CHAPTER IV.
THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.
It was Thanksgiving day, and in the little red house which Anna had once called her home, the table was laid for dinner, laid for four—Mary, Fred, and the Anna over the sea, who had never been absent before from the festival which, in New England, means so much and is kept so sacredly. They knew she would not be there, and they had grown somewhat accustomed to living without her, but on this day it was Mary’s fancy to lay the table for her, to put her plate just where she used to sit, and place by it the little napkin ring of Stuart plaid which had been Fred’s present to her on her last birth-day.
“‘We’ll play she is here, mother,’ Mary said. ‘She will be in fancy. Surely she’ll remember us to-day of all days, and I know she’ll wish herself here once more. How long it is now since we heard from her. Only one letter since she reached Paris. You don’t suppose she is forgetting us with all the grandeur and the fine things she has?’
“‘Oh, no, Anna will never do that. She is probably too much occupied in Paris, and too happy with Mr. Haverleigh to write many letters,’ Mrs. Strong replied, but her face belied her hopeful words.
“She had felt many misgivings with regard to Anna’s marriage, and her chance for happiness with a man as cold, and proud, and reticent as Mr. Haverleigh. But it could not now be helped, and so she made the best of it, and prided herself on having a daughter abroad, and rather enjoyed the slight elevation in society which it really had given her. In the little town of Millfield it was something to be the mother of the rich Mrs. Haverleigh, and to talk of my ‘daughter’s country-house in Scotland, and Chateau d’Or in France;’ and on this Thanksgiving day the good woman wore her new black silk—Mr. Haverleigh’s gift—in honor of him, and committed the extravagance of celery and cranberries, too, and wondered as she basted the turkey browning in the oven, where Anna was and what her dinner would be.
“‘Perhaps Fred will bring us a letter. I told him to stop at the office. It is time he was here, she said, as, her arrangements for dinner completed, she stood a moment looking into the street, where the first snow-flakes were falling.
“Why was it that the day seemed so dreary to her, and why was there such an undefined dread of something in her heart? Was it a presentiment of the sad news coming to her so fast, borne by Fred, who appeared round a corner running rapidly, and waving his cap when he saw his mother’s face at the window.
“‘Here’s a letter from Anna,’ he cried, as he burst into the room, and held the precious document to sight. ‘Isn’t it jolly to get it on Thanksgiving day? ‘Most as good as having her here. Let’s keep it for the dessert!’
“But the mother could not wait, and taking the letter from her son, she glanced at the superscription, which was in Mr. Haverleigh’s handwriting. But that was not strange. The other letter had been directed by him, and so she had no suspicion of the blow awaiting her as she hastily broke the seal.
“‘Why, it is written by Mr. Haverleigh,’ she exclaimed, and then, with Mary and Fred both looking over her shoulder, she read the following:
“‘Mrs. Strong:—Dear Madame:—I am sorry to be obliged to tell you the sad news about Anna, and I hope you will bear up bravely, for there is hope, and insanity is not as bad as death.’
“‘Insanity,’ the three whispered together, with white lips, and then read on rapidly:
“‘My bright-haired darling, whom I loved so much, and who every day was growing more and more into my heart, has been very sick here in Paris, and when the fever left her her reason seemed wholly gone. The ablest physicians in France were consulted, but her case seemed to baffle all their skill, and as she constantly grew worse, they advised me, as a last resort, to place her in a private asylum, where she would have absolute quiet, together with the best and kindest of care.
“‘I need not tell you how I shrank from such an alternative, feeling, for a time, that I would rather see my darling dead than behind a grated window, but it was my only hope of restoring her, and as she was at times very violent and uncontrollable, I yielded at last to the judgment of others, and yesterday I took her to a private asylum in——’
“Here was a great blot, which entirely obliterated the name of the place, but in their sorrow and surprise the three did not observe it then, but read on rapidly:
“‘It is a charming spot, with lovely views. She has her own apartments, and maid, and private table, and carriage, and is surrounded by every comfort which love can devise or money buy, but oh, my heart is wrung with anguish when I think of her there, my beautiful Anna, who enjoyed everything so much. She was happy for the brief space that she was with me, and I am glad to remember that in the dreariness and darkness which have so suddenly overshadowed my life. But oh, dear madame, what can I say to comfort you, her mother. Nothing, alas, nothing, except bid you hope, as I do, that time will restore her to us again, and that reminds me of a question the physician asked me. Is there insanity on either side of her family? If not, her recovery is certain. Meanwhile, do not be troubled about her treatment; it will be the tenderest and best, as I know her doctor and nurse personally, and money will secure everything but happiness. It is not thought advisable for me to see her often, but I shall keep myself thoroughly informed with regard to her condition, and report to you accordingly.
“The last time Anna was out with me before her sickness, she saw and greatly admired an oil painting from a scene among the mountains of the Tyrol. It reminded her, she said, of New England, and the view from the hill across the river in Millfield. Recently I have seen the picture again, and remembering that she said, ‘Oh, how I wish mother and Mary could see it,’ I purchased it, and yesterday it started for America, marked to your address. In the same box is a porcelain picture of Murillo’s Madonna (the one in the Louvre gallery), and I send it because it bears a strong resemblance to Anna, as I have seen her in her white dressing-gown, with her hair unbound, her hands folded upon her breast, and her sweet face upturned to the evening sky, which she loved to contemplate, because, she said, ‘the same moon and stars were shining down on you.’ I hope you will like them, and accept them as coming—the painting from Anna, and the Madonna from me. Should you ever be in need of money, I beg you will command me to any extent, for I desire to be to you a son for the sake of the daughter I have taken from you.
“‘As I may not be in Paris the entire winter, direct to Munroe & Co., and your letters will be forwarded.
“This was the letter received at the red house that Thanksgiving day, and for a time the mother and sister felt that Anna was as surely lost to them as if she had been lying dead in some far-off grave across the sea. There was no insanity in the family on either side that Mrs. Strong had ever heard of, and that gave them a little hope, but their hearts were aching with a bitter pain as they sat down to the dinner which was scarcely touched, so intent were they upon the sorrow which had come so suddenly. It was terrible to think of their beautiful Anna as a maniac, confined behind bars and bolts, and so far away from home.
“‘If we could only see her,’ Mary said, while Fred suggested going to France himself to find her if she did not recover soon.
“‘Where is she? Where did Mr. Haverleigh say the asylum was?’ he asked, and then reference was had to the letter, but the name of the place was wholly unintelligible, and after trying in vain to make it out, they gave it up and gathered what comfort they could from the apparent kindness and cordiality evinced in Mr. Haverleigh’s letter, so different from his cold, proud manner when there, Mrs. Strong remarked, and she felt her love go out toward him as to a son, and before she slept that night she wrote him a long letter, which contained many messages of love for poor Anna, and thanks to himself for his kindness and interest in her sorrowing family.
“That night there was a Thanksgiving party in the ball-room of the village hotel. It had been the custom to have one there for years, and heretofore Anna Strong had been the very prettiest girl present; and the one most sought for in the games we played, and the merry dance. But that night she was not with us, and the news that she was insane, and the inmate of a mad-house, came upon us with a heavy shock, saddening our spirits and casting a gloom over the gay scene. Poor Anna! How little we guessed the truth, or dreamed how many, many times that day her thoughts had been with us, or how, until the last ray of sunset faded, she had stood by the window of her room looking to the west, as if, with the departing daylight, she would send some message to her far-off home.