Mistress Anne Part 21

"Shall we go Sat.u.r.day?" she asked.

Anne, rummaging in the drawer of her desk, produced a small and shabby pocketbook. She shook the money out and counted it. "With the check that Uncle Rod sent me," she said, "there's enough for a really lovely frock.

But I don't know whether I ought to spend it."

"Why not?"

"Everybody ought to save something--I am teaching my children to have penny banks--and yet I go on spending and spending with nothing to show for it."

Beulah was quite placid. "I don't see why you should save. Some day you will get married, and then you won't have to."

"If a woman marries a poor man she ought to be careful of finances. She has to think of her children and of their future."

Beulah shrugged. "What's the use of looking so far ahead? And 'most any husband will see that his wife doesn't get too much to spend."

Before Anne went to bed that night she put a part of her small store of money into a separate compartment of her purse. She would buy a cheaper frock and save herself the afterpangs of extravagance. And the penny banks of the children would no longer accuse her of inconsistency!

The shopping expedition proved a strenuous one. Anne had fixed her mind on certain things which proved to be too expensive. "You go for your fitting," she said to Beulah desperately, as the afternoon waned, "and I will take a last look up Charles Street. We can meet at the train."

The way which she had to travel was a familiar one, but its charm held her--the street lights glimmered pale gold in the early dusk, the crowd swung along in its brisk city manner toward home. Beyond the shops was the Cardinal's house. The Monument topped the hill; to its left the bronze lions guarded the great square; to the right there was the thin spire of the Methodist Church.

She had an hour before train time and she lingered a little, stopping at this window and that, and all the time the money which she had elected to save burned a hole in her pocket.

For there were such things to buy! Pa.s.sing a flower shop there were violets and roses. Pa.s.sing a candy shop were chocolates. Pa.s.sing a hat shop there was a veil flung like a cloud over a celestial _chapeau_!

Pa.s.sing an Everything-that-is-Lovely shop she saw an enchanting length of silk--as pink as a sea-sh.e.l.l--silk like that which Cynthia Warfield had worn when she sat for the portrait which hung in the library at Crossroads!

Anne did not pa.s.s the Lovely Shop; she turned and went in, and bought ten yards of silk with the money that she had meant to spend--and the money she had meant to save!

And she missed the train!

Beulah was waiting for her as she came in breathless. "There isn't another train for two hours," she complained.

Anne sank down on a bench. "I am sorry, Beulah. I didn't know it was so late."

"We'll have to get supper in the station," Beulah said, "and I have spent all my money."

"Oh, and I've spent mine." Anne reflected that if she had not bought the silk she could have paid for Beulah's supper. But she was glad that she had bought it, and that she had it under her arm in a neat package.

She dug into her slim purse and produced a dime. "Never mind, Beulah, we can buy some chocolates."

But they were not destined for such meager fare. Rushing into the station came Geoffrey Fox. As he saw the clock he stopped with the air of a man baffled by fate.

Anne moving toward him across the intervening s.p.a.ce saw his face change.

"By all that's wonderful," he said, "how did this happen?"

"We missed our train."

"And I missed mine. Who is 'we'?"

"Beulah is with me."

"Can't you both have dinner with me somewhere? There are two hours of waiting ahead of us."

Anne demurred. "I'm not very hungry."

But Beulah, who had joined them, was hungry, and she said so, frankly. "I am starved. If I could have just a sandwich----"

"You shall have more than that. We'll have a feast and a frolic. Let me check your parcels, Mistress Anne."

Back they went to the golden-lighted streets and turning down toward the city they reached at last the big hotel which has usurped the place of the stately and substantial edifices which were once the abodes of ancient and honorable families.

Within were soft lights and the sound of music. The rugs were thick, and there was much marble. As they entered the dining-room, they seemed to move through a golden haze. It was early, and most of the tables were empty.

Beulah was rapturous. "I have always wanted to come here. It is perfectly lovely."

The attentive waiter at Geoffrey's elbow was being told to bring---- Anne's quick ear caught the word.

"No, please," she said at once, "not for Beulah and me."

His keen glance commanded her. "Of course not," he said, easily.

Presently he had the whole matter of the menu settled, and could talk to Anne. She was enjoying it all immensely and said so.

"I should like to do this sort of thing every day."

"Heaven forbid. You would lose your dreams, and grow self-satisfied--and fat--like that woman over there."

Anne shuddered. "It isn't that she is fat--it's her eyes, and the way she makes up."

"That is the way they get when they live in places like this. If you want to be slender and lovely and keep your dreams you must teach school."

"Oh, but there's drudgery in that."

"It is the people who drudge who dream. They don't know it, but they do.

People who have all they want learn that there is nothing more for life to give. And they drink and take drugs to bring back the illusions they have lost."

They fell into silence after that, and then it was Beulah who became voluble. Her fair round face beamed. It was a common little face, but it was good and honest. Beulah was having the time of her life. She did not know that she owed her good fortune to Anne, that if Anne had not been there, Geoffrey would not have asked her to dine. But if she had known it, she would not have cared.

"What train did you come in on?" she asked.

"At noon. Brooks thought I ought to see a specialist. He doesn't give me much encouragement about my eyes. He wants me to stop writing, but I shan't until I get through with my book."

He spoke recklessly, but Anne saw the shadow on his face. "You aren't telling us how really serious it is," she said, as Beulah's attention was diverted.

"It is so serious that for the first time in my life I know myself to be--a coward. Last night I lay in bed with my eyes shut to see how it would seem to be blind. It was a pretty morbid thing to do--and this morning finished me."

She tried to speak her sympathy, but could not. Her eyes were full of tears.

"Don't," he said, softly, "my good little friend--my good little friend."