up at the white house lady anne garland was entertaining millicent sheldon. the entertainment to lady anne proved somewhat weighty. the carefully mended millicent was a different person from the one she had previously known. her whole aspect was altered in anne’s eyes. she no longer saw her, as millicent no doubt saw herself, a calm gracious madonna, stretching out healing hands to a weary humanity. to anne she was simply a very ordinary woman who had failed the man she had once loved—or professed to love—in his need.
and anne suddenly realized that for all millicent’s grand and noble statements she had no use for failures. let a man have his foot firmly planted on the ladder of success, albeit on the lowest rung, millicent spoke of him with gracious condescension, held out the hand of friendship to him. those who had fallen from the ladder, or who were struggling towards it with little chance of reaching it, were not in her eyes worth a moment’s consideration. truly the cracks were horribly, terribly conspicuous, and anne had much ado to prevent millicent from recognizing that she perceived them. she looked forward to the day of millicent’s departure with a guilty hopefulness, a secret longing which she felt was almost indecent in a hostess. and then something happened to delay that day.
dickie, the solemn-eyed dickie, fell ill. it was one of those sudden swift illnesses of childhood that grip the hearts of parents with a terrible fear, and anne and millicent, who loved the small boy as if he were their own, watched the little fever-stricken body with grave anxiety, and dreaded to think what news the next mail to india might not carry.
the villagers came daily to inquire. voices were hushed when the child’s name was mentioned. peter alone, to whom no one ever spoke, did not know of the illness. he only wondered why dickie, who had escaped his vigilant nurse more than once, did not come to the cottage.
and then one day, when the fever was running high, dickie began a plaint, a piteous little moaning for the piper. backwards and forwards on the pillow tossed the small fevered head; the dry lips called ceaselessly to the piper to come and pipe to him. in some vague way dickie had confounded him with the pied piper of hamelin, and wanted peter to take him through the mountain and show him sparrows brighter than peacocks and horses with eagles’ wings. peter had told dickie many a tale of fancy during his visit to the cottage.
“who is it he wants?” asked the doctor sharply, watching the child. “can no one fetch him?”
anne, who was near the bed, stood up.
“i know,” she said. “i will write a note and send——”
the doctor, a little man with a crusty manner and a heart as tender as a woman’s, interrupted her testily.
“can’t you go yourself?” he snapped. “i know what servants are when they’re sent on messages. the child is—i’m anxious, and as cross as an old bear,” he concluded.
anne was already at the door.
“i’ll not be long,” she said. “miss haldane will be here if you need her. i’ll send her to you. nurse is with the baby and mrs. sheldon is lying down. she was up most of last night.”
a few moments later anne was walking down the drive. it was a grey afternoon, lapped in soft clouds, and with a little sad wind in the trees suggestive of autumn, though it was only august.
anne felt a sensation of depression, a faint foreboding as of impending ill. she told herself that it was merely fatigue. dickie would get well—she knew he would get well. and yet she did not really think that anxiety regarding dickie was causing this depression. it was something more remote, something intangible and vague.
she determined not to think about it—to throw aside the slight uneasiness. yet again and again it crept over her in insidious little waves, despite all her efforts to the contrary.
peter was busy writing when the knock came on his door. now, whether it was telepathy or clairvoyance is not known, but his heart jumped at the knock, and he got up quickly, opening wide the door.
“what is wrong?” he queried anxiously as he saw anne’s face. he almost forgot to be surprised at her presence there.
“it’s dickie,” said anne. “he’s ill, very ill. the child has got some queer ideas into his head. he has mixed you up in an odd way with the pied piper of hamelin. he has been talking about you a great deal—half in delirium, you understand. he wants you to pipe to him.” she stopped.
“oh!” ejaculated peter, his voice full of sympathy. “the pathetic little mite! i’ll come at once.” and then he, too, stopped, hesitated. “if you will go on,” he said, “i’ll follow you.”
“can’t you,” asked anne, “come back with me now at once? i fancy—i may be wrong—that the doctor thinks every minute is of importance.”
peter flushed. “of course,” he said, “i’ll come now. it was only—” again he stopped, and anne waited, wondering.
“only,” said peter desperately, “that i thought perhaps you would rather not walk with me. i—the villagers, you know, look upon me with disfavour.”
anne raised her chin. there was a little regal [pg 198]air in the gesture. “but really,” she assured him, “i am not accustomed to consider the opinion of the villagers.”
“oh, you idiot,” groaned peter inwardly, “you idiot, you double-dyed dolt! now you’ve offended her, though i protest your intentions were good.” aloud he said meekly, “i’ll come with you at once.”
he turned and picked up his hat from a chair. as the long peacock feather caught his eye, again he groaned inwardly. he was for flinging the hat aside, but lady anne was watching him. he put it on his head desperately, and came out on to the path beside her, feeling for all the world a mountebank, a popinjay, a fool. why, oh why! had he maliciously defied the fates? why, oh why! had this peacock feather lain in his path once long ago? and still further, why had he been idiot enough to pick it up and wear it merely in a spirit of contradiction, because once upon a time a woman had announced her belief in a superstition regarding peacock feathers.
he attempted to appear unconcerned, at his ease, but he was aware that the attempt was a poor one. nor did the amazed glances of the villagers, as they crossed the green, tend to reassure him. yet here was lady anne walking calmly, quietly, entirely at her ease, entirely dignified. why was he ass enough to care for the glances of these yokels! yet he knew it was not for himself that he cared, but for his lady, his divinity, who had deigned herself to visit his cottage, to ask him with her own lips to perform a service for her. he longed for a flow of words to come to him, yet none but the most banal remark presented itself to his mind, therefore he walked beside her in silence.
at the entrance to the drive peter suddenly shivered, why, he did not know, for the day, though grey, was hot. it was as if some slight indefinable feeling of apprehension had struck him.
anne glanced at him. “cold?” she queried, smiling.
“no,” responded peter, smiling in response. “i fancy it was—according to the old adage—a goose walking over my grave.”
“oh!” said anne. and the slight feeling of uneasiness, which had temporarily departed, returned.
“which, so say the superstitious folk,” continued peter lightly, “denotes misfortune to the owner of the grave. personally—” he broke off with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
“you are not a believer in omens and superstitions,” suggested anne in conclusion. “so i might suppose. your—your hat decoration is generally regarded as provocative of ill-luck,” she smiled.
peter flushed. “it’s a fool thing to wear,” he said lamely, “but——”
“on the contrary,” said anne demurely, “it fits in with your rôle. i believe it was the rumour of the peacock feather that first gave me the courage to ask you to play to me. it sounded fantastic, unusual. i dared to think that you might respond to an unusual invitation. the feather, i repeat, gave me courage.”
“then,” said peter gallantly, “i wear it with a good will as an omen of fortune’s favours. you did not, however, ask me a second time.”
anne drew a quick breath. “no,” she responded. “yet—you came.”
“yes,” said peter quietly, “i came.”
anne might have spoken again, but they were at the door by now, and they passed into the hall together and up the wide shallow stairs.
the sick-room was in half light, for the curtains were partly drawn. the doctor was sitting by the bed, his eyes watching, grave. miss haldane was at a little distance. they both looked up as the two entered.
anne crossed to the bedside, peter following.
“dickie,” said anne, softly and distinctly, “i have brought the piper to you.” she sat down and took one of the small hot hands in hers.
peter came to the foot of the bed. he drew his pipe from his pocket. as the first sweet notes of the pipe filled the room dickie lay still. it was the friendly, seductive little tune peter had first played to the child. no one stirred and the magic piping breathed through the air.
“more,” said dickie, as peter stopped. and the request was quiet, conscious.
peter came a little nearer. “this, dickie, is the sleepy song the pied piper played the children when he carried them away to the wonderful land. so shut your eyes and listen, and you will sleep and dream of running streams, and flowers, and of cool green grass, and beautiful birds, and horses with eagles’ wings, that will carry you away gently on their backs to the place where children get well.” peter’s voice dropped to a murmur.
and then once more came the music, a low crooning lullaby, full of adorable restful tenderness. dickie’s eyes closed drowsily. the music crooned on, rocking softly, soothingly. then dickie gave a little gentle sigh, his fingers relaxed their hold on anne’s, his small hand fell open on the counterpane, and dickie slept.
“thank god!” breathed the old doctor. and he took off his spectacles and wiped them.
peter looked at anne. she nodded, and rose from her chair. they stole softly from the room together. they passed down the corridor. then anne turned and spoke.
“i can’t say anything but ‘thank you.’” she smiled, a little wavering smile, and her eyes were misty.
“oh,” said peter with a huge sigh, “i’m glad. he’s—he’s such a jolly little chap.”
and then he looked up, for a woman was coming towards them.
“it is mrs. sheldon, dickie’s aunt,” said anne, explanatory. “she—” and she broke off, amazed at the sudden rigidity of peter’s face.
“oh!” said millicent as she saw the two. and she stopped dead.
“what is it?” queried anne, astonished. “do you two know each other?”
“i once had the pleasure of mr. carden’s acquaintance,” said millicent stiffly, “but now——”
“mr. carden!” ejaculated anne. and a light dawned upon her, a light of painful significance.
“i was not aware he was in the house,” said millicent coldly. “i was not aware that you knew him.”
then peter spoke. “as peter carden lady anne does not know me,” he said steadily, though his face was white. “she knows me only as peter the vagabond piper.”
“an alias,” said millicent scornfully. “one, no doubt, of several.”
anne was waiting, silent. peter had a sudden thought that she was waiting for him to speak, to deny the accusation if he could. he felt utterly and entirely weary.
“oh no!” he said bitterly; “only one other—robin adair.”
“oh!” said anne, shrinking as if the name had been a blow.
“it really does not signify what you choose to call yourself,” said millicent. “but i do not care that my friends should be deceived.”
peter drew in his breath sharply. he looked straight at her, and in her eyes he could read the true cause for her anger. “you are right,” he said quietly. “and i have deceived her.” he turned to anne. her head was erect, her face white, motionless. indignation, anger, contempt, he saw all three in her eyes.
he turned without a word and passed down the stairs, across the hall, and through the hall door, which he closed softly behind him as he went.
