THE VILLA AT CONEY ISLAND.
The awkwardness of his relations with Anne Dillon wore away speedily,
until he began to think as well as speak of her as his mother; for she
proved with time to be a humorous and delightful mother. Her love for
rich colors and gay scenes, her ability to play gracefully the awkward
part which he had chosen for her, her affectionate and discreet reserve,
her delicate tact and fine wit, and her half-humorous determination to
invade society, showed her as a woman of parts. He indulged her fancies,
in particular her dream of entering the charmed circle of New York
society. How this success should be won, and what was the circle, he did
not know, nor care. The pleasure for him lay in her bliss as she
exhausted one pleasure after another, and ever sought for higher things:
Micksheen at the cat show attended by the liveried mulatto; the opera
and the dog show, with bonnets and costumes to match the occasion; then
her own carriage, used so discreetly as not to lose the respect of the
parish; and finally the renting of the third pew from the front in the
middle aisle of the cathedral, a step forward in the social world. How
he had enjoyed these events in her upward progress! As a closing event
for the first year of his new life, he suggested a villa by the sea for
the summer, with Mona and Louis as guests for the season, with as many
others as pleased her convenience. The light which broke over her face
at this suggestion came not from within, but direct from heaven!
She sent him modestly to a country of the Philistines known as Coney
Island, where he found the common herd enjoying a dish called chowder
amid much spontaneity and dirt, and mingling their uproarious bathing
with foaming beer; a picture framed in white sand and sounding sea, more
than pleasant to the jaded taste of an Endicott. The roar of the surf
drowned the mean uproar of discordant man. The details of life there
were too cheap to be looked at closely; but at a distance the surface
had sufficient color and movement. He found an exception to this
judgment. La Belle Colette danced with artistic power, though in
surroundings unsuited to her skill. He called it genius. In an open
pavilion, whose roughness the white sand and the white-green surf helped
to condone, on a tawdry stage, she appeared, a slight, pale, winsome
beauty, clad in green and white gauze, looking like a sprite of the
near-by sea. The witchery of her dancing showed rare art, which was lost
altogether on the simple crowd. She danced carelessly, as if mocking the
rustics, and made her exit without applause.
"Where did you get your artiste, August?" he said to a waiter.
"You saw how well she dances, hey? Poor Colette! The best creature in
the world ... opens more wine than five, and gives too much away. But
for the drink she might dance at the opera."
Arthur went often to see her dance, with pity for the talent thrown
away, and brought his mother under protest from that cautious lady, who
would have nothing to do with so common a place. The villa stood in
respectable, even aristocratic, quiet at the far end of the island, and
Anne regarded it almost with reverence, moving about as if in a temple.
He found, however, that she had made it a stage for a continuous drama,
in which she played the leading part, and the Dillon clan with all its
ramifications played minor characters and the audience. Her motives and
her methods he could not fathom and did not try; the house filled
rapidly, that was enough; the round of dinners, suppers, receptions,
dances, and whatnots had the regularity of the tides. Everybody came
down from Judy's remotest cousin up to His Grace the archbishop. Even
Edith Conyngham, apparently too timid to leave the shadow of Sister
Magdalen, stole into a back room with Judy, and haunted the beach for a
few days. For Judy's sake he turned aside to entertain her, and with the
perversity which seems to follow certain actions he told her the
pathetic incident of the dancer. Why he should have chosen this poor nun
to hear this tale, embellished as if to torture her, he could never make
out. Often in after years, when events had given the story
significance, he sought for his own motives in vain. It might have been
the gray hair, the rusty dress, the depressed manner, so painful a
contrast to the sea-green sprite, all youth, and grace, and beauty,
which provoked him.
"I shall pray for the poor thing," said rusty Edith, fingering her
beads, and then she made to grasp his hand, which he thrust into his
pockets.
"Not a second time," he told Louis. "I'd rather get the claw of a boiled
lobster."
The young men did not like Miss Conyngham, but Louis pitied her sad
state.
The leading characters on Anne's stage, at least the persons whom she
permitted occasionally to fill its center, were the anxious lovers Mona
and Doyle Grahame. He was a poet to his finger-tips, dark-haired, ruddy,
manly, with clear wit, and the tenderest and bravest of dark eyes; and
she, red-tressed, lovely, candid, simple, loved him with her whole heart
while submitting to the decree of a sour father who forbade the banns.
Friends like Anne gave them the opportunity to woo, and the Dillon clan
stood as one to blind the father as to what was going on. The sight of
this beauty and faith and love feeding on mutual confidence beside the
sunlit surf and the moonlight waters gave Arthur profound sadness,
steeped his heart in bitterness. Such scenes had been the prelude to his
tragedy. Despair looked out of his eyes and frightened Louis.
"Why should you mind it so, after a year?" the lad pleaded.
"Time was when I minded nothing. I thought love and friendship, goodness
and happiness, grew on every bush, and that
When we were far from the lips that we loved,
We had but to make love to the lips that were near.
I am wiser now."
"Away with that look," Louis protested. "You have love in plenty with
us, and you must not let yourself go like that. It's frightful."
"It's gone," Arthur answered rousing himself. "The feeling will never go
farther than a look. She was not worth it--but the sight of these two--I
suppose Adam must have grieved looking back at paradise."
"They have their troubles also," Louis said to distract his mind.
"Father is unkind and harsh with Irish patriots, and because Grahame
went through the mill, conspiracy, arrest, jail, prison, escape, and all
the rest of it, he won't hear of marriage for Mona with him. Of course
he'll have to come down in time. Grahame is the best fellow, and clever
too."
One day seemed much the same as another to Arthur, but his mother's
calendar had the dates marked in various colors, according to the rank
of her visitors. The visit of the archbishop shone in figures of gold,
but the day and hour which saw Lord Constantine cross her threshold and
sit at her table stood out on the calendar in letters of flame. The
Ledwiths who brought him were of little account, except as the friends
of His Lordship. Anne informed the household the day before of the honor
which heaven was sending them, and gave minute instructions as to the
etiquette to be observed; and if Arthur wished to laugh the blissful
light in her face forbade. The rules of etiquette did not include the
Ledwiths, who could put up with ordinary politeness and be grateful.
"I can see from the expression of Mona," Arthur observed to the other
gentlemen, "that the etiquette of to-morrow puts us out of her sight.
And who is Lord Constantine? I ought to know, so I did not dare ask."
"A young English noble, son and heir of a Marquis," said Grahame with
mock solemnity, "who is devoted to the cause of bringing London and
Washington closer together in brotherly love and financial, that is
rogues' sympathy--no, roguish sympathy--that's better. He would like an
alliance between England and us. Therefore he cultivates the Irish. And
he'd marry Honora Ledwith to-morrow if she'd have him. That's part of
the scheme."
"And who are the Ledwiths?" said Arthur incautiously, but no one noticed
the slip at the moment.
"People with ideas, strange weird ideas," Louis made answer. "Oh,
perfectly sane, of course, but so devoted to each other, and the cause
of Ireland, that they can get along with none, and few can get along
with them. That's why Pop thinks so much of 'em. They are forever
running about the world, deep in conspiracies for freedom, and so on,
but they never get anywhere to stay. Outside of that they're the
loveliest souls the sun ever shone on, and I adore Honora."
"And if Mona takes to His Lordship," said Grahame, "I'll worship Miss
Ledwith."
"Very confusing," Arthur muttered. "English noble,--alliance between two
countries--cultivates Irish--wants to marry Irish girl--conspirators and
all that--why, there's no head or tail to the thing."
"Well, you keep your eye on Honora Ledwith and me, and you'll get the
key. She's the sun of the system. And, by the way, don't you remember
old Ledwith, the red-hot lecturer on the woes of Ireland? Didn't you
play on her doorstep in Madison street, and treat her to Washington
pie?"
When the party arrived next day Arthur saw a handsome, vigorous, blond
young man, hearty in his manner, and hesitating in his speech, whom he
forgot directly in his surprise over the Ledwiths; for he recognized in
them the father and daughter whom he had observed in so passionate a
scene in the cathedral on St. Patrick's Day. He had their history by
heart, the father being a journalist and the daughter a singer; they had
traveled half the world; and while every one loved them none favored
their roseate schemes for the freedom of Ireland. Perhaps this had made
them peculiar. At the first glance one would have detected oddity as
well as distinction in them. Tall, lean, vivacious, Owen Ledwith moved
about restlessly, talked much, and with considerable temper. The
daughter sat placid and watchful, quite used to playing audience to his
entertainments; though her eyes never seemed to look at him, Arthur saw
that she missed none of his movements, never failed to catch his words
and to smile her approval. The whiteness of her face was like cream, and
her dark blue eyes were pencilled by lashes so black that at the first
glance they seemed of a lighter shade. Impressed to a degree by what at
that instant could not be put into words, he named her in his own mind
the White Lady. No trace of disdain spoiled her lofty manner, yet he
thought she looked at people as if they were minor instruments in her
own scheme. She made herself at home like one accustomed to quick
changes of scene. A woman of that sort travels round the globe with a
satchel, and dresses for the play with a ribbon and a comb, never
finding the horizon too large for personal comfort. Clearly she was
beloved in the Dillon circle, for they made much of her; but of course
that day not even the master of the house was a good second to Lord
Constantine. Anne moved about like herself in a dream. She was heavenly,
and Arthur enjoyed it, offering incense to His Lordship, and provoking
him into very English utterances. The young man's fault was that he rode
his hobby too hard.
"It's a shame, doncheknow," he cried as soon as he could decently get at
his favorite theme, "that the English-speaking peoples should be so
hopelessly divided just now----"
"Hold on, Lord Conny," interrupted Grahame, "you're talking Greek to
Dillon. Arthur, m'lud has a theory that the English-speaking peoples
should do something together, doncheknow, and the devil of it is to get
'em together, doncheknow."
They all laughed save Anne, who looked awful at this scandalous mimicry
of a personage, until His Lordship laughed too.
"You are only a journalist," said he gayly, "and talk like your journal.
As I was saying, we are divided at home, and here it is much worse. The
Irish here hate us worse than their brethren at home hate us,
doncheknow--thank you, Miss Ledwith, I really will not use that word
again--and all the races settled with you seem to dislike one another
extremely. In Canada it's no better, and sometimes I would despair
altogether, only a beginning must be made sometime; and I am really
doing very well among the Irish."
He looked towards Honora who smiled and turned again to Arthur with
those gracious eyes.
"I knew you would not forget it," she said. "The Washington pie in
itself would keep it in your mind. How I loved that pie, and every one
who gave me some. Your coming home must have been very wonderful to your
dear mother."
"More wonderful than I could make you understand," murmured Arthur. "Do
you know the old house is still in Madison street, where we played and
ate the pie?"
Louis put his head between them slyly and whispered:
"I can run over to the baker's if you wish and get a chunk of that
identical pie, if you're so in love with it, and we'll have the whole
scene over again."
No persuasion could induce the party to remain over night at the villa,
because of important engagements in the city touching the alliance and
the freedom of Erin; and the same tremendous interests would take them
far away the next morning to be absent for months; but the winter would
find them in the city and, when they would be fairly settled, Arthur was
bid to come and dine with them often. On the last boat the White Lady
sailed away with her lord and father, and Anne watched the boat out of
sight, sighing like one who has been ravished to the third heaven, and
finds it a distressing job to get a grip on earth again.
Arthur noticed that his mother dressed particularly well for the visits
of the politicians, and entertained them sumptuously. Was she planning
for his career? Delicious thought! But no, the web was weaving for the
Senator. When the last knot was tied, she threw it over his head in
perfect style. He complimented her on her latest costume. She swung
about the room with mock airs and graces to display it more perfectly,
and the men applauded. Good fortune had brought her back a likeness of
her former beauty, angles and wrinkles had vanished, there was luster in
her hair, and her melting eyes shone clear blue, a trifle faded. In her
old age the coquette of twenty years back was returning with a charm
which caught brother and son.
"I shall wear one like it at your inauguration, Senator," said she
brightly.
"For President? Thank you. But the dress reminds me, Anne," the Senator
added with feeling, "of what you were twenty years ago: the sweetest and
prettiest girl in the city."
"Oh, you always have the golden word," said she, "and thank you. But
you'll not be elected president, only mayor of our own city."
"It might come--in time," the Senator thought.
"And now is the time," cried she so emphatically that he jumped.
"Vandervelt told me that no man could be elected unless you said the
word. Why shouldn't you say it for yourself? He told me in the same
breath he'd like to see you in the place afore any friend he had,
because you were a man o' your word, and no wan could lose be your
election."
"Did he say all that?"
"Every word, and twice as much," she declared with eagerness. "Now think
it over with all your clever brains, Senator dear, and lift up the
Dillon name to the first place in the city. Oh, I'd give me life to see
that glory."
"And to win it," Arthur added under his breath.
The Senator was impressed, and Arthur had a feeling akin to awe. Who can
follow the way of the world? The thread of destiny for the great city up
the bay lay between the fingers of this sweet, ambitious house-mother,
and of the popular gladiator. Even though she should lead the Senator by
the nose to humiliation, the scene was wonderfully picturesque, and her
thought daring. He did not know enough history to be aware that this
same scene had happened several hundred times in past centuries; but he
went out to take another look at the house which sheltered a woman of
pluck and genius. The secret of the villa was known. Anne had used it to
help in the selection of the next Mayor. He laughed from the depths of
his being as he walked along the shore.
The Everard children returned home early in September to enjoy the
preparations for the entrance of Louis into the seminary. The time had
arrived for him to take up the special studies of the priesthood, and
this meant his separation from the home circle forever. He would come
and go for years perhaps, but alas! only as a visitor. The soul of
Arthur was knit with the lad's as Jonathan with David. He had never
known a youth so gracious and so strange, whose heart was like a
sanctuary where
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chants resound between.
It was with him as with Sir Galahad.
But all my heart is drawn above.
My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine
I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden's hand in mine.
Parting with him was a calamity.
"How can you let him go?" he said to Mary Everard, busy with the
preparations.
"I am a happy woman that God calls my boy to His service," she answered
cheerfully. "The children go anyway ... it's nature. I left father and
mother for my own home. How good it is to think he is going to the
sanctuary. I know that he is going forever ... he is mine no more ... he
will come back often, but he is mine no more. I am heart-broken ... I am
keeping a gay face while he is here, for the child must not be worried
with our grief ... time enough for that when he is gone ... and he is so
happy. My heart is leaving me to go with him. Twenty years since he was
born, and in all that time not a moment's pain on his account ... all
his life has been ours ... as if he were the father of the family. What
shall I be for the rest of my life, listening for his step and his
voice, and never a sight or sound of him for months at a time. God give
me strength to bear it. If I live to see him on the altar, I shall thank
God and die...."
Twenty years she had served him, yet here came the inevitable end, as if
such love had never been.
"Oh, you people of faith! I believe you never suffer, nor know what
suffering is!"
"Not your kind of suffering, surely, or we would die. Our hope is always
with us, and fortunately does not depend on our moods for its power."
Mona teased him into good humor. That was a great moment when in
presence of the family the lad put on the dress of the seminary,
Arthur's gift. Feeling like a prince who clothes his favorite knight in
his new armor, Arthur helped him to don the black cassock, tied the
ribbons of the surplice, and fixed the three-cornered cap properly on
the brown, curly head. A pallor spread over the mother's face. Mona
talked much to keep back her tears, and the father declared it a shame
to make a priest of so fine a fellow, since there were too many priests
in the world for its good. The boy walked about as proud as a young
soldier dressed for his first parade. The Trumps, enraptured at the
sight, clapped their hands with joy.
"Why, he's a priest," cried Constance, with a twist of her pretty mouth.
"Louis is a priest."
"No, Baby," corrected Marguerite, the little mother, "but he is going to
be one sometime."
The wonderful garments enchanted them, they feared to touch him, and
protested when he swung them high and kissed them on the return flight.
The boy's departure for the seminary stirred the region of Cherry Hill.
The old neighbors came and went in a steady procession for two days to
take their leave of him, to bless his parents, and to wish them the joy
of seeing him one day at the altar as a priest of God. They bowed to him
with that reverence which belonged to Monsignor, only more familiar and
loquacious, and each brought his gift of respect or affection. Even the
Senator and the Boss appeared to say a parting word.
"I wish you luck, Louis," the Senator said in his resonant voice, and
with the speaker's chair before his eyes, "and I know you'll get it,
because you have deserved it, sir. I've seen you grow up, and I've
always been proud to know you, and I want to know you as long as I live.
If ever you should need a hand like mine in the ga ... I mean, if ever
my assistance is of any use to you, you know where to call."
"You have a hard road to travel," the genial Sullivan said at the close
of his visit, "but your training has prepared you for it, and we all
hope you will walk it honorably to the end. Remember we all take an
interest in you, and what happens to you for good or ill will be felt in
this parish."
Then the moment of parting came, and Arthur thought less of his own
grief than of the revelation it contained for him. Was this the feeling
which prompted the tears of his mother, and the tender, speechless
embrace of his dear father in the far-off days when he set out for
school? Was this the grief which made the parting moment terrible? Then
he had thought it nothing that for months of the year they should be
without his beloved presence! He shivered at the last embraces of Mary
and Mona, at the tears of the children; he saw behind the father's mask
of calmness; he wondered no more at himself as he stood looking after
the train which bore the boy away. The city seemed as vacant all at once
as if turned into a desert. The room in the attic, with its bed, its
desk, and its altar, suddenly became a terrible place, like a body from
which the soul has fled. Every feature of it gave him pain, and he
hurried back with Mona to the frivolity of Anne in her villa by the
sea.