Part 3

It did not occur to him that in her reliance, too, there might be a kind of wisdom—not to be expounded by logic, perhaps—but deep as life.... For himself, he knew that he had not wisdom to advise any one. He simply did what he could—and when his advice prospered, he was as naively and proudly surprised as any one.

XI

THE children were brought up in the oak-tree. Richard made a cradle-box at the end of one of the low boughs that almost swept the ground and there was always one baby in the box on the bough and one on the ground among the roots—a new one that had just come down from the bough.

And then, presently, one of those on the ground—with the help of Eleanor and a chair—climbed to the first branches close to the trunk.... Then another one climbed, and another, till they were all swarming in the great oak—no longer close to the trunk, but far out on the branches among the leaves, swinging and lilting in the wind.

The boys played they were sailors climbing the masts that swayed giddily beneath them; they sat on cross-beams and gazed out to sea; or they were on the scaffolding of tall buildings, hammering great steel beams into place as the sky-scrapers rose in the air; or they were the advance force of an army—scouting aeroplanes, swooping toward a besieged town.

Between the branches of the great tree and the wind that swayed them or drove shrilly against them, the boys adventured on life. But Annabel made of the tree an outdoor home as like the one across the lawn as the leaves and branches and a great trunk shooting up through the centre would permit. The tree-trunk was the chimney, of course, and she had roaring fires in every room, up stairs and down, and cooking and sweeping and dusting, with lively flourishes and much running up and down stairs. She was a little lonely at times, because the boys—who did not really care for the game—would suddenly desert her for excursions in the aeroplanes, or to shoot arrows from the house-top. She was liable to find herself, at any moment, with her house swept and dusted, and no one to live in it with her. Only down from the top among the leaves and the swaying limbs would come wild growls and quick whispers—intent and breathless calls to action.... Then Annabel would leave her dust-cloths and her pots and pans, and creep stealthily up, up, up—till the topmost branch was reached, and the wind blew in her face, and her little pigtails stood straight out with delight and she was filled with the glow of life. For days she would play the game in the top of the tree. And then, some morning, she would find herself back among her treasures—her sticks and bits of moss and leaves, close to the trunk of the tree, going up and down stairs in happy content; and her imagination would grow deep and intent. Her face, pressed against the bark, seemed no longer to need the swing of the dangerous branches and the surging of the wind to rouse it. She would sit close to the trunk of the tree on a solid limb, and play the great game almost without stirring—a deep silent game that stirred her to the very core.... The boys were willing to play house with her and sometimes to sweep and dust a little along the branches, and visit back and forth, upstairs and down. But as for sitting on a limb, intent and still, gazing at what went on beneath the line of sight!... They left her sitting there alone, gazing at nothing, and fled to the top of the tree and yelled with shrill vacant calls of delight and relief.

But when the youngest baby, who proved happily to be a girl, when the time for climbing came—when this youngest baby had been pulled and boosted by Annabel up into the tree beside her, and when two of them could sit happily side by side, looking at each other in silence, then there seemed a fairer division of forces.

Gradually the boys, when they ventured far out on dangerous limbs, would feel a silent tug pulling them back to the heart of things.

And underneath the tree where the children played, Eleanor sat with her sewing or reading or with the youngest baby on her lap, and sang to it or played with it till it was time for it to sleep in its cradle-box in the tree....

And Richard coming home at night, or at noon on half-holidays, would find his family there, and he would climb with the boys, or sit with Eleanor under the tree, or play with the youngest baby. Or he would stroll with his pipe back and forth across the lawn, puffing it and listening to the voices that came from the tree, or watch his wife, with the sunlight and the shadow-leaves falling on her work.

Sometimes he took them all for excursions into the country—at first in street-cars, crowding and piling in; and then in the old surrey that was big enough to carry them all; and at last in the touring-car that swept up the miles.

There was no pause in his prosperity; though the tax of the growing family made it a little difficult sometimes to adjust business and family demands.... And then suddenly the money began to come in and pile up faster than he could use it. He was counted one of the solid men of the region; and the family life expanded on all sides. The problem now was not whether the business could afford it, but whether the children’s characters could afford it.

Richard and Eleanor sought for expensive schools that would force a child to live simply and fare hard and think keen and straight; and when no such schools were to be found, Richard took William Archer out of the expensive school that was making a nonentity of him, and put him into the business and drove him hard.

And Annabel was brought home on the plea that her mother needed her.

She was not quite strong that year, it seemed.

So Annabel took charge of the house—and of Eleanor and Richard, and of every one in sight.

XII

THAT Annabel knew her own mind, there was no question; and that Annabel also knew her mother’s mind, there was no question in Annabel’s mind.... She was not perhaps altogether responsible for this feeling about her mother. It would have taken a more astute person than Annabel to discover that all that went on underneath Eleanor More’s quiet look was not open for the world to read.

Annabel loved her mother and trusted her; and to the best of her ability she took care of her—though she knew, with a kind of fierce pity, that her mother could never be of her own generation, and that she could not know the real nature of the plans and visions that swept before that generation.

“I am a suffragist!” she announced one day in swift assertion.

And Eleanor More looked up with a quiet smile. “I am one, too,” she replied.

Annabel stared at her a minute. “I didn’t know you were—a suffragist!”

Then she looked at her with slow suspicion.

“You know what a suffragist is, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Eleanor went on with her sewing.

“Oh—I Well.... am going to march—in the procession!” She was watching her mother’s face.

“When is the procession?” There was a little upward twist to Eleanor’s lip that might have been amusement at her position, or dismay. “When did you say the procession is?”

“Next week—Monday.... You going to march?”

“Yes.” Eleanor threaded her needle and drew in the end and twisted it into a skilful knot. “Yes—I think I shall march.” It was quite casual, and she inspected her work.

“Well—!” Annabel turned it in her mind. “You’d better get a short skirt—if you are going to march. You haven’t a thing that clears the mud!”

“Very well.”

So Annabel had out her mother’s wardrobe and turned and planned, and had a woman in to shorten a skirt for her. And all the days before the parade, she watched her solicitously, and waited on her—as if she were an invalid.

“I can’t bear to have you march in that old parade!” she exclaimed almost viciously.

“I don’t mind it.”

“I don’t suppose you do.... But I mind it for you!” She rumpled her hair, with a quick gesture, like a boy’s. “I’ve no idea what they’ll do. They may throw sticks at you, or—eggs!”

“Well, if it doesn’t hurt you, it won’t hurt me,” said Eleanor placidly.

Annabel stared at her. Then she smiled. She shook her head.

“It isn’t the same thing,” she declared. “You little know—how much it isn’t the same thing!”

And, after all, the parade was not so terrible. They assembled quietly, and with importance, at the city hall and marched through the principal streets, and had speeches; and Eleanor and Annabel marched side by side.

And Annabel was so busy guarding her mother from unpleasant experiences, and looking after her comfort, and providing places for her to sit down when the procession stopped a minute, that she quite forgot to have experiences of her own or to be thrilled or frightened at her temerity, or any of the exciting things that her imagination had cast beforehand.

“I call it a rather tame performance!” she declared at dinner that night, after it was over, “—a rather tame performance!”

And Richard, who had stood on the sidewalk and watched his wife and daughter march past, with a little amused smile, nodded assent.

“You made a mistake taking your mother, perhaps?” he suggested mildly.

Annabel cast a quick glance at her mother’s unperturbed face, and her look lightened.

“Mother’s a sport!” she declared. “I didn’t take her! She took herself!” She was silent a minute.... Then—slowly: “I’m not so sure I shouldn’t have backed out the last minute, you know—if mother hadn’t been so set on going!” She looked at her meditatively. “You can’t tell what mother will do!” she declared. “She does the queerest things—queer for her, I mean!”

XIII

The next week Annabel became flitting in her movements. She began to take an interest in her clothes, and evolved dainty, distracting gowns that made her piquant face almost beautiful. And she multiplied new ways of doing her hair—a new way for each new hat—till William Archer declared she might as well be a week-end visitor.

“Don’t you like it?” she demanded. She turned her head for inspection. She had come down to luncheon in a new hat that defied description.

William Archer surveyed it. “Well—it’s different! I can’t say it’s my idea of a suffragist hat!”

“I’m not a suffragist,” said Annabel calmly.

“How long since?” asked William Archer.

“Oh—quite a while.”

Eleanor was looking on with a little, amused smile.

“Turncoat!” said William Archer.

“I don’t care.... I’d rather be a turncoat than a—frump!”

“You don’t have to be——!”

“They are—most of them—!” said Annabel viciously.

“Why, Annabel—!” It was Eleanor’s voice. “Some of the nicest women are suffragists. I saw some very fine ones in the parade.”

Annabel turned indignant eyes on her.

“I saw one there! And I hope never to see her again!” She said it severely, and the family laughed out.

She nodded her head sagely under its tilting hat that came down well over one eye, and gave her a young and military look—as if she were winning her spurs.

“You may laugh!” she declared. “It’s no place for mother!”

“All right for you, I suppose?” suggested her father teasingly.

“I told you I’d got over it,” she said firmly.

“Like the measles!” said William Archer.

She regarded him thoughtfully. “Something like that—you don’t have it, and you feel well—perfectly well—and then you talk with some one, or have tea or something, and you get all excited and uncomfortable——”

“And break out—” said William Archer.

“Yes—and see your mother walking in the middle of the street—ploughing along!” Her indignant glance was on Eleanor’s calm face. “I felt just ashamed!” she declared.

“I thought mother walked rather well!” said Richard.

“Yes—I was quite proud of mother!” said William Archer.

“Well—I hope it’s the last time you’ll have a chance to ’be proud of mother’—that way!... I never dreamed she would do it!—What made you?” she asked. She turned an accusing look on her.

“Why—I think I—caught it, perhaps,” said Eleanor. “Isn’t your hat just a little far forward, dear?”

Annabel jumped up and went to the glass and adjusted the hat with conscientious touch. “It looks so simple!” she murmured. “But it really takes brains!—There—how is that?” She turned for approval, with serious, intent look.

“Just like a French cadet!” said William Archer. He had finished luncheon, and was standing in the doorway looking back.

She made a little mouth at him, and when he had gone she came and stood by her father’s chair. He looked up.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

“There’s the matinee party first; and then Helen’s tea—it’s her day—and then Harold is going to take me for a spin, if we get out in time.... Good-by, dear things! I’ll see you at dinner.”

She bent and kissed them, and all the elusive perfume and shining color and the little flitting ends of ribbon fluttered with her from the room.

Richard More smiled across at his wife. “Enter Hamlet!” he said.

“Yes—It’s all decided!” she added softly.

He put down his cup.

“When?”

“Ages ago—in heaven, I suppose.” She smiled a little wistfully.

He looked relieved. “Oh—that kind of deciding!”

XIV

They were alone at dinner. Annabel came in late and joined them, and there were only the three of them in the big room. It was very restful—with the shaded light from the candles; and there was a veiled happiness in the girl’s smile—a little wistful look that flitted through it when it rested on her mother’s face.

Richard More watched in silence.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked abruptly.

“Fine!” She crumbled her bread absently.

“What make of car is he running now?”

“What make—Oh—!” She looked up. “I didn’t notice.”

She was scanning her mother’s face—as if she had not quite seen her before.

“I saw the prettiest thing to-day, mother—pretty for you!” She leaned forward, still gazing at her. “It would just suit you!”

“Yes?” Eleanor’s eyes met the look behind the words. “What was it?”

“A queer sort of garment—not a kimono exactly, and not a coat—just a garment.” She threw open her arms with a whimsical gesture.

Her mother’s look grew veiled. “Where was it?—where did you see it?”

“At Helen’s tea. Mrs. Martin had it.... She helped pour and she had it on when she came in. She threw it off in the hall—a kind of regal thing, you know!” She made another gesture and laughed. “And I thought in a flash of you!”

Richard More was looking at his wife—her glance met his.

“I am too old to wear a thing like that,” she said tranquilly.

The girl shook her head. “It wasn’t old, and it wasn’t young.... It was just like you!” She said it softly, half to herself under her breath, and she nodded to her father with a little shy pleasure in the words. “I kept thinking all the time we were driving—how beautiful you would look in it.”

“What color was it?” asked Richard More.

“A sort of blue shade—very deep and rich—and gold things running all over it—a perfectly stunning thing!”

“So you think your mother would look well in something like that?” he said gravely.

His face was turned to his wife.

“I should like to see her in it,” said the girl wistfully. “I never thought before how beautiful mother is! She’s always been—just mother!... I think she’s growing pretty,” she added reflectively. She was gazing at her with puzzled eyes.

“Go on—tell about the coat!” said Eleanor.

“Why—that’s all! I only saw it as she threw it off—and when we came out, it lay there across a chair and Harold said, ’What a stunning thing!’ and I said, ’Yes—for mother!’.rdquo; She laughed and Eleanor smiled faintly.

“And then what did he say?”

The girl hesitated a minute.

“You are growing pretty, you know!” she replied irrelevantly. “And you’re almost the only woman I know that has wrinkles—nice ones!”

“Silly child!” said Eleanor. But her face flushed a little.

Annabel nodded. “I’ve been puzzling about it—about faces—lots of those suffrage women—I didn’t know what it was—I couldn’t make out! But that’s it—they haven’t any wrinkles!” She said it triumphantly.

“They do keep young,” said Richard More thoughtfully.

She turned on him almost fiercely. “It isn’t young! It’s—massage! I’ve got so I just seem to hate that look—all puffed out and smooth and softish like putty. It’s a kind of chromo-face,” she said indignantly—“a just-as-good face, you know!”

Her father laughed out.

She nodded savagely. “That’s the way I feel, and I didn’t know—till to-day.” Her voice grew gentle.

“When I get old I’m going to have wrinkles—like mother!”

“There’s one on your nose, now—where you’re turning it up,” said Richard.

“I don’t care.... Now mother’s wrinkles”—she leaned forward and touched one lightly with her finger—“mother’s wrinkles are—beautiful!”

“You flatter me!” said Eleanor, with a little serene smile mocking the light in her face.

“There—! That’s it! Do you see?” She motioned to her father. “That little line that makes fun of you!—I’m going to have one just like that!” She leaned back and looked at the wrinkle with artistic approval.

Suddenly she jumped up and came and put her arms around her mother’s neck.

“Do you think I would let any one massage that wrinkle off your face—you dear old thing, you!” She bent and kissed the wrinkle.

And Eleanor put up a hand to the smooth cheek, close against her own—with the little flush coming and going in it.

“What did Harold say?” she asked.

XV

SO Annabel was engaged. And then, almost before they knew it, Annabel was married, and her place was removed from the dining-table, and the circle about the table closed in a little, and Eleanor looked at it with regretful eyes.

But the young people were not far off. And two extra plates had often to be laid for dinner or luncheon, or even for breakfast; so that the whole number of plates for the year was perhaps not much reduced.

William Archer was paying attention to his neckties and socks, and growing fussy about the cut of his hair. And the younger children were coming up with demands for a sensible education that the school system of the country did not supply. And Richard and Eleanor More still found life a rich and satisfying adventure.

Richard sometimes wondered as he watched her face and the little new wrinkles coming to it—what life would have been if he had married some one else—some one besides Eleanor—the Rumley, girl, for instance.... He was almost engaged to the Rumley girl, at one time, he remembered.... He had blundered along—and heaven knows, he might have married the Rumley girl!... The thought always gave him a little fleeting shiver down his back. And then a sense of strength and well-being swept over him—of the inevitableness of life. It could not have been any other way—or any one but Eleanor!... She had said that Annabel’s engagement was “decided in heaven.”... That was it!

People might laugh—and, of course, it was a kind of fatalism—but things like that had to be.... The sun had to rise in the East to-morrow morning—that was not fatalism!

There was one regret that followed him—though he never mentioned it, and he seldom thought of it, consciously.... Sometimes a look in Eleanor’s face would bring it back—and he would wonder why he should mind so much—that he had not been able to get the coat for her—the Chinese coat they had seen at Stewart’s that day.... It was not such a wonderful garment, after all—was it?... He had given her more expensive things than that—more beautiful things—had he?... And then he would see her face as she stood for a moment wrapped in its folds and looking down.

The day Annabel mentioned the coat she had seen at the tea he had been deeply startled. And he wanted to speak to Eleanor about it afterward. But something held him. Perhaps she had forgotten... perhaps she did not care—so much as he fancied.

Once, when they were going to the opera, he turned in the limousine and caught a flitting smile on her lips as they flashed by a light and he asked her what she was thinking about. She laughed out.

“The Chinese coat, dear.... I could have worn it to-night.”

He could not have told whether there were tears in her voice. He only thought as she stepped from the car and walked beside him into the lobby that he had never seen her so beautiful; and he had had the happy sense of people turning their heads to look at her—stare a little....

There was a kind of radiance about Eleanor sometimes.... He had given her everything in the world—except the Chinese coat.

And the little regret never left him.

Later it came to him that Stewart might, after all, have got the coat for him—and simply be waiting for him to call.

XVI

He went to Stewart’s that afternoon. The store had been enlarged and greatly changed. He had not seen it for years—hardly since the day when he arranged, or thought he arranged, that they were to “send him word.”... Perhaps he had misunderstood. How foolish he had been not to inquire before.... Regretting it all these years—and never asking—when perhaps he had only to walk in and say casually: “You don’t happen to have a coat—a Chinese coat—that I left an order for—blue and gold, I think it was—with dragons on it?”

But when he asked the casual question, the girl at the counter only shook her head. She was indifferent.

“Was it this week?” she asked. “I’ve only been here a week.”

“No—it was... some time ago,” said Richard More.

“Perhaps they will know in the buying department. I will ask.”

She was gone a long time. And Richard More looked about him. He would not have known it for the same place—a great skylight had been put in and the floors cut out from roof to basement, letting down a flood of light. And the stairs and elevators were changed—they used to be over there to the left.... It must have been just about here that she stood when she tried on the coat. He half-closed his eyes and saw her there—and all the hope and freshness came back to him—and the look in her face.

The girl returned, efficient and indifferent. “They have not had an order. I can take it again.” She reached for her pad.

Richard More looked at it distrustfully.

“I think I will see Mr. Stewart himself,” he said slowly. He half-started to take a card from his pocket. Then he changed the gesture. He was suddenly thinking of the gold coins he had carried there....

“Tell Mr. Stewart, please, that the gentleman who left an order for a Chinese coat—several years ago—would like to speak with him about it.”

There was another long wait—then a boy with buttons and a little proud air escorted him to the top of the building.

“Mr. Stewart don’t see many folks,” he volunteered, as they approached a door.

“Doesn’t he? Then I am fortunate.”

The boy nodded gravely and rapped.

XVII

THE gray-haired man at the desk looked up with a sharp line between the bushy eyebrows. He stared a moment and got up.

“Is it you!” He held out a cordial hand.

He served on a dozen boards with Robert More—and was proud of it.

“I never supposed you were interested in the Chinese coat!” He touched a paper on the desk.

“Sit down. They said the man who left the order was here—and I happened to have kept the name, ’Richard More.’ But it never occurred to me it was you!” He was still standing and staring at him as if he could not quite believe his eyes.

“I did not expect you to remember the order,” said Richard. “I merely sent up word—on the chance.”

The other nodded. “Oh, yes. I remember it quite well.... You see I took personal interest in the coat. I never really meant to sell it.... It was a curious garment....”

The two men of business sat silent—as if seeing it before them.

It was Stewart who roused himself first. “I came on it in a town—a little back in the interior. I was there on other business, semi-confidential business for the government—and I saw this coat and liked it, and bought it.... I think I had a half-idea of giving it to my wife.” He smiled a little absently.

“I did not know you were married,” said Richard More politely. He really knew very little about the man. It did not interest him—except for politeness.