_Exits and Entrances_
Miss Carrington’s dignified house was shaken out of its settled
monotony.
Helen Abercrombie was going home. Her father, the ex-governor, was
coming for her; he was to pass a night under his old friend’s roof, and
them resume his way, taking with him his handsome daughter to entertain
for him guests of political importance. George Lanbury had arranged to
travel with them. He had stayed on at the Cleavedge Arms to receive
formally the ex-governor’s acceptance of him as his future son-in-law.
Miss Carrington herself was decidedly shaken in health; her nerves were
on edge, her digestion a misnomer, and her heart was acting badly.
It had been a trial almost beyond bearing that Kit had laughed at her
attempt to control his marriage--had good-humouredly, but decidedly,
flouted her hint of punishment for disobeying her or reward for his
obedience. She had for so long been ensconced behind her pride and
paramount will that it was a disintegrating shock to discover that she
might be regarded merely as one of the many prejudiced elderly women in
the world whose prejudices should be kindly tolerated as long as they
affected nothing in particular, but which were to be put down when they
overflowed this barrier.
She raged to discover that Kit considered her views silly whims, that
the worst that she could do to him was a featherweight in comparison
with Anne Dallas; most unbearable of all, that her rage accomplished
nothing but to throw her into greater impotence.
Kit had brought Helen’s father from the station; he went down with
Noble to meet him.
The ex-governor was a man of soldierly bearing, with keen eyes, a
drooping white moustache, useful in concealing the expression of
his lips, and thick, prematurely white hair. Helen looked like him.
His face was not less that of a citizen of the world than hers, but
something--years or nature--modified in him the hardness that impaired
his daughter’s beauty.
Kit ushered ex-Governor Abercrombie into the library and went in search
of his aunt. He returned to say:
“My aunt, as I told you, Mr. Abercrombie, is not well. She begs you to
allow her one more hour of rest before coming down. Helen is driving
with Mr. Lanbury. Shall I take you to your room, or would you rather
sit here? Smoking is not forbidden in my aunt’s house. May I?” Kit
offered Mr. Abercrombie his cigar case.
“I’ll wait here till Helen comes. I suppose Lanbury will return with
her? I’d like to bless them personally as soon as possible; I have
blessed them by telegraph and mail.”
The ex-governor took a cigar, cut its tip, and looked at Kit with
humorous eyes as he spoke.
“I’m told that you didn’t want to marry my girl!” he continued, to
Kit’s chagrin. “Yet she’s a handsome creature and clever. Helen conveys
to me the impression that you understood that she and your aunt
approved of your marrying her, but that you would rather have a certain
pretty little person of whom their estimate is not high. Helen is
emancipated; she would make her opinions clear to you, if I know her!
She surely is a princess, and if you were my son I should have done
everything possible to push your fortunes. What is the reason you were
so obdurate, Master Kit? As it’s settled, you need not answer unless
you wish. I’m simply curious.”
Kit looked up with a frank laugh and a blush that pleased Helen’s
father.
“You see I loved Miss Dallas and didn’t love your splendid Helen, Mr.
Abercrombie,” he said. “I suppose it does seem stupid to you, but wait
till you see Miss Dallas! I think a man of your experience would admire
her, and say she’s a girl to love.”
Mr. Abercrombie smiled down at the tip of his cigar as he knocked off
its ashes with his little finger.
“I don’t find your attitude blameworthy, Kit,” he said.
He was silent for a moment, then he looked up with a shadow in his eyes.
“I had my dream, too, Christopher. I didn’t marry the girl; perhaps
it’s as well, but there’s always a lurking doubt about a lost joy. She
was a mighty sweet, fine girl, with something in her charm I never
saw in any other woman. I suppose that’s common to all first love. I
married well; wisely, don’t you see? It was a comfortable marriage. But
I’m not so sure wise marriages are always wholly wise. I’m not inclined
to condemn you for following your star. In fact, it has delighted me to
find you the man your boyhood promised you’d be. I was greatly pleased
to learn how loyally you stood by your colours. I shall do my best to
talk your aunt over to our side. Helen is the twentieth-century jewel,
fit in every way to hold her own. But if you love your unambitious
girl, go ahead and marry her, and tell the world and the flesh to go to
the devil! I’ll do what I can to help you to business success, so don’t
worry, Kit.”
Kit had sat listening to this long speech, his extinct cigar forgotten
in his hand, amazement growing at each word. When Mr. Abercrombie ended
Kit cried:
“Why, Governor Abercrombie, what a trump you are! I’d no idea you’d
be sympathetic! Aunt Anne will listen to you, of course. But I’m going
into business in New York, so I don’t suppose you can help me to get
rich--no end grateful just the same! It’s enough if you can help me
with Aunt Anne.”
“Political influence reaches out farther than you may think, my boy;
I’ll get at your business in some way, trust me! I’d like to see Miss
Dallas. Think it can be managed?” asked Mr. Abercrombie.
“She won’t see me,” Kit admitted, cheerfully. “But that’s a temporary
state of things. We shall be married soon, that’s certain. I
wonder--wouldn’t it be a good thing to get Aunt Anne to ask her here?
Her cousin, Edwin Wilberforce, the artist, is staying with his great
friend, Mr. Latham. I wonder if Aunt Anne could be persuaded to ask
Anne and her cousin here together? It’s such a neat way out of a mess
to ignore it with a casual invitation!”
“Wilberforce, the artist, her cousin?” Mr. Abercrombie looked so
pleased that there could be no question of his sincere desire to smooth
the course of this true love.
“If your aunt cares about connections there is glory in being Edwin
Wilberforce’s cousin! It seems to me, my boy, that we shall certainly
have Miss Carrington pouring libations to Eros!”
Mr. Abercrombie found that it was easier to veto a state law than to
alter the unwritten law of a woman’s will. His stay was not long enough
to bring Miss Carrington to the point of striking her colours. She
would not gratify him by admitting the justice of the proposition which
he laid before her.
Helen’s kindly father left Cleavedge at two o’clock on the following
day. At the informal dinner of the evening of his arrival Mr.
Abercrombie had met and accepted Helen’s future husband. Kit thought
that it was not a wholly agreeable duty; several times he caught Mr.
Abercrombie watching George Lanbury and scrutinizing Helen.
Helen was at her best beauty and brilliance. Lanbury was entirely
sure of himself, treated her father with easy assurance and Kit with
condescending amusement. Not only Kit, but also Helen’s father, knew
that he believed himself to have stolen the girl from Kit’s longing
arms and that Kit was suffering in consequence, though he succeeded
in not wearing his heart upon the sleeve of either of these defrauded
limbs.
“Helen will put it all over him, but he will not always be pleasant,”
thought the astute father. “She was right to want this gallant boy.”
The next day Miss Carrington was nervously anxious to have the hour of
departure arrive; she was ill enough to want everything that was to
happen to be quickly over and done. She did not attempt to go to the
station, but bade Helen good-bye in her library. Helen lightly kissed
Miss Carrington farewell. She was regal in her gray-green costume with
its small hat, a touch of gold its sole ornament, risking comparison
with her hair and losing by the venture.
“I’ve had a wonderful visit. You’ve been delightful to me, dear Miss
Carrington,” Helen said. “I hope you’ll rest and regain your strength.
Come to visit me when I’m settled down. That will not be for some time,
but come when I am established. I’ll be married at Christmas, if I can
get things made by then. We may go abroad for the honeymoon; we have
not settled our plans. But they will include a visit from you when I’m
in my own house. Good-bye. Are you going to the station with us, nice
Kit? That’s dear of you! Parting _is_ sweet sorrow, and this one
will lead to a lovers’ meeting, I trust. Tell your brown lass that I
congratulate her, though custom reserves congratulations to the man.
Come, Father, I’m ready.”
“Good-bye, Miss Carrington. Get strong fast,” said Helen’s father,
looking annoyed. “Think over my prescription. I’ll guarantee your
recovery if you follow it up. Good-bye.”
Kit handed Helen into the car, put the bags in after Mr. Abercrombie,
then got up beside Noble and they drove away. A good deal had happened
since Helen had arrived. Kit realized that he was not the inexperienced
boy who had greeted her.
No sooner were they gone than Miss Carrington hastened upstairs,
calling as she reached the top:
“Minerva, Minerva, make haste!”
“I do not think that you should go, Miss Carrington,” protested
Minerva, ready with Miss Carrington’s hat, coat, and gloves.
“Don’t you? Did you order a carriage?” asked her mistress.
It appeared that Minerva had, though under protest, and Miss Carrington
hurried her dressing. She bade the livery carriage driver to take her
to Latham Street, and to wait.
Miss Carrington appeared unexpectedly in Richard’s quiet room.
She found him in his favourite chair, peacefully taking part in
conversation with Ted Wilberforce and his sitter.
The sitter was little Anne, costumed as the artist had planned, in a
soft green silken gown that fell to her ankles. It was touched with
dull gold to relieve it, and it had a white yoke, and a narrow white
band around the slender throat. Her dark hair fell straight against
her cheeks, and her hands, lying on her knees, held a rare old tooled
leather “Book of Hours.” A dark carved chair of mediæval Italian design
was her throne, and her little feet rested on a carved footstool. Her
eyes were shining, for, to call into her face the expression that he
wanted to paint, Ted Wilberforce had talked to her of poetry and of
heavenly things.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, stopping short.
She knew a great deal about pictures, and she saw that the picture
before her was wonderfully beautiful, from both an artistic and a
literary point of view.
“Don’t let me interrupt, I beg,” she said, delight shining in her
eyes. “When I lived in Paris I knew many of the artists and rejoiced in
seeing pictures grow. But this one! Wilberforce or Carpaccio? And what
do you call it?”
“‛The Mystic,’ Miss Carrington,” said Wilberforce, resuming the brush
that he had laid down.
The picture was well on toward completion; the artist worked rapidly,
with swift, sure instinct and obedient strokes.
“Exactly!” Miss Carrington’s approval of the name was manifest. “Little
Anne, you are a fortunate child, yet I think you help the artist.”
“Mr. Wilberforce has been telling me stories about Fra Angelico,
and how he prayed and prayed to be fit to paint Our Lord and his
Blessed Mother. And he told me about Fra Bartolomeo and how he went
to the monastery where they attacked Sav-on-a-ro-la.” Little Anne
pronounced the long name carefully. “And it has been most good for me.
‛_Fra_’ means ‛brother,’ Miss Carrington. I’m afraid you don’t
know about monks, but I do. Sisters are the same, only ladies, and I go
to their school. I told Mr. Wilberforce and Mr. Latham lots of stories,
too; all about St. Francis and the animals. He called them ‛Brother
Wolf’ and ‛Sister Bird,’ and he loved them dearly! I don’t know what
he’d ever have done if he’d seen Kitca! Or Cricket! Do you think when
they look down, saints can see animals? Don’t you think they must,
because they see me, and I’m always forever hugging Cricket and Kitca?”
Little Anne leaned forward eagerly, but instantly remembered and
resumed her pose. Her eyes were filled with the vision that her own
question called up, and Ted worked rapidly on the eyes in his picture.
“My dear little Anne, it seems to me quite as probable----” Miss
Carrington checked herself. How could she insinuate her cavilling doubt
to this child?
“I am certain that the saints see and love the creatures,” she said
instead, to her own surprise. Then she turned to Richard with a
gentleness that he had never before felt in her.
“And you, Mr. Latham? Are you well? Shall you stay with us in Cleavedge
next winter?” she asked.
“I am perfectly well, thank you, Miss Carrington,” Richard said. “No,
not Cleavedge next winter. Ted Wilberforce and I are to foregather
in New York; he has a studio there. He will paint; I shall write. We
expect to have a sort of curtailed Parnassus; two of the Nine dwelling
with us. Ted and I get on together, so the good old boy will take me
in. We may go to Rome, but in the spring we’ll be back here.”
“I am truly delighted!” cried Miss Carrington, and she looked so. “That
is perfect! Mr. Wilberforce, I want to beg your pardon. I did not know
when I met you the other day that you were related to Miss Dallas. Will
you do me a great favour and prove that I am forgiven? Will you bring
your cousin to see me--to-day?”
Before Ted Wilberforce could answer, Richard interposed.
“Miss Carrington,” he said, “permit me. You will admit my right to say
this. I am thankful that you are making this overture. Will you go all
the way and welcome Miss Dallas as your daughter? In all the world
there is no other who would be to you what she would be. I shall be
grateful if you can break down her scruples, make her give Kit his due,
and you, with them, be happy ever after! It’s such a pity to waste a
day of happiness in an uncertain world! Will you ease my mind by giving
me this promise, Miss Carrington?”
“Yes,” said Miss Carrington, gruffly. “I had already decided that I was
a fool.”
“Good news!” cried Richard, springing up and seizing her hands. “Ted,
will you carry out your share of this programme, bring Anne to Miss
Carrington--when, Miss Carrington?”
“Now. I have a carriage waiting. Shall we go to fetch her? Little
Anne may come. No one will see her costume in the carriage,” said Miss
Carrington. Ted Wilberforce hesitated. He loved Anne, was impatient for
her happiness, to see her trouble go, her joy come, but--Richard? He
could not bear to leave him alone while they went on this errand.
“Why not go alone, Miss Carrington? I’ll stay with Latham. You go to
fetch Anne yourself. Take little Anne, but I stay here. It’s you and I
together now, Dick, so I stay with you to-day,” he said.
Richard went toward him and the two men met as Ted came forward from
his easel. They put their hands on each other’s shoulders, and Miss
Carrington felt her eyes grow moist. This was a love that passed the
love of women, and it made itself felt as these two friends stood
silent for an instant, giving and taking devotion.
“All right, old Ted, stay with me,” was all that Richard said.
“I’ll tell Anne Dallas he is not desolate, though she must know through
her cousin,” thought Miss Carrington, profoundly thankful that Richard
had this friend.
Little Anne had looked on this scene and listened to what had been said
with intense though puzzled interest. It was clear to her that she was
to go with Miss Carrington in a carriage, to see Anne, but nothing else
was clear to her.
“Do I stop sitting, Mr. Wilberforce?” she asked.
“For to-day. There needs but few more sittings, little Anne. The
picture will be done in four or five more, I’m sure. Then it will
be exhibited in New York, and people will wonder who is Edwin
Wilberforce’s dark little Mystic! And only a few of us will be let
into the secret that it is the smallest Anne!” Ted offered his hand to
little Anne to help her down from the chair.
She seized it and kissed it.
“Doesn’t God send me the dearest people!” she sighed.
Miss Carrington bore the child off with her, Ted seeing them to the
carriage. He returned to Richard and to the putting away of his easel,
brushes, and colours, and stood the wet canvas carefully against the
wall on one of the bookcases.
Neither man was inclined to talk. This was definitely the end of
Richard’s short dream of joy. But he was not alone; and both men were
gratefully aware of the value of their friendship now.
Joan looked up in surprise when she saw little Anne in costume; she was
more surprised when Miss Carrington followed her from the carriage.
“I can’t touch your glove, Miss Carrington; I’ve been washing bluing
from every inch of the baby’s surface--she had got the bottle! But
please come in! I’ll repeat the operation on myself. Anne is upstairs.
Do you want her?” Joan asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Paul; I want her,” said Miss Carrington.
Joan caught the emphasis.
“Anne, Anne,” she said in a stage whisper, as she hurried into Anne’s
room. “Come, quick! Our aunt has capitulated; the stage is set for your
entrance! She gave me the clue! Miss Carrington is downstairs!”
Anne went down trembling. Miss Carrington stood awaiting her, and came
to meet her.
“Please forgive me, my dear, forgive my old attitude toward you. I
think you will, later. Come home with me. I have just left your cousin.
He was coming here with me, but at the last moment decided to stay
with Mr. Latham. Come home with me, dear Anne, and forgive me for not
yielding sooner to what I thought a mistake of Kit’s. Now I want you to
make him happy,” she said.
“Oh, how can I? Home with you? But--that would be--does Kit know?”
stammered Anne.
“It would be coming to us for good and all? Surely! I hope so! How can
you? How can you not? Hasn’t there been enough time wasted, enough
sighs sighed and tears shed, not to delay longer? Kit does not know; it
is to surprise him. Don’t hesitate, Anne! You’ve played a noble rôle,
nobly. Be big enough now to throw aside pride and accept your part.
Come to Kit, my child, and forgive me.”
Miss Carrington spoke eagerly; she swayed slightly, and her weakness
moved Anne’s pity. After all she was, as the girl had long known, a
sad, impoverished old woman, whose cleverness had led nowhere, whose
aims had been insignificant.
Before she could gather herself together to meet this demand upon her
Anne felt little Anne’s arms clinging around her waist, and looked down
into the shining eyes of the child, lifted to hers above her quaint
gown.
“I don’t quite know what it is, Anne, dearest,” little Anne whispered,
“only Miss Carrington says forgive her, and we have to, or it would
be a dreadful sin! You’ve got to forgive people, sorry ones, because
you’re so often a sorry one yourself--I mean all of us!”
The elder and the younger Anne smiled at each other over the head of
the youngest Anne; the smile seemed to clear up the difficulty, to
simplify and make natural the next step.
“You see you have the authority of the saints for it, Anne Dallas!”
said Miss Carrington.
“I’ll go with you, Miss Carrington,” said Anne.
Kit had come in before them and had gone to his room.
Minerva followed her mistress and Anne up to Miss Carrington’s sitting
room; she helped Miss Carrington off with her outdoor garments,
meantime scanning Anne surreptitiously and reaching a favourable
verdict upon her.
“Handsomer and grander Helen Abercrombie may be, but this sweet, good
kind for me! I’m glad Master Kit has the sense!” thought Minerva.
“Better ask Mr. Christopher to come down, Minerva,” said Miss
Carrington when Minerva’s task was done, and Miss Carrington had taken
the teaspoonful of aromatic ammonia in water made necessary by the
exhausting nature of her afternoon’s mission.
“Go behind that curtain, my dear, if you please. We may as well set our
little drama to the best of our ability, and get out of it every iota
of its flavour! I want to surprise the boy.”
“Oh, no; oh, no; I can’t!” cried Anne.
Nevertheless, she obediently hid behind the heavy portière that hung
ready to shut off draughts from the door.
Kit came in whistling softly through his teeth.
“Want me, Aunt Anne?” he asked, checking his sibilant tune.
“Yes, my dear. I wanted--wanted--to show you a--a statuette I have.
It’s behind the portière. Please go over and get it,” said Miss
Carrington, struggling to speak naturally.
Unsuspecting Kit went. He pulled the portière, but it was held. He went
at it again more vigorously, and, suddenly, it swung loose, as fingers
clasping it relaxed.
There, shrinking back against the wall, her face flushed, with colour
that came and went, her eyes shining with joy, yet afraid, her lips
tremulous and infinitely sweet, stood Anne.
“Good heavens! Anne!” cried Kit, stunned for a moment.
But only for a moment. Then he had her in his arms, lifted her off her
feet, and kissed her all over the flushed, frightened, happy face.
“You little goose! Why were you so long?” he cried.
Then, as he realized what must have happened to bring her there, he
turned to his aunt.
“Aunt Anne! Well, Aunt Anne! You’re the greatest Anne of the three!” he
cried.
Anne swiftly ran past Kit and dropped on her knees before the oldest
Anne’s chair, her head on Miss Carrington’s lap.
“Oh, I will be good! I will repay you! Please love me!” she cried.
“Nonsense. I do!” declared the oldest Anne.