ANNAS LETTER.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 36, 12 September 1891, Page 360

ANNAS LETTER.

HUE factory-bells began to ring. They bad hard, sharp, cruel voices, and seemed to cry aloud over the still, flat country as a termagant mistress might to her servants : •Get to work ! Get to work ! Get to work!’ At the sound, you might, had you been a bird or the passenger in some great balloon flying before the wind over the village, have seen doors open anywhere all over the valley, and men, women and children come forth with tin cans or dinner-baskets in their hands, and turn toward the mills. Some plodded slowly along ; some made great show ot haste. The children ran awhile ; then stopped to pick up green apples, chase stray pigs or pick wild cherries, and then ran faster. As they passed the post-office, some stepped in, and came ont again with letters in their hands, which they read as they walked on ; for the mill people were generally strangers who had come from a distance to get employment—foreigners of many nations, English and Irish mostly, but mingled with Germans, Swiss and Swedes.

At the clang of the bells, one woman had appeared at the door of a poor little house on the roadside, to whom the fresh, bright morning had not brought either freshness or brightness. She was a sturdy, well-built woman, with a flat Danish face and mild blue eyes. Her dress was of some unusual woollen stuff, made with a short spare skirt and with a jacket much like a man’s. On her head she wore a clo-e-kuitted hood or cap. Her skin was fair, her hair flaxen, and her expression extremely innocent. She would have looked young but for the brand of horizontal lines that trouble always sets on a woman’s forehead. Comparatively young at least, for she was past girlhood. She seemed to know everybody, but to have no intimates amongst the other mill workers—to them she only nodded as she went in. When she came to the post office she paused for a moment and stood looking in at tire door. Her feet seemed inclined to ascend the steps, then she shook her head and turned away. ‘ No,’ she said ; 1 best not make a fool of myself. What did I hear the postmaster say yesterday ’ ‘ “ That’s Anna Danner. Every morning for ten years she has stopped for a letter. She never gets one, but there she comes again.” ‘No ; I'll not make a fool of myself. I shall never get a letter,’ and she turned away. Still keeping on toward the mill, she turned down to the lower road, along which a railway ran, and took the track. A fear of being laughed at had entered her soul, and she fancied that if she went along with others she might hear sone one say : ‘ Oh, there’s Anna Danner, who never gets a letter and always asks for one.’ As she gave the little jump from a jutting rock which was the step from the lower road to the upper, the owner of the store, grocer, dry-goods merchant and postmaster, came to his door. He held a letter in his hand and looked after her. ‘ Well, if ever !’ he said. ‘lf that don’t beat me ! That girl has been for a letter every day for years, and the fust time I got one for her she goes apast. Hi, Anna ! Miss Danner, there ! Hi!’ Anna heard him. She looked over her shoulder. ‘ You didn’t stop for no letter this morning !’ shouted the old man. Anna’s face flushed scarlet, and she hurried on. ‘ Just as I thought,’ she said. ‘ They begin to make fun of me as they did of crazy Peter in Copenhagen, who was always asking if the ship had come in. See what a fool I’ve bsen. Oh !oh ! oh !’ There are in the world certain still, unexpressive women to whom ridicule would seem the worst calamity on earth. They can bear trouble, pain, grief ; but to be ‘ made fun of’ kills them. Anna was one of these. Years before she had been engaged to Klaus Ciistofer, a young sailor, who had pledged li is eternal faith to her and then sailed away. She had waited and waited, but he had not returned. She had had good oilers of marriage and refused them. Suddenly she discovered, or thought she did, that people were laughing at her for waiting for Klaus Cristofer—for believing he would ieturn ; and she left Denmark for America, to work for her bread amongst strangers. To one true friend she gave her address. If Klaus ever came back or was heard of there would be a letter for her. Through all those ten years she had hoped for one ; and never befoie had she guessed that any one noticed none ever came for her. Now her humiliation was excessive. ‘ Why, I want to know !’ said the postmaster ; ‘ she thinks I'm poking fun at her; poor thing, she's a furriner, and this letter has come a good way. Well, I suppose she’ll sten in going back. Potir soul, she always seems so lonesoine-like.’ Meanwhile Anna plodded on. After awhile she heard a scream from the bank overhead : ‘ Miss Danner ! Miss Danner I Why didn’t you stop for your letter?’ it was a weil-meaning boy who called to her. He had a letter from home and was glad over it, and something in the lonely figure troubled him. But she hurried on seeming not to hear, only believing that she was mocked again ; and the boy, fearing to be fined if he were late, ran on. Later a man on horseback passed her, and shouted down :

‘ You don't seem to vally your letters, young woman. You don’t expect one from your beau.’ Anything is a joke in the country. Anna did not quite understand the words, but the tone was that in which a test is uttered. She felt the blood rush to her face. The mill was in sight, and she saw a group of people looking at her. * To make fun of me,’ she thought. Then the face of Klaus Cristofer arose before her. She remembered his last words, his kiss, his embrace, the farewell.

‘ Oh, Klaus ! Klaus !* she sobbed. * Can it be ? Can it be that you, also, mocked me ; that you never meant to come back ; that, as the girls all said, I was a fool ? ‘ Anna ! Anna !’ shrieked twenty voices. • Anna !’ They were pointing at her. So she thought. Pointing as the children in Copenhagen did, loug before, at Crazy Peter, who watched for his imaginary ship to come in. The blood rushed to her face. She began to run, hoping to pass them and get to her frame and hide herself behind her work. ‘Anna! Anna! Anna!' shrieked the voices, and the fingers pointed still, and some were rushing toward her. Then there noise, a rush, a shriek beyond human PO*’ er ’ e knew too late that their voices, their gestures, their wildly pointing fingers were kindly warnings of the danger of which she was unaware ; that the express-train on the down-track was behind her. At dusk that evening a solemn group stood about the counter of the old store. The chief legal gentleman of the place was amongst them. ‘ It was awfully sudden,’said one. ‘ Almost as if she wanted it to happen,’ said another. ‘No ; she was thinking of something else,’ said a woman. ‘ She acted dazed like.’ ‘ And you think it’s sort of justifiable for us to open the letter, squire?’ asked the postmaster. ‘Yes. In that way you may know who her friends are, and notify them,’ replied the squire. Then silence fell upon the group, and the red seal of the travel-worn envelope was opened, and one of the workmen present, who came from Denmark, offered to interpret. This is what he read Anna, my best beloved, the time has been long and the waiting weary, but my heart has never changed. I am home again in Copenhagen, and my first love is my last. K Olsen has seen you and knows you live and are in health. I send the money for your journey. Come home and we will be married !?? ve 80 lm,<J h to tell that cannot be written, but most of all this: I love you—l love you, and I know yon love me. Your betrothed husband. Klaus Cristofer. ‘ She came here every morning for ten years and never got a letter, said the old postmaster. < And here it is at last, and she can’t know. It does seem hard.’ But perhaps Anna knew ; for if her freed soul could go whither it chose, it flew back to Copenhagen and Klaus Cristofer.