glad she is satisfied, and that Johnnie, at home, is, as he expresses it in a letter just received, ‘as happy as a clam.’