ANNE DILLON'S FELICITY.
Monsignor was not discouraged by his failure to detach Arthur from the
romantic expedition to the Irish coast. With a view to save him from an
adventure so hurtful to his welfare, he went to see Anne Dillon. Her
home, no longer on Mulberry Street, but on the confines of Washington
Square, in a modest enough dwelling, enjoyed that exclusiveness which is
like the atmosphere of a great painting. One feels by instinct that the
master hand has been here. Although aware that good fortune had wrought
a marked change in Anne, Monsignor was utterly taken aback by a
transformation as remarkable in its way as the metamorphosis of Horace
Endicott.
Judy Haskell admitted him, and with a reverence showed him into the
parlor; the same Judy Haskell as of yore, ornamented with a lace cap, a
collar, deep cuffs, and an apron; through which her homeliness shone as
defiantly as the face of a rough mountain through the fog. She had been
instructed in the delicate art of receiving visitors with whom her
intimacy had formerly been marked; but for Monsignor she made an
exception, and the glint in her eye, the smile just born in the corner
of her emphatic mouth, warned him that she knew of the astonishment
which his good breeding concealed.
"We're mountin' the laddher o' glory," she said, after the usual
questions. "Luk at me in me ould age, dhressed out like a Frinch
sportin' maid. If there was a baby in the house ye'd see me, Father
Phil, galivantin' behind a baby-carriage up an' down the Square. Faith,
she does it well, the climbin', if we don't get dizzy whin we're halfway
up, an' come to earth afore all the neighbors, flatter nor pancakes."
"Tut, tut," said Monsignor, "are you not as good as the best, with the
blood of the Montgomerys and the Haskells in your veins? Are you to
make strange with all this magnificence, as if you were Indians seeing
it for the first time?"
"That's what I've been sayin' to meself since it began," she replied.
"Since what began?"
"Why, the changin' from Mulberry Sthreet Irish to Washington Square
Yankees," Judy said with a shade of asperity. "It began wid the dog-show
an' the opera. Oh, but I thought I'd die wid laughin', whin I had to
shtan' at the doors o' wan place or the other, waitin' on Micksheen, or
listenin' to the craziest music that ever was played or sung. After that
kem politics, an' nothin' wud do her but she'd bate ould Livingstone for
Mare all by herself. Thin it was Vandervelt for imbassador to England,
an' she gev the Senator an' the Boss no pace till they tuk it up. An'
now it's the Countess o' Skibbereen mornin', noon, an' night. I'm sick
o' that ould woman. But she owns the soul of Anne Dillon."
"Well, her son can afford it," said Monsignor affably. "Why shouldn't
she enjoy herself in her own way?"
"Thrue for you, Father Phil; I ought to call you Morrisania, but the
ould names are always the shweetest. He has the money, and he knows how
to spind it, an' if he didn't she'd show him. Oh, but he's the fine b'y!
Did ye ever see annywan grow more an' more like his father, pace to his
ashes. Whin he first kem it wasn't so plain, but now it seems to me he's
the very spit o' Pat Dillon. The turn of his head is very like him."
At this point in a chat, which interested Monsignor deeply, a soft voice
floated down from the upper distance, calling, "Judy! Judy!" in a
delicate and perfect French accent.
"D'ye hear that, Father Phil?" whispered Judy with a grin. "It's nothin'
now but Frinch an' a Frinch masther. Wait till yez hear me at it."
She hastened to the hall and cried out, "Oui, oui, Madame," with a
murmured aside to the priest, "It's all I know."
"Venez en haut, Judy," said the voice.
"Oui, oui, Madame," answered Judy. "That manes come up, Father Phil,"
and Judy walked off upright, with folded arms, swinging her garments,
actions belied by the broad grin on her face, and the sarcastic motion
of her lips, which kept forming the French words with great scorn.
A few minutes afterward Anne glided into the room. The Montgomery girls
had all been famous for their beauty in the earlier history of Cherry
Hill, and Anne had been the belle of her time. He remembered her thirty
years back, on the day of her marriage, when he served as altar-boy at
her wedding; and recalled a sweet-faced girl, with light brown silken
hair, languorous blue eyes, rose-pink skin, the loveliest mouth, the
most provoking chin. Time and sorrow had dealt harshly with her, and
changed her, as the fairies might, into a thin-faced, gray-haired,
severe woman, whose dim eyes were hidden by glasses. She had retained
only her grace and dignity of manner. He recalled all this, and drew his
breath; for before him stood Anne Montgomery, as she had stood before
him at the altar; allowing that thirty years had artistically removed
the youthful brilliance of youth, but left all else untouched. The brown
hair waved above her forehead, from her plump face most of the wrinkles
had disappeared, her eyes gleamed with the old time radiance, spectacles
had been banished, a subdued color tinted her smiling face.
"Your son is not the only one to astound me," said Monsignor. "Anne, you
have brought back your youth again. What a magician is prosperity."
"It's the light-heartedness, Monsignor. To have as much money as one can
use wisely and well, to be done with scrimpin' forever, gives wan a new
heart, or a new soul. I feel as I felt the day I was married."
She might have added some information as to the share which modiste and
beautifier might claim in her rejuvenation, but Monsignor, very strict
and happily ignorant of the details of the toilet, as an ecclesiastic
should be, was lost in admiration of her. It took him ten minutes to
come to the object of his visit.
"He has long been ahead of you," she said, referring to Arthur. "I asked
him for leave to visit Ireland, and he gave it on two conditions: that I
would take Louis and Mona wid me, and refuse to interfere with this
Fenian business, no matter who asked me. I was so pleased that I
promised, and of course I can't go back on me word."
"This is a very clever young man," said Monsignor, admiring Anne's skill
in extinguishing her beautiful brogue, which, however, broke out sweetly
at times.
"Did you ever see the like of him?" she exclaimed. "I'm afraid of him.
He begins to look like himself and like his father ... glory be to God
... just from looking at the pictures of the two and thinkin' about
them. He's good and generous, but I have never got over being afeared of
him. It was only when he went back on his uncle ... on Senator Dillon
... that I plucked up courage to face him. I had the Senator all ready
to take the place which Mr. Birmingham has to-day, when Arthur called
him off."
"He never could have been elected, Anne."
"I never could see why. The people that said that didn't think Mr.
Vandervelt could be made ambassador to England, at least this time. But
he kem so near it that Quincy Livingstone complimented me on my interest
for Mr. Vandervelt. And just the same, Dan Dillon would have won had he
run for the office. It was with him a case of not wantin' to be de
trop."
"Your French is tres propos, Anne," said Monsignor with a laugh.
"If you want to hear an opinion of it," said the clever woman, laughing,
too, "go and hear the complaints of Mary and Sister Magdalen. Mais je
suis capable de parler Francais tout de meme."
"And are you still afraid of Arthur? Wouldn't you venture on a little
protest against his exposing himself to needless danger?"
"I can do that, certainement, but no more. I love him, he's so fine a
boy, and I wish I could make free wid him; but he terrifies me when I
think of everything and look at him. More than wanst have I seen Arthur
Dillon looking out at me from his eyes; and sometimes I feel that Pat is
in the room with me when he is around. As I said, I got courage to face
him, and he was grieved that I had to. For he went right into the
contest over Vandervelt, and worked beautifully for the Countess of
Skibbereen. I'm to dine with her at the Vandervelts' next week, the
farewell dinner."
Her tones had a velvet tenderness in uttering this last sentence. She
had touched one of the peaks of her ambition.
"I shall meet you there," said Monsignor, taking a pinch of snuff.
"Anne, you're a wonderful woman. How have all these wonders come about?"
"It would take a head like your own to tell," she answered, with a
meaning look at her handsome afternoon costume. "But I know some of the
points of the game. I met Mr. Vandervelt at a reception, and told him he
should not miss his chance to be ambassador, even if Livingstone lost
the election and wanted to go to England himself. Then he whispered to
me the loveliest whisper. Says he, 'Mrs. Dillon, they think it will be a
good way to get rid of Mr. Livingstone if he's defeated,' says he; 'but
if he wins I'll never get the high place, says he, 'for Tammany will be
of no account for years.'"
Anne smiled to herself with simple delight over that whispered
confidence of a Vandervelt, and Monsignor sat admiring this dawning
cleverness. He noticed for the first time that her taste in dress was
striking and perfect, as far as he could judge.
"'Then' says I, 'Mr. Vandervelt,' says I, 'there's only wan thing to be
done, wan thing to be done,' says I. 'Arthur and the Senator and Doyle
Grahame and Monsignor must tell Mr. Sullivan along wid Mr. Birmingham
that you should go to England this year. 'Oh,' said he, 'if you can get
such influence to work, nothing will stop me but the ill-will of the
President.' 'And even there,' said I, 'it will be paving the way for the
next time, if you make a good showing this time.' 'You see very far and
well,' said he. That settled it. I've been dinin' and lunching with the
Vandervelts ever since. You know yourself, Monsignor, how I started
every notable man in town to tell Mr. Sullivan that Vandervelt must go
to England. We failed, but it was the President did it; but he gave Mr.
Vandervelt his choice of any other first-class mission. Then next, along
came the old Countess of Skibbereen, and she was on the hands of the
Vandervelts with her scheme of getting knitting-machines for the poor
people of Galway. She wasn't getting on a bit, for she was old and queer
in her ways, and the Vandervelts were worried over it. Then I said: 'why
not get up a concert, and have Honora sing and let Tammany take up one
end and society the other, and send home the Countess with ten thousand
dollars?' My dear, they jumped at it, and the Countess jumped at me.
Will you ever forget it, Monsignor dear, the night that Honora sang as
the Genius of Erin? If that girl could only get over her craziness for
Ireland and her father--but that's not what I was talking about. Well,
the Countess has her ten thousand dollars, and says I'm the best-dressed
woman in New York. So, that's the way I come to dine with the
Vandervelts at the farewell dinner to the Countess, and when it comes
off New York will be ringing with the name of Mrs. Montgomery Dillon."
"Is that the present name?" said Monsignor. "Anne, if you go to Ireland
you'll return with a title. Your son should be proud of you."
"I'll give him better reason before I'm done, Monsignor."
The prelate rose to go, then hesitated a moment.
"Do you think there is anything?--do you think there could be anything
with regard to Honora Ledwith?"
She stopped him with a gesture.
"I have watched all that. Not a thing could happen. Her thoughts are in
heaven, poor child, and his are busy with some woman that bothered him
long ago, and may have a claim on him. No wan told me, but my seein' and
hearing are sharp as ever."
"Good-by, Mrs. Montgomery Dillon," he said, bowing at the door.
"Au plaisir, Monseigneur," she replied with a curtsey, and Judy opened
the outer door, face and mien like an Egyptian statue of the twelfth
dynasty.
Anne Dillon watched him go with a sigh of deep contentment. How often
she had dreamed of men as distinguished leaving her presence and her
house in this fashion; and the dream had come true. All her life she had
dreamed of the elegance and importance, which had come to her through
her strange son, partly through her own ambition and ability. She now
believed that if one only dreams hard enough fortune will bring dreams
true. As the life which is past fades, for all its reality, into the
mist-substance of dreams, why should not the reverse action occur? Had
she been without the rich-colored visions which illuminated her idle
hours, opportunity might have found her a spiritless creature, content
to take a salary from her son and to lay it by for the miserable days of
old age. Out upon such tameness! She had found life in her dreams, and
the two highest expressions of that life were Mrs. Montgomery Dillon
and the Dowager Countess of Skibbereen.
As a pagan priestess might have arrayed herself for appearance in the
sanctuary, she clothed herself in purple and gold on the evening of the
farewell dinner.
Arthur escorted his mother and Honora to the Vandervelt residence.
As the trio made their bows, the aspirant for diplomatic honors rejoiced
that his gratitude for real favors reflected itself in objects so
distinguished. He was a grateful man, this Vandervelt, and broad-minded,
willing to gild the steps by which he mounted, and to honor the humblest
who honored him: an aristocrat in the American sense of the term,
believing that those who wished should be encouraged to climb as high as
natural capacity and opportunity permitted. The party sat down slightly
bored, they had gone through it so often; but for Anne Dillon each
moment and each circumstance shone with celestial beauty. She floated in
the ether. The mellow lights, the glitter of silver and glass, the
perfume of flowers, the soft voices, all sights and sounds, made up a
harmony which lifted her body from the ground as on wings, more like a
dream than her richest dreams. For conversation, some one started Lord
Constantine on his hobby, and said Arthur was a Fenian, bent on
destroying the hobby forever. In the discussion the Countess appealed to
Anne.
"We are a fighting race," said she, with admirable caution picking her
steps through a long paragraph. "There's--there are times when no one
can hold us. This is such a time. A few months back the Fenian trouble
could have been settled in one week. Now it will take a year."
"But how?" said Vandervelt. "If you had the making of the scheme, I'm
sure it would be a success."
"In this way," she answered, bowing and smiling to his sincere
compliment, "by making all the Irish Fenians, that is, those in Ireland,
policemen."
The gentlemen laughed with one accord.
"Mr. Sullivan manages his troublesome people that way," she observed
triumphantly.
"You are a student of the leader," said Vandervelt.
"Everybody should study him, if they want to win," said Anne.
"And that's wisdom," cried Lord Constantine.
The conversation turned on opera, and the hostess wondered why Honora
did not study for the operatic stage. Then they all urged her to think
of the scheme.
"I hope," said Anne gently, "that she will never try to spoil her voice
with opera. The great singers give me the chills, and the creeps, and
the shivers, the most terrible feeling, which I never had since the day
Monsignor preached his first sermon, and broke down."
"Oh, you dear creature," cried the Countess, "what a long memory you
have."
Monsignor had to explain his first sermon. So it went on throughout the
dinner. The haze of perfect happiness gathered about Anne, and her
speech became inspired. A crown of glory descended upon her head when
the Dowager, hearing of her summer visit to Ireland with Mona and Louis
in her care, exacted a solemn promise from her that the party should
spend one month with her at Castle Moyna, her dower home.
"That lovely boy and girl," said the Countess, "will find the place
pleasant, and will make it pleasant for me; where usually I can induce
not even my son's children to come, they find it so dull."
It did not matter much to Anne what happened thereafter. The farewells,
the compliments, the joy of walking down to the coach on the arm of
Vandervelt, were as dust to this invitation of the Dowager Countess of
Skibbereen. The glory of the dinner faded away. She looked down on the
Vandervelts from the heights of Castle Moyna. She lost all at once her
fear of her son. From that moment the earth became as a rose-colored
flame. She almost ignored the adulation of Cherry Hill, and the
astonished reverence of her friends over her success. Her success was
told in awesome whispers in the church as she walked to the third pew of
the middle aisle. A series of legends grew about it, over which the
experienced gossips disputed in vain; her own description of the dinner
was carried to the four quarters of the world by Sister Magdalen, Miss
Conyngham, Senator Dillon, and Judy; the skeptical and envious pretended
to doubt even the paragraph in the journals. At last they were struck
dumb with the rest when it was announced that on Saturday last Mrs.
Montgomery Dillon, Miss Mona Everard, and Mr. Louis Everard had sailed
on the City of London for a tour of Europe, the first month of which
would be spent at Castle Moyna, Ireland, as guests of the Dowager
Countess of Skibbereen!