_Made in Heaven_
“Minerva,” said Miss Carrington, “I am not feeling well. I need
diversion.” Minerva scanned her mistress critically, and said:
“You may be pale, but you don’t look sick. You are probably bothered.”
“Do you like him, Minerva?” asked Miss Carrington, peevishly.
“He would be called handsome by most people, and his clothes are just
about it,” said Minerva, cautiously. “But for what there is about him
which isn’t bought I’m not able to say much. No, Miss Carrington, if
I was to speak freely I would say that I don’t care for him. Miss
Abercrombie’s going to marry him whatever I say, or you, either, so I
put it to you: What’s the use of saying it, or thinking it, for that
matter? I guess you were worrying over it, instead of sleeping as you
might better have done and the result the same, and that’s why you feel
sort of used up. Miss Helen’s made up her mind and you may’s well go
along with it. I’ve noticed the only thing you can do about a marriage
is to order a present for it. What they set out to do, they do for the
most part. She’s none of your responsibility, anyway.”
“No, that’s true. I shall have her father here in a few days, I hope.
But they’ve gone to ride, and I’m certain they will come back with
everything settled, Minerva,” said Miss Carrington.
“’Twas before they started,” returned Minerva with a Gallic shrug that
accorded ill with her most un-Gallic stiffness. “Miss Carrington, Miss
Helen has that horse you got for her, the black one, but Mr. Lanbury
wanted to ride Master--Mr. Kit’s own, and Mr. Kit wouldn’t let him. You
and I know he won’t let any man set astride that horse whose character
and hand on the bridle isn’t known to him, but Mr. Lanbury didn’t know
it, and he took personal offence at getting refused. Miss Helen lifted
her eyebrows at him to signify: ‛What could you expect of a young man
who wanted to ride with her himself?’ and Mr. Lanbury lifted his back
at her to mean: ‛Is that what’s the matter?’ He looked as pleased as
every man does when he’s carried off the girl the other chap wanted. It
was pictured in our illustrated lectures in connection with Sabines.
So Mr. Lanbury’s been given to understand that Mr. Kit’s gnashing his
teeth, when the real truth about his teeth is that he wouldn’t bite.”
Minerva looked outraged by this perversion of facts affecting the
dignity of the Carringtons. Miss Carrington regarded her with
amusement, realizing that Minerva should not be allowed so much as
implied comment upon her guest, but finding rebuke difficult when
Minerva had for so long ably seconded her own efforts.
“Well, Minerva, I am bound to acknowledge that I see no symptoms of
Kit’s estimating his own folly properly,” Miss Carrington said instead.
“But I am disturbed. I believe I’d enjoy a call from that amusing
Berkley child. Will you step around to Merton’s and telephone Mrs.
Berkley; ask her if little Anne may come to see me? But before you go,
get me into my kimono and make me comfortable on the couch.”
Minerva did as she was bidden and departed for the drug store to ask to
borrow little Anne.
She returned with the message that little Anne would shortly appear,
and, indeed she came sooner than could have been expected, because she
had already been made ready for a call in Latham Street.
“Be careful, Anne, not to say the smallest word to Miss Carrington of
Miss Dallas’s unhappy morning here. Remember, no one wants that sort of
thing repeated,” warned Mrs. Berkley, smoothing the child’s bobbed hair
before putting on her hat, merely for the pleasure of stroking her head.
“Oh, Mother, as though I would when she was crying about Kit!” cried
little Anne, reproachfully; and Mrs. Berkley felt helplessly, as she
so often did, that her younger daughter was aware of and equal to the
situation. Minerva, on the watch for little Anne, met her and took her
up to Miss Carrington’s sitting room.
“Oh, I’m very sorry! I didn’t know you invited me because you were
sick,” said little Anne, her solicitude banishing her shyness as she
entered and saw Miss Carrington on the couch.
“I am not ill, my dear; only not equal to playing my part. Do you
understand that?” Miss Carrington waited for little Anne’s reply.
“I think so,” said little Anne, doubtfully. “In school last winter
I was like that. Sister said I must be growing, but it was tonsils.
Afterward they found out they were swollen. I didn’t remember to tell,
but they looked and saw.”
“My tonsils are all right, and I hardly think I am growing. Do you
suppose it could be that I am grown--grown old, Anne?” suggested Miss
Carrington.
“Well,” said little Anne, delicately, “I don’t think when a person is
seven--although I’m ’most eight--you can tell so well when people are
old. I don’t believe you are, or anyway, not much. My mother seems
not--not quite so old, but there’s Mr. Allen, the grocer’s father who
carries things when there’s no boy, he’s much, much older! And you are
so quick, Miss Carrington, when you’re not lying down and are feeling
well! Oh, no; I’m sure it isn’t being old! Could I read to you, do you
s’pose? I can read pretty well, much better than I can do arithmetic.”
“I hardly think that I should enjoy your doing arithmetic half as well
as reading, child,” said Miss Carrington. “I should not care to have
you add up my totals. I am a lonely, disappointed failure, little Anne,
with nothing before me but to die. And I don’t know how to die!”
Instantly little Anne jumped up and caught Miss Carrington around the
neck. She kissed her cold cheek hard, crying:
“I know how to die! I know just how; I almost did die. It’s as easy!
I’ll love you and come to see you lots. What shall I read?”
“Suppose we try ‛Cranford’: I’d like to see you reading it. You are as
appropriate to it as an illustration. It is that red leather book on
the table. Do you think you can get on with it?”
“If the words are not too long, and if the sense isn’t sort of
underneath,” said little Anne, possessing herself of the book. She
bestowed herself on a straight chair beside Miss Carrington’s couch,
her feet on a stool, fluttering the pages, her dark, short hair falling
forward around her eager face. She made a dear little Reynolds picture,
Miss Carrington thought, feeling that she had been wise to send for
Anne.
“Don’t you think it’s strange the way meaning of books gets ’way
underneath, when the words on top are quite easy? Sometimes when I
understand all the words I don’t understand the book one bit. Oh,
what very nice pictures!” Little Anne looked appreciatively at Hugh
Thompson’s beruffled ladies and small-waisted gentlemen.
“Shall I begin at the beginning? I can’t stay to read it all, I’m
afraid, because I’m going to Mr. Latham’s. He called me to the
telephone, me, myself, and told me to come because he had something
splendid to tell me. And I talked to him and told him I’d come, and he
could hear me perfec’ly; he said so. What shall I read, please?”
“Shut your eyes and open the book, and read wherever it opens,” said
Miss Carrington.
The reading was but begun when Miss Carrington held up a finger.
“I hear Miss Abercrombie coming with a friend of hers. We can’t read,
Anne. They are coming up.”
Miss Carrington seemed disturbed.
Little Anne let the leather-bound volume drop in a V on her knee like a
red velvet cap, and looked curiously toward the door.
She saw Miss Abercrombie, in her russet riding clothes, come in and
run swiftly to Miss Carrington’s side, and drop on one knee, her other
russet-leather-booted foot resting on its toe as she laid her radiant
head on the old lady’s hands.
Behind her followed slowly, halting midway to the couch, a tall man
with dark eyes and hair, perfectly clad, smiling an amused smile beyond
little Anne’s analytic powers, but which she did not like.
Miss Carrington, looking over Helen at him, knew that he was appraising
the scene with no intention to take part in a comedy.
“Oh, dearest old friend,” cried Helen, her voice thrilling, “give me
your best wishes and loving sympathy! George and I----”
She stopped, as if overcome.
“Congratulations, Mr. Lanbury!” said Miss Carrington, extending her
hand. “I cannot rise. You surely will be the justly envied man of this
year!”
“Thanks, Miss Carrington. Also of all succeeding years,” said George
Lanbury. “Helen is not merely a jewel; she’s the crown jewels and the
crown. I flatter myself that her wit and beauty, with my wealth and
her father’s position, will be a combination hard to beat. I didn’t
show her the ring, but I brought it along. She wouldn’t give me an
answer in the spring, but she did say she’d send for me if she decided
my way. I rather thought she’d see it as I did. Nice girl all the same,
Helen, to see it! Come and get your ring, my royal princess!”
With a deprecating and inquiring glance at Miss Carrington, Helen
obediently arose and went over to her betrothed. He produced from his
pocket an immense diamond and a guarding hoop of diamonds. He put them
both on Helen’s finger, kissing her repeatedly, with an ardour that
declared an old woman and a child not to be worth minding.
Little Anne hastily slid down from her high chair; her eyes were wide
and alarmed.
“I must go right away, Miss Carrington,” she said. “I’ve got to go now,
thank you; I’ve had a pleasant time.”
“Who’s the lean squab?” asked George Lanbury.
“Good-bye, little Anne. I like to have you beside me. Thank you, dear,
and come again,” Miss Carrington quickly interposed.
“Is it possible that you are joining the cult?” asked Helen. The sight
of Anne Berkley at this moment--recalling where and how she had last
seen her, underscoring the contrast between the great stone flashing
on her hand, the man who had just put it there, and what she had
hoped would be her fate--came upon Helen as an evil omen. “Small dark
banshees seem to bring bad luck,” she added, involuntarily.
“I tried to find four-leaf clovers for you, Miss Abercrombie, because
you hunted for them so hard that day with Kit, and I wanted you to
have good luck for giving me Kitca, but I couldn’t find one. I’ll try,
though, to get you some.”
Little Anne ran every step of the way to Latham Street. She was late
and the desire to get there was strong upon her. Something had made
her uncomfortable; she did not know what it was, but she wanted Anne
Dallas and the beloved poet.
“Well, dear mite, how late you are!” cried Richard Latham as little
Anne came running down the garden to join him and Anne where they sat.
“I was calling on Miss Carrington; she asked me on the telephone, too,
only it wasn’t her own; she hasn’t one, and I didn’t talk myself this
time. She isn’t ’xactly well; she was lying down. I was going to read
to her, but Miss Abercrombie came in, all in goldeny riding things, and
kneeled down to Miss Carrington. There was a man, too. He called her
over to get it and he gave her the biggest diamond ring ever in all
this world, and another crusty diamond one to put on top of it. And
he--he--he said they would be married, and so did she.”
Little Anne poured forth her story rapidly, but she could not say that
George Lanbury had kissed Helen.
“Dear me, Anne, what a fairy tale!” cried Richard.
“Oh, no; honest it isn’t, Mr. Latham,” protested little Anne,
misunderstanding. “It’s all true, and I didn’t tell quite all.”
“The man wasn’t Kit!” cried Richard, startled by this hint of something
withheld.
Little Anne shook her head hard and glanced with a wise little smile at
Anne. Anne hated herself for it, but she laid a warning finger on her
lip. Little Anne shook her head still harder and said:
“I guess it wasn’t Kit! He’s a big man. When he laughs it doesn’t look
like something funny, but as if you were funny yourself. He’s not like
Kit, dear Kit! He’s named George. That’s what she called him. So I came
here, and I’m glad I did.”
“So are we,” said Richard Latham. “When I called you up, Miss Anne
Berkley, it was to tell you something that makes me so happy that I had
to ask my best, most intimate lady friend to be told about it.”
“Me?” cried little Anne, ecstatically striking her breast.
“You and this other Anne are my very dearest friends,” Richard gravely
assured her. “The other Anne knew all about it; I did not have to tell
her. Little Anne, my play is finished!”
“Oh, is it?” cried little Anne, clasping her hands fervently as she
always did when moved.
Though she did not understand precisely the full import of what she had
been told, she realized that Richard Latham had long been at work upon
this play. That it was finished meant something so great that she could
not grasp it. This only proved it the more glorious.
Anne Dallas with an effort that little Anne could not see, though she
did see how white and worn the girl looked, took up the tale.
“It is the most beautiful play that ever was, dear little Anne. And it
is done, every word! It is called ‛The Guerdon.’ The great New York
manager, who was here the other day, is going to put the play on in the
autumn, if he can get it ready. It will be acted by the best actors
in the country, and the scenery will be a dream! And on the first
night--what do you suppose? Mr. Latham will have the big box next the
stage, and he is going to invite some people who are dear to him to sit
with him in that box! Mr. Wilberforce, the famous painter, will be one
of them, but who else do you suppose, little Anne?”
“I don’t know,” little Anne managed to say, huskily, choked by a hope
that she dared not admit.
“Little Anne Berkley for one!” cried Anne, triumphantly, seizing the
child’s face between her hands to kiss it.
“Me? At night? In New York? Oh, oh!” Little Anne looked almost faint
from the shock of this overwhelming joy. “Never, never in all my life
have I been once to the theatre, and I have to go to bed at eight, no
matter what! And I’ve only been to New York three times, and once was
to a dentist, and once to the zoo--the other I was a baby. Oh, I’ll
pray my mother will let me go! Mr. Latham, I’d die for you over and
over.”
“Live for me, little Anne, please!” Richard laughed. “Come here, small
Dynamic, and thank me at closer range.”
Little Anne ran to him and perched on the arm of his chair. She bent
over and kissed him gently, in spite of her tumultuous delight. Little
Anne always felt that Richard might be hurt if she touched him as
recklessly as she did people who could see.
“But who else do you think will be in the author’s box, that’s Mr.
Latham’s, you know?” Anne resumed the game.
“I don’t--Kit?” guessed little Anne.
“Oh, no!” cried Anne, sharply, taken by surprise. She covered the cry
with a laugh. “Can’t you guess, when Mr. Latham just told you who were
his two best friends?”
“’Course!” exclaimed little Anne, scornful of herself. “Miss Anne--you!”
“No, and yes, little Anne!” Anne said. “There will be no Miss Anne
then.”
“What will you be? Why not?” demanded little Anne.
“I shall be Anne Latham; the other person in the author’s box will be
the poet’s wife,” said Anne.
She went over to Richard and leaned on the other arm of his chair. He
put out his hand without speaking and took hers. Anne leant her head
upon his; little Anne saw her lips move.
“You’d think she was saying a prayer,” thought the child. “Shall you be
married?” she asked aloud. Her voice was awed, her eyes big. “Is that
why you won’t be you?”
“That is why I shall be I! That is exactly why I shall be I, and no one
else,” Anne murmured. “I might not be myself, but quite another sort of
person if I weren’t married to you then, mightn’t I, dear Richard? We
shall be married when that wonderful night comes around, and you and
I are in the box, little Anne! The play is all done, every word, and
you are to see it on its very first night and I shall see it, too, but
then I shall be our poet’s wife. Tell your mother and Joan what we have
told you, and tell them it is not a secret; they may tell whomever they
choose, and so may you, dearie. Are you proud and glad, little Anne? I
am.”
Richard, smiling and joyous, got possession of Anne’s other hand. He
knew she was talking excitedly to something within herself rather
than to the child. He felt her tremble, but he set it down to her
sensitiveness. He would have known that Anne would not talk calmly of
her approaching marriage, nor of the great First Night of the play.
But little Anne held in her small hands and child brain the clue which
Richard lacked. Wonder, dismay, a question crept into her wide eyes as
she stared at Anne. She saw what Richard could not see, the tears that
were gathering in Anne’s eyes and which she feared might fall on the
hands with which Richard held hers so fast that she could not dry the
tears.
Little Anne slipped down and around to Anne. With the corner of her
handkerchief, bordered with kittens, she painstakingly wiped away
Anne’s tears.
“I think I’d better go home,” said little Anne, slowly, all her
joyousness gone.
Then Anne knew that her fear that little Anne might betray her by an
unwelcome allusion to that memorable morning at her home was groundless.
“Why so soon, little Anne, dear?” asked Richard. “Why must you go?”
“I was first at Miss Carrington’s, and it took too long,” said little
Anne. “I’ve got to feed Kitca and ask Mother if she thinks I may go to
see the play; I want to know quick. Will it be soon?”
“October is the earliest we may hope for, dear. There’s no end of time
to wait!” said Richard.
“I was born in October; maybe I’ll be eight by the time of the play;
then I’ll be something different, too. No, I won’t; you don’t see
anything when you have a birthday. I remember when I was going to be
six I thought I’d change. ’Course not! I didn’t know you’d be married,
Miss Anne, darling! I truly must go home. I’ve got to see Mother
right away! Honest, Mr. Latham, I don’t know’s I can bear it, I’ll be
so happy if I go that night! I’ve got to tell Mother Anne won’t be
Miss Anne then; she hates to have me forget to say that! I’ve had one
engagement and one wedding this afternoon--the news of ’em. It’s a
great deal. I feel a little queer. Good-bye. And I couldn’t thank you
no matter how I tried, so I might as well go now.”
Little Anne passively allowed herself to be kissed, and beat a rapid
retreat. She had corked up her feelings to the last possible instant.
Though the maturity which she anticipated attaining in October, when
she was eight, was still some weeks distant, something told the child
that Anne was hiding an aching heart.