And when he slept and dreamed it was of a little brown bird which sang in the snow, and the song that it sang seemed to leap from the pages of a Book, "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."
Anne'sbudget of news to her Great-uncle Rod swelled to unusual proportions in the week following the opening of Crossroads. She had so much to say to him, and there was no one else to whom she could speak with such freedom and frankness.
By the Round Stove.
My Dear:
I am sending this as an antidote for my doleful Sunday screed. Now that the Lovely Ladies are gone, I am myself again!
I know that you are saying, "You should never have been anything but yourself." That's all very well for you who know Me-Myself, but these people know only the Outside-Person part of me, and the Outside-Person part is stiff and old-fashioned, and self-conscious. You see it has been so many months since I have hobnobbed with Lilies-of-the-Field and with Solomons-in-all-their-Glory. And even when I did hobnob with them it was for such a little time, and it ended so heart-breakingly. But I am notgoing to talk of that, or I shall weep and wail again, and that wouldn't be fair to you.
The last Old Gentleman left yesterday in the wake of the Lovely Ladies. Did I tell you that Brinsley Tyson is a cousin of Mrs. Brooks? His twin brother, David, lives up the road. Brinsley is the city mouse and David is the country one. They are as different as you can possibly imagine. Brinsley is fat and round and red, and David is thin and tall and pale. Yet there is the "twin look" in their faces. The high noses and square chins. Neither of them wears a beard. None of the Old Gentlemen does. Why is it? Is hoary-headed age a thing of the dark and distant past? Are you the only one left whose silver banner blows in the breeze? Are the grandfathers all trying to look like boys to match the grandmothers who try to look like girls?
Mrs. Brooks won't be that kind of grandmother. She is gentle and serene, and the years will touch her softly. I shall like her if she will let me. But perhaps little school-teachers won't come within her line of vision. You see I learned my lesson in those short months when I peeped into Paradise.
I wonder how it would seem to be a Lily-of-the-Field. I've never been one, have I? Even when I was a little girl I used to stand on a chair to wipe the dishes while you washed them. I felt very important to be helping mother, and you would talk about the dignity of labor—you darling, with the hotwater wrinkling and reddening your lovely long fingers, which were made to paint masterpieces.
I am trying to pass on to my school children what you have given to me, and oh, Uncle Rod, when I speak to them I seem to be looking with you, straight through the kitchen window, at the sunset. We never knew that the kitchen sink was there, did we? We saw only the sunsets. And now because you are a darling dear, and because you are always seeing sunsets, I am sending you a verse or two which I have copied from a book which Geoffrey Fox left last night at my door.
"When Salomon sailed from Ophir,With Olliphants and gold,The kings went up, the kings went down,Trying to match King Salomon's crown;But Salomon sacked the sunset,Wherever his black ships rolled.He rolled it up like a crimson cloth,And crammed it into his hold.CHORUS: "Salomon sacked the sunset,Salomon sacked the sunset,He rolled it up like a crimson cloth,And crammed it into his hold."His masts were Lebanon cedars,His sheets were singing blue,But that was never the reason whyHe stuffed his hold with the sunset sky!The kings could cut their cedars,And sail from Ophir, too;But Salomon packed his heart with dreams,And all the dreams were true."
"When Salomon sailed from Ophir,With Olliphants and gold,The kings went up, the kings went down,Trying to match King Salomon's crown;But Salomon sacked the sunset,Wherever his black ships rolled.He rolled it up like a crimson cloth,And crammed it into his hold.
CHORUS: "Salomon sacked the sunset,Salomon sacked the sunset,He rolled it up like a crimson cloth,And crammed it into his hold.
"His masts were Lebanon cedars,His sheets were singing blue,But that was never the reason whyHe stuffed his hold with the sunset sky!The kings could cut their cedars,And sail from Ophir, too;But Salomon packed his heart with dreams,And all the dreams were true."
Now join in the chorus, you old dear—and I'll think that I am a little girl again—
"The kings could cut their cedars,Cut their Lebanon cedars;But Salomon packed his heart with dreams,And allthe dreamswere true!"
"The kings could cut their cedars,Cut their Lebanon cedars;But Salomon packed his heart with dreams,And allthe dreamswere true!"
In the Schoolroom.
I told you that Geoffrey Fox left a book for me to read. I told you that he wore eye-glasses on a black ribbon, that he is writing a novel, and that I don't like him. Well, he went into Baltimore this morning to get his belongings, and when he comes back he will stay until his book is finished. It will be interesting to be under the same roof with a story. All the shadows and corners will seem full of it. The house will speak to him, and the people in it, though none of the rest of us will hear the voices, and the wind will speak and the leaping flames in the fireplace, and the sun and the moon—and when the snow comes it will whisper secrets in his ear and presently it will be snowing all through the pages.
It snowed this morning, and from my desk I can see young Dr. Brooks shoveling a path from his front porch. He and his mother came to Crossroads yesterday, and they have been very busy getting settled. They have a colored maid, Milly, but noman, and young Richard does all of the outside work. I think I shall like him. Don't you remember how as a little girl I always adored the Lion-hearted king? I always think of him when I see Dr. Brooks. He isn't handsome, but he is broad-shouldered and big and blond. I haven't had but one chance to speak to him since he and his mother left Bower's. Perhaps I shan't have many chances to speak to him. But a cat may look at a king!
I am all alone in the schoolroom. The children went an hour ago. Eric and Beulah are to call for me on their way home from town. They took Peggy with them. Did I tell you that Eric is falling in love with Beulah? I am not sure whether it is the best thing for him, but I am sure it is for her. She is very happy, and blushes when he looks at her. He is finer than she, and bigger, mentally and spiritually. He is crude, but he will grow as so many American men do grow—and there are dreams in his clear blue eyes. And, after all, it is the dreams that count—as Salomon discovered.
Yet it may be that Eric will bring Beulah up to his level. She is an honest little thing and good and loving. Her life is narrow, and she thinks narrow thoughts. But he is wise and kind, and already I can see that she is trying to keep step with him—which is as it should be.
I like to think that father and mother kept step through all the years. She was his equal, hiscomrade; she marched by his side with her head up fitting her two short steps to his long stride.
King Richard has just waved to me. I stood up to see the sunset—a band of gold with black above, and he waved, and started to run across the road. Then somebody called him from the house. Perhaps it was the telephone and his first patient. If I am ever ill, I should like to have a Lion-hearted Doctor—wouldn't you?
At the Sign of the Lantern.
I am with Diogenes in the stable, with the lantern making deep shadows, and the loft steps for a desk. Eric and Beulah came for me before I had asked a question—an important question—so I am finishing my letter here, while Eric puts Daisy in her stall, and then he will post it for me.
Diogenes has had his corn, and is as happy as Brinsley Tyson after a good dinner. Oh, such eating and drinking! How these old men love it! And you with your bread and milk and your book propped up against the lamp, or your handful of raisins and your book under a tree!
But I must scribble fast and ask my question. It isn't easy to ask. So I'll put it in sections:
Do youeverseeJimmie—Ford?
Do youeverseeJimmie—Ford?
That is the first time that I have written his name since I came here. I had made up my mind that I wouldn't write it. But somehow the rose-colored atmosphere of the other night, and these men of his kind have brought it back—all those whirling weeks when you warned me and I wouldn't listen. Uncle Rod, if a woman hadn't an ounce of pride she might meet such things. If I had not had a grandmother as good as Jimmie's and better—I might have felt less—stricken. Geoffrey Fox spoke to me on Saturday in a way which—hurt. Perhaps I am too sensitive—but I haven't quite learned to—hold up my head.
You mustn't think that I am unhappy. Indeed, I am not, except that I cannot be with you. But it is good to know that you are comfortable, and that Cousin Margaret is making it seem like home. Some day we are to have a home, you and I, when our ship comes in "with the sunset packed in the hold." But now it is well that I have work to do. I know that this is my opportunity, and that I must make the most of it. There's that proverb of yours, "The Lord sends us quail, but he doesn't send them roasted." I have written it out, and have tucked it into my mirror frame. I shall have to roast my own quail. I only hope that I may prove a competent cook!
Eric is here, and I must say "Good-bye." Diogenes sends love, and a little feather that droppedfrom his wing. Some day he will send a big one for you to make a pen and write letters to me. I love your letters, and I love you. And oh, you know that you have all the heart's best of your own
Anne.
The Morning After the Magi Came.
I am up early to tell you about it. But I must go back a little because I have had so much else to talk about that I haven't spoken of the Twelfth Night play.
It seems that years ago, when old Dr. Brooks first built the schoolhouse, the children used his stable on Twelfth Night for a spectacle representing the coming of the Wise Men.
Mr. David had told me of it, and I had planned to revive the old custom this year, and had rehearsed the children. I thought when I heard that the house was to be occupied that I might have to give it up. But Peggy and I plucked up our courage and asked King Richard, and he graciously gave permission.
It was a heavenly night. Snow on the ground and all the stars out. The children met in the schoolhouse and we started in a procession. They all wore simple little costumes, just some bit of bright color draped to give them a quaint picturesqueness. One of the boys led a cow, and there was an old ewe. Then riding on a donkey, borrowed by Mr. David, came the oldest Mary in our school. I chose her because I wanted her to understand the sacred significance of her name, and our only little Joseph walked by her side. The children followed and their parents, with the wise men quite in the rear, so that they might enter after the others.
When we reached the stable, I grouped Joseph and Mary in one of the old mangers, where the Babe lay, and he was a dear, real, baby brother of Mary. I hid a light behind the straw, so that the place was illumined. And then my little wise men came in; and the children, who with their parents were seated on the hay back in the shadows, sang, "We Three Kings" and other carols. The gifts which the Magi brought were the children's own pennies which they are giving to the other little children across the sea who are fatherless because of the war.
It was quite wonderful to hear their sweet little voices, and to see their rapt faces and to know that, however sordid their lives might be, here was Dream, founded on the Greatest Truth, which would lift them above the sordidness.
Dr. Brooks and his mother and Mr. David were not far from me, and Dr. Brooks leaned over and asked if he might speak to the children. I said I should be glad, so he stood up and told them in such simple, fine fashion that he wanted to be to them all that his grandfather had been to their parents and grandparents. He wanted them to feel that his life and service belonged to them. He wanted them to know how pleased he was with the Twelfth Night spectacle, and that he wanted it to become an annual custom.
Then in his mother's name, he asked them to come up to the house—all of them—and we were shown into the Garden Room which opens out upon what was once a terraced garden, and there was a great cake with candles, and sandwiches, and coffee for the grown-ups and hot chocolate for the kiddies.
Wasn't that dear? I had little François thank them, and he did it so well. Why is it that these small foreigners lack the self-consciousness of our own boys and girls? He had been one of the wise men in the spectacle, and he still wore his white beard and turban and his long blue and red robes. Yet he wasn't in the least fussed; he simply made a bow, said what he had to say, made another bow, with never a blush or a quaver or giggle. His mother was there, and she was so happy—she is a widow, and sews in the neighborhood, plain sewing, and they are very poor.
I rode home with the Bowers, and as we drove along, I heard the children singing. I am sure they will never forget the night under the winter stars, nor the scene in the stable with the cow and the little donkey and the old ewe, and the Light that illumined the manger. I want them always to remember, Uncle Rod, and I want to remember. It is only when I forget that I lose faith and hope.
Blessed dear, good-night.
Your Anne.
Thebell on the schoolhouse had a challenging note. It seemed to call to the distant hills, and the echo came back in answer. It was the voice of civilization. "I am here that you may learn of other hills and of other valleys, of men who have dreamed and of men who have discovered, of nations which have conquered and of nations which have fallen into decay. I am here that you may learn—ding dong—that you may learn,ding ding—that you may learn—ding dong ding—of Life."
As she rang the bell, Anne had always a feeling of exhilaration. Its message was clear to her. She hoped it would be clear to others. She tried at least to make it clear to her children.
And now they came streaming over the countryside, big boys with their little sisters beside them, big girls with their little brothers. Some on sleds and some sliding. All rosy-cheeked with the coldness of the morning.
As they filed in, Anne stood behind her desk. They had opening exercises, and then the work of the day began.
It began scrappily. Nobody had his mind upon it. The children were much excited over the events of the preceding night—over the play and the feast which had followed.
Anne, too, was excited. On the way to school she had met Richard, and he had joined her and had told her of his first patient.
"I had to walk at one o'clock in the morning. I must get a horse or a car. I am not quite sure that I ought to afford a car. And I like the idea of a horse. My grandfather rode a horse."
"Are you going to do all the things that your grandfather did?"
He was aware of her quick smile. He smiled back.
"Perhaps. I might do worse. He made great cures with his calomel and his catnip tea."
"Did you cure your patient with catnip tea?"
"Last night? No. It was a child. Measles. I told the rest of the family to stay away from school."
"It is probably too late. They will all have it."
"Have you?"
"No. I am never sick."
Her good health seemed to him another goddess attribute. Goddesses were never ill. They lived eternally with lovely smiles.
He felt this morning that the world was his. He had been called up the night before by a man in whose household there had been a tradition of theskill of Richard's grandfather. There had been the memory, too, in the minds of the older ones of the days when that other doctor had thundered up the road to succor and to save. It was a proud moment in their lives when they gave to Richard Tyson's grandson his first patient. They felt that Providence in sending sickness upon them had imposed not a penance but a privilege.
Richard had known of their pride and had been touched by it, and with the glow of their gratitude still upon him, he had trudged down the snowy road and had met Anne Warfield!
"You'd better let me come and look over your pupils," he had said to her as they parted; "we don't want an epidemic!"
He was to come at the noon recess. Anne, anticipating his visit, was quite thrillingly emphatic in her history lesson. Not that history had anything to do with measles, but she felt fired by his example to do her best.
She loved to teach history, and she had a lesson not only for her children, but for herself. She was much ashamed of her mood of Sunday. It had been easy enough this morning to talk to Richard; and with Evelyn away, clothes had seemed to sink to their proper significance. And if she had waited on the table she had at least done it well.
Her exposition gained emphasis, therefore, from her state of mind.
"In this beautiful land of ours," she said, "all men are free—and equal. You mustn't think this means that all of you will have the same amount of money or the same kind of clothes, or the same things to eat, or even the same kind of minds. But I think it means that you ought all to have the same kind of consciences. You ought to be equal in right doing. And in love of country. You ought to know when war is righteous, and when peace is righteous. And you can all be equal in this, that no man can make you lie or steal or be a coward."
Thus she inspired them. Thus she saw them thrill as she had herself been thrilled. And that was her reward. For in her school were not only the little Johns and the little Thomases and the little Richards—she found herself quite suddenly understanding why there were so many Richards—there were also the little Ottos and the little Ulrics and the little Wilhelms, and there was François, whose mother went out to sew by the day, and there were Raphael and Alessandro and Simon. Out from the big cities had come the parents of these children, seeking the land, usurping the places of the old American stock, doing what had been left undone in the way of sowing and planting and reaping, making the little gardens yield as they had never yielded, even in those wonder days before the war.
It was Anne Warfield's task to train the children of the newcomers to the American ideal. With theblood in her of statesmen and of soldiers it was given to her to pass on the tradition of good citizenship. She was, indeed, a torch-bearer, lighting the way to love of country. Yet for a little while she had forgotten it.
She had cried because she could not wear rose-color!
But now her head was high again, and when Richard came she showed him her school, and he shook hands first with the little girls and then with the little boys, and he looked down their throats, and asked them questions, and joked and prodded and took their temperature, and he did it all in such happy fashion that not even the littlest one was afraid.
And when Richard was ready to go, he said to her, "I'll look after their bodies if you'll look after their minds," and as she watched him walk away, she had a tingling sense that they had formed a compact which had to do with things above and beyond the commonplace.
It began to snow in the afternoon, and it was snowing hard when the school day ended. Eric Brand came for Anne and Peggy in the funny little station carriage which was kept at Bower's. Eric and Anne sat on the front seat with Peggy between them. The fat mare, Daisy, jogged placidly along the still white road. There was a top to the carriage, but the snow sifted in, so Anne wrapped Peggy in an old shawl.
"I don't need anything," she said, when Eric offered her a heavier covering. "I love it—like this——"
Eric Brand was big and blond and somewhat slow in his movements. But he had brains and held the position of telegraph operator at Bower's Station. He had, too, a heart of romance. The day before he had seen Evelyn toss the rose to Richard, and he had found it later where Richard had dropped it. He had picked it up, and had put it in water. It had seemed to him that the flower must feel the slight which had been put upon it.
He spoke now to Anne of Richard. "They say he is a good doctor."
"I can't see why he came here."
"His mother wanted him to come. She hates the city. She went there as a bride. Her husband was rich, but he was always speculating. Sometimes they were so poor that she had to do her own work, and sometimes they had a half dozen servants. But they never had a home. And then all at once he lost other people's money as well as his own—and he killed himself——"
She turned on him her startled eyes. "Richard's father?"
"Yes. And after that young Brooks decided that as soon as he finished his medical course he would come here. He thinks that he came because he wanted to come. But he won't stay."
"Why not?"
"You saw his friends. And the women. Some day he'll go back and marry that girl——"
"Evelyn Chesley?"
"Is that her name? She threw him a rose;" he forgot to tell her that he had seen it fade.
They had reached the stable garage. Diogenes welcomed them from his warm corner. The old dog Mamie who had followed the carriage shook the snow from her coat and flopped down on the floor to rest. The little horse Daisy steamed and whinnied. It was a homely scene of sheltered creatures in comfortable quarters. Anne knelt down by the old drake, and he bent his head under her caressing hand. Her face was grave. Eric, watching her, asked; "Has it been a hard day?"
"No;" but she found herself suddenly tired.
She went in with Eric presently. They had a good hot supper, and Anne was hungry. Gathered around the table were Peter and his wife, Beulah and Eric, with Peggy rounding out the half dozen. Geoffrey Fox had gone to town to get his belongings.
Anne had a vision of Richard and his mother in the big house. At their table would be lovely linen and shining silver, and some little formality of service. She felt that she belonged to people like that. She had nothing in common with Peter and his wife and with Eric Brand. Nor with Beulah.
Beulah was planning a little party for the evening.There was to have been skating, but the warmer weather and the snow had made that impossible.
"I don't know just what I'll do with them," she said; "we might have games."
"Anne knows a lot of things." This from Peggy, who was busy with her bread and milk.
"What things?"
"Oh, dancing——"
Anne flushed. "Peggy!"
"But we do. We make bows like this——"
Peggy slid out of her chair and bobbed for them—a most entrancing little curtsey, with all her curls flying.
"And the boys do this." She was quite stiff as she showed them how the little boys bowed.
Anne seemed to feel some need of defense. "Well, they must learn manners."
Peggy, wound up, would not be interrupted. "We dance like this," and away she went in a mad gallop.
Anne laughed. "It warms their blood when the fire won't burn. Peggy, it isn't quite as bad as that. Show them nicely."
So Peggy showed them some pretty steps, and then came back to her bread and milk.
"We might dance." Beulah's mind was on her party. "But some of them don't know how."
Anne offered no suggestions. She really might have helped if she had cared to do it. But she did not care.
When she had finished supper, Eric followed her into the hall. "You'll come down, won't you?"
"I'm not sure."
"Beulah would like it if you would."
"I have a lot of things to do."
"Let them go. You can always work. When you hear the fire roaring up the chimney, you will know that it is calling to you, 'Come down, come down!'"
He stood and watched her as she climbed the stairs. Then he went back and helped Beulah.
Beulah was really very pretty, and to-night her cheeks were pink as she made her little plans with him.
He gave himself pleasantly to her guidance. He moved the furniture for her into the big front room, so that there would be a space for dancing. And presently it became not a sanctum for staid Old Gentlemen, but a gathering place for youth and joy.
Eric made his rounds before the company came. He looked after the dogs in the kennels and at Daisy in her stall. He flashed his lantern into Diogenes' dark corner and saw the old drake at rest.
The snow was whirling in a blinding storm when at last he staggered in with a great log for the fire, and with a basket of cones to make the air sweet. And it was as he knelt to put the cones on the fire that Anne came in and stood beside him.
She had swept up her hair in the new way fromher forehead. She wore white silk stockings and little flat-heeled black slippers, and a flounced white frock. She was not in the least in fashion, but she was quaintly childish and altogether lovely.
The big man looked up at her. "You look nice in that dress."
She smiled down at him. "I'm glad you like it, Eric."
When the young belles and beauties of the countryside came in later, Anne found herself quite eclipsed by their blooming charms. The young men, knowing her as the school-teacher, were afraid of her brains. They talked to her stiffly, and left her as soon as possible for the easier society of girls of their own kind. Peggy sat with Anne on the big settle beside the fire. The child's hand was hot, and she seemed sleepy.
"My eyes hurt," she said, crossly.
"You ought to be in bed, Peggy; shall I take you?"
"No. There's going to be an oyster stew. Daddy said I might sit up."
Beulah in pink and very important came over to them. "Could you show us some of the dances, Anne?"
"Oh, Beulah, can't they play games?"
"I think you might help us." Beulah's tone was slightly petulant.
Anne stood up. "There's a march I taught the children. We could begin with that."
She led the march with Eric. Behind her was the loud laughter of the brawny young men, the loud laughter of the blooming young women. Their merriment sounded a different note from that struck by the genial Old Gentlemen or by the gay group of young folk from New York. What was the difference? Training? Birth?
Anne felt suddenly much alone. She had not belonged to Evelyn Chesley's crowd, she did not belong with Beulah's friends. She wondered if she really belonged anywhere.
Yet as her mind went over and over these things, her little slippered feet led the march. Eric was not awkward, and he fell easily into the step.
"How nicely we do it together," he said, and beamed down on her, and because her heart was really a kind little heart and a womanly one, she smiled up at him and tried to be as fine and friendly as she would have wanted her children to be.
After the dance, the young folks played old-fashioned games—"Going to Jerusalem" and "Post Office." Anne fled to the settle when the last game was announced. Peggy was moping among the cushions.
"Let me take you up to bed, dearie."
"No, I won't. I want to stay here."
The fun was fast and furious. Anne had a little shivery feeling as she watched the girls go out into the hall and come back blushing. How could theygive so lightly what seemed to her so sacred? A woman's lips were for her lover.
She sat very still among the cushions. The fire roared up the chimney. Outside the wind blew; far away in the distance a dog barked.
The barking dog was young Toby. At the heels of his master he was headed straight for the long low house and the grateful shelter of its warmth.
Richard stood for a moment on the porch, looking in through the lighted window. A romping game was in full progress. This time it was "Drop the Handkerchief" and a plump and pretty girl was having a tussle with her captor. Everybody was shouting, clapping. Everybody? On an old settle by the fire sat a slim girl in a white gown. Peggy lay in the curve of her arm, and she was looking down at Peggy.
Richard laughed a big laugh. He could not have told why he laughed, but he flung the door open, and stood there radiant.
"May I come in?" he demanded of Beulah, "or will I break up your party?"
"Oh, Dr. Brooks, as if you could. We are so glad to have you."
"I had a sick call, and we are half frozen, Toby and I, and we saw the lights——"
Now the best place for a half-frozen man is by the fire, and the best place for an anxious and shiveringdog is in a warm chimney corner, so in a moment the young dog Toby was where he could thaw out in a luxurious content, and Richard was on the settle beside Anne, and was saying, "Isn't this great? Do you think I ought to stay? I'm not really invited, you know."
"There's never any formality. Everybody just comes."
"I like your frock," he said suddenly. "You remind me of a little porcelain figure I saw in a Fifth Avenue window not long ago."
"Tell me about it," she said with eagerness.
"About what?"
"New York and the shops. Oh, I saw them once. They were like—Heaven."
She laughed up at him as she said it, and he laughed back.
"You'd get tired of them if you lived there."
"I should never get tired. And if I had money I'd go on in and try on everything. I saw a picture of a gown I'd like—all silver spangles with a pointed train. Do you know I've never worn a train? I should like one—and a big fan with feathers."
He shook his head. "Trains wouldn't suit your style. Nor big fans. You ought to have a little fan—of sandalwood, with a purple and green tassel and smelling sweet. Mother says that her mother carried a fan like that at a White House ball."
"I've never been to a ball."
"Well, you needn't want to go. It's a cram and a jam and everybody bored to death."
"I shouldn't be bored. I should love it."
His eyes were on the fire. And presently he said, "It seems queer to be away from it—New York. There's something about it that gets into your blood. You want it—as you do—drink."
"Then you'll be going back."
He jerked around to look at her. "No," sharply; "what makes you say that?"
"Because—it—it doesn't seem possible that you could be—buried—here."
"Do you feel buried?"
She nodded. "Oh, yes."
His face was grave. "And doesn't the school work—help?"
She caught her breath. "That's the best part of it. You see I love—the children."
He flashed a quick glance at her. "Then you're lonely sometimes?"
"Yes."
"I fancy these people aren't exactly—your kind. I wish you'd come and see my mother. She's awfully worth while, you know. And she'd be so glad to have you."
She found herself saying, "My grandmother was Cynthia Warfield. She knew your grandfather. I have some old letters. I think your mother might like to see them."
"No wonder I've been puzzling over you! Cynthia Warfield's portrait hangs in our library. And you're like your grandmother. Only you're young and—alive."
Again his ringing laugh and her own to meet it. She felt so young and happy. So very, very young, and so very, very happy!
Mrs. Bower, appearing importantly, announced supper. Beyond the hall, through the open door of the dining-room they could see the loaded table with the tureens of steaming oysters at each end.
There was at once a rollicking stampede.
Anne leaned down to wake Peggy. The child opened her heavy eyes, and murmured: "I want a drink."
Richard glanced at her. "Hello, hello," he said, quickly. "What's the matter, Pussy?"
"I'm not Pussy—I'm Peggy." The child was ready for tears.
He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the light. With careful finger he lifted the heavy eyelids and touched the hot little cheeks. "How long has she been this way?" he asked Anne.
"Just since supper. Is there anything the matter with her? Is she really sick, Dr. Brooks?"
"Measles," he said succinctly. "You'd better get her straight to bed."
Anneat the top of the stairs talked to Geoffrey Fox at the foot.
"But you really ought not to stay."
"Why not?"
"Because if you haven't had the measles you might get them, and, besides, poor Mrs. Bower is so busy."
"Why not tell me the truth? You don't want me to stay."
"What difference can it possibly make to me?"
"It may make a great difference," Geoffrey said, quietly, "whether I go or stay, but we won't talk of that. I am here. All my traps, bag and baggage, typewriter and trunks—books and bathrobe—and yet you want to send me away."
"I haven't anything to do with it. But the house is closed to every one."
"And everything smells of antiseptics. I rather like that. I spent six weeks in a hospital once. I had a nervous breakdown, and the quiet was heavenly, and all the nurses were angels."
She would not smile. "Of course if you will stay," she said, "you must take things as they come. Mrs. Bower will send your meals up to you. She won't have time to set a company table."
"I'm not company; let me eat with the rest of you."
She hesitated. "You wouldn't like it. I don't like it. There's no service, you see—we all just help ourselves."
"I can help myself."
She shook her head. "It will be easier for Mrs. Bower to bring it up."
He climbed three steps and stopped. "Are you going to do all the nursing?"
"I shall do some of it. Peggy is really ill. There are complications. And Mrs. Bower and Beulah have so much to do. We shall have to close the school. Dr. Brooks wants to save as many as possible from having it."
"So Brooks is handling Peggy's case."
"Of course. Peter Bower knew his grandfather."
"Well, it is something to have a grandfather. And to follow in his footsteps."
But her mind was not on grandfathers. "Dr. Brooks will be here in an hour and I must get Peggy's room ready. And will you please look after yourself for a little while? Eric will attend to your trunks."
It took Geoffrey all the morning to settle. Heheard Richard come and go. At noon Anne brought up his tray.
Opening the door to her knock, he protested. "You shouldn't have done it."
"Why not? It is all in the day's work. And I am not going to be silly about it any more."
"You were never silly about it."
"Yes, I was. But I have worked it all out in my mind. My bringing up the tray to you won't make me any less than I am or any more. It is the way we feel about ourselves that counts—not what other people think of us."
"So you don't care what I think of you?"
"No, not if I am doing the things I think are right."
"And you don't care what Richard Brooks thinks?"
The color mounted. "No," steadily.
"Nor Miss Chesley?"
"Of course not."
"Not of course. You do care. You'd hate it if you thought they'd criticize. And you'd cry after you went to bed."
She felt that such clairvoyance was uncanny. "I wouldn't cry."
"Well, you'd feel like it."
"Please don't talk about me in that way. It really doesn't make any difference how I feel, does it? And your lunch is getting cold."
"What made you bring it? Why didn't you let Mrs. Bower or Beulah?"
"Mrs. Bower is lying down, and Beulah has been ironing all the morning."
"The next time call me, and I'll wait upon myself."
"Perhaps I shall." She surveyed his tray. "I've forgotten the cream for your coffee."
"I don't take cream. Oh, please don't go. I want you to see my books and my other belongings."
He had brought dozens of books, a few pictures, a little gilded Chinese god, a bronze bust of Napoleon.
"Everything has a reason for being dragged around with me. That etching of Helleu's is like my little sister, Mimi, who is at school in a convent, and who constitutes my whole family. The gilded Chinese god is a mascot—the Napoleon intrigues the imagination."
"Do you think so much of Napoleon?" coldly. "He was a little great man. I'd rather talk to my children of George Washington."
"You women have a grudge against him because of Josephine."
"Yes. He killed something in himself when he put her from him. And the world knew it, and his downfall began. He forgot that love is the greatest thing in the world."
How lovely she was, all fire and feeling!
"Jove," he said, staring, "if you could write, you'd make people sit up and listen. You've kept your dreams. That's what the world wants—the stuff that dreams are made of. And most of us have lost ours by the time we know how to put things on paper."
For days the sound of Geoffrey's typewriter could be heard in the hall. "Does it disturb Peggy?" he asked Anne late one night as he met her on the stairs.
"No; her room is too far away. You were so good to send her the lovely toys. She adores the plush pussy cat."
"I like cats. They are coy—and caressing. Dogs are too frankly adoring."
"The eternal masculine." She smiled at him. "Is your work coming on?"
"I have a first chapter. May I read it to you?"
"Please—I should love it."
She was glad to sit quietly by the big fireplace. With eyes half-closed, she listened to the opening sentences. But as he proceeded, her listlessness vanished. And when he laid down the manuscript she was leaning forward, her slim hands clasped tensely on her knees, her eyes wide with interest.
"Oh, oh," she told him, "how do you know it all—how can you make them live and breathe—like that?"
For a moment he did not answer, then he said, "I don't know how I do it. No artist knows how he creates. It is like Life and Death—and other miracles. If I could keep to this pace, I'd have a masterpiece. But I shan't keep to it."
"Why not?"
"I never do."
"But this time—with such a beginning."
"Will you be my critic, Mistress Anne? Let me read to you now and then—like this?"
"I am afraid I should spoil you with praise. It all seems so—wonderful."
"You can't spoil me, and I like to be wonderful."
In spite of his egotism, she found herself modifying her first unfavorable estimate of him. His quick eager speech, his mobile mouth, his mop of dark hair, his white restless hands, his long-lashed near-sighted eyes, these contributed a personality which had in it nothing commonplace or conventional.
For three nights he read to her. On the fourth he had nothing to read. "It is the same old story," he burst out passionately. "I see mountain peaks, then, suddenly, darkness falls and my brain is blank."
"Wait a little," she told him; "it will come back."
"But it never comes back. All of my good beginnings flat out toward the end. And that's why I'm pot-boiling, because," bitterly, "I am not big enough for anything else."
"You mustn't say such things. We achieve only as we believe in ourselves. Don't you know that? If you believe that things are going to end badly, they will end badly."
"Oh, wise little school-teacher, how do you know?"
"It is what I teach my children. That they must believe in themselves."
"What else do you teach them?"
"That they must believe in God and love their country, and then nothing can happen to them that they cannot bear. It is only when one loses faith and hope that life doesn't seem worth while."
"And do you believe all that you teach?"
Silence. She was gazing into the fire thoughtfully. "I believe it, but I don't always live up to it. That's the hard part, acting up the things that we believe. I tell my children that, and I tell them, too, that they must always keep on trying."
She was delicious with her theories and her seriousness. And she was charming in the crisp blue gown that had been her uniform since the beginning of Peggy's illness.
He laughed and leaned toward her. "Oh, Mistress Anne, Mistress Anne, how much you have to learn."
She stood up. "Perhaps I know more than you think."
"Are you angry because I said that? But I love your arguments."
His frankness was irresistible; she could not take offense so she sat down again.
"Perhaps," she said, hesitating, "you might understand better how I feel if I told you about my Great-uncle Rodman Warfield. When he was very young he went to Paris to study art, and he attracted much attention. Then after a while he began to find the people interested him more than pictures. You see we come from old Maryland stock. My grandmother, Cynthia Warfield, was one of the proudest women in Carroll. But Uncle Rodman doesn't believe in family pride, not the kind that sticks its nose in the air; and so when he came back to America he resolved to devote his talents to glorifying the humble. He lived among the poor and he painted pictures of them. And then one day there was an accident. He saved a woman from drowning between a ferry-boat and the slip, and he hurt his back. There was a sort of paralysis that affected the nerves of his hand—and he couldn't paint any more. He came to us—when I was a little girl. My father was dead, and mother had a small income. We couldn't afford servants, so mother sewed and Uncle Rod and I did the housework. And it was he who tried to teach me that work is the one royal thing in our lives."
"Where is he now?"
"When mother died our income was cut off, and—I had to leave him. He could have a home witha cousin of ours and teach her children. I might have stayed with her, but there was nothing for me to do. And we felt that it was best for me to—find myself. So I came here. He writes to me—every day——" She drew a long breath. "I don't think I could live without letters from my Uncle Rod."
"So you are really a princess in disguise, and you would love to stick your nose in the air, but you don't quite dare?"
"I shouldn't love to do anything snobbish."
"There is no use in pretending that you are humble when you are not. And your Great-uncle Rodman is a dreamer. Life is what it is, not what we want it to be."
"I like his dreams," she said, simply, "and I want to be as good as he thinks I am."
"You don't have to be too good. You are too pretty. Do you know that Cynthia Warfield's granddaughter is a great beauty, Mistress Anne?"
"I know that I don't like to have you say such things to me."
"Why not?"
"I am not sure that you mean them."
"But I do mean them," eagerly.
"Perhaps," stiffly, "but we won't talk about it. I must go up to Peggy."
Peter Bower was with Peggy. He was a round and red-faced Peter with the kindest heart in the world. And Peggy was the apple of his eye.
"Do you think she is better, Miss Anne?"
"Indeed I do. And now you go and get some sleep, Mr. Bower. I'll stay with her until four, and then I'll wake Beulah."
He left her with the daily paper and a new magazine, and with the light shaded, Anne sat down to read. Peggy was sleeping soundly with both arms around the plush pussy which Geoffrey had given her. It was a most lifelike pussy, gray-striped with green glass eyes and with a little red mouth that opened and mewed when you pulled a string. Hung by a ribbon around the pussy cat's neck was a little brass bell. As the child stirred in her sleep the little bell tinkled. There was no sound except the sighing of the wind. All the house was still.
The paper was full of news of the great war. Anne read it carefully, and the articles on the same subject in the magazine. She felt that she must know as much as possible, so that she might speak to her children intelligently of the great conflict. Of Belgium and England, of France and Germany. She must be fair, with all those clear eyes focussed upon her. She must, indeed, attempt a sort of neutrality. But how could she be neutral, with her soul burning candles on the altar of the allies?
As she read on and on in the silence of the night, there came to her the thought of the dead on the field of battle. What of those shining souls? Whathappened after men went out into the Great Beyond? Hun and Norman, Saxon and Slav, among the shadows were they all at Peace?
Again the child stirred and the little bell tinkled. It seemed to Anne that the bell and the staring eyes were symbolic. The gay world played its foolish music and looked with unseeing eyes upon murder and madness. If little Peggy had lain there dead, the little bell would still have tinkled, the wide green eyes would still have stared.
But Peggy, thank God, was alive. Her face, like old ivory against the whiteness of her pillow, showed the ravages of illness, but the doctor had said she was out of danger.
The child stirred and spoke. "Anne," she whispered, "tell me about the bears."
Anne knelt beside the bed. "We must be very quiet," she said. "I don't want to wake Beulah."
So very softly she told the story. Of the Daddy Bear and the Mother Bear and the Baby Bear; of the little House in the Woods; of Goldilocks, the three bowls of soup, the three chairs, the three beds——
In the midst of it all Peggy sat up. "I want a bowl of soup like the little bear."
"But, darling, you've had your lovely supper."
"I don't care." Peggy's lip quivered. "I'm just starved, and I can't wait until I have my breakfast."
"Let me tell you the rest of the story."
"No. I don't want to hear it. I want a bowl of soup like the little bear's."
"Maybe it wasn't nice soup, Peggy."
"But yousaidit was. You said that the Mother Bear made it out of the corn from the farmer's field, and the cock that the fox brought, and she seasoned it with herbs that she found at the edge of the forest. You said yourself it wasdee-licioussoup, Miss Anne."
She began to cry weakly.
"Dearie, don't. If I go down into the kitchen and warm some broth will you keep very still?"
"Yes. Only I don't want just broth. I want soup like the little bear had."
"Peggy, I am not a fairy godmother. I can't wave my wand and get things in the middle of the night."
"Well, anyhow, you can put it in a blue bowl, yousaidthe little bear had his in a blue bowl, and you said he had ten crackers in it. I want ten crackers——"
The kitchen was warm and shadowy, with the light of a kerosene lamp above the cook-stove. Anne flitted about noiselessly, finding a little saucepan, finding a little blue bowl, breaking one cracker into ten bits to satisfy the insistent Peggy, stirring the bubbling broth with a spoon as she bent above it.
And as she stirred, she was thinking of Geoffrey Fox, not as she had thought of Richard, with pulses throbbing and heart fluttering, but calmly; of hisbook and of the little bust of Napoleon, and of the things that she had been reading about the war.
She poured the soup out of the saucepan, and set it steaming on a low tray. Then quietly she ascended the stairs. Geoffrey's door was wide open and his room was empty, but through the dimness of the long hall she discerned his figure, outlined against a wide window at the end. Back of him the world under the light of the waning moon showed black and white like a great wash drawing.
He turned as she came toward him. "I heard you go down," he said. "I've been writing all night—and I've written—perfect rot." His hands went out in a despairing gesture.
Composed and quiet in her crisp linen, she looked up at him. "Write about the war," she said; "take three soldiers,—French, German and English. Make their hearts hot with hatred, and then—let them lie wounded together on the field of battle in the darkness of the night—with death ahead—and let each one tell his story—let them be drawn together by the knowledge of a common lot—a common destiny——"
"What made you think of that?" he demanded.
"Peggy's pussy cat." She told him of the staring eyes and the tinkling bell. "But I mustn't stay. Peggy is waiting for her soup."
He gazed at her with admiration. "How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Dictate a heaven-born plot to me in one breath, and speak of Peggy's soup in the next. You are like Werther's Charlotte."
"I am like myself. And we mustn't stay here talking. It is time we were both in bed. I am going to wake Beulah when I have fed Peggy."
He made a motion of salute. "The princess serves," he said, laughing.
But as she passed on, calm and cool and collected, carrying the tray before her like the famous Chocolate lady on the backs of magazines, the laugh died on his lips. She was not to be laughed at, this little Anne Warfield, who held her head so high!
Eve chesleywriting from New York was still in a state of rebellion.
"And now they all have themeasles. Richard, it needed only your letter to let me know what you have done to yourself. When I think of you, tearing around the country on your old white horse, with your ears tied up—I am sure you tie up your ears—it is a perfect nightmare. Oh, Dicky Boy, and you might be here specializing on appendicitis or something equally reasonable and modern. I feel as if the world were upside down. Do children in New York ever have the measles? Somehow I never hear of it. It seems to me almost archaic—like mumps. Nobody in society ever has the mumps, or if they do, they keep it a dead secret, like a family skeleton, or a hard-working grandfather.
"Your letters are so short, and they don't tell me what you do with your evenings. Don't you miss us? Don't you miss me? And our good times? And the golden lights of the city? Winifred Ames wants you for a dinner dance on the twentieth.Can't you turn the measley kiddies over to some one else and come? Say 'yes,' Dicky, dear. Oh, you musn't be just a country doctor. You were born for bigger things, and some day you will see it and be sorry."
Richard's letter, dashed off between visits to the "measley kiddies," was as follows:
"There aren't any bigger things, Eve, and I shan't be sorry. I can't get away just now, and to be frank, I don't want to. There is nothing dull about measles. They have aspects of interest unknown to a dinner dance. I am not saying that I don't miss some of the things that I have left behind—my good friends—you and Pip and the Dutton-Ames. But there are compensations. And you should see my horse. He's a heavy fellow like a horse of Flanders; I call him Ben because he is big and gentle. I don't tie up my ears, but I should if I wanted to. And please don't think I am ungrateful because I am not coming to the Dutton-Ames dance. Why don't you and the rest drift down here for a week-end? Next Friday, the Friday after? Let me know. There's good skating now that the snows have stopped."
He signed it and sealed it and on the way to see little Peggy he dropped it into the box. Then he entirely forgot it. It was a wonderful morning, with a sky like sapphire above a white world, the dog Toby racing ahead of him, and big gentle Ben at a trot.
At the innocent word "compensations" Evelyn Chesley pricked up her ears. What compensations? She got Philip Meade on the telephone.
"Richard has asked us for the week-end, Pip. Could we go in your car?"
"Unless it snows again. But why seek such solitudes, Eve?"
"I want to take Richard a fur cap. I am sure he ties up his ears."
"Send it."
"In a cold-blooded parcel post package? I will not. Pip, if you won't go, I'll kidnap Aunt Maude, and carry her off by train."
"And leave me out? Not much. 'Whither thou goest——'"
"Even when I am on the trail of another man? Pip, you are a dear idiot."
"The queen's fool."
So it was decided that on Friday, weather permitting, they should go.
Aunt Maude, protesting, said, "It isn't proper, Eve. Girls in my day didn't go running around after men. They sat at home and waited."
"Why wait, dearest? When I see a good thing I go for it."
"Eve——!"
"And anyhow I am not running after Dicky. I am rescuing him."
"From what?"
"From his mother, dearest, and his own dreams. Their heads are in the clouds, and they don't know it."
"I think myself that Nancy is making a mistake."
"More of a mistake than she understands." The lightness left Eve's voice. She was silent as she ate an orange and drank a cup of clear coffee. Eve's fashionable and adorable thinness was the result of abstinence and of exercise. Facing daily Aunt Maude's plumpness, she had sacrificed ease and appetite on the altar of grace and beauty.
Yet Aunt Maude's plumpness was not the plumpness of inelegance. Nothing about Aunt Maude was inelegant. She was of ancient Knickerbocker stock. She had been petrified by years of social exclusiveness into something less amiable than her curves and dimples promised. Her hair was gray, and not much of it was her own. Her curled bang and high coronet braid were held flatly against her head by a hair net. She wore always certain chains and bracelets which proclaimed the family's past prosperity. Her present prosperity was evidenced by the somewhat severe richness of her attire. Her complexion was delicately yellow and her wrinkles were deep. Her eyes were light blue and coldly staring. In manner she seemed to set herself against any world but her own.
The money on which the two women lived was Aunt Maude's. She expected to make Eve her heir.In the meantime she gave her a generous allowance and indulged most of her whims.
The latest whim was the new breakfast room in which they now sat, with the winter sun streaming through the small panes of a wide south window.
For sixty odd years Aunt Maude had eaten her breakfast promptly at eight from a tray in her own room. It had been a hearty breakfast of hot breads and chops. At one she had lunched decently in the long dim dining-room in a mid-Victorian atmosphere of Moquet and marble mantels, carved walnut and plush curtains.
And now back of this sacred dining-room Eve had built out a structure of glass and of stone, looking over a scrap of enclosed city garden, and furnished in black and white, relieved by splashes of brilliant color. Aunt Maude hated the green parrot and the flame-colored fishes in the teakwood aquarium. She thought that Eve looked like an actress in the little jacket with the apple-green ribbons which she wore when she came down at twelve.
"Aren't we ever going to eat any more luncheons?" had been Aunt Maude's plaintive question when she realized that she was in the midst of a gastronomic revolution.
"Nobody does, dearest. If you are really up-to-date you breakfast and dine—the other meals are vague—illusory."
"People in my time——" Aunt Maude had stated.
"People in your time," Evelyn had interrupted flippantly, "were wise and good. Nobody wants to be wise and good in these days. We want to be smart and sophisticated. Your good old stuffy dining-rooms were like your good old stuffy consciences. Now my breakfast room is symbolic—the green and white for the joy of living, and the black for my sins."
She stood up on tiptoe to feed the parrot. "To-morrow," she announced, "I am to have a black cat. I found one at the cat show—with green eyes. And I am going to match his cushion to his eyes."
"I'd like a cat," Aunt Maude said, unexpectedly, "but I can't say that I care for black ones. The grays are the best mousers."
Eve looked at her reproachfully. "Do you think that cats catch mice?" she demanded,—"up-to-date cats? They sit on cushions and add emphasis to the color scheme. Winifred Ames has a yellow one to go with her primrose panels."
The telephone rang. A maid answered it. "It is for you, Miss Evelyn."
"It is Pip," Eve said, as she turned from the telephone; "he's coming up."
Aunt Maude surveyed her. "You're not going to receive him as you are?"
"As I am? Why not?"
"Eve, go to your room and put somethingon," Aunt Maude agonized; "when I was a girl——"
Evelyn dropped a kiss on her cheek. "When you were a girl, Aunt Maude, you were very pretty, and you wore very low necks and short sleeves on the street, and short dresses—and—and——"
Remembering the family album, Aunt Maude stopped her hastily. "It doesn't make any difference what I wore. You are not going to receive any gentleman in that ridiculous jacket."
Eve surveyed herself in an oval mirror set above a console-table. "I think I look rather nice. And Pip would like me in anything. Aunt Maude, it's a queer world for us women. The men that we want don't want us, and the men that we don't want adore us. The emancipation of women will come when they can ask men to marry them."
She was ruffling the feathers on the green parrot's head. He caught her finger carefully in his claw and crooned.
Aunt Maude rose. "I had twenty proposals—your uncle's was the twentieth. I loved him at first sight, and I loved him until he left me."
"Uncle was a dear," Eve agreed, "but suppose he hadn't asked you, Aunt Maude?"
"I should have remained single to the end of my days."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't, Aunt Maude. You would have married the wrong man—that's the way it always ends—if women didn't marry the wrong men half the world would be old maids."
Philip Meade was much in love. He had money, family, good looks and infinite patience. Some day he meant to marry Eve. But he was aware that she was not yet in love with him.
She came down gowned for the street. And thus kept him waiting. "It was Aunt Maude's fault. She made me dress. Pip, where shall we walk?"
He did not care. He cared only to be with her. He told her so, and she smiled up at him wistfully. "You're such a dear—I wish——"
She stopped.
"What do you wish?" he asked eagerly.
"For the—sun. You are the moon. May I call you my moon-man, Pip?"
He knew what she meant "Yes. But you must remember that some day I shall not be content to take second place—I shall fight for the head of your line of lovers."
"Line of lovers—Pip. I don't like the sound of it."
"Why not? It's true."