Wilbur Edes thought he had never seen his wife look as beautiful as
she did standing there before them all with those fluttering leaves
of paper in her hand. A breeze came in at an opposite window and
Margaret's blue feather tossed in it; her yellow hair crisped and
fluffed and the paper fluttered. Margaret stood for an appreciable
second surveying them all with a most singular expression. It was
compounded of honeyed sweetness, of triumph, and something else more
subtle, the expression of a warrior entering battle and ready for
death, yet terrible with defiance and the purpose of victory, and
death for his foe.
Then Margaret spoke and her thin silvery voice penetrated to every
ear in the room.
"Members of the Zenith Club and friends," said Margaret, "I take the
opportunity offered me to-night to disclose a secret which is a
source of much joy to myself, and which I am sure will be a source of
joy to you also. I trust that since you are my friends and neighbours
and associates in club work, you will acquit me of the charge of
egotism and credit me with my whole motive, which is, I think, not an
unworthy one coming to you in joy, as I would come in sorrow for your
sympathy and understanding. I am about to read an extract from a book
whose success has given me the most unqualified surprise and delight,
knowing as I do that a reading by an author from her own work always
increases the interest even though she may not be an able expositor
by word of mouth of what she has written."
Then Margaret read. She had chosen a short chapter which was in
itself almost a complete little story. She read exceedingly well and
without faltering. People listened with ever-growing amazement. Then
Mrs. Jack Evarts whispered so audibly to a man at her side that she
broke in upon Margaret's clear recitative. "Goodness, she's reading
from that book that is selling so,--_The Poor Lady_--I remember every
word of that chapter."
Then while Margaret continued her reading imperturbably, the chorus
of whispers increased. "That is from _The Poor Lady_, yes, it is. Did
she write it? Why, of course, she did. She just said so. Isn't it
wonderful that she has done such a thing?"
Wilbur Edes sat with his eyes riveted upon his wife's face, his own
gone quite pale, but upon it an expression of surprise and joy so
intense that he looked almost foolish from such a revelation of his
inner self.
The young girl beside him drove hair pins frantically into her hair.
She twisted up a lock which had strayed and fastened it. She looked
alternately at Wilbur and Margaret.
"Goodness gracious," said she, and did not trouble to whisper. "That
is the next to the last chapter of _The Poor Lady_. And to think that
your wife wrote it! Goodness gracious, and here she has been living
right here in Fairbridge all the time and folks have been seeing her
and talking to her and never knew! Did you know, Mr. Edes?"
The young girl fixed her sharp pretty eyes upon Wilbur. "Never
dreamed of it," he blurted out, "just as much surprised as any of
you."
"I don't believe I could have kept such a wonderful thing as that
from my own husband," said the girl, who was unmarried, and had no
lover. But Wilbur did not hear. All he heard was his beloved
Margaret, who had secretly achieved fame for herself, reading on and
on. He had not the slightest idea what she was reading. He had no
interest whatever in that. All he cared for was the amazing fact that
his wife, his wonderful, beautiful Margaret, had so covered herself
with glory and honour. He had a slightly hurt feeling because she had
not told him until this public revelation. He felt that his own
private joy and pride as her husband should have been perhaps sacred
and respected by her and yet possibly she was right. This public
glory might have seemed to her the one which would the most appeal to
him.
He had, as he had said, not read the book, but he recalled with a
sort of rapturous tenderness for Margaret how he had seen the posters
all along the railroad as he commuted to the city, and along the
elevated road. His face gazing at Margaret was as beautiful in its
perfectly unselfish pride and affection, as a mother's. To think that
his darling had done such a thing! He longed to be at home alone with
her and say to her what he could not say before all these people. He
thought of a very good reason why she had chosen this occasion to
proclaim her authorship of the famous anonymous novel. She had been
so humiliated, poor child, by the insufferable rudeness of that
Western girl that she naturally wished to make good. And how modest
and unselfish she had been to make the attempt to exalt another
author when she herself was so much greater. Wilbur fully exonerated
Margaret for what she did in the case of Martha Wallingford in the
light of this revelation. His modest, generous, noble wife had
honestly endeavoured to do the girl a favour, to assist her in spite
of herself and she had received nothing save rudeness, ingratitude,
and humiliation in return. Now, she was asserting herself. She was
showing all Fairbridge that she was the one upon whom honour should
be showered. She was showing him and rightfully. He remembered with
compunction his severity toward her on account of the Martha
Wallingford affair, his beautiful, gifted Margaret! Why, even then
she might have electrified that woman's club by making the revelation
which she had won to-night and reading this same selection from her
own book. He had not read Martha Wallingford's _Hearts Astray_. He
thought that the title was enough for him. He knew that it must be
one of the womanish, hysterical, sentimental type of things which he
despised. But Margaret had been so modest that she had held back from
the turning on the search-light of her own greater glory. She had
made the effort which had resulted so disastrously to obtain a lesser
one, and he had condemned her. He knew that women always used
circuitous ways toward their results, just as men used sledge-hammer
ones. Why should a man criticise a woman's method any more than a
woman criticise a man's? Wilbur, blushing like a girl with pride and
delight, listened to his wife and fairly lashed himself. He was
wholly unworthy of such a woman, he knew.
When the reading was over and people crowded around Margaret and
congratulated her, he stood aloof. He felt that he could not speak of
this stupendous thing with her until they were alone. Then Doctor
Sturtevant's great bulk pressed against him and his sonorous voice
said in his ear, "By Jove, old man, your wife has drawn a lucky
number. Congratulations." Wilbur gulped as he thanked him. Then
Sturtevant went on talking about a matter which was rather dear to
Wilbur's own ambition and which he knew had been tentatively
discussed: the advisability of his running for State Senator in the
autumn. Wilbur knew it would be a good thing for him professionally,
and at the bottom of his heart he knew that his wife's success had
been the last push toward his own. Other men came in and began
talking, leading from his wife's success toward his own, until Wilbur
realised himself as dazzled.
He did not notice what Von Rosen noticed, because he had kept his
attention upon the girl, that Annie Eustace had turned deadly pale
when Margaret had begun her reading and that Alice Mendon who was
seated beside her had slipped an arm around her and quietly and
unobtrusively led her out of the room. Von Rosen thought that Miss
Eustace must have turned faint because of the heat, and was conscious
of a distinct anxiety and disappointment. He had, without directly
acknowledging it to himself, counted upon walking home with Annie
Eustace, but yet he hoped that she might return, that she had not
left the home. When the refreshments were served, he looked for her,
but Annie was long since at Alice Mendon's house in her room. Alice
had hurried her there in her carriage.
"Come home with me, dear," she had whispered, "and we can have a talk
together. Your people won't expect you yet."
Therefore, while Karl von Rosen, who had gone to this annual meeting
of the Zenith Club for the sole purpose of walking home with Annie,
waited, the girl sat in a sort of dumb and speechless state in Alice
Mendon's room. It seemed to her like a bad dream. Alice herself
stormed. She had a high temper, but seldom gave way to it. Now she
did. There was something about this which roused her utmost powers of
indignation.
"It is simply an outrage," declared Alice, marching up and down the
large room, her rich white gown trailing behind her, her chin high.
"I did not think her capable of it. It is the worst form of thievery
in the world, stealing the work of another's brain. It is
inconceivable that Margaret Edes could have done such a preposterous
thing. I never liked her. I don't care if I do admit it, but I never
thought she was capable of such an utterly ignoble deed. It was all
that I could do to master myself, not to stand up before them all and
denounce her. Well, her time will come."
"Alice," said a ghastly little voice from the stricken figure on the
couch, "are you sure? Am I sure? Was that from my book?"
"Of course it was from your book. Why, you know it was from your
book, Annie Eustace," cried Alice and her voice sounded high with
anger toward poor Annie herself.
"I hoped that we might be mistaken after all," said the voice, which
had a bewildered quality. Annie Eustace had a nature which could not
readily grasp some of the evil of humanity. She was in reality dazed
before this. She was ready to believe an untruth rather than the
incredible truth. But Alice Mendon was merciless. She resolved that
Annie should know once for all.
"We are neither of us mistaken," she said. "Margaret Edes read a
chapter from your book, _The Poor Lady_, and without stating in so
many words that she was the author, she did what was worse. She made
everybody think so. Annie, she is bad, bad, bad. Call the spade a
spade and face it. See how black it is. Margaret Edes has stolen from
you your best treasure."
"I don't care for that so much," said Annie Eustace, "but--I loved
her, Alice."
"Then," said Alice, "she has stolen more than your book. She has
stolen the light by which you wrote it. It is something hideous,
hideous."
Annie gave a queer little dry sob. "Margaret could not have done it,"
she moaned.
Alice crossed swiftly to her and knelt beside her. "Darling," she
said, "you must face it. It is better. I do not say so because I do
not personally like Margaret Edes, but you must have courage and face
it."
"I have not courage enough," said Annie and she felt that she had
not, for it was one of the awful tasks of the world which was before
her: The viewing the mutilated face of love itself.
"You must," said Alice. She put an arm around the slight figure and
drew the fair head to her broad bosom, her maternal bosom, which
served her friends in good stead, since it did not pillow the heads
of children. Friends in distress are as children to the women of her
type.
"Darling," she said in her stately voice from which the anger had
quite gone. "Darling, you must face it. Margaret did read that
chapter from your book and she told, or as good as told everybody
that she had written it."
Then Annie sobbed outright and the tears came.
"Oh," she cried, "Oh, Alice, how she must want success to do anything
like that, poor, poor Margaret! Oh, Alice!"
"How she must love herself," said Alice firmly. "Annie, you must face
it. Margaret is a self-lover; her whole heart turns in love toward
her own self, instead of toward those whom she should love and who
love her. Annie, Margaret is bad, bad, with a strange degenerate
badness. She dates back to the sins of the First Garden. You must
turn your back upon her. You must not love her any more."
"No, I must not love her any more," agreed Annie, "and that is the
pity of it. I must not love her, Alice, but I must pity her until I
die. Poor Margaret!"
"Poor Annie," said Alice. "You worked so hard over that book, dear,
and you were so pleased. Annie, what shall you do about it?"
Annie raised her head from Alice's bosom and sat up straight, with a
look of terror.
"Alice," she cried, "I must go to-morrow and see my publishers. I
must go down on my knees to them if necessary."
"Do you mean," asked Alice slowly, "never to tell?"
"Oh, never, never, never!" cried Annie.
"I doubt," said Alice, "if you can keep such a matter secret. I doubt
if your publishers will consent."
"They must. I will never have it known! Poor Margaret!"
"I don't pity her at all," said Alice. "I do pity her husband who
worships her, and there is talk of his running for State Senator and
this would ruin him. And I am sorry for the children."
"Nobody shall ever know," said Annie.
"But how can you manage with the publishers?"
"I don't know. I will."
"And you will have written that really wonderful book and never have
the credit for it. You will live here and see Margaret Edes praised
for what you have done."
"Poor Margaret," said Annie. "I must go now. I know I can trust you
never to speak."
"Of course, but I do not think it right."
"I don't care whether it is right or not," said Annie. "It must never
be known."
"You are better than I am," said Alice as she rang the bell, which
was presently answered. "Peter has gone home for the night, Marie
said," Alice told Annie, "but Marie and I will walk home with you."
"Alice, it is only a step."
"I know, but it is late."
"It is not much after ten, and--I would rather go alone, if you don't
mind, Alice. I want to get settled a little before Aunt Harriet sees
me. I can do it better alone."
Alice laughed. "Well," she said, "Marie and I will stand on the front
porch until you are out of sight from there and then we will go to
the front gate. We can see nearly to your house and we can hear if
you call."
It was a beautiful night. The moon was high in a sky which was
perceptibly blue. In the west was still a faint glow, which was like
a memory of a cowslip sunset. The street and the white house-front
were plumy with soft tree shadows wavering in a gentle wind. Annie
was glad when she was alone in the night. She needed a moment for
solitariness and readjustment since one of the strongest
readjustments on earth faced her--the realisation that what she had
loved was not. She did not walk rapidly but lingered along the road.
She was thankful that neither of her aunts had been to the annual
meeting. She would not need to account for her time so closely.
Suddenly she heard a voice, quite a loud voice, a man's, with a music
of gladness in it. Annie knew instinctively whose it was, and she
stepped quickly upon a lawn and stood behind a clump of trees. A man
and woman passed her--Margaret Edes and her husband--and Wilbur was
saying in his glad, loving voice, "To think you should have done such
a thing, Margaret, my dear, you will never know how proud I am of
you."
Annie heard Margaret's voice in a whisper hushing Wilbur. "You speak
so loud, dear," said Margaret, "everybody will hear you."
"I don't care if they do," said Wilbur. "I should like to proclaim it
from the housetops." Then they passed and the rose scent of
Margaret's garments was in Annie's face. She was glad that Margaret
had hushed her husband. She argued that it proved some little sense
of shame, but oh, when all alone with her own husband, she had made
no disclaimer. Annie came out from her hiding and went on. The Edes
ahead of her melted into the shadows but she could still hear
Wilbur's glad voice. The gladness in it made her pity Margaret more.
She thought how horrible it must be to deceive love like that, to
hear that joyful tone, and know it all undeserved. Then suddenly she
heard footsteps behind and walked to one side to allow whoever it was
to pass, but a man's voice said: "Good evening, Miss Eustace," and
Von Rosen had joined her. He had in truth been waiting like any
village beau near Alice Mendon's house for the chance of her emerging
alone.
Annie felt annoyed, and yet her heart beat strangely.
"Good evening, Mr. von Rosen," she said and still lingered as if to
allow him to pass, but he slowed his own pace and sauntered by her
side.
"A fine evening," he remarked tritely.
"Very," agreed Annie.
"I saw you at the evening club," said Von Rosen presently.
"Yes," said Annie, "I was there."
"You left early."
"Yes, I left quite early with Alice. I have been with her since."
Annie wondered if Mr. von Rosen suspected anything but his next words
convinced her that he did not.
"I suppose that you were as much surprised as the rest of us,
although you are her intimate friend, at Mrs. Edes' announcement
concerning the authorship of that successful novel," said he.
"Yes," said Annie faintly.
"Of course you had no idea that she had written it?"
"No."
"Have you read it?"
"Yes."
"What do you think of it? I almost never read novels but I suppose I
must tackle that one. Did you like it?"
"Quite well," said Annie.
"Tell me what is it all about?"
Annie could endure no more. "It will spoil the book for you if I tell
you, Mr. von Rosen," said she, and her voice was at once firm and
piteous. She could not tell the story of her own book to him. She
would be as deceitful as poor Margaret, for all the time he would
think she was talking of Margaret's work and not of her own.
Von Rosen laughed. After all he cared very little indeed about the
book. He had what he cared for: a walk home with this very sweet and
very natural girl, who did not seem to care whether he walked home
with her or not.
"I dare say you are right," he said, "but I doubt if your telling me
about it would spoil the book for me, because it is more than
probable that I shall never read it after all. I may if it comes in
my way because I was somewhat surprised. I had never thought of Mrs.
Edes as that sort of person. However, so many novels are written
nowadays, and some mighty queer ones are successful that I presume I
should not be surprised. Anybody in Fairbridge might be the author of
a successful novel. You might, Miss Eustace, for all I know."
Annie said nothing.
"Perhaps you are," said Von Rosen. He had not the least idea of the
thinness of the ice. Annie trembled. Her truthfulness was as her
life. She hated even evasions. Luckily Von Rosen was so far from
suspicion that he did not wait for an answer.
"Mrs. Edes reads well," he said.
"Very well indeed," returned Annie eagerly.
"I suppose an author can read more understandingly from her own
work," said Von Rosen. "Don't you think so, Miss Eustace?"
"I think she might," said Annie.
"I don't know but I shall read that book after all," said Von Rosen.
"I rather liked that extract she gave us. It struck me as out of the
common run of women's books. I beg your pardon, Miss Eustace. If you
were a writer yourself I could not speak so, but you are not, and you
must know as well as I do, that many of the books written by women
are simply sloughs of oversweetened sentiment, and of entirely
innocent immorality. But that chapter did not sound as if it could
belong to such a book. It sounded altogether too logical for the
average woman writer. I think I will read it. Then after I have read
it, you will not refuse to discuss it with me, will you?"
"I do not think so," replied Annie tremulously. Would he never talk
of anything except that book? To her relief he did, to her relief and
scarcely acknowledged delight.
"Are you interested in curios, things from Egyptian tombs, for
instance?" he inquired with brutal masculine disregard of sequence.
Annie was bewildered, but she managed to reply that she thought she
might be. She had heard of Von Rosen's very interesting collection.
"I happened to meet your aunt, Miss Harriet, this afternoon," said
Von Rosen, "and I inquired if she were by any chance interested and
she said she was."
"Yes," said Annie. She had never before dreamed that her Aunt Harriet
was in the least interested in Egyptian tombs.
"I ventured to ask if she and her sister, Miss Susan, and you also,
if you cared to see it, would come some afternoon and look at my
collection," said Von Rosen.
Nobody could have dreamed from his casual tone how carefully he had
planned it all out: the visit of Annie and her aunts, the delicate
little tea served in the study, the possible little stroll with Annie
in his garden. Von Rosen knew that one of the aunts, Miss Harriet,
was afflicted with rose cold, and therefore, would probably not
accept his invitation to view his rose-garden, and he also knew that
it was improbable that both sisters would leave their aged mother. It
was, of course, a toss-up as to whether Miss Harriet or Miss Susan
would come. It was also a toss-up as to whether or not they might
both come, and leave little Annie as companion for the old lady. In
fact, he had to admit to himself that the latter contingency was the
more probable. He was well accustomed to being appropriated by elder
ladies, with the evident understanding that he preferred them. He
would simply have to make the best of it and show his collection as
gracefully as possible and leave out the rose-garden and the
delicious little tête-à-tête with this young rose of a girl and think
of something else. For Karl von Rosen in these days was accustoming
himself to a strange visage in his own mental looking-glass. He had
not altered his attitude toward women but toward one woman, and that
one was now sauntering beside him in the summer moonlight, her fluffy
white garments now and then blowing across his sober garb. He was
conscious of holding himself in a very tight rein. He wondered how
long men were usually about their love-making. He wished to make love
that very instant, but he feared lest the girl might be lost by such
impetuosity. In all likelihood, the thought of love in connection
with himself had never entered her mind. Why should it? Karl in love
was very modest and saw himself as a very insignificant figure.
Probably this flower-like young creature had never thought of love at
all. She had lived her sweet simple village life. She had obeyed her
grandmother and her aunts, done her household tasks and embroidered.
He remembered the grimy bit of linen which he had picked up and he
could not see the very slightest connection between that sort of
thing and love and romance. Of course, she had read a few love
stories and the reasoning by analogy develops in all minds. She might
have built a few timid air castles for herself upon the foundations
of the love stories in fiction, and this brought him around to the
fatal subject again almost inevitably.
"Do you know, Miss Eustace," he said, "that I am wishing a very queer
thing about you?"
"What, Mr. von Rosen?"
"I am wishing, you know that I would not esteem you more highly, it
is not that, but I am wishing that you also had written a book, a
really good sort of love story, novel, you know."
Annie gasped.
"I don't mean because Mrs. Edes wrote _The Poor Lady_. It is not
that. I am quite sure that you could have written a book every whit
as good as hers but what I do mean is--I feel that a woman writer if
she writes the best sort of book must obtain a certain insight
concerning human nature which requires a long time for most women."
Von Rosen was rather mixed, but Annie did not grasp it. She was very
glad that they were nearing her own home. She could not endure much
more.
"Is _The Poor Lady_ a love story?" inquired Von Rosen.
"There is a little love in it," replied Annie faintly.
"I shall certainly read it," said Von Rosen. He shook hands with
Annie at her gate and wanted to kiss her. She looked up in his face
like an adorably timid, trustful little child and it seemed almost
his duty to kiss her, but he did not. He said good-night and again
mentioned his collection of curios.
"I hope you will feel inclined to come and see them," he said,
"with--your aunts."
"Thank you," replied Annie, "I shall be very glad to come, if both
Aunt Harriet and Aunt Susan do not. That would of course oblige me to
stay with grandmother."
"Of course," assented Von Rosen, but he said inwardly, "Hang
Grandmother."
In his inmost self, Von Rosen was not a model clergyman. He, however,
had no reason whatever to hang grandmother, but quite the reverse,
although he did not so conclude, as he considered the matter on his
way home. It seemed to him that this darling of a girl was fairly
hedged in by a barbed wire fence of feminine relatives.
He passed the Edes' house on his way and saw that a number of the
upper windows were still lighted. He even heard a masculine voice
pitched on a high cadence of joy and triumph. He smiled a little
scornfully. "He thinks his wife is the most wonderful woman in the
world," he told himself, "and I dare say that a novel is simply like
an over-sweetened ice-cream, with an after taste of pepper, out of
sheer deviltry." Had he known it, Margaret Edes herself was tasting
pepper, mustard and all the fierce condiments known, in her very
soul. It was a singular thing that Margaret had been obliged to
commit an ignoble deed in order to render her soul capable of tasting
to the full, but she had been so constituted. As Karl von Rosen
passed that night, she was sitting in her room, clad in her white
silk negligee and looking adorable, and her husband was fairly on his
knees before her, worshipping her, and she was suffering after a
fashion hitherto wholly uncomprehended by her. Margaret had never
known that she could possibly be to blame for anything, that she
could sit in judgment upon herself. Now she knew it and the knowledge
brought a torture which had been unimaginable by her. She strove not
to make her shrinking from her husband and his exultation--her
terrified shrinking--evident.
"Oh, Margaret, you are simply wonderful beyond words," said Wilbur,
gazing up into her face. "I always knew you were wonderful, of
course, darling, but this! Why, Margaret, you have gained an
international reputation from that one book! And the reviews have
been unanimous, almost unanimous in their praise. I have not read it,
dear. I am so ashamed of myself, but you know I never read novels,
but I am going to read my Margaret's novel. Oh, my dear, my
wonderful, wonderful dear!" Wilbur almost sobbed. "Do you know what
it may do for me, too?" he said. "Do you know, Margaret, it may mean
my election as Senator. One can never tell what may sway popular
opinion. Once, if anybody had told me that I might be elected to
office and my election might possibly be due to the fact that my wife
had distinguished myself, I should have been humbled to the dust. But
I cannot be humbled by any success which may result from your
success. I did not know my wonderful Margaret then." Wilbur kissed
his wife's hands. He was almost ridiculous, but it was horribly
tragic for Margaret.
She longed as she had never longed for anything in her life, for the
power to scream, to shout in his ears the truth, but she could not.
She was bound hard and fast in the bands of her own falsehood. She
could not so disgrace her husband, her children. Why had she not
thought of them before? She had thought only of herself and her own
glory, and that glory had turned to stinging bitterness upon her
soul. She was tasting the bitterest medicine which life and the whole
world contains. And at the same time, it was not remorse that she
felt. That would have been easier. What she endured was
self-knowledge. The reflection of one's own character under unbiased
cross-lights is a hideous thing for a self-lover. She was thinking,
while she listened to Wilbur's rhapsodies. Finally she scarcely heard
him. Then her attention was suddenly keenly fixed. There were
horrible complications about this which she had not considered.
Margaret's mind had no business turn. She had not for a moment
thought of the financial aspect of the whole. Wilbur was different.
What he was now saying was very noble, but very disconcerting. "Of
course, I know, darling, that all this means a pile of money, but one
thing you must remember: it is for yourself alone. Not one penny of
it will I ever touch and more than that it is not to interfere in the
least with my expenditures for you, my wife, and the children.
Everything of that sort goes on as before. You have the same
allowance for yourself and the children as before. Whatever comes
from your book is your own to do with as you choose. I do not even
wish you to ask my advice about the disposal of it."
Margaret was quite pale as she looked at him. She remembered now the
sum which Annie had told her she was to receive. She made no
disclaimer. Her lips felt stiff. While Wilbur wished for no
disclaimer, she could yet see that he was a little surprised at
receiving none, but she could not speak. She merely gazed at him in a
helpless sort of fashion. The grapes which hung over her friend's
garden wall were not very simple. They were much beside grapes.
Wilbur returned her look pityingly.
"Poor girl," he said, kissing her hands again; "she is all tired out
and I must let her go to bed. Standing on a pedestal is rather
tiresome, if it is gratifying, isn't it, sweetheart?"
"Yes," said Margaret, with a weary sigh from her heart. How little
the poor man knew of the awful torture of standing upon the pedestal
of another, and at the same time holding before one's eyes that
looking-glass with all the cross-lights of existence full upon it!
Margaret went to bed, but she could not sleep. All night long she
revolved the problem of how she should settle the matter with Annie
Eustace. She did not for a second fear Annie's betrayal, but there
was that matter of the publishers. Would they be content to allow
matters to rest?
The next morning Margaret endeavoured to get Annie on the telephone
but found that she had gone to New York. Annie's Aunt Harriet
replied. She herself had sent the girl on several errands.
Margaret could only wait. She feared lest Annie might not return
before Wilbur and in such a case she could not discuss matters with
her before the next day. Margaret had a horrible time during the next
six hours. The mail was full of letters of congratulation. A local
reporter called to interview her. She sent word that she was out, but
he was certain that he had seen her. The children heard the news and
pestered her with inquiries about her book and wondering looks at
her. Callers came in the afternoon and it was all about her book.
Nobody could know how relieved she was after hearing the four-thirty
train, to see little Annie Eustace coming through her gate. Annie
stood before her stiffly. The day was very warm and the girl looked
tired and heated.
"No, thank you," she said, "I can not sit down. I only stopped to
tell you that I have arranged with the publishers. They will keep the
secret. I shall have rather a hard task arranging about the checks,
because I fear it will involve a little deceit and I do not like
deceit."
Annie, as she spoke, looked straight at Margaret and there was
something terrible in that clear look of unsoiled truth. Margaret put
out a detaining hand.
"Sit down for a minute, please," she said cringingly. "I want to
explain?"
"There is nothing whatever to explain," replied Annie. "I heard."
"Can you ever forgive me?"
"I do not think," said Annie, "that this is an ordinary offence about
which to talk of forgiveness. I do pity you, Margaret, for I realise
how dreadfully you must have wanted what did not belong to you."
Margaret winced. "Well, if it is any satisfaction to you, I am
realising nothing but misery from it," she said in a low voice.
"I don't see how you can help that," replied Annie simply. Then she
went away.
It proved Margaret's unflinching trust in the girl and Annie's
recognition of no possibility except that trust, that no request nor
promise as to secrecy had been made. Annie, after she got home,
almost forgot the whole for a time, since her Aunt Harriet, and Aunt
Harriet was the sister who was subject to rose-colds, announced her
determination to call at Mr. von Rosen's the next afternoon with
Annie and see his famous collection.
"Of course," said she, "the invitation was meant particularly for me,
since I am one of his parishioners, and I think it will be improving
to you, Annie, to view antiquities."
"Yes, Aunt Harriet," said Annie. She was wondering if she would be
allowed to wear her pale blue muslin and the turquoise necklace which
was a relic of her grandmother's girlhood. Aunt Susan sniffed
delicately.
"I will stay with Mother," she said with a virtuous air.
The old lady, stately in her black satin, with white diamonds
gleaming on her veinous hands, glanced acutely at them. The next day,
when her daughter Harriet insisted that the cross barred muslin was
not too spoiled to wear to the inspection of curios, she declared
that it was simply filthy, and that Annie must wear her blue, and
that the little string of turquoise beads was not in the least too
dressy for the occasion.
It therefore happened that Annie and her Aunt Harriet set forth at
three o'clock in the afternoon, Annie in blue, and her aunt in thin
black grenadine with a glitter of jet and a little black bonnet with
a straight tuft of green rising from a little wobble of jet, and a
black-fringed parasol tilted well over her eyes. Annie's charming
little face was framed in a background of white parasol. Margaret saw
them pass as she sat on her verandah. She had received more
congratulatory letters that day, and the thief envied the one from
whom she had taken. Annie bowed to Margaret, and her Aunt Harriet
said something about the heat, in a high shrill voice.
"She is a wonderful woman, to have written that successful novel,"
said Aunt Harriet, "and I am going to write her a congratulatory
note, now you have bought that stationery at Tiffany's. I feel that
such a subject demands special paper. She is a wonderful woman and
her family have every reason to be proud of her."
"Yes," said Annie.
"It is rather odd, and I have often thought so," said Aunt Harriet,
moving alongside with stately sweeps of black skirts, "that you have
shown absolutely no literary taste. As you know, I have often written
poetry, of course not for publication, and my friends have been so
good as to admire it."
"Yes, Aunt Harriet," said Annie.
"I realise that you have never appreciated my poems," said Aunt
Harriet tartly.
"I don't think I understand poetry very well," little Annie said with
meekness.
"It does require a peculiar order of mind, and you have never seemed
to me in the least poetical or imaginative," said her aunt in an
appeased voice. "For instance, I could not imagine your writing a
book like Mrs. Edes, and _The Poor Lady_ was anonymous, and anybody
might have written it as far as one knew. But I should never have
imagined her for a moment as capable of doing it."
"No," said Annie.
Then they had come to the parsonage and Jane Riggs, as rigid as
starched linen could make a human being, admitted them, and presently
after a little desultory conversation, the collection, which was
really a carefully made one, and exceedingly good and interesting,
was being displayed. Then came the charming little tea which Von
Rosen had planned; then the suggestion with regard to the rose-garden
and Aunt Harriet's terrified refusal, knowing as she knew the agony
of sneezes and sniffs sure to follow its acceptance; and then Annie,
a vision in blue, was walking among the roses with Von Rosen and both
were saying things which they never could remember afterward--about
things in which neither had the very slightest interest. It was only
when they had reached the end of the pergola, trained over with
climbers, and the two were seated on a rustic bench therein, that the
conversation to be remembered began.