miss haldane was worried, perturbed. her usually cheerful old face was wrinkled into lines of perplexity, her eyes were anxious.
something was wrong at the white house. dickie had slept peacefully throughout the night, and with the extraordinary recuperation of children, had demanded bread and milk on awaking. it was perfectly natural to suppose that an air of jubilation should prevail. yet lady anne was pale, silent, aloof; millicent sheldon slightly cold and frigid. what in the name of wonder did it signify? vaguely miss haldane connected the extraordinary atmosphere with the piper. it was true that he had been accountable, under providence, for dickie’s marvellous recovery, yet miss haldane distinctly regarded him as a bird of ill-omen, and in her heart bitterly regretted that necessity had called him to the house.
throughout the day she fidgeted and fluttered interiorly, keeping sharp and anxious watch on anne’s pale and almost stern face, without, however, in the least appearing to do so. at tea-time she found herself alone in the drawing-room with millicent, anne being in dickie’s room.
then miss haldane could contain her anxiety no longer. she disliked millicent sheldon, but it was a case of any port in a storm. having poured out tea and handed millicent a cup, she prefaced her first remark by a slight and nervous cough.
“anne looks very pale,” she said tentatively. “i hoped to see her looking better now our anxiety is practically at an end.”
“yes,” said millicent, taking a sip of tea.
this was unsatisfactory. miss haldane returned to the charge more openly.
“i hope,” she said, “that nothing has worried her?”
millicent put down her teacup. “it is distinctly unfortunate,” she said, “that that man who called himself peter the piper should have come into this neighbourhood.” she made the remark with a calm majesty of manner.
“oh?” queried miss haldane, pricking up her ears and looking for all the world like a terrier on the scent of a rat; “do you know anything about him?”
“only that he has spent three years in prison for forgery,” said millicent gravely. “anne has got unaccountably familiar with him in some way, and is naturally vexed to find her friendship misplaced.” she puckered her smooth white brow with an air of grave, gracious anxiety, but there was a hard expression in her eyes.
miss haldane ruffled like a small angry bird, the terrier expression forgotten.
“lady anne,” she said with dignity, “is certainly not familiar with him. you must have been misinformed.”
“really!” millicent lifted her eyebrows coolly. “from anne’s own showing yesterday, she knew considerably more about him than probably you or i had the smallest idea of. she has not seen fit to confide in me, but it was entirely apparent.”
miss haldane sat very upright. “if anne did know more of him than we imagine,” she remarked firmly, “it shows that he was a more desirable person to know than i had supposed.”
millicent controlled her temper admirably. of course, it was entirely absurd, but the old thing was, unquestionably, trying to snub her.
“a man who has been in prison!” she remarked, with an air of quiet finality and an exasperating little laugh.
miss haldane’s usually dim old eyes blazed. “under god we owe dickie’s recovery to him,” she said with quiet dignity. “might not that make us a little charitable towards him?”
and millicent, for her outward imperturbability of manner, was annoyedly conscious that miss haldane had scored.
and then anne walked in.
“am i interrupting confidences?” she asked, with an attempt at her usual lightness of manner. “dickie is a fraud; he is demanding bread and jam, or at least toast and honey. i consider he has basely deceived us all.”
and then she saw that the atmosphere was really strained, tense. she pretended blindness, however, and, sitting down, asked for some tea. while drinking it she made a few airy remarks, to which miss haldane responded absent-mindedly, and millicent with a pained and almost holy silence.
then millicent got up. “i am going to see dickie,” she said.
as the door closed behind her, miss haldane gave a sigh of relief.
“how i dislike that woman!” she said.
“i saw she had ruffled you,” said anne soothingly.
“she was impertinent,” remarked miss haldane with dignity.
“millicent! impertinent!” anne’s eyes were big with amazement. “my dear matty!” she might be many things, but impertinent seemed the last word to connect with the large statuesque millicent.
“impertinent,” said miss haldane firmly. “it is only her size that makes it not usually apparent. if she were a small woman, it would be obvious to the meanest intelligence. and she is distinctly ungrateful. whatever that man has done, whatever he is, we owe him a debt of gratitude.”
“oh!” said anne, her eyes clouding; “she was talking about him?”
“yes. my dear, have you considered that even if he did wrong in the past he may have repented? and he did help dickie.”
“yes,” said anne slowly; “he helped dickie.”
“even if,” continued miss haldane earnestly, “he has once been in prison, he cannot be altogether bad at heart, or a child—” she stopped. to her own surprise, the contradictory old thing was defending the piper.
“oh, prison!” said anne vaguely.
“yes; didn’t you know? was not that why you were vexed—angry?”
anne gave an odd little laugh. “no, matty, dear. to be candid, it was not that at all. somehow—it’s queer, isn’t it?—i never thought of that.”
“then why—?” began miss haldane, perplexed, vague.
“oh, it’s a complicated situation,” said anne dryly; “but—well, every atom of pride i ever possessed has been dragged in the mud, humbled, abased. now you have the truth; and for heaven’s sake don’t ask me any more!” again the hard look crept into her face. she got up and moved to the window.
miss haldane watched her. had there been any truth in millicent’s words? had she seen more of this man than miss haldane had supposed? clandestine meetings, secret letters, fluttered rapidly before miss haldane’s mind. then she looked at anne again. it was impossible. whatever had happened, it was certain that it was nothing of which anne need really be ashamed.
and anne, silent at the window, had bitterness in her heart; she felt her pride, as she had said, humbled, dragged in the dust. this man to whom she had written had amused himself at her expense. as one person he had received her intimate letters, as another he had been the recipient of gracious favours on which he had doubtless put a totally wrong construction. posing as two men, yet in reality one, he could compare the favours she had accorded both. the rose, the green sock—her face burnt at the thought of them. the one man, robin adair, smiling at her gracious letters, and smiling still more at her gracious treatment of the vagabond piper.
it was monstrous, preposterous! how he must have laughed in his sleeve when she told him of her inclination to confound the two men. anger and indignation were in anne’s heart at the thought, yet deeper still was an odd little ache, and the fact that it existed, and she was conscious of it, curiously enough increased her indignation against peter.
the door opened softly, and the footman entered with a letter on a tray. he crossed to the window where anne was standing. as she saw the letter lying there, a hot flush mounted in her face. she took it, holding it irresolutely in her hand. when the door had closed again, she broke the seal.
there was a long silence. at last miss haldane looked round. anne’s face was quivering.
“what is it?” asked miss haldane, her voice full of perplexed anxiety.
“only,” said anne, with a half sob, “that i have torn the little young wings from a skylark.”
