_In Which Anne, Passing a Shop, Turns In._
ANNE had the Crossroads ball much on her mind. She spoke to Beulah about
it.
"I don't know what to wear."
"You'd better go to town with me on Saturday and look for something."
"Perhaps I will. If I had plenty of money it would be easy. Beulah, did
you ever see such clothes as Eve Chesley's?"
"If I could spend as much as she does, I'd make more of a show."
"Think of all the tailors and dressmakers and dancing masters and
hair-dressers it has taken to make Eve what she is. And yet all the art
is hidden."
"I don't think it is hidden. I saw her powder her nose right in front of
the men that day she first came. She had a little gold case with a mirror
in it, and while Dr. Brooks and Mr. Fox were sitting on the stairs with
her, she took it out and looked at herself and rubbed some rouge on her
cheeks."
Anne had a vision of the three of them sitting on the stairs. "Well,"
she said, in a fierce little fashion, "I don't know what the world is
coming to."
Beulah cared little about Eve's world. For the moment Eric filled her
horizon, and the dress she was to get to make herself pretty for him.
"Shall we go Saturday?" she asked.
Anne, rummaging in the drawer of her desk, produced a small and shabby
pocketbook. She shook the money out and counted it. "With the check that
Uncle Rod sent me," she said, "there's enough for a really lovely frock.
But I don't know whether I ought to spend it."
"Why not?"
"Everybody ought to save something--I am teaching my children to have
penny banks--and yet I go on spending and spending with nothing to show
for it."
Beulah was quite placid. "I don't see why you should save. Some day you
will get married, and then you won't have to."
"If a woman marries a poor man she ought to be careful of finances. She
has to think of her children and of their future."
Beulah shrugged. "What's the use of looking so far ahead? And 'most any
husband will see that his wife doesn't get too much to spend."
Before Anne went to bed that night she put a part of her small store of
money into a separate compartment of her purse. She would buy a cheaper
frock and save herself the afterpangs of extravagance. And the penny
banks of the children would no longer accuse her of inconsistency!
The shopping expedition proved a strenuous one. Anne had fixed her mind
on certain things which proved to be too expensive. "You go for your
fitting," she said to Beulah desperately, as the afternoon waned, "and I
will take a last look up Charles Street. We can meet at the train."
The way which she had to travel was a familiar one, but its charm held
her--the street lights glimmered pale gold in the early dusk, the crowd
swung along in its brisk city manner toward home. Beyond the shops was
the Cardinal's house. The Monument topped the hill; to its left the
bronze lions guarded the great square; to the right there was the thin
spire of the Methodist Church.
She had an hour before train time and she lingered a little, stopping at
this window and that, and all the time the money which she had elected to
save burned a hole in her pocket.
For there were such things to buy! Passing a flower shop there were
violets and roses. Passing a candy shop were chocolates. Passing a hat
shop there was a veil flung like a cloud over a celestial _chapeau_!
Passing an Everything-that-is-Lovely shop she saw an enchanting length of
silk--as pink as a sea-shell--silk like that which Cynthia Warfield had
worn when she sat for the portrait which hung in the library at
Crossroads!
Anne did not pass the Lovely Shop; she turned and went in, and bought ten
yards of silk with the money that she had meant to spend--and the money
she had meant to save!
And she missed the train!
Beulah was waiting for her as she came in breathless. "There isn't
another train for two hours," she complained.
Anne sank down on a bench. "I am sorry, Beulah. I didn't know it was so
late."
"We'll have to get supper in the station," Beulah said, "and I have spent
all my money."
"Oh, and I've spent mine." Anne reflected that if she had not bought the
silk she could have paid for Beulah's supper. But she was glad that she
had bought it, and that she had it under her arm in a neat package.
She dug into her slim purse and produced a dime. "Never mind, Beulah, we
can buy some chocolates."
But they were not destined for such meager fare. Rushing into the station
came Geoffrey Fox. As he saw the clock he stopped with the air of a man
baffled by fate.
Anne moving toward him across the intervening space saw his face change.
"By all that's wonderful," he said, "how did this happen?"
"We missed our train."
"And I missed mine. Who is 'we'?"
"Beulah is with me."
"Can't you both have dinner with me somewhere? There are two hours of
waiting ahead of us."
Anne demurred. "I'm not very hungry."
But Beulah, who had joined them, was hungry, and she said so, frankly. "I
am starved. If I could have just a sandwich----"
"You shall have more than that. We'll have a feast and a frolic. Let me
check your parcels, Mistress Anne."
Back they went to the golden-lighted streets and turning down toward the
city they reached at last the big hotel which has usurped the place of
the stately and substantial edifices which were once the abodes of
ancient and honorable families.
Within were soft lights and the sound of music. The rugs were thick, and
there was much marble. As they entered the dining-room, they seemed to
move through a golden haze. It was early, and most of the tables were
empty.
Beulah was rapturous. "I have always wanted to come here. It is perfectly
lovely."
The attentive waiter at Geoffrey's elbow was being told to bring----
Anne's quick ear caught the word.
"No, please," she said at once, "not for Beulah and me."
His keen glance commanded her. "Of course not," he said, easily.
Presently he had the whole matter of the menu settled, and could talk to
Anne. She was enjoying it all immensely and said so.
"I should like to do this sort of thing every day."
"Heaven forbid. You would lose your dreams, and grow self-satisfied--and
fat--like that woman over there."
Anne shuddered. "It isn't that she is fat--it's her eyes, and the way she
makes up."
"That is the way they get when they live in places like this. If you want
to be slender and lovely and keep your dreams you must teach school."
"Oh, but there's drudgery in that."
"It is the people who drudge who dream. They don't know it, but they do.
People who have all they want learn that there is nothing more for life
to give. And they drink and take drugs to bring back the illusions they
have lost."
They fell into silence after that, and then it was Beulah who became
voluble. Her fair round face beamed. It was a common little face, but it
was good and honest. Beulah was having the time of her life. She did not
know that she owed her good fortune to Anne, that if Anne had not been
there, Geoffrey would not have asked her to dine. But if she had known
it, she would not have cared.
"What train did you come in on?" she asked.
"At noon. Brooks thought I ought to see a specialist. He doesn't give me
much encouragement about my eyes. He wants me to stop writing, but I
shan't until I get through with my book."
He spoke recklessly, but Anne saw the shadow on his face. "You aren't
telling us how really serious it is," she said, as Beulah's attention was
diverted.
"It is so serious that for the first time in my life I know myself to
be--a coward. Last night I lay in bed with my eyes shut to see how it
would seem to be blind. It was a pretty morbid thing to do--and this
morning finished me."
She tried to speak her sympathy, but could not. Her eyes were full of
tears.
"Don't," he said, softly, "my good little friend--my good little friend."
She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. The unconscious Beulah, busy
with her oysters, asked: "Is the Tobasco too hot? I'm all burning up with
it."
Geoffrey was able later to speak lightly of his affliction. "I shall go
to the Brooks ball as a Blind Beggar."
"Oh, how can you make fun of it?"
"It is better to laugh than to cry. But your tears were--a benediction."
Silence fell between them, and after a while he asked, "What shall you
wear?"
"To the ball? Pink silk. A heavenly pink. I have just bought it, and I
paid more than I should for it."
"Such extravagance!"
"I'm to be Cynthia Warfield--like the portrait in the Crossroads library
of my grandmother. It came to me when I saw the silk in the shop window.
I shall have to do without the pearls, but I have the lace flounces. They
were left to my mother."
"And so Cinderella will go to the ball, and dance with the Prince. Is
Brooks the Prince?"
She flushed, and evaded. "I can't dance. Not the new dances."
"I can teach you if you'll let me."
"Really?"
"Yes. But you must pay. You must give the Blind Beggar the first dance
and as many more as he demands."
"But I can't dance all of them with you."
"You can dance some of them. And that's my price."
To promise him dances seemed to her quite delicious and delightful since
she could not dance at all. But he made a little contract and had her
sign it, and put it in his pocket.
Going home Anne had little to say. It was Geoffrey who talked, while
Beulah slept in a seat by herself.
* * * * *
Anne made her own lovely gown, running over now and then to take
surreptitious peeps at Cynthia's portrait. She had let Mrs. Brooks into
her secret, and the little lady was enthusiastic.
"You shall wear my pearls, my dear. They will be very effective in your
dark hair."
She brought the jewels down in an old blue velvet box--milk-white against
a yellowed satin lining.
"My father gave them to me on my wedding day. Some day I shall give them
to Richard's wife."
She could not know how her words stirred the heart of the girl who stood
looking so quietly down at the pearls.
"I am almost afraid to wear them," Anne said breathlessly. She gave Nancy
a shy little kiss. "You were _dear_ to think of it."
And now busy days were upon her. There was the school with Richard
running in after closing time, and staying, too, and keeping her from the
work that was waiting at home. Then at twilight a dancing lesson with
Geoffrey in the long front room, with Beulah playing audience and
sometimes Eric, and with Peggy capering madly to the music.
Then the evening, with its enchanting task of stitching on yards of rosy
silk. Usually Geoffrey read to her while she worked. His story was
nearing the end. He was wearing heavy goggles which gave him an owl-like
appearance, of which he complained.
"It spoils my beauty, Mistress Anne. I am just an ugly gnome who sits at
the feet of the Princess."
"You are not ugly, and you know it. And men shouldn't be vain."
"We are worse than women. Do you know what you look like with all that
silk around you?"
"No."
"Like Aurora. Do you remember that Stevenson speaks of a 'pink dawn'?
Well, you are a pink dawn."
"Please stop talking about me, and read your last chapter. I am so glad
that you have reached the end."
"Because you are tired of hearing it?"
"Because of your poor eyes."
He took off his goggles. "Do my eyes look different? Are they changed
or--dim?"
"They are as bright as stars," and he sighed with relief.
* * * * *
"_And now it was young Michel who whispered, 'God is good! In a moment we
shall see his face, and we shall say to him, "We fought, but there is no
hatred in our hearts. We cannot hate--our brothers----"'_"
That was the end.
"It is a great book," Anne told him solemnly. "It will be a great
success."
He seemed to shrink and grow small in his chair. "It will come--too
late."
She looked up and saw the mood that was upon him. "Oh, you must not--not
that," she said, hurriedly; "if you give up now it will be a losing
fight."
"Don't you suppose that I would fight if I felt that I could win? But
what can a man do with a thing like this that is dragging him down to
darkness?"
"You mustn't be discouraged. Dr. Brooks says that it isn't--inevitable.
You know that he said that, and that the specialist said it."
"I know. But something tells me that I am facing--darkness." He threw up
his head. "Why should we talk of it? Let me tell you rather how much you
have helped me with my book. If it had not been for you I could not have
written it."
"I am glad if I have been of service." Her words sounded formal after the
warmth of his own.
He laughed, with a touch of bitterness. "The Princess serves," he said,
"always and always serves. She never grabs, as the rest of us do, at
happiness."
"I shall grab when it comes," she said, smiling a little, "and I am happy
now, because I am going to wear my pretty gown."
"Which reminds me," he said, quickly, and brought from his pocket a
little box. "Your costume won't be complete without these. I bought them
for you with the advance check which my publishers sent after they had
read the first chapters of my book."
She opened the box. Within lay a little string of pearls. Not such pearls
as Nancy had shown her, but milk-white none the less, with shining lovely
lights.
"Oh," she gave a distressed cry, "you shouldn't have done it."
"Why not?"
"I can't accept them. Indeed I can't."
"I shall feel as if you had flung them in my face if you give them back
to me," heatedly.
"You shouldn't take it that way. It isn't fair to take it that way."
"It isn't a question of fairness. It is a question of kindness on your
part."
"I want to be kind."
"Then take them."
She thought for a moment with her eyes on the fire. When she raised them
it was to say, "Would you--want your little sister, Mimi, to take jewels
from any man?"
"Yes. If he loved her as I love you."
It was out, and they stood aghast. Then Geoffrey stammered, "Can't you
see that my soul kneels at your feet? That to me these pearls aren't as
white as your--whiteness?"
The rosy silk had slipped to the floor. She was like a very small goddess
in a morning cloud. "I can't take them. Oh, I can't."
He made a quick gesture. But for her restraining hand he would have cast
the pearls into the flames.
"Oh, don't," she said, the little hand tense on his arm. "Don't--hurt
me--like that."
He dropped the pearls into his pocket. "If you won't wear them nobody
shall. I suppose I seem to you like all sorts of a fool. I seem like all
sorts of a fool to myself."
He turned and left her.
An hour later he came back and found her still sewing on the rosy silk.
Her eyes were red, as if she had wept a little.
"I was a brute," he said, repentantly; "forgive me and smile. I am a
tempestuous fellow, and I forgot myself."
"I was afraid we weren't ever going to be friends again."
"I shall always be your friend. Yet--who wants a Blind Beggar for a
friend--tell me that, Mistress Anne?"