CHAPTER IX.
"Manners--not what, but _how_. Manners are happy ways of doing things; each once a stroke of genius or of love--now repeated and hardened into usage. Manners require time; nothing is more vulgar than haste."--EMERSON.
Madame Moreau was a Frenchwoman, small and old, with a thin shrewd faceand large features. She wore a plain black satin gown, the narrow skirtgathered in the old-fashioned style, and falling straight to the floor;the waist of the gown, fastened behind, was in front plaited into a longrounded point. Broad ruffles of fine lace shielded her throat and hands,and her cap, garnished with violet velvet, was trimmed with the samedelicate fabric. She was never a handsome woman even in youth, and shewas now seventy-five years of age; yet she was charming.
She rose, kissed the young girl lightly on each cheek, and said a fewwords of welcome. Her manner was affectionate, but impersonal. She nevertook fancies; but neither did she take dislikes. That her young ladieswere all charming young persons was an axiom never allowed to be broughtinto question; that they were simply and gracefully feminine was withequal firmness established. Other schools of modern and American originmight make a feature of public examinations, with questions by beardedprofessors from boys' colleges; but the establishment of Madame Moreauknew nothing of such innovations. The Frenchwoman's idea was not a badone; good or bad, it was inflexible. She was a woman of markedcharacter, and may be said to have accomplished much good in amannerless generation and land. Thoroughly French, she was respected andloved by all her American scholars; and it will be long ere her nameand memory fade away.
Miss Vanhorn did not come to see her niece until a week had passed. Annehad been assigned to the lowest French class among the children, hadtaken her first singing lesson from one Italian, fat, rosy, and smiling,and her first Italian lesson from another, lean, old, and soiled, hadlearned to answer questions in the Moreau French, and to talk a little,as well as to comprehend the fact that her clothes were remarkable, andthat she herself was considered an oddity, when one morning Tante sentword that she was to come down to the drawing-room to see a visitor.
The visitor was an old woman with black eyes, a black wig, shining falseteeth, a Roman nose, and a high color (which was, however, natural), andshe was talking to Tante, who, with her own soft gray hair, and teethwhich if false did not appear so, looked charmingly real beside her.Miss Vanhorn was short and stout; she was muffled in an India shawl, andupon her hands were a pair of cream-colored kid gloves much too largefor her, so that when she fumbled, as she did every few moments, in anembroidered bag for aromatic seeds coated with sugar, she had muchdifficulty in finding them, owing to the empty wrinkled ends of theglove fingers. She lifted a gold-rimmed eye-glass to her eyes as Anneentered, and coolly inspected her.
"Dear me! dear me!" she said. Then, in execrable French, "What can bedone with such a young savage as this?"
"How do you do, aunt?" said Anne, using the conventional words with aslight tremor in her voice. This was the woman who had brought up hermother--her dear, unremembered mother.
"Grandaunt," said Miss Vanhorn, tartly. "Sit down; I can not bear tohave people standing in front of me. How old are you?"
"I am seventeen, grandaunt."
"DEAR ME, WHAT CAN BE DONE WITH SUCH A YOUNG SAVAGE?"]
Miss Vanhorn let her eyeglass drop, and groaned. "_Can_ anything be donewith her?" she asked, closing her eyes tightly, and turning towardTante, while Anne flushed crimson, not so much from the criticism as theunkindness.
"Oh yes," said Tante, taking the opportunity given by the closed eyes topat the young girl's hand encouragingly. "Miss Douglas is veryintelligent; and she has a fine mezzo-soprano voice. Signor Belzini ismuch pleased with it. It would be well, also, I think, if you wouldallow her to take a few dancing lessons."
"She will have no occasion for dancing," answered Miss Vanhorn, stillwith her eyes closed.
"It was not so much for the dancing itself as for grace of carriage,"replied Tante. "Miss Douglas has a type of figure rare among Americangirls."
"I should say so, indeed!" groaned the other, shaking her head gloomily,still voluntarily blinded.
"But none the less beautiful in its way," continued Tante, unmoved. "Itis the Greek type."
"I am not acquainted with any Greeks," replied Miss Vanhorn.
"You are still as devoted as ever to the beautiful and refined study ofplant life, dear madame," pursued Tante, changing the current ofconversation. "How delightful to have a young relative to assist you,with the fresh and ardent interest belonging to her age, when theflowers bloom again upon the rural slopes of Haarderwyck!" As Tante saidthis, she looked off dreamily into space, as if she saw aunt and niecewandering together through groves of allegorical flowers.
"She is not likely to see Haarderwyck," answered Miss Vanhorn. Then,after a moment's pause--a pause which Tante did not break--she peered atAnne with half-open eyes, and asked, abruptly, "Do you, then, knowanything of botany?"
Tante made a slight motion with her delicate withered old hand. But Annedid not comprehend her, and answered, honestly, "No, grandaunt, I donot."
"Bah!" said Miss Vanhorn; "I might have known without the asking. Makewhat you can of her, madame. I will pay your bill for one year: nolonger. But no nonsense, no extras, mind that." Again she sought acaraway seed, pursuing it vindictively along the bottom of her bag, andlosing it at the last, after all.
"As regards wardrobe, I would advise some few changes," said Tante,smoothly. "It is one of my axioms that pupils study to greater advantagewhen their thoughts are not disturbed by deficiencies in dress.Conformity to our simple standard is therefore desirable."
"It may be desirable; it is not always, on that account, attainable,"answered Miss Vanhorn, conveying a finally caught seed to her mouth,dropping it at the last moment, and carefully and firmly biting the seamof the glove finger in its place.
"Purchases are made for the pupils with discretion by one of our mostexperienced teachers," continued Tante.
"Glad to hear it," said her visitor, releasing the glove finger, andpretending to chew the seed which was not there.
"But I do not need anything, Tante," interposed Anne, the deep colordeepening in her cheeks.
"So much the better," said her grandaunt, dryly, "since you will havenothing."
She went away soon afterward somewhat placated, owing to skillfulreminiscences of a favorite cousin, who, it seemed, had been one ofTante's "dearest pupils" in times past; "a true Vanhorn, worthy of herKnickerbocker blood." The word "Neeker-bo-ker," delicately comprehended,applied, and, what was more important still, limited, was one of Tante'smost telling achievements--a shibboleth. She knew all the old Dutchnames, and remembered their intermarriages; she was acquainted with thepeculiar flavor of Huguenot descent; she comprehended the especialaristocracy of Tory families, whose original property had beenconfiscated by a raw republic under George Washington. Ah! skillful oldTante, what a general you would have made!
Anne Douglas, the new pupil, was now left to face the school with herisland-made gowns, and what courage she could muster. Fortunately thegowns were black and severely plain. Tante, not at all disturbed byMiss Vanhorn's refusal, ordered a simple cloak and bonnet for herthrough an inexpensive French channel, so that in the street she passedunremarked; but, in the house, every-day life required more courage thanscaling a wall. Girls are not brutal, like boys, but their light wit ispitiless. The Southern pupils, provided generously with money in thelavish old-time Southern way, the day scholars, dressed with theexquisite simplicity of Northern school-girls of good family, glancedwith amusement at the attire of this girl from the Northwest. This girl,being young, felt their glances; as a refuge, she threw herself into herstudies with double energy, and gaining confidence respecting what shehad been afraid was her island patois, she advanced so rapidly in theFrench classes that she passed from the lowest to the highest, and waspublicly congratulated by Tante herself. In Italian her progress wasmore slow. Her compa
nion, in the class of two, was a beautiful dark-eyedSouthern girl, who read musically, but seldom deigned to open hergrammar. The forlorn, soiled old exile to whom, with unconscious irony,the bath-room had been assigned for recitations in the crowded house,regarded this pupil with mixed admiration and despair. Her remarks onMary Stuart, represented by Alfieri, were nicely calculated to rouse himto patriotic fury, and then, when the old man burst forth in a torrentof excited words, she would raise her soft eyes in surprise, and inquireif he was ill. The two girls sat on the bath-tub, which was decorouslycovered over and cushioned; the exile had a chair for dignity's sake.Above, in a corresponding room, a screen was drawn round the tub, and apiano placed against it. Here, all day long, another exile, a Germanmusic-master, with little gold rings in his ears, gave piano lessons,and Anne was one of his pupils. To Signor Belzini, the teacher of vocalmusic, the drawing-room itself was assigned. He was a prosperous andsmiling Italian, who had a habit of bringing pieces of pink cream candywith him, and arranging them in a row on the piano for his ownrefreshment after each song. There was an atmosphere of perfume andmystery about Belzini. It was whispered that he knew the leadingopera-singers, even taking supper with them sometimes after the opera.The pupils exhausted their imaginations in picturing to each other theprobable poetry and romance of these occasions.
Belzini was a musical trick-master; but he was not ignorant. When Annecame to take her first lesson, he smiled effusively, as usual, took apiece of candy, and, while enjoying it, asked if she could read notes,and gave her the "Drinking Song" from _Lucrezia Borgia_ as a trial. Annesang it correctly without accompaniment, but slowly and solemnly as adead march. It is probable that "Il Segreto" never heard itself so sungbefore or since. Belzini was walking up and down with his plump handsbehind him.
"You have never heard it sung?" he said.
"No," replied Anne.
"Sing something else, then. Something you like yourself."
After a moment's hesitation, Anne sang an island ballad in the voyageurpatois.
"May I ask who has taught you, mademoiselle?"
"My father," said the pupil, with a slight tremor in her voice.
"He must be a cultivated musician, although of the German school," saidBelzini, seating himself at the piano and running his white fingers overthe keys. "Try these scales."
It was soon understood that "the islander" could sing as well as study.Tolerance was therefore accorded to her. But not much more. It is onlyin "books for the young" that poorly clad girls are found leading wholeschools by the mere power of intellectual or moral supremacy. Theemotional type of boarding-school, also, is seldom seen in cities; itshome is amid the dead lethargy of a winter-bound country village.
The great event in the opening of Anne's school life was her firstopera. Tante, not at all blinded by the country garb and silence of thenew pupil, had written her name with her own hand upon the opera listfor the winter, without consulting Miss Vanhorn, who would, however,pay for it in the end, as she would also pay for the drawing and dancinglessons ordered by the same autocratic command. For it was one ofTante's rules to cultivate every talent of the agreeable and decorativeorder which her pupils possessed; she bathed them as the photographerbathes his shadowy plate, bringing out and "setting," as it were, asdeeply as possible, their colors, whatever they happened to be. Tantealways attended the opera in person. Preceded by the usher, the oldFrenchwoman glided down the awkward central aisle of the Academy ofMusic, with her inimitable step, clad in her narrow satin gown and allher laces, well aware that tongues in every direction were saying:"There is Madame Moreau at the head of her school, as usual. What awonderful old lady she is!" While the pupils were filing into theirplaces, Tante remained in the aisle fanning herself majestically, andsurveying them with a benignant smile. When all were seated, with agraceful little bend she glided into her place at the end, the motion ofsitting down and the bend fused into one in a manner known only toherself.
Anne's strong idealism, shown in her vivid although mistaken conceptionsof Shakspeare's women, was now turned into the channel of opera music.After hearing several operas, she threw herself into her Italian songswith so much fervor that Belzini sat aghast; this was not the manner inwhich demoiselles of private life should sing. Tante, passing one day(by the merest chance, of course) through the drawing-room while Annewas singing, paused a moment to listen. "Ma fille," she said, when thesong was ended, tapping Anne's shoulder affably, "give no moreexpression to the Italian words you sing than to the syllables of yourscales. Interpretations are not required." The old Frenchwoman alwaysput down with iron hand what she called the predominant tendency towardtoo great freedom--sensationalism--in young girls. She spent her life ina constant struggle with the American "jeune fille."
During this time Rast wrote regularly; but his letters, not beingauthorized by Miss Vanhorn, Anne's guardian, passed first through thehands of one of the teachers, and the knowledge of this inspectionnaturally dulled the youth's pen. But Anne's letters to him passed thesame ordeal without change in word or in spirit. Miss Lois and Dr.Gaston wrote once a week; Pere Michaux contented himself withpostscripts added to the long, badly spelled, but elaborately wordedepistles with which Mademoiselle Tita favored her elder sister. It wasevident to Anne that Miss Lois was having a severe winter.
The second event in Anne's school life was the gaining of a friend.
At first it was but a musical companion. Helen Lorrington lived not farfrom the school; she was one of Tante's old scholars, and this Napoleonof teachers especially liked this pupil, who was modelled after her ownheart. Helen held what may be called a woman's most untrammelledposition in life, namely, that of a young widow, protected but notcontrolled, rich, beautiful, and without children. She was also heir tothe estate of an eccentric grandfather, who detested her, yet would notallow his money to go to any collateral branch. He detested her becauseher father was a Spaniard, whose dark eyes had so reprehensiblyfascinated his little Dutch daughter that she had unexpectedly pluckedup courage to marry in spite of the paternal prohibition, and not onlythat, but to be very happy also during the short portion of lifeallotted to her afterward. The young Spanish husband, with anunaccountable indifference to the wealth for which he was supposed tohave plotted so perseveringly, was pusillanimous enough to die soonafterward, leaving only one little pale-faced child, a puny girl, toinherit the money. The baby Helen had never possessed the dimples androse tints that make the beauty of childhood; the girl Helen had not therounded curves and peach-like bloom that make the beauty of youth. Atseventeen she was what she was now; therefore at seventeen she was old.At twenty-seven she was what she was then; therefore at twenty-seven shewas young.
She was tall, and extremely, marvellously slender; yet her bones wereso small that there were no angles visible in all her graceful length.She was a long woman; her arms were long, her throat was long, her eyesand face were long. Her form, slight enough for a spirit, was as naturalas the swaying grasses on a hill-side. She was as flexible as a ribbon.Her beauties were a regally poised little head, a delicately cutprofile, and a remarkable length of hair; her peculiarities, the colorof this hair, the color of her skin, and the narrowness of her eyes. Thehue of her hair was called flaxen; but it was more than that--it was thecolor of bleached straw. There was not a trace of gold in it, nor did itever shine, but hung, when unbound, a soft even mass straight down belowthe knee. It was very thick, but so fine that it was manageable; it wasnever rough, because there were no short locks. The complexion whichaccompanied this hair was white, with an under-tint of ivory. There areskins with under-tints of pink, of blue, and of brown; but this wasdifferent in that it shaded off into cream, without any indication ofthese hues. This soft ivory-color gave a shade of fuller richness to theslender straw-haired woman--an effect increased by the hue of the eyes,when visible under the long light lashes. For Helen's eyes were of abright dark unexpected brown. The eyes were so long and narrow, however,that generally only a line of bright brown looked at you whe
n you mettheir gaze. Small features, narrow cheeks, delicate lips, and littlemilk-white teeth, like a child's, completed this face which never had ared tint, even the lips being but faintly colored. There were many menwho, seeing Helen Lorrington for the first time, thought her exquisitelybeautiful; there were others who, seeing her for the first time, thoughther singularly ugly. The _second_ time, there was never a question. Hergrandfather called her an albino; but he was nearly blind, and couldonly see the color of her hair. He could not see the strong brown lightof her eyes, or the soft ivory complexion, which never changed in thewind, the heat, or the cold.
Mrs. Lorrington was always dressed richly, but after a fashion of herown. Instead of disguising the slenderness of her form, she intensifiedit; instead of contrasting hues, she often wore amber tints like herhair. Amid all her silks, jewels, and laces, there was always supremeher own personality, which reduced her costumes to what, after all,costumes should be, merely the subordinate coverings of a beautifulwoman.
Helen had a clear, flute-like voice, with few low notes, and aremarkably high range. She continued her lessons with Belzini whenevershe was in the city, more in order that he might transpose her songs forher than for any instruction he could now bestow. She was an old pupilof his, and the sentimental Italian adored her; this adoration, however,did not prevent him from being very comfortable at home with his portlywife. One morning Helen, coming in for a moment to leave a new song,found Anne at the piano taking her lesson. Belzini, always anxious toplease his fair-haired divinity, motioned to her to stay and listen.Anne's rich voice pleased her ears; but she had heard rich voicesbefore. What held her attention now was the girl herself. For althoughHelen was a marvel of self-belief, although she made her own peculiarbeauty an object of worship, and was so saturated with knowledge ofherself that she could not take an attitude which did not become her,she yet possessed a comprehension of other types of beauty, and had, ifnot an admiration for, at least a curiosity about, them. In Anne sherecognized at once what Tante had also recognized--unfolding beauty ofan unfamiliar type, the curves of a nobly shaped form hidden under anugly gown, above the round white throat a beautiful head, and asingularly young face shadowed by a thoughtfulness which was very graveand impersonal when compared with the usual light, self-centredexpressions of young girls' faces. At once Helen's artistic eye had Annebefore her, robed in fit attire; in imagination she dressed her slowlyfrom head to foot as the song went on, and was considering the questionof jewels when the music ceased, and Belzini was turning toward her.
"I hope I may become better acquainted with this rich voice," she said,coming back gracefully to the present. "May I introduce myself? Ishould like to try a duet with you, if you will allow me, Miss--"
"Douglas," said Belzini; "and this, mademoiselle, is Mrs. Lorrington."
Such was the beginning.
In addition to Helen's fancy for Anne's fair grave face, the younggirl's voice proved a firmer support for her high soprano than it hadever obtained. Her own circle in society and the music classes had beensearched in vain more than once. For she needed a soprano, not acontralto. And as soprani are particularly human, there had never beenany lasting co-operation. Anne, however, cheerfully sang whateverBelzini put before her, remained admiringly silent while Helen executedthe rapid runs and trills with which she always decorated her part, andthen, when the mezzo was needed again, gave her full voice willingly,supporting the other as the notes of an organ meet and support a fluteafter its solo.
Belzini was in ecstasies; he sat up all night to copy music for them. Hesaid, anxiously, to Helen: "And the young girl? You like her, do younot? Such a voice for you!"
"But I can not exactly buy young girls, can I?" said Mrs. Lorrington,smiling.
More and more, however, each day she liked "the young girl" for herselfalone. She was an original, of course; almost an aboriginal; for shetold the truth exactly upon all occasions, appropriate or inappropriate,and she had convictions. She was not aware, apparently, of theold-fashioned and cumbrous appearance of these last-named articles ofmental furniture. But the real secret of Helen's liking lay in the factthat Anne admired her, and was at the same time neither envious norjealous, and from her youth she had been troubled by the suredevelopment of these two feelings, sooner or later, in all her girlcompanions. In truth, Helen's lot _was_ enviable; and also, whetherconsciously or unconsciously, she had a skill in provoking jealousy. Shewas the spoiled child of fortune. It was no wonder, therefore, thatthose of her own sex and age seldom enjoyed being with her: thecontrast was too great. Helen was, besides, the very queen of Whim.
The queen of Whim! By nature; which means that she had a highlydeveloped imagination. By the life she had led, having never, save forthe six short months of her husband's adoring rule, been under thecontrol, or even advice, of any man. For whim can be thoroughlydeveloped only in feminine households: it is essentially feminine. AndHelen had been brought up by a maiden aunt, who lived alone. A man,however mild, demands in a home at least a pretense of fixed hours andregularity; only a household of women is capable of no regularity atall, of changing the serious dinner hour capriciously, and even givingup dinner altogether. Only a household of women has sudden inspirationsas to journeys and departures within the hour; brings forth sudden ideasas to changes of route while actually on the way, and a going southwardinstead of westward, with a total indifference to supper. Helen'spresent whim was Anne.
"I want you to spend part of the holidays with me," she said, a few daysbefore Christmas. "Come on Monday, and stay over New-Year's Day."
"Oh, I can not," said Anne, startled.
"Why not? Tante will consent if I ask her; she always does. Do you lovethis crowded house so much that you can not leave it?"
"It is not that. But--"
"But you are shy. But Miss Vanhorn might not like it. You do not knowAunt Margaretta. You have no silk gown. Now let _me_ talk. I will writeto Miss Vanhorn. Aunt Margaretta is as gentle as a dove. I am boldenough for two. And the silk dress shall come from me."
"I could not take that, Mrs. Lorrington."
"Because you are proud?"
"No; but because I would rather not. It would be too great anobligation."
"You repay me by your voice a thousandfold, Anne. I have never had theright voice for mine until now; and therefore the obligation is on myside. I do not speak of the pleasure your visit will give me, because Ihope to make that mutual. But say no more. I intend to have my way."
And she had her way. "I have always detested Miss Vanhorn, with hercaraway seeds, and her malice," she explained to Tante. "Much as I likeAnne for herself alone, it will be delicious also to annoy the olddragon by bringing into notice this unknown niece whom she is hidinghere so carefully. Now confess, Tante, that it will be delicious."
Tante shook her head reprovingly. But she herself was in her heart by nomeans fond of Miss Vanhorn; she had had more than one battle royal withthat venerable Knickerbocker, which had tested even her celebratedsuavity.
Helen's note was as follows:
* * * * *
"DEAR MISS VANHORN,--I very much wish to persuade your charming niece,Miss Douglas, to spend a portion of the holidays with me. Her voice ismarvellously sweet, and Aunt Margaretta is most anxious to hear it;while _I_ am desirous to have her in my own home, even if but for a fewdays, in order that I may learn more of her truly admirable qualities,which she inherits, no doubt, from your family.
"I trust you will add your consent to Tante's, already willinglybestowed, and make me thereby still more your obliged friend,
"HELEN ROOSBROECK LORRINGTON."
* * * * *
The obliged friend had the following answer:
* * * * *
"Miss Vanhorn presents her compliments to Mrs. Lorrington, with thanksfor her note, which, however, was an unnecessary attention, Miss Vanhornclaiming no authority over the movements of Anne Douglas (whoserela
tionship to her is remote), beyond a due respect for the rules ofthe institution where she has been placed. Miss Vanhorn is gratified tolearn that Miss Douglas's voice is already of practical use to her, andhas the honor of remaining Mrs. Lorrington's obliged and humble servant.
"MADISON SQUARE, _Tuesday_."
* * * * *
Tears sprang to Anne's eyes when Helen showed her this note.
"Why do you care? She was always a dragon; forget her. Now, Anne,remember that it is all understood, and the carriage will come for youon Monday." Then, seeing the face before her still irresolute, sheadded: "If you are to have pupils, some of them may be like me. Youought, therefore, to learn how to manage _me_, you know."
"You are right," said Anne, seriously. "It is strange how littleconfidence I feel."
Helen, looking at her as she stood there in her island gown, coarseshoes, and old-fashioned collar, did not think it strange at all, butwondered, as she had wondered a hundred times before, why it was thatthis girl did not think of herself and her own appearance. "And you mustlet me have my way, too, about something for you to wear," she added.
"It shall be as you wish, Helen. It can not be otherwise, I suppose, ifI go to you. But--I hope the time will come when I can do something foryou."
"Never fear; it will. I feel it instinctively. You will either save mylife or take it--one or the other; but I am not sure which."
Monday came; and after her lonely Christmas, Anne was glad to step intoMiss Teller's carriage, and be taken to the home on the Avenue. Thecordial welcome she received there was delightful to her, the luxurynovel. She enjoyed everything simply and sincerely, from the latebreakfast in the small warm breakfast-room, from which the raw light ofthe winter morning was carefully excluded, to the chat with Helen overthe dressing-room fire late at night, when all the house was still.Helen's aunt, Miss Teller, was a thin, light-eyed person of fifty-fiveyears of age. Richly dressed, very tall, with a back as immovable anderect as though made of steel, and a tower of blonde lace on her head,she was a personage of imposing aspect, but in reality as mild as asheep.
"Yes, my dear," she said, when Anne noticed the tinted light in thebreakfast-room; "I take great care about light, which I consider aninfluence in our households too much neglected. The hideous white glarein most American breakfast-rooms on snowy winter mornings has often mademe shudder when I have been visiting my friends; only the extremelyvigorous can enjoy this sharp contact with the new day. Then theaesthetic effect: children are always homely when the teeth are changingand the shoulder-blades prominent; and who wishes to see, besides, eachfreckle and imperfection upon the countenances of those he loves? I haveobserved, too, that even morning prayer, as a family observance, failsto counter-act the influence of this painful light. For if as you kneelyou cover your face with your hands, the glare will be doubly unbearablewhen you remove them; and if you do _not_ cover your brow, you willinevitably blink. Those who do not close their eyes at all are the mostcomfortable, but I trust we would all prefer to suffer rather than beguilty of such irreverence."
"Now that is Aunt Gretta exactly," said Helen, as Miss Teller left theroom. "When you are once accustomed to her height and blonde caps, youwill find her soft as a down coverlet."
Here Miss Teller returned. "My dear," she said, anxiously, addressingAnne, "as to soap for the hands--what kind do you prefer?"
"Anne's hands are beautiful, and she will have the white soap in thesecond box on the first shelf of the store-room--the rose; _not_ theheliotrope, which is mine," said Helen, taking one of the young girl'shands, and spreading out the firm taper fingers. "See her wrists! Now mywrists are small too, but then there is nothing but wrist all the wayup."
"My dear, your arms have been much admired," said Miss Margaretta, witha shade of bewilderment in her voice.
"Yes, because I choose they shall be. But when I spoke of Anne's hands,I spoke artistically, aunt."
"Do you expect Mr. Blum to-day?" said Miss Teller.
"Oh no," said Helen, smiling. "Mr. Blum, Anne, is a poor artist whomAunt Gretta is cruel enough to dislike."
"Not on account of his poverty," said Miss Margaretta, "but on accountof my having half-brothers, with large families, all with weak lungs,taking cold, I may say, at a breath--a mere breath; and Mr. Blum insistsupon coming here without overshoes when there has been a thaw, andsitting all the evening in wet boots, which naturally makes me think ofmy brothers' weak families, to say nothing of the danger to himself."
"Well, Mr. Blum is not coming. But Mr. Heathcote is."
"Ah."
"And Mr. Dexter may."
"I am always glad to see Mr. Dexter," said Aunt Margaretta.
Mr. Heathcote did not come; Mr. Dexter did. But Anne was driving withMiss Teller, and missed the visit.
"A remarkable man," said the elder lady, as they sat at the dinner tablein the soft radiance of wax lights.
"You mean Mr. Blum?" said Helen. "This straw-colored jelly exactlymatches me, Anne."
"I mean Mr. Dexter," said Miss Teller, nodding her head impressively."Sent through college by the bounty of a relative (who died immediatelyafterward, in the most reprehensible way, leaving him absolutelynothing), Gregory Dexter, at thirty-eight, is to-day a man of modern anddistinct importance. Handsome--you do not contradict me there, Helen?"
"No, aunt."
"Handsome," repeated Miss Teller, triumphantly, "successful, moral,kind-hearted, and rich--what would you have more? I ask you, MissDouglas, what would you have more?"
"Nothing," said Helen. "Anne has confided to me--nothing. Long liveGregory Dexter! And I feel sure, too, that he will outlive us all. Ishall go first. You will see. I always wanted to be first ineverything--even the grave."
"My dear!" said Miss Margaretta.
"Well, aunt, now would you like to be last? Think how lonely you wouldbe. Besides, all the best places would be taken," said Helen, inbusiness-like tones, taking a spray of heliotrope from the vase beforeher.
New-Year's Day was, in the eyes of Margaretta Teller, a solemn festival;thought was given to it in June, preparation for it began in September.Many a call was made at the house on that day which neither MissMargaretta, nor her niece, Mrs. Lorrington, attracted, but rather theold-time dishes and the old-time punch on their dining-room table. Oldmen with gouty feet, amateur antiquarians of mild but obstinate aspect,to whom Helen was "a slip of a girl," and Miss Margaretta still tooyouthful a person to be of much interest, called regularly on the oldDutch holiday, and tasted this New-Year's punch. They cherished the ideathat they were thus maintaining the "solid old customs," and they spoketo each other in moist, husky under-tones when they met in the hall, asmuch as to say, "Ah, ah! you here? That's right--that's right. Abarrier, sir--a barrier against modern innovation!"
Helen had several friends besides Anne to assist her in receiving, andthe young island girl remained, therefore, more or less unnoticed, owingto her lack of the ready, graceful smiles and phrases which are thecurrent coin of New-Year's Day. She passed rapidly through the differentphases of timidity, bewilderment, and fatigue; and then, when moreaccustomed to the scene, she regained her composure, and even began tofeel amused. She ceased hiding behind the others; she learned to repeatthe same answers to the same questions without caring for their inanity;she gave up trying to distinguish names, and (like the others) massedall callers into a constantly arriving repetition of the same person,who was to be treated with a cordiality as impersonal as it wasglittering. She tried to select Mr. Dexter, and at length decided thathe was a certain person standing near Helen--a man with brown hair andeyes; but she was not sure, and Helen's manner betrayed nothing.
The fatiguing day was over at last, and then followed an hour or two ofcomparative quiet; the few familiar guests who remained were glad tosink down in easy-chairs, and enjoy connected sentences again. The facesof the ladies showed fine lines extending from the nostril to the chin;the muscles that had smiled so much were weary.
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sp; And now Anne discovered Gregory Dexter; and he was not the person shehad selected. Mr. Dexter was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with anappearance of persistent vigor in his bearing, and a look ofdetermination in his strong, squarely cut jaw and chin. His face wasrather short, with good features and clear gray eyes, which met thegazer calmly; and there was about him that air of self-reliance whichdoes not irritate in a large strong man, any more than imperiousness ina beautiful woman.
The person with brown eyes proved to be Mr. Heathcote. He seemedindolent, and contributed but few words to the general treasury ofconversation.
Mr. Blum was present also; but on this occasion he wore the peculiarlynew, shining, patent-leather boots dear to the hearts of his countrymenon festal occasions, and Miss Teller's anxieties were quiescent. Helenliked artists; she said that their ways were a "proud assertion that aray of beauty outvalued all the mere utilities of the world."
"Are bad boots rays of beauty?" inquired Miss Margaretta.
"Yes. That is, a man whose soul is uplifted by art may not alwaysremember his boots; to himself, no doubt, his feet seem winged."
"Very far from winged are Blum's feet," responded Miss Margaretta,shaking her head gravely. "Very, very far."
Late in the evening, when almost all the guests had departed, Helenseemed seized with a sudden determination to bring Anne intoprominence. Mr. Dexter still lingered, and the artist. Also WardHeathcote.
"Anne, will you sing now? First with me, then alone?" she said, going tothe piano.
A bright flush rose in Anne's face; the prominent blue eyes of theGerman artist were fixed upon her; Gregory Dexter had turned toward herwith his usual prompt attention. Even the indolent Heathcote looked upas Helen spoke. But having once decided to do a thing, Anne knew no waysave to do it; having accepted Helen's generous kindness, she must nowdo what Helen asked in return. She rose in silence, and crossed thebrightly lighted room on her way to the piano. Few women walk well; bywell, is meant naturally. Helen was graceful; she had the lithe shapeand long step which give a peculiar swaying grace, like that of elmbranches. Yet Helen's walk belonged to the drawing-room, or at best thecity pavement; one could not imagine her on a country road. Anne's gaitwas different. As she crossed the room alone, it drew upon her for thefirst time the full attention of the three gentlemen who were present.Blum stared gravely. Dexter's eyes moved up to her face, as if he saw itnow with new interest. Heathcote leaned back on the sofa with an amusedexpression, glancing from Anne to Helen, as if saying, "I understand."
Anne wore one of Helen's gifts, a soft silk of pale gray, in deferenceto her mourning garb; the dress was high over the shoulders, but cutdown squarely in front and behind, according to a fashion of the day.The sleeves came to the elbow only; the long skirt was severely plain.They had taken off their gloves, and the girl's beautiful arms wereconspicuous, as well as her round, full, white throat.
The American Venus is thin.
American girls are slight; they have visible collar-bones and elbows.When they pass into the fullness of womanhood (if they pass at all), itis suddenly, leaving no time for the beautiful pure virginal outlineswhich made Anne Douglas an exception to her kind. Anne's walk wasentirely natural, her poise natural; yet so perfect were herproportions that even Tante, artificial and French as she was, refrainedfrom the suggestions and directions as to step and bearing whichencircled the other pupils like an atmosphere.
The young girl's hair had been arranged by Helen's maid, under Helen'sown direction, in a plain Greek knot, leaving the shape of the head, andthe small ear, exposed; and as she stood by the piano, waiting, shelooked (as Helen had intended her to look) like some young creature froman earlier world, startled and shy, yet too proud to run away.
They sang together; and in singing Anne recovered her self-possession.Then Helen asked her to sing without accompaniment a little islandballad which was one of her favorites, and leading her to the centre ofthe room, left her there alone. Poor Anne! But, moved by the one desireof pleasing Helen, she clasped her hands in simple child-like fashion,and began to sing, her eyes raised slightly so as to look above thefaces of her audience. It was an old-fashioned ballad or chanson, in thepatois of the voyageurs, with a refrain in a minor key, and it told ofthe vanishing of a certain petite Marie, and the sorrowing of hermother--a common-place theme long drawn out, the constantly recurringrefrain, at first monotonous, becoming after a while sweet to the ear,like the wash of small waves on a smooth beach. But it was the endingupon which Helen relied for her effect. Suddenly the lament of thelong-winded mother ended, the time changed, and a verse followedpicturing the rapture of the lovers as they fled away in theirsharp-bowed boat, wing and wing, over the blue lake. Anne sang this asthough inspired; she forgot her audience, and sang as she had alwayssung it on the island for Rast and the children. Her voice floatedthrough the house, she shaded her eyes with her hand, and leanedforward, gazing, as though she saw the boat across the water, and thenshe smiled, as, with a long soft note, the song ended.
But the instant it was over, her timidity came back with double force,and she hastily sought refuge beside Helen, her voice gone, in her eyesa dangerous nearness to tears.
There was now an outburst of compliments from Blum; but Helen kindly metand parried them. Mr. Dexter began a few well-chosen sentences ofpraise; but in the midst of his fluent adjectives, Anne glanced up sobeseechingly that he caught the mist in her eyes, and instantly ceased.Nor was this all; he opened a discussion with Miss Teller, dragging inHeathcote also (against the latter's will), and thus secured for Annethe time to recover herself. She felt this quick kindness, and wasgrateful. She decided that she liked him; and she wondered whether Helenliked him also.
The next morning the fairy-time was over; she went back to school.
Anne: A Novel Page 9
