THE ROYAL MANTLE
THE week that followed was an unhappy one for Lloyd. Everywhere she went
it seemed to her that lilies-of-the-valley were thrust into her face. On
the way to town people got on the car at nearly every station with great
bunches of them that they were carrying to offices or to their friends.
The florists' windows were full of them. Men passed her on the street
wearing them on their coats, and even the little shop-girl, who waited
on her at the ribbon counter, had them stuck in her belt. When she
called at Mrs. Bisbee's there was a box of them growing on her
window-sill, and at home the whole house was permeated by the fragrance
that floated out from the great crystal bowl on the library table. She
could not get away from them, and they kept Rob constantly in her
thoughts.
She told herself that she had never known anything quite so considerate
and sweet as the way he had taken her answer. The more she thought of
his quick putting aside of self in order that she might not be unhappy,
the more it grieved her that he must be disappointed. She did not see
him again until the following Sunday. He came into church behind the old
Judge and Mrs. Moore, and Lloyd dropped her eyes to her hymn-book, her
heart in such a flutter that it sent a queer little tingle all over her.
She was afraid to meet his glance, for fear the consciousness of their
last meeting would send the telltale red to her face.
In the pew just behind the Moores' sat Katie Mallard with a girl from
Frankfort, who was visiting her, and as Rob took his seat Lloyd saw the
guest's pretty eyes fixed inquiringly on him. Then she whispered
something to Katie behind her fan. Instantly the wonder crossed Lloyd's
mind what the newcomer thought of him, and then she wondered how he
would appear to her if she could see him with the eyes of a stranger,
without the intimate knowledge their long acquaintance had given her.
She stole a glance in his direction, as the organist pulled out the
stops and struck the opening chords of the voluntary. He was certainly
good to look at, and, she concluded, the veriest stranger, if he were
any judge at all of such things, must see at a glance that his was a
strong character, that he would scorn to do a dishonourable thing and
that the years behind him were clean and honest. Then with a start she
realized that she had been holding him up to her silver yardstick, and
that he not only met its three requirements, but went far beyond. He had
family, social position, everything that her father had desired for her
save wealth, and she remembered how earnestly he had added, on that
solemn watch-night, "but all these are nothing when weighed in the
balance with the love of an honest man."
This greatest of all had been given her, but she could not accept
because--well, she didn't know why--but probably because it was just
_Bobby_ who had offered it, and she couldn't think of _him_ as being the
one the stars had destined for her--a boy that she had made mud pies
with. The old Hildegarde story had been good for her in many ways, but
it had made the prince of her dreams a vague personality unlike any man
she had ever met. She had never put into words, even to herself, what
she expected him to be like, but the shadowy image that her imagination
sometimes held up had no flaw like ordinary mortals, no human faults
and failings. And she would know him when he came, in some strange,
mysterious way that needed no speech--his coming would be heralded like
Hebe's: "_Before her ran an influence sweet, that bowed my heart like
barley bending._"
The congregation rose for the Gloria and her eyes met Rob's. For one
instant in the quick lighting of his face she had a revelation of all
that his "miracle of blossoming" meant to him, then he flashed her a
reassuring smile that seemed to say: "Never mind, old chum. We'll go on
just as we've always done."
That she had interpreted it aright Lloyd knew when he came that
afternoon as usual and proposed a walk over past the Lindsey Cabin. He
seemed to have put himself into her place so fully that he understood
just how she felt towards him; knew that it hurt her to have to withhold
the one great thing he desired, and that his friendship was still as
dear to her as ever. So with a fine consideration that she was quick to
appreciate, he came back to his old place so naturally, and as such a
matter of course, that it put her at her ease with him and made it
possible for her to ignore the episode of the lilies as if it had never
been.
May came with its locust blossoms and the birthday anniversary that
made her "old and twenty." One of her gifts was a beautiful
saddle-horse, and she began her daily rides again. Several times when
Rob could arrange to leave town earlier than usual he rode with her.
Early in June Betty wrote that she was going up into the pine woods of
Maine for her vacation. She had been offered a position to teach an hour
a day in a sort of summer school, a girls' camp, and the position had
too many advantages to refuse. She would be back in time for a week or
ten days at The Locusts before the opening of the fall term at Warwick
Hall. Lloyd, who had looked forward to Betty's companionship for the
entire summer, was sorely disappointed. The same day that that letter
came, Rob told her that he was going away for awhile. Some investments
his father had made years ago had turned out to be worth investigating,
and he was sure he could dispose of them advantageously. At any rate he
was going to Birmingham to try. He might be back in a week or two, and
he might be away the entire month of June. If Betty had been at home
probably Lloyd would not have missed him at all, but because she had to
take so many of her walks and rides alone, he was often in her
thoughts.
"I can't expect to have every summah as gay as last one was," she said
to herself one morning, as she busied herself about her room, changing
the arrangement of the pictures. She leaned over to dust the ones above
her low bookcase. They ran in a long panel, just above it, the series of
garden fancies that Leland Harcourt had suggested. It was on a June
morning like this almost a year ago that she had posed for some of them
in Doctor Shelby's old garden. It seemed at least four times as long as
that. She had grown so much older and wiser. She stooped to look again
at the picture of Darby and Joan, under which was written, "Hand in hand
while our hair is gray." As she passed her duster lightly over the glass
which covered the two dear old faces, she remembered that next week this
devoted couple were to celebrate their golden wedding, and that she had
promised to let them "borrow" her for a whole week before, to help with
the preparations.
An hour later she was opening the gate that led to the old-fashioned
door where the ugly little Chinese idol still kept guard and held it
open. She found Mrs. Shelby out on her cool upper piazza, behind the
moon-vines, in a low sewing chair. She was stitching daintily away on a
bit of fine linen. "A wristband for one of Richard's shirts," she
explained, after her first moments of delighted greeting. "And I'll go
right on with it, for I'm making him a set all by hand for my
anniversary present to him. He's always been so proud of my needlework
and had so much sentiment for the things I've made myself. I can't begin
to tell you how glad I am to have you here. I've been sitting here all
morning thinking that if my little Alicia had lived what an interest she
would have taken in all my preparations. I keep forgetting that she
wouldn't be a young girl like you. It's Alicia's granddaughter who would
have been your age."
It took only a question or two to open the gates into this gentle old
soul's happy yesterdays, and Lloyd listened and questioned, enjoying the
quiet romance that she gathered bit by bit as one gathers the posies of
an old garden and clasps them into a full-rounded nosegay.
"Aunt Alicia," she asked presently, "were you _suah_ at the time that
you were making no mistake? Didn't you have any doubts or misgivings
about the doctah's being the right one?"
Mrs. Shelby laughed. "I must confess that I was a very silly girl who
had read so many sentimental stories that my head was full of dreams of
some faultless being who should appear like the prince to the Sleeping
Beauty and change the whole world for me with a kiss. It was a long time
before I could recognize him in the disguise of a poor country doctor.
But I think we are apt to be that way about most things in life, my
dear. Familiarity disguises the real worth of most of our blessings. We
don't appreciate them till we are forced to miss them for awhile."
"But what finally showed you?" persisted Lloyd. "What made you see
through the disguise?"
"Oh, my dear," laughed Mrs. Shelby again. "I couldn't explain a thing
like that! How do these moon-flowers know what calls them to open, or
the tide when it is time to rise? They _feel_ it, I suppose. They just
_know_! That is the way it was with me."
Lloyd came again next day prepared to spend the week. It would be hard
to tell who enjoyed the visit the most. Gentle Aunt Alicia fluttered
around, hugging the sweet pretence to her heart that for this little
space at least she had a real own daughter beside her, hers to call upon
for any service that the little Alicia would have gladly tendered. The
old doctor spent every moment he could spare from his office in the
spacious screened porch leading from the kitchen, where all the
preparations were carried gaily forward.
Here, after the invitations were sent, Lloyd spent her time. Under her
supervision the old satin wedding gown was brought out and aired and
pressed and slightly altered. Its white folds had turned to a mellow
ivory in the years it had been laid away, just as the sentiment which
cherished it had grown deeper and richer with time. Once as Lloyd
intercepted a glance the old doctor exchanged with his wife as they
brought out these reminders of their far-away bridal, it made her feel
that she was touching with intimate fingers the heart of a sweet and
tender old romance.
From the yellowed pages of an old diary, she read a description of the
original wedding feast, and with an enthusiasm which went ahead of Mrs.
Shelby's own prepared to copy it in every detail for the golden wedding.
Jellies and cakes and salads, candied rose-leaves and rare spiced
confections that had graced the first were all reproduced for this great
occasion. Lloyd beat eggs and shelled nuts and stirred icing with a
zest, while she planned the decorations and gave orders right and left
to a household who joyed to do her bidding.
It was not until next to the last great day that Mrs. Shelby made the
discovery they had overlooked a certain gold-cake, whose recipe was
missing. "And I don't suppose it's to be found anywhere in the Valley,"
she mourned, "unless they've kept Phronie Moore's old cook-book. She was
one of my bridesmaids, and she made it with her own hands. It was one of
her own special recipes that she was noted for, and I wouldn't have lost
it for anything."
"You know the Judge must have kept it, Alicia," the old doctor gently
insisted. "You know the slightest thing she ever handled was sacred to
him, and it stands to reason that anything she'd taken so much pride in,
and written every page with her own hands, as you say, would be
preserved. No doubt his daughter-in-law can find it for you without the
least trouble."
"Even if she could I wouldn't want to borrow it," began Mrs. Shelby, but
Lloyd interrupted briskly. "I'll fix it all right for you, Aunt Alicia.
I'll run right ovah to Oaklea as soon as Daphne gets this in the oven,
and ask Mrs. Moore to let me copy the recipe for you."
So that is how it came about that late that afternoon, Lloyd opened the
great iron gate at Oaklea, and, following the familiar path under the
giant oaks, reached the house to which she had long been a stranger.
Rob's dog, a fine Gordon setter, came out with a boisterous barking, but
seeing who it was, leaped up, licking her hands and wagging a friendly
welcome. It seemed as if Rob ought to be somewhere near. Everything
about the place suggested him. A familiar wide-brimmed gray hat lay on
the hall table, his riding-whip beside it. Up-stairs whither the
coloured maid led her, there were other reminders of him: Indian clubs
and a tennis racquet in a corner of the hall, and a cabinet holding the
various collections that had been his fads from time to time.
"Come in here, dear," called Mrs. Moore from the depths of a sleepy
hollow chair. "I'm too tired to move, so I knew you'd excuse my sending
down for you to come up-stairs."
It was Rob's room into which she was ushered. Mrs. Moore held out both
cordial hands without rising, and drew her down for a kiss.
"Rob's coming home to-night," she explained, "so of course everything
had to be swept and garnished for so grand an occasion, and I've nearly
used myself up making things fine in his honour."
Her eyes filled with tears. "It's the first time he's been away since
the dear 'Daddy' left us, and I had no idea four weeks could be such an
age. I'm so excited and happy over his coming that I can scarcely talk
about it calmly. But you know what a dear good son my 'Robin Adair' is
to me, so you can make allowances for a fond mother's foolishness."
It was some moments before Lloyd had an opportunity to make known her
errand, apologizing profusely for putting her to any exertion when she
was so tired.
"Oh, it's no trouble," answered Mrs. Moore. "I think I know right where
to put my hand on the book in father's room. I'll step across the hall
and see."
Left to herself Lloyd gave a shy glance around the room, remembering the
time when it had been a familiar playground, but now she had an
embarrassed sense of intruding. Many an hour she had spent romping in it
while Mom Beck and Dinah gossiped by the fire. They had had their
menagerie and lions' den in that curtained alcove. Here on the hard-wood
floor between the chimney-corner and the window they had chalked the
ring for their marble games. She leaned over and examined the floor at
her feet with a smile. Those were undoubtedly the dents that their
top-spinning had left. Mom Beck had told them at the time, no amount of
polishing could ever wipe out such holes.
The little tin soldiers that used to stand guard on the window-sill had
given place to other things now. The rocking-horse that had carried them
such long journeys of adventure together had been stabled for years in
the attic at The Locusts. College trophies and pennants hung on the
walls. A rifle and a shotgun stood in the corner where a wooden gun and
a toy sword used to stay. The low table and the picture books had given
place to a massive desk and rows on rows of heavy volumes bound in
leather.
Then she recognized several things belonging to a later period. There
was the shaving-paper case she made him the day he bought his first
razor. She had been so proud of the monogram she burnt into the leather.
It looked decidedly amateurish to her now. On the leather couch among
its many cushions was the pillow she had embroidered in his fraternity
colours and sent to him while he was at college.
Between the front windows where the desk stood, and just above it, ran
four long rows of photographs set in narrow panels. Most of them were
group pictures, the first dating back to the time of her first
house-party, and ending with some that had been taken the week of
Eugenia's wedding. It was like a serial story of all their good times,
and hastily changing her seat she leaned her elbows on the desk for
another look. But the nearer view revealed something that she had not
seen at the first glance. _She_ was the central figure of every group.
It was _her_ face that one noticed first, laughing back from every
picture.
Abashed at her discovery, she scuttled back to her former seat, but not
before her quick glance had showed her another photograph on the desk,
in a silver frame. It was the last one Miss Marks had taken of her, in
her commencement gown. She did not know that Rob had one of them. She
had not given it to him.
Mrs. Moore called out something to her from across the hall, and as she
turned to reply she faced still another picture of herself, this one in
an old-fashioned silver locket swinging from the side of the mirror. It
was the Princess Winsome with the dove. She was afraid to look any
further. She felt like an eavesdropper, for the very walls were calling
out to her those words of Rob's that she had been trying for weeks to
forget: "All my life seems to have been a growing up for this one
thing--to love you!"
She sprang up with the impulse to leave the room, to get away from these
telltale voices that she had no right to listen to. But just then Mrs.
Moore came back with the book.
"You can copy it here at the desk," she said, laying out a sheet of
paper and Rob's big heavy-handled pen. She did not sit down while Lloyd
wrote the few lines, but stood with her hand on the back of the chair
till she had finished. Then she said with an amused smile, "I want to
show you something funny, Lloyd. I came across it this morning while I
was looking over some old things of Rob's. It's your first piece of
needlework. You made it over here one rainy day under Mom Beck's
instructions. It's so long ago I suppose you've forgotten, but I
remember that Rob tried to make one too, and stuck his fingers so often
that he cried and gave it up, and you gave him yours to comfort him."
Opening a box which she brought from some drawer, she took out a sorry
little pin-cushion. All puckered and drawn, its long straggling stitches
scarcely kept in place the cotton with which it was stuffed. The faded
blue silk was streaked and dirty as if it had been used for a foot-ball
at some stage of its existence, and the pins that formed the crooked
letter L had rusted in their places. But that it was accounted something
precious, one could see from the way in which it was tied and wrapped
and carefully put away in this box by itself.
It was a relief to Lloyd to find that Mrs. Moore did not attach any
significance to the fact that Rob thus treasured her old gift. She only
laughed and said he was like her in that regard. She couldn't bear to
throw away anything connected with his childhood. Only that morning she
had come across the little blue shoes that he had learned to walk in,
and nearly cried over them, they recalled so plainly those happy days.
"We are both full of sentiment for old things," she continued. "I
believe it will hurt him nearly as much as me if we decide to leave
Oaklea and try to make a home somewhere else."
"Leave Oaklea!" repeated Lloyd wonderingly.
"Yes, Rob has had such a splendid opening offered him in Birmingham that
he has been strongly tempted to move there. Oh, I haven't told you the
good news, have I! He succeeded in selling that property to a big
corporation that needed it to extend their manufactories, and was able
to get such a fine figure for it that now he can give up that horrid
grind in the hardware business and go away in the fall for the last year
of his law course. He has studied so hard with his grandfather that this
one year is all that is necessary, and he will be the youngest lawyer to
be admitted to the Louisville bar when he gets through. His grandfather
is prouder of that possibility than anything else connected with the
boy."
"But about your going away," began Lloyd, anxiously, when she had
expressed proper interest in the news. "Oaklea won't be the same place
with strangahs living heah. I can't imagine such a thing."
"It isn't settled yet," Mrs. Moore answered cheerfully, and then rambled
on to some other topic. But Lloyd heard no word of what she was saying.
A sudden panic had seized her at the possibility of Rob's being taken
out of her life for ever. The bare thought gave her a sinking of the
heart and a sense of desolation such as a little child might have at
being left alone in the dark. As she sat there trying to imagine how it
would seem never to see him again, such a revelation of her own self
came to her that it sent the colour surging up in her face and set her
heart to fluttering like a startled bird. She knew now for whom she had
been weaving all these years. This moment of self insight had torn away
the disguise. _Her Prince had come into his kingdom!_
A pause in Mrs. Moore's remarks brought the embarrassing knowledge that
she had not heard the question whose reply was being waited for, and she
started to stammer some incoherent excuse, when a shrill whistle from
below made them both start. The familiar sound was followed by a joyous
barking from the Gordon setter, and then Rob's voice called gaily,
"Where are you, mother? Six whole hours ahead of time, just to surprise
you!"
Mrs. Moore sprang up, all her weariness forgotten, and ran down-stairs
to meet him. Lloyd stood hesitating in the middle of the floor. She
didn't want to intrude on this meeting, yet she couldn't stay there in
his room, the room that babbled his secrets and reflected him on every
side like a mirror. Still hesitating, then going forward and halting
again, she reached the landing midway on the stairs and saw him standing
with his arm around his mother, who had forgotten everything else save
the joy of his return.
Then he glanced up and saw her standing there, one hand on the polished
rail, and her white dress trailing down the steps behind her. And the
late afternoon sunshine stealing through the amber medallion window
above her rested with such soft touch on her fair hair that it seemed
that a halo of dim gold surrounded her. For an instant he thought he
must be dreaming, and stood gazing at her with a look of happy wonder as
if this were only another vision of the dream-saint always enshrined in
his heart.
But his next glance showed him that it was Lloyd in reality, for at his
adoring gaze she went all rosy red, and looked away in shy confusion.
Stopping only for the briefest greeting, she hurried past him, saying
that Aunt Alicia was waiting, and the wonderful cake wouldn't be done in
time, that his mother would tell him about it, and she'd see him at the
wedding to-morrow.
What happened afterward was all a sort of golden haze to Lloyd. The
afternoon of the anniversary came and went. She greeted the guests who
came in a constant stream with their gifts and good wishes. She sang the
old songs when they asked her to, she saw that every one was served to
the sumptuous refreshments in the dining-room; she played her role of
daughter of the house to such perfection that Aunt Alicia caught her
hand gratefully every time she passed, and followed her with loving
eyes as she flitted from room to room. She carried away the impression
that it was all a beautiful sacred occasion, for the whole Valley bared
its heart for that little space to show its love for the good doctor who
for half a century had been its standby in its times of stress and
anxiety and bitter bereavement.
Yet the only moment that stood out quite clearly was the one when Rob
passed down the receiving line and stopped for a word about the perfect
June day, and how sweet the white-haired bride of fifty years looked in
her old-time satin gown and white roses. Lloyd had answered gaily,
fluttering her fan and adjusting the slender bracelet on her arm, in a
careless way, but she had not looked up at him in her usual
straightforward fashion.
The festivities were not extended into the evening. Because Aunt Alicia
was not strong the invitations were only for the afternoon, and by
sundown the last guest had departed. Even Lloyd went, saying merrily
that she left them to begin their second honeymoon, but that she would
be back next morning to help put things in order.
There was company at The Locusts that night, some business acquaintances
of Mr. Sherman's whom he had invited to dinner, and who were interested
in nothing but statistics about the South and other like stupid things.
Tired by the day's exhausting demands, Lloyd left them when they went
into the drawing-room, and stepping out on the porch sat down on the
steps. The moon was coming up, turning the locusts to silver.
Presently she heard the sound of hoof-beats down the pike, and as she
listened a solitary horseman turned in at the gate. She was not
expecting Rob, but even at that distance she recognized the familiar
slouch of his broad-brimmed hat and the erect way he sat in the saddle.
And she knew before a word was spoken, the moment he dismounted and
stood before her that he had not come for a call, only to bring some
message. But he did not deliver it at once, only asked who the guests
were, and sat down beside her on the steps and talked about the trivial
happenings of the afternoon.
Then a few minutes later she was walking along beside him under the
locusts. The moonlight lay in silver patches among the black shadows and
the air was heavy with the breath of roses. They stopped at the old
measuring tree, and Rob dropped the light tone in which he had been
jesting, and his face grew tense in his deep earnestness.
"It's no use trying any longer, Lloyd," he said abruptly. "I can't give
you up. The golden wedding to-day was too much for me." He took a step
nearer. "Dear, isn't there _anything_ I could do to make myself worthier
in your sight? In the old days knights could go out and _prove_ their
valour and fealty. Couldn't you give me some such chance? Set me a task?
I'd go to the world's end to do it!"
Lloyd did not answer for a moment. Leaning against the trunk of the
gnarled locust, she stood idly tracing the outline of the four-leaf
clover that he had cut beside the date the last time they measured
there. Then she said in a low tone:
"Yes, you can bring me the diamond leaf that we've talked about so
often. By that token you'd prove that you were not only a true knight,
but that all these yeahs you've been my prince in disguise."
He smiled ruefully, thinking she had purposely set him a hopeless task.
They had read the legend together, and he knew full well that Abdallah
found the diamond leaf of happiness only in Paradise, but he took out
his watch and opened the back of the case, saying hopefully, "My lucky
charm has never failed me yet, how long will you give me to find it?"
She held out her hand for the little talisman, the four-leaf clover she
had given him so many years ago, but as he picked it up, the dry leaves
crumbled to dust at his touch, and only one fell unbroken into her
outstretched palm.
"My good omen has failed me when I needed it most!" he said bitterly,
but Lloyd answered shyly, "No, don't you see? This is the _fo'th_ leaf.
You have brought me what I asked for."
For an instant he stood there, an incredulous joy dawning in his face,
then grasping the little hand that closed over the clover, he asked
wonderingly, "And my unworthy shoulders really fit your royal mantle
_now_, dear? You are sure?"
She looked up at him then, not a doubt in her trusting face as she
slowly made answer, "Yes, Rob, 'as the falcon's feathahs fit the
falcon!'"
And then the old locusts, looking down on the ending of a story that
they had watched from its beginning, stopped their swaying for a space,
with a soft "Sh!" each to each as one lays finger on lip in holy
places.