CHAPTER XIII

_The Ill Wind_

It was with no small satisfaction that Kit learned that his aunt and Helen were to spend that day and the greater part of the next one in the large city three hours distant, returning to Cleavedge only in time for dinner. There was upon Kit an unwrapping profundity of isolation, a peace with which the elder and younger woman were in ill-accord; it was a relief to know that duty would not summon him out of his personal atmosphere to breathe theirs.

That afternoon he spent in the woods, contentedly wandering, for some time sleeping on the moss; his vigil of the preceding night had made him drowsy. This time he had not forgotten to invite his old dog, Sirius, the English setter who had been his comrade for years, to bear him company. On his way to enjoy the silence which he craved, he had stopped at the Berkleys’ to get confirmation of the good news of the morning.

Mrs. Berkley had cried on his shoulder as if he had been Peter, grown taller, and as she had not cried when little Anne was in mortal danger. Kit had patted her back and ended by kissing her with warmth in his heart: it seemed to him that at last his lonely boyhood had ended in his finding kindred.

All the while the permeating sense of Anne Dallas’ nearness, the fact that he loved her and that she knew it and that everything was all right, made at once the foundation and crown of this blessed day. He went on to the woods to brood over this sense of blessedness; not to think of it precisely, not at all to debate, nor demonstrate it, but to yield to its exquisite bliss.

Humility is the handmaid of perfect faith. Kit was not conceited, but he was sure of Anne’s love; he did not know why he felt sure of it, nor would he have said that there was any reason why she should love him, but he knew that she did, and he humbly gave himself up to the wondering joy of it.

“If you know a thing you know it,” Kit would have said, and that was all. He went whistling homeward as the loveliness of the sunshine of the last days of May began to be veiled with the poetical beauty of its westward lengthening.

He ate a dinner that was unromantically hearty, but which was flavoured with romance and elevated into the sacramental. It occurred to him that he should not always eat alone, nor at his aunt’s table; that one unspeakable day he should raise his eyes and see Anne sitting in her quiet loveliness opposite to him. It took his breath away to think that he should carve a thin slice of the breast for her and lay it on her plate, with a spoonful of the dressing; it was to be her second helping. His hand would brush hers and she would be sure to say, “Not so much, Kit, dear!”

He should watch her put smooth brown gravy, with dots of chopped things in it, over his potato, and should tell her, in the indifferent tone of blessed accustomedness, not to put any on the side of the plate which he had left for the cranberry jelly.

It was a fairy dream, though its terms, put into English, would have sounded prosaic enough, but of all miracles the most divine are the homely ones. Not least of these is the miracle that the radiant wings of youthful love can be folded close to brood upon a hearth. This was what Kit’s true instinct revealed to him, and moved and ecstatic over the vision of Anne, his wife, he ate, unconscious of what he was eating.

After dinner he went at once to the piazza and sat smoking slowly, watching the moon rise, sufficiently companioned in knowing that he was to see Anne on the morrow, so content in this strange, new conviction of the possession of her that he was satisfied to delay the joy of seeing her in the effulgence of this new light. As long as he knew it was but delayed! If he were not going to see her thus that would be another, a tragic matter!

Kit went to bed early and slept like a tired, happy boy, and arose early to begin another happy day; an endless succession of such days stretched out ahead of him, to that inconceivable day when Anne and he should be old.

He was disappointed when, in the afternoon, he went to Latham Street, to be told that the poet, with Miss Dallas, had gone in Richard’s small car, driven by Stetson, to visit the falls, which were the point of pilgrimage for all strangers who came to Cleavedge. The falls were some miles distant, where the river gathered itself together and hurled itself down over rocks.

“Well, it’s a fine day to go there, and the falls are still swollen by the spring rains,” said Kit, sorry for himself, but resigned to others’ better luck.

“I wanted to tell Miss Dallas--and Mr. Latham--that I stopped at Mrs. Berkley’s on my way here, and that the little girl has not an unfavourable symptom. It’s quite certain now that she will live. You might tell Mr. Latham when he comes in, if you will, please. I’ll see Miss Dallas to-night at her boarding place.”

Mrs. Lumley, the housekeeper, Minerva’s gossip, who happened to be in the hall when Kit sounded the knocker, and so had exceeded her obligations and opened the door, looked at him with significant commiseration.

“Miss Dallas is going to dine here to-night, Mr. Carrington,” she said. “Mr. Latham is going to pick up an elderly lady who he’s great friends with, and bring her to dinner with him to-night. And Miss Dallas is to come with ’em.”

There was a note in Mrs. Lumley’s voice that arrested Kit’s attention, but then he was not familiar with her voice, and it glanced off the surface of his mind as it vibrated against it.

“I’m disappointed to hear that,” said Kit, “but it’s pleasanter for Miss Dallas. It’s a tiresome trip to the falls and Miss Dallas finds it a bore, at best, to board. I did hope to see her! Oh, well, one more day! And there are many days.”

He smiled the smile that made everybody his friend and turned to go, saying “good-day” to Mrs. Lumley.

“It is truly said, Mr. Carrington, that it is pleasanter dining here than at her boarding place. This is a beautiful house, so cunning seers tell me; let alone Mr. Latham’s being even more agreeable as a man than as a poet. And it is true that there are many days. There are many of most things, Mr. Carrington; fish in the sea and much besides. So it is well to keep our minds on this well-known fact so’s’t not to let ourselves feel’s if there wasn’t hardly more than one of a thing, day, or whatever it may be. Good-day, Mr. Carrington; I’ll tell Mr. Latham.”

“Cryptic cook! Or is she the cook?” thought Kit, amused yet vaguely disturbed. “Sounds like the oracle hinting disaster. That class of woman eats up anticipation of misfortune and licks the platter clean. Seems as though she grudged Anne her comfort! Maybe she’s afraid of automobiles; probably is! But I’m good and ready for a glimpse of my dear. Those Elizabethans had a nice way of calling things: ‛a glimpse of my dear!’ Now that’s nice!”

Kit had mused into less disappointment, but there was still enough left to give him a subdued manner, and to shadow his bright face of the morning as he greeted his aunt and Helen.

He found them on the piazza; their diaphanous gowns showed that they had returned on a train early enough to have allowed them to change to these from their travelling garb. Beside Helen there stood a basket with a small window in one end. Kit’s animal-loving eye quickly noted it.

“My gracious! is Helen setting up a pet?” he wondered.

“How are you, Kit?” said Miss Carrington, extending her left hand lazily. “I hope you are all right?” She looked him over sharply. “You look all right! Come, that’s good and sensible!”

Helen leaned forward in her chair, holding out her pretty hand.

“It seemed queer to come home and not find you, Kit,” she said. “A big boy fills up a house, doesn’t he? And his absence fills it up, too--in another way!”

“That’s a kind and delicate implication, Nell, but it’s like Pudd’n-head Wilson’s idea of calling a man a mule; it leaves him in doubt, though the mule is such an admirable character. There are ways and ways of filling up a house, Nell, and boys aren’t popular in the rôle.”

Kit shook Helen’s hand merrily and talked glibly, with a happy carelessness that made the girl stare in her turn.

“You must have liked keeping house alone,” she said. “I never saw you look jollier, not even when you played on the winning team, ages ago! What’s the news? Are you rejoicing for yourself, or, altruistically, for others?”

She contrived to shake her head at Miss Carrington and signal to her that Kit did not know.

“Just general well-being; that the world is so full of a number of things,” answered Kit. “I’ve been off with Sirius most of the time since you and Auntie went; haven’t heard any news whatever. Except that little Anne is coming on splendidly.”

“Well, after dinner is the best time for news when there is any,” Helen gave Kit the impression of talking nonsense, but Miss Carrington understood the hint that ill news interfered with appetite.

“I knew that the child was going on well the instant that I saw you. What do you think I have in that basket?” Helen asked.

“Couldn’t guess! I hope for your soul’s sake that you’ve set up a pet, but I don’t dare hope for the best,” returned Kit.

“No, Master Christopher, not even for my soul’s sake shall I ever set up a pet. I don’t do a whole lot for my soul’s sake, anyway! But it is a pet, nevertheless. On the strength of the news before we left yesterday, that little Anne was going to live, I bought one for her. I thought an Angora kitten would be the best tonic to hasten on her convalescence. She can have it on the bed with her, and watch it play and strike fascinating attitudes.”

Helen was unstrapping the basket as she spoke.

Kit’s delight was unmistakable, but his surprise was not flattering.

“What a happy inspiration, Nell!” he cried. “There’s nothing like a kitten to entertain an ailing child. How did you ever happen to think of it?”

“‛A princess of the direct Herodian line, like you!’ your too-honest manner implies, my dear!” laughed Helen. “Oh, I am not stupid, though I be heartless, or so I flatter myself! I have been a sick little girl myself. I remember I was most interested in having kittens visit me in those circumstances. I never got attached to them, never wanted to continue the acquaintance, but they did amuse me. Cats have lovely muscles; I still like to watch them. Your Anne--_little_ Anne!--is probably a model of affection and will love this catlet personally. It struck me as a delicate compliment, since you are so fond of the child, to give her a kit! How’s this?”

She produced from the basket a snowy-white kitten, high-bred, beautiful in every line and in each fluffy hair; its face round and expressive, its eyes still blue, with the look of innocence that only a kitten can wear and to which nothing created since Eden can hope to correspond.

“Oh, jiminy!” cried Kit, as pleased as little Anne would surely be. “Helen, it beats the world! What a beauty! Little Anne will either die of it, or recover at her first glimpse of it.”

He took the kitten from Helen, who held it out by her thumb and forefinger, its legs drawn up into its downy stomach, and nestled it in his neck.

“You small, soft thing!” Kit said.

Helen flushed to her hair. Her eyes gave out a gleam, and she looked, as she felt, as if she would gladly have taken Kit in her arms--so big, so simple, so lovable he seemed with the “small, soft thing” creeping close to him trustingly.

“Give it to the child yourself, Kit, as soon as she is able to bear the emotion it will inspire. I want you to take it to her. Don’t say anything about me; let it be your gift. No!” Helen held up a protesting hand. “I don’t care to get credit for this sort of thing; I would if I wanted to win the child, but I don’t. I’ll give you the kitten; you give it to Anne, and we’ll all live happy for ever after.”

“Anne will be told correctly the tale of your thoughtfulness, of how you brought pussyette to her,” said Kit. “What a curious mixture you are, Nell! I wonder if you pose as a metallic creature, and that it is all pose? I’ll take this winner to Minerva.”

He went away with the kitten purring close to his face, the basket swinging in his hand.

Helen sighed. She turned excited eyes upon Miss Carrington.

“He certainly is an attractive boy,” she said. “He doesn’t know a thing of the engagement, that’s clear. Wait till after dinner. If he does mind, it would be a pity to damage his inspiring appetite. I love to see Kit pitch in!”

At dinner that night Kit certainly “pitched in.” He talked more than was his custom and he talked well. Miss Carrington, who was sharply critical of him, not always satisfied with his simplicity, was pleased to hear him, announcing opinions on some of the events of the day, well-expressed, logically thought-out from intelligent premises.

Helen was clever and she had a rare opportunity to learn inside political facts, as well as to acquire skill in marshalling them to conclusions. She spurred Kit on and made him put forth his best powers to cope with her. When they returned to the piazza Kit found himself aroused, thinking fast, conscious of having enjoyed the past hour keenly, as a man must enjoy whatever puts him on his mettle.

“You’re a great girl, Helen Abercrombie!” he said with sincere admiration. “You will hold your own if ever you get that salon you dream of, or are launched on a sea wide enough and windy enough for you.”

“Helen is the peer of the most brilliant men. She will be a tower of strength to her associates,” said Miss Carrington, delighted to see that Kit was impressed.

“Oh, it’s hats off! When the governor’s daughter passes by! Passes by us all,” agreed Kit, so readily that his aunt frowned. She suspected that Kit was thinking that womanly sweetness surpassed Helen’s talents. But she said pleasantly:

“Quite right, Kit! I can’t help feeling sorry that Richard Latham is going to miss complete intellectual companionship. No matter what nice things he says of her, of course we know that Miss Dallas is not his equal. However, she is a nice, trusty, sympathetic girl, and on the whole I am glad--since he can’t have such as Helen, for the good reason that there is none like her!--that he will be taken care of, and at least be secure of the self-sacrificing devotion that a blind man needs. It is hard to keep in mind that he is a blind man; not only a great poet.”

“Why do you speak, or did you mean to speak, as though Miss Dallas would marry Mr. Latham?” Kit smilingly asked.

“Oh, don’t you know about it?” asked Miss Carrington, blandly. “I suppose it isn’t talked of yet. You should keep a lady’s maid, Kit! Here we are just returned and are in possession of facts, while you, right within hail of Cupid, never saw a flash of his arrow!”

“Facts, Aunt Anne? Do you mean _facts_?” Poor Kit spoke with difficulty.

“Surely, Kit, my dear; why not? Isn’t an engagement usually a fact? Minerva met Mr. Latham’s housekeeper who knows all that the principals themselves know, probably more! Mrs. Lumley--that’s the housekeeper--rather resents it. Naturally a woman of her class would resent her employer’s marrying below his own. Though I confess I’ve found Miss Dallas in every way correct, quite like a well-born person. Then Mrs. Lumley would be jealous of authority, a woman’s authority over her, where she has reigned supreme. These things embroider the story attractively when Minerva tells it, but they are not intrinsic to the fabric. The important fact, important to us all, since Richard Latham’s work will be affected by it--Cleavedge’s celebrity’s work--is that our poet is engaged to be married to the little brown Dallas girl.”

“Aunt Anne, he isn’t! What nonsense you--I beg your pardon! I mean what nonsense Minerva talks. It isn’t so because--because--it can’t be so!” Kit exploded.

Miss Carrington adjusted her glasses the better to look at her nephew. Helen leaned back in her chair somewhat tense, amusement, yet strong annoyance in her face.

“He is hard hit!” she thought, calculating the chances of consolation.

“_Can’t_ be so, Christopher? But it can be, because it _is_ so! Why should it not be true? She is at his hand every moment while he is at work and shares the work with him. She has a nice alto voice, moves well, would not annoy him; why should he not, lonely as he is, be attracted to her?” inquired Miss Carrington, temperately, ignoring any other side to consider in the matter except the poet’s.

“I don’t believe it!” Kit almost groaned.

“My dear boy, that sounds rude, but I’m sure you don’t mean it so,” said his aunt. “Don’t you recall my saying that this marriage was certain to come off? Miss Dallas read a poem not intended for her reading--I suspect Mrs. Lumley of eavesdropping to have known this! Miss Dallas was not dishonourable; she mistook the poem for her work, I’ve no doubt. In it Richard Latham voiced the love for her which he thought, foolishly, when you consider what he is, that he was forbidden to tell Miss Dallas because he is blind. I talked with Miss Dallas when she had just learned that Latham loved her. We agreed that she was free to admit to herself her love for Richard Latham; that it was now her right, her duty to walk the beautiful way open to her. I have no doubt that she will be happy. He is a rare man. There is no question that they both are now blissfully happy. Miss Dallas is dining there to-night, and Mr. Latham, instructing Mrs. Lumley as to the table, himself told her to put an old lady friend of his, who is also dining there, at his right, but to put Miss Dallas opposite him. ‛Though I cannot see her, Mrs. Lumley, I shall know that she is there. I want to say to you that it will not be long before Miss Dallas will preside over my table, seated opposite to me. She has consented to be my wife.’ Mrs. Lumley quoted this to Minerva with what I feel sure was dramatic accuracy, for Minerva’s repetition of her words carried conviction. I am sure that though she hates the marriage, the housekeeper enjoys having her feelings harrowed! It is really more exciting than a movie, I make no question!”

Miss Carrington laughed her light, amused, tolerant laugh.

With an imprecation Kit shoved back his chair and went away.

He was numb with puzzled incredulity, yet he knew that what he had heard must be true. How it could be true--how this could follow to-day after his certainty of yesterday, of this afternoon, till this moment--Kit could not think. He could not think about it, anyway. All that he could do was to feel. Poor Kit was one dull ache, stunned by the blow that had fallen upon him. He recalled the significance, the pity with which Richard Latham’s housekeeper had regarded him. His secret must be suspected then; he was warranted in his feeling that Anne had understood, if the housekeeper knew.

Kit went to his room and sat by the window at which he had spent the night of anxious vigil before Anne Berkley’s fate was decided. Then Anne Dallas had seemed to be with him, sharing his sorrow for the little girl, but also sharing the love which upheld him. He tried to think back to discover what had made him so sure that Anne had understood and had answered to the call of his longing for her, but he could discover nothing that she had done or said.

“I am a fool, an utter, consummate, wretched fool!” he said, aloud. “It’s like that pocket knife that I was sure Aunt Anne was giving me on my eighth birthday; she had a set of kid travel books for me! It was only that I wanted that knife so badly! I still remember how I felt when I opened those books! I wanted Anne so much I thought I’d get her. Of course any one would love Latham. He’s fine. And it isn’t her fault. I--I’m the blind man!”

It was a comfort to decide that Anne was in no wise to blame; it was such a comfort that Kit did what he must have done when he was eight and the knife that he had convinced himself was coming never came. He was alone in his room with no one to see, and he dropped his head on his folded arms and sobbed over his ruined hopes.