CHAPTER XXI

_Wilberforce, the Painter_

Bibiana, little Anne’s former nurse, answered the telephone call.

“This is Mr. Latham. May I speak to Miss Berkley?” said the voice at the other end of the wire.

“Do you want Mrs. Paul, that was Miss Joan?” asked Bibiana.

“I want Miss Berkley, Miss Anne Berkley, please,” Richard insisted, and Bibiana turned away with a grunt. “Just little Anne! Anne, come and speak to Mr. Latham. He’s calling you,” she added to the child who had fallen into the habit of loitering at hand when the telephone bell rang, in the faint hope of getting a chance to talk over the wire.

“Mr. Latham wants me to come to see him!” cried little Anne after a brief and, on her part, chuckling telephone conversation. “Please, Mother dear, mayn’t I?”

“Why, yes. He must be lonely,” Mrs. Berkley hesitated. “But don’t--well, there’s no use in trying to forestall your speeches, Anne! I suppose you can’t do any more harm--or was it good? Run along, dear, but first show me your hands and let me brush your hair.”

Neat and decorous, little Anne presented herself in the Latham Street house. Richard looked ill, but he smiled at the child, welcoming her warmly.

“It’s only a ceremonial call; we aren’t going to play anything, little Anne,” he said. “Do you mind chatting? I felt the need of you, my dear.”

Quick little Anne caught the note in his voice. She always stood in awe of the poet, rarely was as perfectly at ease with him as with her other adult friends, but now she ran to him and bestowed herself on the arm of his chair and put her arm around his neck, her cheek on his head, as if he were Peter in trouble.

“I think it’s most fun of anything to talk when people will talk sensible and int’resting,” she said.

“I’ll try, Anne,” Richard said, weakly. “Do you think that by any chance Anne in your case stands for Anomaly?”

“No, just Anne,” said little Anne. “When I’m confirmed I shall take some splendid name for my second one. When I was small I used to think I’d take Ursula, but now sometimes I think Emerentiana; it’s so--so--nobody has it.”

“Poor Nobody!” said Richard, falling into his habit of playing with little Anne. “Pretty hard on her to have that name! Where did you get hold of it?”

“She was a little girl stoned to death for being a Christian, in the catacombs,” explained Anne. “They pegged rocks at her, those pagans! Don’t you think it must have been awful to have lived in those times? Either you were a Christian and got killed, boiled in oil, and everything; or else you weren’t, and were terribly wicked. And if you weren’t a noble character you might wobble when you had to choose.”

Unexpectedly to himself, Richard laughed.

“You might, indeed, little Anne! And I was right to invite you to see me. I thought you’d elevate me in mind and spirits! If you were older wouldn’t you come here to help me with my work, read to me, and all that?”

“Like--like to!” Little Anne corrected herself with no small adroitness for a person of her age. “Do you suppose I could now? I’ve tried Peter-two’s typewriter. It doesn’t go fast with one finger, my way, and the letters get kind of snarled before each other and behind each other; not the way they ought to stand in the word, but maybe if I practised lots! I can read ’most anything that isn’t too queer subjec’s; reading never bothers me dreadfully. Maybe you’d spell the worst words?”

“I’ll wait for you, little Anne!” promised Richard. “I’ll have to have somebody else here while I’m waiting, but when you’re older I’ll toss her lightly out of the window and open the door for you, bowing deeply while you enter to take command of my typewriter, my books, my work, and me.”

“Well,” sighed little Anne, “I s’pose you have to wait! But I’ll be eight in a little while and Mother says the older you grow the faster the years whisk by. After my birthday Christmas is awf’ly long coming, and it does seem a good while in winter before Easter, and the last part of school’s kind of slow, but summer goes pretty fast. Maybe it won’t seem so very, very long before I can help you?”

“It won’t!” Richard assured her. “Especially if you come here a great deal in the meantime. Little Anne, is Miss Dallas with your sister?”

“Yes, she is,” little Anne admitted, hesitantly. “She’s right there.”

“Is she well?” asked Richard.

“Not so very exactly,” little Anne said, reluctantly. “But you can’t be if you cry too much. It makes you feel as used up as anything to cry a great deal, _I_ think.”

“Oh, it does! Is Anne crying a great deal, little Anne? Will you tell her that I beg her to put me entirely out of her mind, and that I am going on well?” cried Richard.

“Well, yes, I will,” little Anne said. “But I don’t think it will stop her worrying over you. I heard her tell Joan that the poem I found just hunted her--or something; she meant she kept thinking about it.”

“The poem you found? I don’t know it, little Anne. Where did you find it? Why does it haunt her?” asked Richard.

“Upstairs in your hall, quite long ago; about Fourth of July time. A poem you’d written yourself. It was sort of hard for Anne to read it. She thought first she had to copy it; then she didn’t. She made me put it back just ’xactly where I found it,” little Anne explained.

Richard gasped and fell back in his chair.

“That!” he exclaimed. “You found that and showed it to Anne! And it was not long after that she came to me---- Ah, now I understand, now I understand! That was how she knew! She tried so hard, dear little soul, she tried so hard to make me happy! I never quite saw why she acted as she did till now. Little Anne, little Anne, you have played an important part in my life. You have endowed me and impoverished me. I don’t see why it all had to be, but I’ve no doubt that I shall some day. Now tell me something else: Do you know whether Kit Carrington knows that Anne is with your sister, and that she will never marry me? For she never will, little Anne!”

“Oh, I know that!” cried little Anne. “I don’t know whether Kit does or not. Want me to tell him?”

Richard almost smiled; a gleam of amusement went over his unhappy face.

“Always ready to turn another beetle!” he said. “On the whole, yes, little Anne. Tell him all that you know. It will be told in a better way than if it were clearer. Anne will complete the story. And tell Kit that I asked you to tell him. Tell him that I am anxious to hear that Anne has stopped crying and is smiling at him. Tell him just that. And that I send him my blessing--will you, dear?”

“Yes,” said little Anne. “I’ll tell him to-day. He’s been to our house ’bout twice each day since Anne’s been at Joan’s. Anne won’t let him come there, nor she won’t send him one word, not even on the telephone by me. Joan told her she’d shake her, maybe, ’cause what was the use of being mis’ble every way? I’ll tell Kit, Mr. Latham. And, Mr. Latham, there’s a quite tall, thin man coming in here. He’s got a bag. Maybe he’s a Mormon mish’nary; they do come like that. This one doesn’t look like one, though; he’s much nicer. He’s got a brown moustache, and a flat, boxy thing, and a bag.”

“Wilberforce!” cried Richard, starting up so violently that he nearly upset little Anne.

That did not halt him. Leaving little Anne to take care of her equilibrium, he rushed into the hall, seized the newcomer by the lapel of his coat and cried, joyously:

“Ted, dear old man, how did you make it so soon?”

“Message came just in time for me to make the last train that connected to get me here to-day,” said Ted. “You look like the mischief, Dick! What has happened that you sent for me in such urgent haste?”

“I’ll tell you the whole story later. It is Anne and I; that’s enough for now. We’ve given it all up, Ted, fortunately,” said Richard.

“Fortunately? Well, you don’t look it! What’s Anne been doing? I know she never went back on anything in her life. So what have you been doing? Though that’s as fool a question as the other,” said Edwin Wilberforce, frowning.

“Ted, I can’t talk about it now. Anne was only sorry for me, and I discovered in time the cruel task she had put upon her blessed little self. That’s all. Have you eaten? Stetson, Stetson, here’s Mr. Wilberforce already! Order him a lunch, will you?” Richard called out of the rear door in the hall. Then he brought his friend into his library, taking his hat and bags, fussing over him with an affection that eloquently told of the relation between the poet and the painter.

“Well, of all things! Where did you find the little girl? I never heard of her,” exclaimed Ted, amazed by the apparition of little Anne sitting stiffly, her hands clasped in her lap, her feet crossed at the ankles, on the arm of Richard’s chair.

“This is Miss Anne Berkley, Mr. Wilberforce,” said Richard with a gesture of courtly dignity for little Anne’s benefit. “She is an intimate friend of mine who visits me often, with whom I play happily, who will some day, she promises, when enough time has passed, come to be eyes to me and help me to write poems and plays. She is a lady who has a vocation which she herself discovered, and which proved to be more significant as a prophecy than she foresaw. Her vocation, she one day announced to her mother, is setting beetles on their feet when they lie, helpless, on their backs. I have been one of her beetles, as I’ll explain by and by. She goes to a convent school, and is in many ways mediæval. She is one of a delightful family, Catholics of the right sort. Anne is staying now with this little Anne’s lovable young matron sister, Mrs. Antony Paul. And that is enough of the History of Queen Anne the Less, isn’t it, little Anne?”

“It is quite a lot,” she agreed. “Shall I go home now? I’ll come again.”

“Would you mind shaking hands, Miss Little-Anne?” asked Edwin Wilberforce, stooping from his great height to carry out his suggestion. “I wish you would take me for another friend of yours. I can play games and the jews’-harp! When you hear me play Wagner on the jews’-harp you will be proud that you know me.”

Little Anne looked up at him with dancing eyes. She did not know Wagner, but she did know the jews’-harp.

“I can play on blades of grass perfec’ly wonderful,” she said.

“You’ll do!” shouted Ted Wilberforce. “We’ll have duets. Say, Miss Little-Anne, I’d like to paint you! Seated in a chair with a high, carved back, clad in a long, straight green gown falling to your feet, and having a nice little, tight little white yoke top with a band around your throat; your hair straight and ribbonless on each side of your thin little face, and in your hands, resting on your knees, a fine old tooled “Book of Hours” which I own! I’d call the picture--call it--The Mystic! That’s it! With that face and those eyes, visions just beyond, eh, Dick?”

“You’ve got her,” agreed Richard. “Will you sit, little Anne?”

“Do you paint people?” inquired little Anne. “I thought you put cows in your pictures. Mr. Latham has a lovely, still field with a cow in it; he said you painted it.”

“_Still_ field! Fair for adjectives, eh, Dick?” cried Ted, delighted. “I assure you, Miss Little-Anne, that I also paint portraits. Will you sit to me?”

“I’d perfec’ly love it!” said little Anne. “But I never was pretty; I was always dark and thin. I thought sitters were pretty. I have a niece who is the prettiest child in all the world. She’s so fat and pink she has to dimple. I never was a fas’nating child like Barbara, but if you’d like to paint my picture I’d be so pleased I couldn’t say it. And there’s one thing, I can sit as still!”

“Then that’s settled! And when you sit to me we shall chat all the time, and possibly we shall let Mr. Latham come to help us talk. I’m going to stay awhile; we’ll meet often, I hope. Good-bye, Miss Little-Anne.”

Ted Wilberforce shook hands again with little Anne; plainly he had capitulated to her at once.

Little Anne put her arms around Richard’s neck and kissed him hard.

“Good-bye, dear; I shall pray for you lots, for you’re really quite pale,” she whispered.

“The dear little saintly old lady!” cried Ted, who had caught the whisper and was watching little Anne away with amusement that was not wholly amusement.

Miss Carrington on this morning had encountered Kit in a mood that she did not recognize. She had spoken to him of the broken engagement between Richard Latham and Anne Dallas. She found that Kit was prepared to announce to her, not the accomplished fact, but his resolution that his own engagement to Anne Dallas would soon follow this break.

“Do I know what caused this break between Miss Dallas and Mr. Latham? Certainly I do, Aunt Anne. Mr. Latham learned that Miss Dallas and I love each other. We had agreed that she must fulfil her promise to Mr. Latham, but, naturally, he wouldn’t marry a girl who loved another man! Like the honourable man that he is he renounced his own happiness for hers. Anne won’t see me yet; she is miserably unhappy about Latham, but she will see me, and it won’t be long before I introduce my wife to you, Aunt Anne,” said Kit.

“I hope so, but you won’t introduce Anne Dallas to me as your wife,” Miss Carrington had answered, instantly in a towering rage as she recognized in Kit a determination that made him at once a man to be reckoned with. At the same time her own, new physical weakness was more perceptible as her temper rose.

“Christopher Carrington, I will not consent to your marriage to that girl! Nothing against her personally, but she is fortuneless, nameless, no family, no anything! Never!”

“Nonsense, Aunt Anne! Please don’t talk foolishly,” said Kit, and left her almost choking in enraged surprise that Kit had dared to dismiss her as ridiculous.

By the afternoon Miss Carrington had regained her self-command, and with it her usual cunning. It was notorious that love was whetted by opposition; she must try in some other way to circumvent Kit. She discussed the situation with Helen Abercrombie, who heartlessly laughed at her.

“Try everything you can think of, Miss Carrington! By all means see Anne Dallas and convey to her the harm she’d do Kit if she married him against your will; that you can punish him roundly. But it’s my candid opinion that you would do yourself less harm lying down and reading a problem novel, and just as much affect Kit’s silly determination. The conclusion I’ve reached during this visit in regard to Kit is that he knows his own mind,” Helen said.

Nevertheless, Miss Carrington summoned Minerva to array her in her most impressive calling costume, and to order Noble to have the car around at half-past four that she might solicitously inquire after Anne Dallas’s welfare, having heard that she was not well.

“No kind of use in it, Miss Carrington,” Minerva remarked, getting down to lace her mistress’s shoes. She did not specify what was useless, but Miss Carrington was depressed by this identity of view on the part of two such keen women as Helen and Minerva.

On the way to Antony Paul’s house Miss Carrington met Edwin Wilberforce walking alone toward the station. She bade Noble stop, and greeted the artist cordially.

“Delighted you are here, Mr. Wilberforce! I am anxious about Mr. Latham. Won’t you get in?” she said.

“No, thanks. I’m going down to look up some canvases I sent ahead; they ought to be here. I hope you are well, Miss Carrington?”

“Not altogether. I am too old to be bothered, and I am bothered.” Miss Carrington spoke with an effect of involuntary frankness. “My foolish nephew is troubling me, has fixed his silly will on a poor girl. Mr. Latham also was attracted by her, and for him she would have been excellent. He needs just her patient devotion; she is sweet and refined in manner. But Kit has his name to make; Mr. Latham’s name would cover his wife’s lack. I believe you recommended this girl to our poet. She’s a nice little creature, but a penniless, nameless wife would be a fatal mistake for Kit.”

Edwin Wilberforce was regarding the old lady with an expression that she was too engrossed to see. When she paused he laughed and said:

“Oh, well, I’m prejudiced, but I think Wilberforce is not a bad name.”

Miss Carrington stared at the irrelevancy of this remark.

“But surely! Who could doubt it? Not only in itself, but when borne by a famous artist! However, I really can’t see what that has to do with Anne Dallas and my troubles.”

This time Wilberforce stared. Then he laughed, and said:

“Oh, don’t you? That’s rather good fun, Miss Carrington! But Dallas is a good name, too, though if your nephew married Miss Dallas the honourable name of Carrington would engulf it.”

He raised his hat and walked on, somewhat unceremoniously, leaving the old lady to puzzle over his queer speech.

Miss Carrington was met by Joan with Barbara clinging unsteadily to her skirt.

“Thank you, Miss Carrington; Miss Dallas is well, rather tired. She is on the side piazza, in a steamer chair, having a beautiful time reading and resting. Will you go there? It is cooler to-day than the front piazza.”

Anne looked frail and sweet as Joan led Miss Carrington toward her. Her face and gown were both colourless; her great dark eyes, her masses of satin-smooth dark hair contrasted sharply with their setting.

“Oh, Miss Carrington!” Anne exclaimed, springing to her feet; she was no longer pale.

“Dear little Miss Dallas, I hope that you are better?” said Miss Carrington in her cool voice, with its clear-cut, Italian-like articulation. “I am so extremely sorry about this disaster and for you, enmeshed in it, that I have come to tell you so. Besides, my dear, I want to know you better and I truly think it may be well for you to know me.”

“I will not dispute the latter clause, Miss Carrington,” said Anne, pulling forward a chair and motioning Miss Carrington into her abandoned steamer chair. She smiled as she spoke, and Kit’s aunt admitted to herself the charm of Anne’s face and manner, the irresistible attraction of her voice. “You are kind to be so sympathetic to me. I am unhappy. I am horrified to know that I have given Mr. Latham pain.”

“Surely, you would be. It is most unfortunate. Don’t you think that after a time, perhaps a long time, you will be able to convince him that there is no obstacle between you?” suggested Miss Carrington. Anne turned and looked at her intently.

“Why, no, Miss Carrington,” she said after a brief pause.

“Dear child, I must be frank with you.” Miss Carrington spoke gently as if to soften her effect. “You fancy that you are fond of my boy; he is quite sure that he is fond of you. Doubtless you are both right--for the time being. But men do not die of love now any more than when Polonius went to that reversed supper. Kit will get over his fancy, sweet as you are, and so will you recover from yours, fine as the boy is. As to that, even my partiality cannot see that Kit surpasses Richard Latham! Though I sincerely admire you, I will never consent to your marriage with Kit! He is to make his name in the world, as I told you when I spoke of him to you several weeks ago. He has allowed the marriage that I meant him to make to slip through his fingers. You naughty, pretty child, I wonder what share you had in that? But there are plenty of opportunities for a personable man like Kit to marry advantageously. You have no money, no social position. Pardon me, Miss Dallas, but we must deal with facts. It is my duty to see that Kit gets one or both of these things in marrying. I applaud your sense in refusing to see Kit since your engagement to Mr. Latham was broken. Let me beg you to continue to refuse to see him! I am sure you are too noble a girl to spoil his life. Whatever nonsense Kit talks about love as a compensation for more solid, more enduring good, it is perfectly true that if you married him you would spoil his life. I should alter my plans for him, and he would have a pittance, whereas, if he pleases, he will have wealth.”

Miss Carrington paused for a reply, but Anne, who had made no move to interrupt her long discourse, still did not speak. She was paler than she had been when Miss Carrington arrived, and she was at once wishing that Joan would come to her rescue, and dreading that she might come and speak her mind to this formidable old lady.

As Anne remained silent, Miss Carrington spoke again:

“I met Mr. Latham’s friend, Mr. Wilberforce----”

“Oh, has he come!” Anne interrupted her with a glad cry.

“Yes,” Miss Carrington showed surprise. “And knowing that he is Mr. Latham’s close friend I said to him practically what I’ve said to you. I think he agreed with my estimate of the value of a family name, for he--somewhat irrelevantly--said that Wilberforce was a distinguished name.”

Unexpectedly Anne laughed, much as Wilberforce had laughed.

“Did you say all this to him? Yes, the Wilberforces are all reverent to their family,” she said, her eyes dancing.

Miss Carrington drew herself up; she did not intend that this young person should find her amusing.

“One would infer from that remark your acquaintance with the Wilberforce family,” she said.

Again Anne laughed.

“Yes, I know the Wilberforces rather intimately; my mother was one of them. She and Edwin Wilberforce’s father were sister and brother,” she said.

“What!” cried Miss Carrington, half rising.

“Dear Miss Carrington, don’t mind! I don’t, and it will only amuse Ted. He and I have an indecorous sense of humour. Isn’t it funny, really? I see dear old Ted coming down the street this minute,” cried Anne.

Miss Carrington rose fully this time and positively ran away. She was not often placed, and by herself, at a disadvantage; she was not minded to face two pairs of dark eyes dancing with that “indecorous sense of humour.”

Ted Wilberforce ran up the steps as Miss Carrington drove away.

He gathered Anne into his arms, crying:

“Dear little white Nancy, what sort of mischief have you been up to? Poor kid! Hard luck all around to be so sweet a thing that everyone loves you! Don’t cry, little Coz! I won’t beat you if you have hit my best friend hard and broken him all up; you couldn’t help it, Anne, dear!”