“‘We were in the habit of coming here to sit, she little dreaming how near we were to the spot of earth where she would ere long be lying. I have told you that I asked her to be my wife, but I have not told you how much I loved her, for I did—oh, so much, so much! And she was worthy of my love. Whatever happened afterward she was worthy then. You have seen her picture. It hardly does her justice, for no artist can ever give a correct idea of what that face was when lighted up with life, and health, and love. I have never seen a face one half as beautiful as Anna’s. She knew that she was beautiful, but it did not make her vain, for she knew that God had given her the dangerous gift of beauty, and she tried to keep His gift unsullied, just as she tried to keep her heart pure in His sight. I cannot think of a single fault she had unless it were that she sometimes lacked decision, and was too easily swayed by those in whom she had confidence. But in all essential points she was right, serving God with her whole soul, and dedicating herself early to His service.’
“‘Then why,’ I exclaimed, ‘when Robin asked if she was in heaven sure, why did you hesitate to tell him yes?’
“A look of pain contracted his features as he replied:
“‘I am speaking of Anna as she was when I asked her to be my wife. We read of angels falling,—then why not a mortal man? though Heaven knows that I cannot fully believe that Anna fell. I could not live if I believed it. Mother’s religious creed and mine differ in one point, although we profess the same holy faith. To me a child of God is a child forever, just as no act of mine can make me cease to be my mother’s son. But to go on. I loved her with my whole soul, and I told her so, while for a moment she made no reply, except to lay her head upon my arm and weep. Then lifting up her eyes she said she was too young to know her own mind yet; that she loved me, and always had,—like a brother at first, but latterly in a different way, and if I would not require her to be my wife at once, and would promise to release her should she ever come to think that she could not be mine, she would answer yes. And so we were engaged.
“‘After that I seemed to tread on air, so happy and so full of anticipation was my whole being. I had been graduated the previous year, and I was then a student in Dr. Lincoln’s office, but I boarded at home, and saw Anna every day, counting the hours from the time I left her in the morning until I returned late in the afternoon to our fashionable dinner, for we observed such matters then. I shut my eyes at times, and those days come back again, bringing with them Anna as she used to look when she came out to meet me, her curls falling about her childish face, and her white robes giving her the look of an angel. I loved her too much. I almost placed her before Him who has declared He will have no idols there, and so I was terribly punished. We were to be married on her twentieth birthday, and until about a year previous to that time I had not the shadow of a suspicion that Anna’s love was not wholly my own. I well remember the time, a dreary, rainy autumn day, when she came into my room, and leaning one hand on my shoulder, parted my hair with the other, as she was wont to do.
“‘“Richard,” she began, “isn’t it just as wicked to act a lie as it is to tell one?”
“‘“I supposed it was,” I said, and she continued:
“‘“Then you won’t be angry when I tell you what I must. I was very young when I promised to be your wife, and I am afraid I did not quite know what I was doing. I love you dearly, Richard, but you seem more like my brother; and, Richard, don’t turn so white and tremble so,—I shall marry you if you wish it; but please don’t, oh! don’t—”
“‘She was weeping bitterly now,—was on her knees before me, my Anna, my promised wife. I had thought her low-spirited for some days, but had no thought of this, and the shock was a terrible one. I could not, however, see her so disturbed, when I had the power to relieve her, and after talking with her calmly, dispassionately, I released her from the engagement and she was free. I did not even hint at the possibility of her learning to love me in time, because I fancied she would be more apt to do so if wholly untrammelled; but that hope alone kept my heart from breaking during the wretched weeks which followed, and in which Anna’s health seemed failing, and her low spirits to increase. A change of air was proposed, and she was sent to Boston, where my mother has relatives. It was on the eve of the new year when she came back to us, with a white, scared look upon her face, which became at last habitual, making it painful to look at her, she appeared so nervous and frightened. It was as if some great terror were continually haunting her, or some mighty secret, which it was death to divulge and worse than death to cover up. I supposed it to be a fear of what I might require of her, and so I said to her one day that if the thing preying upon her mind was a dread lest I should seek to make her my wife, she might put that aside, as I should not annoy her in that way.
“‘Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her eyes,—a look so full of anguish and remorse, that I turned away, for I could not meet it.