Things in the Bartlett household were getting a bit uneasy. The Squire
chafed that his cherished project of Kate and Dave's marrying seemed no
nearer realization now than it had been two years ago.
Dave's equable temper vanished under the strain and uncertainty
regarding Anna Moore's silence and apparent indifference to him. He
would have believed her before all the world; her side of the story was
the only version for him; but Anna did not see fit to break her
silence. When he would approach her on the subject she would only say: "Mr. David, your father employs me as a servant. I try to do my work
faithfully, but my past life concerns no one but myself."
And Dave, fearing that she might leave them, if he continued to force
his attentions on her, held his peace. The thought of losing even the
sight of her about the house wrung his heart. He could not bear to
contemplate the long winter days uncheered by her gentle presence.
It was nearly Thanksgiving. The first snow had come and covered up
everything that was bare and unsightly in the landscape with its
beautiful mantle of white, and Anna, sitting by the window, dropped the
stocking she was darning to press the bitter tears back to her eyes.
The snow had but one thought for her. She saw it falling, falling soft
and feathery on a baby's grave in the Episcopal Cemetery at Somerville.
She shivered; it was as if the flakes were falling on her own warm
flesh.
If she could but go to that little grave and lie down among the
feathery flakes and forget it all, it would be so much easier than this
eternal struggle to live. What had life in store for her? There was
the daily drudgery, years and years of it, and always the crushing
knowledge of injustice.
She knew how it would be. Scandal would track her down--put a price on
her head; these people who had given her a home would hear, and what
would all her months of faithful service avail?
"Is this true?" she already heard the Squire say in imagination, and
she should have to answer: "Yes"--and there would be the open door and
the finger pointing to her to go.
She heard the Squire's familiar step on the stair; unconsciously, she
crouched lower; had he come to tell her to go?
But the Squire came in whistling, a picture of homely contentment,
hands in pocket, smiling jovially. She knew there must be no telltale
tears on her cheeks, even if her heart was crying out in the cold and
snow. She knew the bitterness of being denied the comfort of tears.
It was but one of the hideous train of horrors that pursued a woman in
her position.