_Penitential_
If a Roman general ever went out certain of conquest and returned
defrauded of his triumph to be chained to the wheels of a chariot and
dragged through the city in disgrace, instead of gloriously striding
that chariot, then that general and Peter Berkley the Second would have
understood each other’s bitterness.
Little Anne’s heart sank lower when she heard the outer door slam,
though by the time that she had reached home and had waited, dreading
to hear Peter’s step, it was already sufficiently despairing. To make
matters worse, Mrs. Berkley had gone to lunch with Joan, leaving
Bibiana, Anne’s former nurse, now serving as waitress, to see that the
children were comfortable. Children, indeed! Peter was a ruined man.
He came into the house with a tragic stride, gloom upon his brow, but
in spite of his mature sense of catastrophe--he demanded his mother
instantly as Anne might have done, while he threw his books and hat
in different directions and himself into a chair, like Napoleon after
Waterloo.
Little Anne rose from a dark corner looking white and small. She was
trembling, but she did what was required of her, albeit her voice was
faint and it quavered.
“Mother went to Joan’s, Peter. I’m sorry, Peter-two,” she said.
“So am I. I’d like to talk to her,” growled Peter. “But of course she’d
go when I need her so bad.”
“No, Peter; she’s ’most always here for our lunch, but Babs has a
cold,” little Anne was still able to justify her mother. “And you don’t
have to talk to her, Peter; I shall tell her myself, and I am sorry,
truly.”
“Heh?” cried Peter, arousing to the fact that Anne was not sorry only
that her mother was absent. “What are you sorry about? What’ll you tell
her? See here, did you----”
Little Anne nodded hard, choking. Peter looked dreadfully fierce and
grown-up, and she became sharply aware that she was only seven.
“You stole----?” Peter’s emotions again choked his speech.
“Your these is--are,” said little Anne, miserably.
“What for?” Peter fairly roared at the trembling child. “What good did
it do you, you--you--bad, meddlesome monkey?”
“It was because you said I couldn’t make you mad,” said little Anne,
rallying slightly. Peter calling her names was more familiar, less
formidable than Peter inarticulate. “I never thought it would make
you trouble till Miss Anne said so. I am dreadful sorry, honest I am,
Peter-two! I’ll give you my new blank book with the red cover to make
rusti--resti--to make up. And your these is--are--is not hurt.”
“Good heavens!” burst out Peter. “You might think it was bric-à-brac!
You’d suppose even a kid would know it had to be turned in at school
to-day, and isn’t a thing to be harmed. I’m harmed, I’ll tell you
_that_, Miss Anne! I’m disgraced, that’s what! Heaps of the
fellows have been getting out of doing these, so the heads made a
rule that the next one that didn’t have his paper ready would be made
an example. _I_ was _it_! It’s a thing a fellow can’t live
down; I was disgraced. And I hadn’t even a slim excuse to offer. I’d
no mortal idea where it was, went to get it out--gone! When I said
I’d written it, made a donkey of myself generally, looking like a
gibbering idiot, it settled me; ’course they thought I was lying!”
“Tell them it was me, tell them, Peter!” begged little Anne. “I don’t
want them to know, but it’s truth, so I must. Tell them, Peter-two, I
took it and it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, I guess!” Peter derided her. “I’d look well saying my kid sister
was allowed to rummage my things and steal my papers, now wouldn’t I?
I’d look well hiding behind you, my kid sister, wouldn’t I!”
“Kind of like Adam,” said little Anne, absent-mindedly. “Then what can
you do, Peter-two?”
“Bear it,” said Peter through his closed teeth.
It had such a fearful ring that little Anne began to cry softly.
“Oh, Peter-two, Peter-two,” she moaned. “I honest-to-goodness didn’t
mean to be wicked. I just wanted to make you mad, ’cause you said I
couldn’t. And oh, dear, oh, dear, I did, I did! Don’t you think you
could forgive me, Peter, when I’m so awful sorry and confessed, and
give you my book for repar--resti--making up? Couldn’t you forgive me,
not anyway at all, Peter-two?”
“You’re spoiled,” said Peter, sternly, not hard-heartedly precisely,
but with a sense of obligation to make the most of this opportunity.
“I’ve said all along you were dreadfully spoiled, and you are. You’re
getting worse, Anne, and this was pretty bad. It won’t hurt you to do
penance.”
“All right, Peter-two,” said little Anne, swallowing her rising sobs.
“Wha--what’ll I do?”
“Oh, I don’t care what you do! Think of the harm you’ve done. Go sit in
a tree, or stand in the river. I don’t care what you do! I’m sick of
the whole business, and I’m going to get some gingerbread and study. Go
on and let me alone.”
Little Anne looked at him with mournful dark eyes; the hollows which so
quickly showed below them deep and dark.
“Before I go, Peter-two,” she said, softly, “won’t you please, please
kiss me and tell me you’ll forgive me by and by, after my penance?”
“Anne, I’ve told you not to bother me!” Peter spoke in a sternly
parental tone. “Certainly I shall not kiss you; why should I, when
you’ve put me in such a position? I will decide about forgiving you
when I see whether or not you mean to behave yourself in the future.”
Feeling that he had dealt with little Anne in a manner that was for
her welfare, and regretting that his mother could not see this object
lessen in the proper way to discipline her, Peter left the room and
little Anne’s stricken face to go after gingerbread, in the consumption
of which his adult manner was lost.
He was in his room when his mother returned. She called him to ask if
he knew where Anne was.
He did not. He had been too busy to think about her, he said, appearing
at the head of the stairs. He further guessed she was around. But she
was not. Bibiana, the waitress, had not seen her since she gave her
lunch. She admitted having thought that the child was not so hungry as
she might have been.
Mrs. Berkley telephoned the mother of Monica, little Anne’s favourite
playmate, but Anne was not with Monica. She called up other houses, but
there was no news of the child.
Peter, listening to the telephoning with his bedroom door open, began
to feel an uneasiness which he did not intend to betray to his mother.
It was uncomfortable not to know where Anne was, remembering how
sternly he had disciplined her for her confessed and repented fault,
had refused to forgive her immediately or to seal the forgiveness with
the kiss that she had implored.
Peter sauntered downstairs with a manner exaggeratedly casual, his cap
on the back of his head.
“Oh, don’t go away, Peter!” cried his mother. “I am beginning to feel
uneasy about Anne.”
“Oh, Anne’s all right!” Peter assured her. “I won’t be long. I thought
maybe I’d make her hurry home; I thought you were getting worried by
the way you were telephoning all over. I’ll tell her to hurry in and
not worry you.”
“Oh, Peter, it sounds as though you did know where she was!” cried Mrs.
Berkley.
“Not hard to guess,” said Peter, and slammed the door before his mother
could ask what his guess was and he should have to confess to having in
mind nowhere that she had not already interrogated. Once out of sight
his nonchalance fell from him like the mask that it was. He pulled his
cap down over his forehead and set out on a run. He made speed to find
Anne Dallas, feeling that in some unforeseen way she could help him.
“Gee, if only I had kissed the kid!” he thought, nameless forebodings
gripping him.
Anne Dallas knew nothing of little Anne; Mrs. Berkley had already
called her to ask, she told Peter. He thought that she looked ill and
her eyes were swollen; there was reason for his own fright, then, if
Miss Dallas was worried to this extent over Anne.
“Oh, I knew Mother’d call you up,” Peter said, shifting from foot to
foot as he stood. “But I sort of thought if you didn’t know where she
was maybe you’d come home with me, talk to Mother till Father gets
there--though Anne must come before he does!” he interrupted himself
hastily. “Joan couldn’t come at this time very well--baby goes to bed,
and Antony gets in early--and Mother’s kind of worried. Women do worry
a whole lot over their children.” Peter gave Anne the benefit of his
unique experience.
“I’ll go this minute,” said Anne. “My hat is right here.”
“You see Anne was feeling down in the mouth on account of something
she’d done to me,” Peter said as they walked along, unable to restrain
this confidence.
“She took your thesis. Yes, but she went home to tell you and beg for
forgiveness, so that’s all right now. Isn’t it?” Anne cried, frightened
by Peter’s expression. Then, as he did not answer, she understood.
“Oh, dear! And she is such an emotional child! Oh, poor Peter! But of
course no harm can have befallen her,” Anne said, laying her hand on
Peter’s arm.
Mrs. Berkley welcomed Anne without many words. She clasped her hand,
and said: “Thank you, dear!”
Peter went past them up to his room again. It was getting late.
After lunch that day Kit Carrington had found his home and its inmates
beyond his power to endure. He was seized with an attack of nerves,
made evident by his restlessness of body and complete repose of tongue.
In vain had Miss Carrington tried to involve him in plans of her own.
Equally in vain had Helen offered suggestions that were practically
requests to Kit to do one of several things which would have
sufficiently amused her. Kit had one of his most obtuse fits; he met
both his aunt and Helen with polite obstinacy and mental deafness.
It ended in his going off to his room and getting himself into his
fishing clothes, taking his rod, and starting off to fish the river for
a long afternoon of his own unshared companionship.
He was too unused to introspection to know what ailed him; indeed the
symptoms were confused and contradictory. He felt at once unhappy
and glad; heavily dull and restless; filled with vague expectation
that seemed to urge him on, he did not know whither, as if something
glorious awaited him just around the corner; yet pain that was almost
despair flooded him, as if all the meaning and value were out of life.
“Well, good gracious, I wonder what’s wrong with me! Must be getting
sick,” thought Kit as he realized the civil warfare within him. All day
long Anne Dallas had been before him, alluring, desirable, close to his
mind, yet removed, as if she had died.
“Funny!” thought simple Kit.
Later, his aunt returning from a walk in the woods, might have offered
him a solution, if he would admit telepathy as a premise.
He began to find the quiet of fields a balm to his perturbed spirits.
The woods, when he came to them and entered them, quieted him still
more.
“Why didn’t I bring poor old Sirius? What a brute I am to forget
him when he so loves this sort of excursion and gets so few!” Kit
reproached himself. “Just the trip for a dog! Well, that’s queer!
There’s little Anne’s beagle, Cricket. Wonder if I could persuade him
to join me? He’s such a scared beggar! Still, he’s getting reconciled
to me. Here, Cricket, Cricket, you bundle!”
Cricket came cautiously in wide loops toward Kit, wagging his body
deprecatingly, expressing a hope which he was not convinced had
sufficient foundation.
“Flattered, I’m sure, that you trust me to this extent, young
misanthrope!” Kit patted the dog with a finger tip, and followed it up
with his palm. “Seems to me you act queer, but then you are always such
an absurdity that it’s hard telling! I suspect that you came out after
rabbits, sir, and are properly ashamed! Though a man with a fishing
rod is no moralist to impress you, eh? Well, Cricket, I admit your
reasoning.”
Kit got out his bait and began to fish. Cricket left him, returned,
whined, and curved himself imploringly; went away again, returned
again, barked, and finally disappeared.
Kit paid slight attention to the beagle’s vagaries. He fished along
the bank, waded out into the stream, sat for a time upon a rock and
fished from there, whistling softly, forgetful of the perturbation
which had sent him out to look for peace.
“Pretty good fun to invite your soul and have no one else at your
exclusive party,” thought Kit, recognizing his own pleasure and that it
was satisfying, though he had taken no fish. “Must get back, I suppose,
when there’s a fair lady to dine. But I’m going to try that other place
first.”
“That other place” lay farther up the river. It was a quiet spot,
shaded by over-hanging branches. He strode to it in his rubber boots,
his walking shoes hung across his shoulders by their knotted lacings.
He walked in the water, finding it more comfortable with his boots on
than land; he noticed how cold the river was still, although there had
been several days of considerable warmth.
“Well, now for a last try!” Kit thought as he came to the spot which he
had in mind.
There on the river bank sat Cricket piteously whining.
“Anne! Little Anne!” shouted Kit.
Mid-stream stood little Anne, her skirts gathered up in her hands, her
bare, slender legs shaking beneath her as the ice-cold river lapped
them to the knees.
When Kit called her name she turned to him a disfigured, tear-swollen
face and fell forward into the water. He strode out to her and gathered
her up in his arms. She was unconscious and her poor little body was as
cold as the dead.
“Oh, Lord, and so far from everything!” thought Kit.
He did not dally to consider. Casting away his rod and basket he set
out on a run toward the town, holding Anne close to his breast. Cricket
streamed after them, but Kit had been a sprinter and an all-around
athlete; the beagle’s short bowed legs stood no chance at keeping up.
It seemed to Kit that he made no sort of time; he cursed his impeding
rubber boots fervently; in reality, he covered the distance to the
nearest drug store at a record speed.
He laid little Anne on the counter, still unconscious, and supported
her head on one arm.
“Brandy!” he gasped.
“Artificial respiration,” said the bland but frightened druggist,
prompt with first-aid knowledge.
“She’s not drowned; it’s exhaustion. She fainted, fell into the river.
Brandy, man! Don’t stop to talk!” Kit ordered.
“You know, Mr. Carrington, I can’t sell brandy without a doctor’s
prescription,” said the druggist with finality.
It is certain that Kit’s exclamation was accounted to him as
righteousness, for it sprang from love for little Anne.
“Give it and don’t sell it then, you idiot!” he said, savagely. “Give
the child brandy and I’ll give you a present later. Good heavens, is
this child to lie here in this state while I stalk a doctor? Who’s to
know what’s done here, anyway? You use my name; you know me. I’ll be
responsible. But I swear I won’t be responsible for what I do to you if
you don’t get a move on you, quick! And I’m some boxer, if you want to
know.” Kit glared furiously at the small man with the timorous air and
the druggist got down a bottle.
“It’s the law, Mr. Carrington; I’m not to blame, and I certainly don’t
want to get into trouble breaking laws,” he said, pouring a little
brandy into a glass.
“Get a spoon,” Kit ordered, disregarding him.
He poured the liquor down little Anne’s throat and chafed her wrists.
The druggist rubbed her legs.
“What happened to her?” he ventured to ask, plainly doubtful of Kit’s
patience. “Who is she?”
“Mr. Peter Berkley’s child. I don’t know what happened. She was
standing in the water and fainted just as I came along to fish,” said
Kit. Little Anne opened her eyes with a sigh.
“Was it enough? Is it all right?” she murmured and closed her eyes
again.
“It was a heap too much, little Anne,” said Kit, tenderly. “Help me get
off her wet dress and lend me something to wrap around her, can’t you?
Haven’t you a coat?”
“I have a blanket which I use when I sleep in the store,” said the
druggist. “Easy to see you have no little girls, Mr. Carrington. Now I
have; two. You unbutton their dresses this way.”
“Oh, please don’t, Kit! I’d much rather be undressed at home,” little
Anne implored.
“You shall be. Only this wet dress, Nancy-Bell, and then I’ll roll you
up in a blanket----”
“Seventy times as high as the moon,” murmured little Anne, feebly
submitting.
“Another ‛wee deoch and doris,’ Anne!” said Kit putting the teaspoon to
her lips. And this time little Anne could help herself.
Kit rolled her up in the blanket which the druggist produced and which
he could not help being glad to see was a bright-coloured Navajo; he
wanted little Anne to be wrapped in something cheerful.
“I’ll be back to-morrow and bring the blanket and some money. I haven’t
any with me. I beg your pardon for cussing you, but time counts in such
a case--so does a stimulant!” said Kit, as he shouldered his precious
burden and went away.
Little Anne rallied enough to want to explain.
“It was penance, Kit, dear,” she said. “I did a fearful thing to
Peter-two and he couldn’t forgive me yet. He told me to do penance and
said stand in the river when I said what kind. He wouldn’t kiss me. So
I did it. It’s a cold, an _awful_ cold penance, Kit!” Little Anne
shuddered.
“Oh, little Anne, didn’t you know Peter didn’t mean that? Fancy,
penance! It sure _was_ cold! What a foolish child you were!
If only it hasn’t harmed you! Were you there long?” demanded Kit,
anxiously.
“I don’t know; I think so. Peter-two gets home half-past two, or
something, and I went pretty soon. I’m sleepy, Kit. Is Mother worried?
I forgot my mother.” Anne spoke wearily.
“Dear, I don’t know about going to sleep; perhaps it would harm you.
You see I don’t know what it might do to you. Keep awake, little Anne!
Let me tell you how worried your Cricket was about you, and how he
tried to say there was something wrong.” Kit accompanied the homeward
journey with chatter about the beagle to which little Anne faithfully
strove to listen, but her heavy lids would not stay open.
When Mrs. Berkley, her husband, Peter, crowded to the door with
terror-stricken faces, seeing Kit coming and what he bore, little Anne
was asleep.
“Kit?” Mrs. Berkley managed the word, but could ask no more.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Berkley; she’s not hurt; she may be harmed,” Kit
answered her.
He relinquished little Anne to her father and watched her family as
they gently turned away the blanket from the thin face, now crimson,
with pinched lips.
“I found her standing in the river. She had some sort of an idea of
doing penance; of course, one of little Anne’s queer notions,” Kit
said, for with a groan as his words to little Anne came back to him,
Peter bolted.
“We’ll put her to bed. Sometime I can thank you, Kit, dear,” said Mrs.
Berkley.
Little Anne’s father did not speak and he had no hand to give. He
nodded to Kit, tears streaming down his face, and carried the child
upstairs.
From the corner where she had sat, forgotten, Anne Dallas now emerged.
She looked haggard; it had been a day of intense emotions. She felt
embarrassed to speak to Kit. She had just learned that he was to marry
Helen Abercrombie, and that she herself was beloved by Richard Latham.
The face of the world had changed. But Kit looked so surprised, so glad
to see her, he seized her hand so cordially, that she could not help
responding to his warmth. Why had she been disinclined to speak to him
in the first place? she wondered. He was the same fine boy; nothing had
happened to alter their friendship.
“Are you going?” he asked. “I’ll walk with you, please. I’m troubled
about little Anne. She fainted dead when she saw me, been standing no
end of time, and the water is like ice to-day. Good heavens, if she has
pneumonia!”
“Heaven forbid!” said Anne.
Her heart leaped with pleasure at Kit’s kindness, his anxiety, the
warmth of his love for the child. She glowed with joy that he was so
good.
“Saint Christopher bore a little Child out of the water, across to
safety, you know. Let us hope he will bless this Christopher’s rescue,”
she said, softly.
Kit stared. “What nice things you think of; sweet, womanly, lovely
things,” he said, simply, and took Anne home.