_The Ill Wind_
It was with no small satisfaction that Kit learned that his aunt and
Helen were to spend that day and the greater part of the next one in
the large city three hours distant, returning to Cleavedge only in time
for dinner. There was upon Kit an unwrapping profundity of isolation,
a peace with which the elder and younger woman were in ill-accord; it
was a relief to know that duty would not summon him out of his personal
atmosphere to breathe theirs.
That afternoon he spent in the woods, contentedly wandering, for some
time sleeping on the moss; his vigil of the preceding night had made
him drowsy. This time he had not forgotten to invite his old dog,
Sirius, the English setter who had been his comrade for years, to bear
him company. On his way to enjoy the silence which he craved, he had
stopped at the Berkleys’ to get confirmation of the good news of the
morning.
Mrs. Berkley had cried on his shoulder as if he had been Peter, grown
taller, and as she had not cried when little Anne was in mortal danger.
Kit had patted her back and ended by kissing her with warmth in his
heart: it seemed to him that at last his lonely boyhood had ended in
his finding kindred.
All the while the permeating sense of Anne Dallas’ nearness, the fact
that he loved her and that she knew it and that everything was all
right, made at once the foundation and crown of this blessed day. He
went on to the woods to brood over this sense of blessedness; not to
think of it precisely, not at all to debate, nor demonstrate it, but
to yield to its exquisite bliss.
Humility is the handmaid of perfect faith. Kit was not conceited, but
he was sure of Anne’s love; he did not know why he felt sure of it,
nor would he have said that there was any reason why she should love
him, but he knew that she did, and he humbly gave himself up to the
wondering joy of it.
“If you know a thing you know it,” Kit would have said, and that was
all. He went whistling homeward as the loveliness of the sunshine of
the last days of May began to be veiled with the poetical beauty of its
westward lengthening.
He ate a dinner that was unromantically hearty, but which was flavoured
with romance and elevated into the sacramental. It occurred to him
that he should not always eat alone, nor at his aunt’s table; that one
unspeakable day he should raise his eyes and see Anne sitting in her
quiet loveliness opposite to him. It took his breath away to think
that he should carve a thin slice of the breast for her and lay it on
her plate, with a spoonful of the dressing; it was to be her second
helping. His hand would brush hers and she would be sure to say, “Not
so much, Kit, dear!”
He should watch her put smooth brown gravy, with dots of chopped things
in it, over his potato, and should tell her, in the indifferent tone of
blessed accustomedness, not to put any on the side of the plate which
he had left for the cranberry jelly.
It was a fairy dream, though its terms, put into English, would have
sounded prosaic enough, but of all miracles the most divine are the
homely ones. Not least of these is the miracle that the radiant wings
of youthful love can be folded close to brood upon a hearth. This was
what Kit’s true instinct revealed to him, and moved and ecstatic over
the vision of Anne, his wife, he ate, unconscious of what he was eating.
After dinner he went at once to the piazza and sat smoking slowly,
watching the moon rise, sufficiently companioned in knowing that
he was to see Anne on the morrow, so content in this strange, new
conviction of the possession of her that he was satisfied to delay
the joy of seeing her in the effulgence of this new light. As long as
he knew it was but delayed! If he were not going to see her thus that
would be another, a tragic matter!
Kit went to bed early and slept like a tired, happy boy, and arose
early to begin another happy day; an endless succession of such days
stretched out ahead of him, to that inconceivable day when Anne and he
should be old.
He was disappointed when, in the afternoon, he went to Latham Street,
to be told that the poet, with Miss Dallas, had gone in Richard’s small
car, driven by Stetson, to visit the falls, which were the point of
pilgrimage for all strangers who came to Cleavedge. The falls were some
miles distant, where the river gathered itself together and hurled
itself down over rocks.
“Well, it’s a fine day to go there, and the falls are still swollen by
the spring rains,” said Kit, sorry for himself, but resigned to others’
better luck.
“I wanted to tell Miss Dallas--and Mr. Latham--that I stopped at
Mrs. Berkley’s on my way here, and that the little girl has not an
unfavourable symptom. It’s quite certain now that she will live. You
might tell Mr. Latham when he comes in, if you will, please. I’ll see
Miss Dallas to-night at her boarding place.”
Mrs. Lumley, the housekeeper, Minerva’s gossip, who happened to be
in the hall when Kit sounded the knocker, and so had exceeded her
obligations and opened the door, looked at him with significant
commiseration.
“Miss Dallas is going to dine here to-night, Mr. Carrington,” she said.
“Mr. Latham is going to pick up an elderly lady who he’s great friends
with, and bring her to dinner with him to-night. And Miss Dallas is to
come with ’em.”
There was a note in Mrs. Lumley’s voice that arrested Kit’s attention,
but then he was not familiar with her voice, and it glanced off the
surface of his mind as it vibrated against it.
“I’m disappointed to hear that,” said Kit, “but it’s pleasanter for
Miss Dallas. It’s a tiresome trip to the falls and Miss Dallas finds it
a bore, at best, to board. I did hope to see her! Oh, well, one more
day! And there are many days.”
He smiled the smile that made everybody his friend and turned to go,
saying “good-day” to Mrs. Lumley.
“It is truly said, Mr. Carrington, that it is pleasanter dining here
than at her boarding place. This is a beautiful house, so cunning seers
tell me; let alone Mr. Latham’s being even more agreeable as a man than
as a poet. And it is true that there are many days. There are many of
most things, Mr. Carrington; fish in the sea and much besides. So it
is well to keep our minds on this well-known fact so’s’t not to let
ourselves feel’s if there wasn’t hardly more than one of a thing, day,
or whatever it may be. Good-day, Mr. Carrington; I’ll tell Mr. Latham.”
“Cryptic cook! Or is she the cook?” thought Kit, amused yet vaguely
disturbed. “Sounds like the oracle hinting disaster. That class of
woman eats up anticipation of misfortune and licks the platter clean.
Seems as though she grudged Anne her comfort! Maybe she’s afraid of
automobiles; probably is! But I’m good and ready for a glimpse of my
dear. Those Elizabethans had a nice way of calling things: ‛a glimpse
of my dear!’ Now that’s nice!”
Kit had mused into less disappointment, but there was still enough left
to give him a subdued manner, and to shadow his bright face of the
morning as he greeted his aunt and Helen.
He found them on the piazza; their diaphanous gowns showed that they
had returned on a train early enough to have allowed them to change to
these from their travelling garb. Beside Helen there stood a basket
with a small window in one end. Kit’s animal-loving eye quickly noted
it.
“My gracious! is Helen setting up a pet?” he wondered.
“How are you, Kit?” said Miss Carrington, extending her left hand
lazily. “I hope you are all right?” She looked him over sharply. “You
look all right! Come, that’s good and sensible!”
Helen leaned forward in her chair, holding out her pretty hand.
“It seemed queer to come home and not find you, Kit,” she said. “A big
boy fills up a house, doesn’t he? And his absence fills it up, too--in
another way!”
“That’s a kind and delicate implication, Nell, but it’s like
Pudd’n-head Wilson’s idea of calling a man a mule; it leaves him in
doubt, though the mule is such an admirable character. There are ways
and ways of filling up a house, Nell, and boys aren’t popular in the
rôle.”
Kit shook Helen’s hand merrily and talked glibly, with a happy
carelessness that made the girl stare in her turn.
“You must have liked keeping house alone,” she said. “I never saw you
look jollier, not even when you played on the winning team, ages ago!
What’s the news? Are you rejoicing for yourself, or, altruistically,
for others?”
She contrived to shake her head at Miss Carrington and signal to her
that Kit did not know.
“Just general well-being; that the world is so full of a number of
things,” answered Kit. “I’ve been off with Sirius most of the time
since you and Auntie went; haven’t heard any news whatever. Except that
little Anne is coming on splendidly.”
“Well, after dinner is the best time for news when there is any,”
Helen gave Kit the impression of talking nonsense, but Miss Carrington
understood the hint that ill news interfered with appetite.
“I knew that the child was going on well the instant that I saw you.
What do you think I have in that basket?” Helen asked.
“Couldn’t guess! I hope for your soul’s sake that you’ve set up a pet,
but I don’t dare hope for the best,” returned Kit.
“No, Master Christopher, not even for my soul’s sake shall I ever set
up a pet. I don’t do a whole lot for my soul’s sake, anyway! But it
is a pet, nevertheless. On the strength of the news before we left
yesterday, that little Anne was going to live, I bought one for her.
I thought an Angora kitten would be the best tonic to hasten on her
convalescence. She can have it on the bed with her, and watch it play
and strike fascinating attitudes.”
Helen was unstrapping the basket as she spoke.
Kit’s delight was unmistakable, but his surprise was not flattering.
“What a happy inspiration, Nell!” he cried. “There’s nothing like a
kitten to entertain an ailing child. How did you ever happen to think
of it?”
“‛A princess of the direct Herodian line, like you!’ your too-honest
manner implies, my dear!” laughed Helen. “Oh, I am not stupid, though
I be heartless, or so I flatter myself! I have been a sick little girl
myself. I remember I was most interested in having kittens visit me
in those circumstances. I never got attached to them, never wanted to
continue the acquaintance, but they did amuse me. Cats have lovely
muscles; I still like to watch them. Your Anne--_little_ Anne!--is
probably a model of affection and will love this catlet personally. It
struck me as a delicate compliment, since you are so fond of the child,
to give her a kit! How’s this?”
She produced from the basket a snowy-white kitten, high-bred, beautiful
in every line and in each fluffy hair; its face round and expressive,
its eyes still blue, with the look of innocence that only a kitten can
wear and to which nothing created since Eden can hope to correspond.
“Oh, jiminy!” cried Kit, as pleased as little Anne would surely be.
“Helen, it beats the world! What a beauty! Little Anne will either die
of it, or recover at her first glimpse of it.”
He took the kitten from Helen, who held it out by her thumb and
forefinger, its legs drawn up into its downy stomach, and nestled it in
his neck.
“You small, soft thing!” Kit said.
Helen flushed to her hair. Her eyes gave out a gleam, and she looked,
as she felt, as if she would gladly have taken Kit in her arms--so big,
so simple, so lovable he seemed with the “small, soft thing” creeping
close to him trustingly.
“Give it to the child yourself, Kit, as soon as she is able to bear
the emotion it will inspire. I want you to take it to her. Don’t say
anything about me; let it be your gift. No!” Helen held up a protesting
hand. “I don’t care to get credit for this sort of thing; I would if
I wanted to win the child, but I don’t. I’ll give you the kitten; you
give it to Anne, and we’ll all live happy for ever after.”
“Anne will be told correctly the tale of your thoughtfulness, of how
you brought pussyette to her,” said Kit. “What a curious mixture you
are, Nell! I wonder if you pose as a metallic creature, and that it is
all pose? I’ll take this winner to Minerva.”
He went away with the kitten purring close to his face, the basket
swinging in his hand.
Helen sighed. She turned excited eyes upon Miss Carrington.
“He certainly is an attractive boy,” she said. “He doesn’t know a thing
of the engagement, that’s clear. Wait till after dinner. If he does
mind, it would be a pity to damage his inspiring appetite. I love to
see Kit pitch in!”
At dinner that night Kit certainly “pitched in.” He talked more than
was his custom and he talked well. Miss Carrington, who was sharply
critical of him, not always satisfied with his simplicity, was pleased
to hear him, announcing opinions on some of the events of the day,
well-expressed, logically thought-out from intelligent premises.
Helen was clever and she had a rare opportunity to learn inside
political facts, as well as to acquire skill in marshalling them to
conclusions. She spurred Kit on and made him put forth his best powers
to cope with her. When they returned to the piazza Kit found himself
aroused, thinking fast, conscious of having enjoyed the past hour
keenly, as a man must enjoy whatever puts him on his mettle.
“You’re a great girl, Helen Abercrombie!” he said with sincere
admiration. “You will hold your own if ever you get that salon you
dream of, or are launched on a sea wide enough and windy enough for
you.”
“Helen is the peer of the most brilliant men. She will be a tower of
strength to her associates,” said Miss Carrington, delighted to see
that Kit was impressed.
“Oh, it’s hats off! When the governor’s daughter passes by! Passes by
us all,” agreed Kit, so readily that his aunt frowned. She suspected
that Kit was thinking that womanly sweetness surpassed Helen’s talents.
But she said pleasantly:
“Quite right, Kit! I can’t help feeling sorry that Richard Latham is
going to miss complete intellectual companionship. No matter what
nice things he says of her, of course we know that Miss Dallas is not
his equal. However, she is a nice, trusty, sympathetic girl, and on
the whole I am glad--since he can’t have such as Helen, for the good
reason that there is none like her!--that he will be taken care of, and
at least be secure of the self-sacrificing devotion that a blind man
needs. It is hard to keep in mind that he is a blind man; not only a
great poet.”
“Why do you speak, or did you mean to speak, as though Miss Dallas
would marry Mr. Latham?” Kit smilingly asked.
“Oh, don’t you know about it?” asked Miss Carrington, blandly. “I
suppose it isn’t talked of yet. You should keep a lady’s maid, Kit!
Here we are just returned and are in possession of facts, while you,
right within hail of Cupid, never saw a flash of his arrow!”
“Facts, Aunt Anne? Do you mean _facts_?” Poor Kit spoke with
difficulty.
“Surely, Kit, my dear; why not? Isn’t an engagement usually a
fact? Minerva met Mr. Latham’s housekeeper who knows all that the
principals themselves know, probably more! Mrs. Lumley--that’s the
housekeeper--rather resents it. Naturally a woman of her class would
resent her employer’s marrying below his own. Though I confess I’ve
found Miss Dallas in every way correct, quite like a well-born person.
Then Mrs. Lumley would be jealous of authority, a woman’s authority
over her, where she has reigned supreme. These things embroider the
story attractively when Minerva tells it, but they are not intrinsic
to the fabric. The important fact, important to us all, since Richard
Latham’s work will be affected by it--Cleavedge’s celebrity’s work--is
that our poet is engaged to be married to the little brown Dallas girl.”
“Aunt Anne, he isn’t! What nonsense you--I beg your pardon! I mean what
nonsense Minerva talks. It isn’t so because--because--it can’t be so!”
Kit exploded.
Miss Carrington adjusted her glasses the better to look at her nephew.
Helen leaned back in her chair somewhat tense, amusement, yet strong
annoyance in her face.
“He is hard hit!” she thought, calculating the chances of consolation.
“_Can’t_ be so, Christopher? But it can be, because it _is_
so! Why should it not be true? She is at his hand every moment while
he is at work and shares the work with him. She has a nice alto voice,
moves well, would not annoy him; why should he not, lonely as he is, be
attracted to her?” inquired Miss Carrington, temperately, ignoring any
other side to consider in the matter except the poet’s.
“I don’t believe it!” Kit almost groaned.
“My dear boy, that sounds rude, but I’m sure you don’t mean it so,”
said his aunt. “Don’t you recall my saying that this marriage was
certain to come off? Miss Dallas read a poem not intended for her
reading--I suspect Mrs. Lumley of eavesdropping to have known this!
Miss Dallas was not dishonourable; she mistook the poem for her work,
I’ve no doubt. In it Richard Latham voiced the love for her which he
thought, foolishly, when you consider what he is, that he was forbidden
to tell Miss Dallas because he is blind. I talked with Miss Dallas when
she had just learned that Latham loved her. We agreed that she was
free to admit to herself her love for Richard Latham; that it was now
her right, her duty to walk the beautiful way open to her. I have no
doubt that she will be happy. He is a rare man. There is no question
that they both are now blissfully happy. Miss Dallas is dining there
to-night, and Mr. Latham, instructing Mrs. Lumley as to the table,
himself told her to put an old lady friend of his, who is also dining
there, at his right, but to put Miss Dallas opposite him. ‛Though I
cannot see her, Mrs. Lumley, I shall know that she is there. I want to
say to you that it will not be long before Miss Dallas will preside
over my table, seated opposite to me. She has consented to be my wife.’
Mrs. Lumley quoted this to Minerva with what I feel sure was dramatic
accuracy, for Minerva’s repetition of her words carried conviction.
I am sure that though she hates the marriage, the housekeeper enjoys
having her feelings harrowed! It is really more exciting than a movie,
I make no question!”
Miss Carrington laughed her light, amused, tolerant laugh.
With an imprecation Kit shoved back his chair and went away.
He was numb with puzzled incredulity, yet he knew that what he had
heard must be true. How it could be true--how this could follow
to-day after his certainty of yesterday, of this afternoon, till this
moment--Kit could not think. He could not think about it, anyway. All
that he could do was to feel. Poor Kit was one dull ache, stunned by
the blow that had fallen upon him. He recalled the significance, the
pity with which Richard Latham’s housekeeper had regarded him.
His secret must be suspected then; he was warranted in his feeling that
Anne had understood, if the housekeeper knew.
Kit went to his room and sat by the window at which he had spent the
night of anxious vigil before Anne Berkley’s fate was decided. Then
Anne Dallas had seemed to be with him, sharing his sorrow for the
little girl, but also sharing the love which upheld him. He tried
to think back to discover what had made him so sure that Anne had
understood and had answered to the call of his longing for her, but he
could discover nothing that she had done or said.
“I am a fool, an utter, consummate, wretched fool!” he said, aloud.
“It’s like that pocket knife that I was sure Aunt Anne was giving me on
my eighth birthday; she had a set of kid travel books for me! It was
only that I wanted that knife so badly! I still remember how I felt
when I opened those books! I wanted Anne so much I thought I’d get her.
Of course any one would love Latham. He’s fine. And it isn’t her fault.
I--I’m the blind man!”
It was a comfort to decide that Anne was in no wise to blame; it was
such a comfort that Kit did what he must have done when he was eight
and the knife that he had convinced himself was coming never came. He
was alone in his room with no one to see, and he dropped his head on
his folded arms and sobbed over his ruined hopes.