Mistress Anne Part 47

The two old men came on the same train, and David brought them over from Bower's behind big Ben. By the time they reached Crossroads, they had dwelt upon old times and old friends and old loves until they were in the warm and genial state of content which is age's recompense for the loss of youthful ardors.

They were, indeed, three ancient Musketeers, who, untouched now by any flame of great emotion, might adventure safely in a past of sentiment from which they were separated by long years. But there had been a time when pa.s.sion had burned brightly for them all, even in gentle David, who had loved Cynthia Warfield.

What wonder, then, if to these three Anne typified that past, and all it meant to them, as she ran to meet them with her arms outflung to welcome Uncle Rod.

She had them all presently safe on the hearth with the fire roaring, and with Milly bringing them hot coffee, and Sulie and Nancy smiling in an ecstasy of welcome.

"It is perfect," Anne said, "to have you all here--like this."

Yet deep in her heart she knew that it was not perfect. For youth calls to youth. And Richard was yet to come!

Brinsley had brought hampers of things to eat. He had made epicurean pilgrimages to the Baltimore markets. There were turkeys and ducks and oysters--Smithfield hams, a young pig with an apple in its mouth.

He superintended the unloading of the hampers when Eric brought them over. Uncle Rod shook his head as he saw them opened.

"I can make a jar of honey and a handful of almonds suffice," he said. "I am not keen about butchered birds and beasts."

Brinsley laughed. "Don't rob me of the joy of living, Rod," he said.

"Nancy is bad enough. I wanted to send up some wine. But she wouldn't have it. Even her mince pies are innocent. Nancy sees the whole world through eyes of anxiety for her boy. I don't believe she'd care a snap for temperance if she wasn't afraid that her d.i.c.ky might drink."

"Perhaps it is the individual mother's solicitude for her own particular child which makes the feminine influence a great moral force," Rodman ventured.

"Perhaps," carelessly. "Now Nancy has a set of wine-gla.s.ses that it is a shame not to use." He slapped his hands to warm them. "Let's take a long walk, Rod. I exercise to keep the fat down."

"I exercise because it is a good old world to walk in," and Rodman swung his long lean legs into an easy stride.

They picked David up as they pa.s.sed his little house. They climbed the hill till they came to the edge of the wood where David had cut the tree.

There was a sunset over the frozen river as they turned to look at it.

The river sang no songs to-day. It was as still and silent as their own dead youth. Yet above it was the clear gold of the evening sky.

"The last time we came we were boys," Brinsley said, "and I was in love with Cynthia Warfield. And we were both in love with her, David; do you remember?"

David did remember. "Anne is like her."

Rodman protested. "She is and she isn't. Anne has none of Cynthia's faults."

Brinsley chuckled. "I'll bet you've spoiled her."

"No, I haven't. But Anne has had to work and wait for things, and it hasn't hurt her."

"She's a beauty," Brinsley stated, "and she ought to be a belle."

"She's good," David supplemented; "the children at the little school worship her."

"She's mine," Uncle Rod straightened his shoulders, "and in that knowledge I envy no man anything."

As they sat late that night by Nancy's fire, Anne in a white frock played for them, and sang:

"I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country, But beauty vanishes, beauty pa.s.ses, However rare, rare it be, And when I am gone, who shall remember That lady of the West Country?"

And when she sang it was of Cynthia Warfield that all of the Old Gentlemen dreamed.

When the last note had died away, she went over and stood behind her uncle. She was little and slim and straight and her soft hair was swept up high from her forehead. Her eyes above Uncle Rod's head met Nancy's eyes. The two women smiled at each other.

"To-morrow," Nancy said, and she seemed to say it straight to Anne, "to-morrow Richard will be here."

Anne caught a quick breath. "To-morrow," she said. "How lovely it will be!"

But Richard did not come on Christmas Eve. A telegram told of imperative demands on him. He would get there in the morning.

"We won't light the tree until he comes," was Nancy's brave decision.

"The early train will get him here in time for breakfast."

David drove big Ben down to meet him. Milly cooked a mammoth breakfast.

Anne slipped across the road to the Crossroads school to ring the bell for the young master's return. The rest of the household waited in the library. Brinsley was there with a story to tell, but no one listened.

Their ears were strained to catch the first sharp sound of big Ben's trot. Sulie was there with a red rose in her hair to match the fires which were warming her old heart. Nancy was there at the window, watching.

Then the telephone rang. Nancy was wanted. Long distance.

It was many minutes before she came back. Yet the message had been short.

She had hung up the receiver, and had stood in the hall in a whirling world of darkness.

_Richard was not coming._

He had been sorry. Tender. Her own sweet son. Yet he had seemed to think that business was a sufficient excuse for breaking her heart. Surely there were doctors enough in that octopus of a town to take his patients off of his hands. And she was his mother and wanted him.

She had a sense of utter rebellion. She wanted to cry out to the world, "This is my son, for whom I have sacrificed."

And now the bell across the street began to ring its foolish chime--Richard was not coming, _ding, dong_. She must get through the day without him, _ding, dong_, she must get through all the years!

When she faced the solicitous group in the library, only her whiteness showed what she was feeling.

"Richard is detained by--an important--operation. And breakfast is--waiting. Sulie, will you call Anne, and light the little tree?"

CHAPTER XX

_In Which a Dresden-China Shepherdess and a Country Mouse Meet on Common Ground._

MARIE-LOUISE'S room at Rose Acres was all in white with two tall candlesticks to light it, and a silver bowl for flowers. It was by means of the flowers in the bowl that Marie-Louise expressed her moods. There were days when scarlet flowers flamed, and other days when pale roses or violets or lilies suggested a less exotic state of mind.

On the day when Anne Warfield arrived, the flowers in the bowl were yellow. Marie-Louise stayed in bed all of the morning. She had ordered the flowers sent up from the hothouse, and, dragging a length of silken dressing-gown behind her, she had arranged them. Then she had had her breakfast on a tray.

Her hair was nicely combed under a lace cap; the dressing-gown was faint blue. In the center of the big bed she looked very small but very elegant, as if a Dresden-China Shepherdess had been put between the covers.