The Redemption of Anthony/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
"EVERYTHING in order, Mary?" asked Mrs. Martin, entering the room intended for Priscilla and looking about casually.
"Yes, madame; I think so."
"Have some flowers on the dressing-table."
"Very well, Mrs. Martin. Are you driving to the station to meet Miss Priscilla?" she continued, with the privilege of an old servant.
"No, oh, no! I've sent James for her. We'll have tea in my dressing-room when she comes, Mary."
"Very well."
Mrs. Martin wandered about aimlessly, rearranging things absent-mindedly, and finally went back to her own part of the house. She was restless; the absurd realization began to dawn upon her that she dreaded her daughter's home-coming, dreaded the first half-hour and the first weeks of adjustment. She even blamed herself a bit that she knew so little of the girl's real self. Her physical needs and habits she had always considered religiously, but farther than that she had never gone.
Mr. Kaley Martin's death, ten years before, had been a distinct relief, and she had wilfully set aside all reminders of him—and Priscilla came under that head.
Mrs. Martin threw herself into a comfortable chair, and gave herself up to a consideration of the evidence at hand in regard to Priscilla. She recalled the rather prim little miss of fifteen who had spent the summer vacation at home two years before (that was the last real visit, for the girl had been abroad all the time since); she recalled the stiff letters, sometimes so childish in their outlook upon life as to be pathetic. She realized that she had no idea of the girl's tastes or thoughts, and she got up petulantly.
"I suppose good mothers are born, not made; it's evidently not my forte. The truth remains, Priscilla is a trial."
The door behind her opened swiftly, and she turned. The girl stood there a moment, motionless, while mother and daughter measured each other. Mrs. Martin's first impression was half pleasure, half dismay—the girl was a beauty, there was no doubt of that.
"Mother!" she said, in a little, half-choked voice. "Mother!"
She put her arms about her mother's neck and clung tightly, so tightly that Mrs. Martin could feel the beating of her heart. She almost resented the passion of the embrace.
"How do you do, Priscilla?" she said, releasing her gently. "My dear, how you've grown! Let's have a look at you." She held her off and took an inventory of gold hair, hazel eyes wet with tears, mouth quivering with emotion, slight, straight young figure.
"Mother, are you glad? Oh, I suppose you couldn't be as glad to have me home as I am to be home!"
"You wanted to come, then?" Mrs. Martin inquired.
"Wanted to? It's been my dream for years—to belong at home. This last year I've marked off each day and night that brought me nearer."
Mrs. Martin turned and rang for tea.
"Take off your things, Priscilla. Didn't you like it at school?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose I did," she answered, putting her things aside. "It was all very well, but, of course, it wasn't home."
"No, I suppose not. Put the things here, please, Mary."
Priscilla flew at the maid. "Oh, Mary, I'm so glad to see you! How are you? And how's the cook, and Hannah, and all of them?"
"They're well, thank ye, Miss Prissy, and we're all delighted to have ye home fur good."
"Thanks—it's just heavenly to be here."
Mrs. Martin watched Mary's pleased exit and the girl's flush of pleasure. "I thought you were going to kiss her, Priscilla," she said, in amused sarcasm.
The girl flushed. "Was I too enthusiastic? You see, I just love Mary; she means home to me—she and Hannah and the cook. They were so good to me that last time I was here—I was hardly ever lonesome."
"Indeed?" said Mrs. Martin, with a flash of anger at something the unconsidered speech implied. "How do you take your tea?"
"Lemon and two lumps, please."
Priscilla drew her chair opposite her mother's and fixed her eyes on her steadily.
"Isn't this sweet for us to be sitting here having tea together, mother?"
"Yes, isn't it nice? Now tell me about your two years of Europe."
"Oh, don't let's! Some other day for Europe—now let's talk about things that count—about you and me. Mother, have you wanted me ever?"
Mrs. Martin moved uneasily. "Don't let us be emotional, Priscilla; it is too great a strain. Let us just stick to the facts. We've lived our lives practically apart, and now we're going to try to live together in peace and happiness, but we mustn't demand too much of each other all at once."
"So—you haven't," Priscilla concluded simply, and her eyes never wandered from her mother's face. "Of course I don't see why you should, but I hoped—I think I don't care for any more tea." She got up and wandered to the window.
Mrs. Martin felt uncomfortable, futile. She was not handling the situation in her usual brilliant way. "I hope you are going to be very happy here. We'll have parties and dinners and balls, and amuse ourselves splendidly. I've planned a cotillion for you in a couple of weeks, and you're to lead it with Peter Schuyler, the most popular youth in town. Oh, we'll amuse you, my dear!"
"Thank you, mother," the girl said, turning to her.
Mrs. Martin continued to fight for time.
"Then we'll induce Tony to have a house-party for you down in the country. You'll enjoy Tony—Mr. Anthony Drake, you know."
"Drake? The Drake who wrote The Soul of Ignace?"
"Yes; you know about him, then?"
"He's wonderful, isn't he?"
"You haven't read The Soul of Ignace?" demanded Mrs. Martin, in astonishment.
"Oh, yes; several times."
"Good gracious! didn't they choose your books for you?"
"I've read all his things."
"He's an interesting man—he's here a great deal."
"Here—in this house? Then, I shall meet him!"
"Doubtless"—smiling.
A knock at the door interrupted them, and the man brought in a card.
"He's here now. Run down and talk to him until I get into another gown."
Priscilla actually turned white. "I? Go and talk to him? Oh, I couldn't!"
"Nonsense! Run along."
"Mother, I'd be frightened to death. I couldn't!"
"Don't be silly, Priscilla; he's nothing but a man. I'll be down in a minute."
She disappeared into her bedroom, and Priscilla watched her go with frightened eyes.
"She wants me to go," she whispered, and turned and walked down-stairs.
Mr. Anthony Drake was pacing to and fro in the drawing-room, his thoughts upon the coming half-hour. The developments of the night before seemed to him to demand immediate readjustment of his relations to Mrs. Martin. He had spent the night going over the past and interrogating the future, and had arrived at the obvious conclusion that they could not go on for ever in the halcyon camaraderie of the last three years, especially now that the daughter was arriving to complicate the situation. He turned at the step on the stair, and faced Priscilla, who stood between the curtains, transfixed with fear in the presence of the great man. He stared silently.
"I am Priscilla," she said, in a faint voice.
"I am Priscilla Martin—"
She advanced and held out her hand, and Drake recalled himself with difficulty.
"Oh, yes, to be sure!" he said. "How do you do?"
She eyed him gravely, noting his evident irritation. "I shouldn't have come at all—I shouldn't have dreamed of coming down—but my mother wished me to talk to you for ten minutes until she is dressed. Will you sit down?"
"Thanks. I—I suppose you're glad to get home?" he said uncomfortably, looking across at her.
"Oh, yes, very."
"We've heard a good deal about you lately."
She leaned toward him impulsively.
"Have you? Has my mother talked of me?"
"Yes. She's been wondering what she's going to do with you."
"Oh!"
So long a pause ensued that Priscilla finally hurled herself into the breach.
"You're the first great person I've ever met, so I don't know what to say to you."
"I? I'm not a great person. If I were, I'd know what to say to you. I don't get on with girls—they frighten me."
"Are you frightened now? If you're half as frightened as I am, don't you think I might go tell mother that we couldn't talk?"
He looked at her and laughed. "I'd hate to confess to your mother that I was afraid of anything."
"Oh, you're that way, too, are you?"
"Your mother isn't afraid of anything."
"No, I suppose not."
"She'd laugh at us."
"Yes, she always laughs at things."
Again he glanced at her. "I suppose you liked it at school?"
"No."
"Oh, is that so? Why didn't you?"
"It would take four years really to tell you."
He laughed. "We'd better postpone it, then, for it's rather near dinner-time."
"Besides, I couldn't tell you, anyhow—you wouldn't understand."
"You don't think much of my intellect, then?"
"Oh, I think you're very great, but I don't think you could understand just a plain girl—like me."
Mrs. Martin came in, and he went to meet her, half-way across the room.
"Why, what's the matter?" he asked of her.
"Mother, may I be excused? I'm a little tired—I—"
"By all means, Priscilla. Dinner at seven-thirty."
"Yes, mother. Good afternoon, Mr. Drake."
He bowed silently, then turned to Mrs. Kaley Martin.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked again.
"Don't ask me. I've been through the hardest half-hour of my life."
"You mean?"
"Did you ever hear of people being transformed in an hour? That's what's happened to me. What did you think of her? Is she a beauty?"
"I don't know—I didn't notice. But never mind her—let us talk of you. What is this change you talk about? What did she do to you?"
"She swamped me in a sea of emotions; she tugged me hither and thither, where I didn't want to go; she put her hands ruthlessly on old wounds and opened them up again; she arraigned me before the past, and, worst of all, she loves me."
"What a strange woman you are, Louise! Didn't you want her to love you?"
"I wanted her to be fond of me; but love—there are such terrible obligations in being loved!"
"I've come to talk to you about love, myself."
"Don't—I can't bear anything more to-night. You are to stay to dinner, Tony, and protect me. You must keep that child's unblinking eyes off me, you must be the safety-valve, or I shall do something insane."
"Very well," he said quietly, "my case can wait, and to-night we'll attend to the case of Priscilla—that's her name, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's her name—Priscilla. And to think that we counted on the chance that her coming would make no difference!"
"Possibly you exaggerate your problem just now."
"Tony, it takes the most finished diplomat years to prepare himself to face a situation of half the vitalness of this one of mine; and I've thrown away all my years of preparation!"