The Blue Window/Chapter 18
DELIA explained, perhaps, the change in Hildegarde better than any of the others. "She certn'y am be-witched," she told Sampson. "Effen I shut my eyes an' didn't see 'er, I'd think 'twas Miss Sally."
Sampson nodded. "She sure am diffunt," there was a hint of criticism in the way he said it.
Delia surveyed him scornfully, "Ain' she got a right to have a good time?"
"I ain't sayin' she ain't."
"You didn't expect 'er to sit aroun' wearin' moanin' weeds for her Ma forever, did you?"
"I ain't expectin' nothin'," said the goaded Sampson.
"Well, then. 'Tain't for you and me to tell 'er what she is and what she ain't."
Sampson mumbled something under his breath. Delia caught it up and flung it back at him. "Why shouldn't she be like Miss Sally?"
"You said it yo'sef, Delia. She's like Miss Sally. An' I ain't struck on Miss Sally's ways."
Neither was Delia, but she refused to admit it. "She ain't like Miss Sally insides, I was talkin' 'bout the outsides. Eve'y since that ball at Mistah Winslow's, Miss Hildegarde's been playin' aroun' like a cat in the wind."
If Delia had set herself to coin a phrase, she could not have found one more fitting to describe the Hildegarde of the moment. "Like a cat in the wind" was the excited, shining, graceful creature who had replaced the old Hildegarde. "Like a cat in the wind" described perfectly the effect of the mysterious forces which had caught her up, and which kept her spinning around until she was assailed by a sort of mental and spiritual dizziness.
"I feel," Miss Anne said with some dismay to Ethel Hulburt, "that when I planned that costume I sowed dragon's teeth."
Mrs. Hulburt stared, "What in the world are you talking about, Anne."
Miss Anne was a bit vague. "Oh, you know, there's that old story about the man who sowed dragon's teeth, and reaped a crop of warriors. That costume seemed to have an affinity with all the dead and gone Carews. Anyhow it brought out in Hildegarde everything that has made the men and women of our family fascinating since the beginning of time. I never had it. But Louis has, and now—Hildegarde."
The two women were having lunch at the tea-room on Charles Street, where Sally and Hildegarde were to join them. Miss Anne and her niece now spent most of their days in town and many of their nights. Hildegarde had so many invitations. Everybody wanted her.
"You needn't blame yourself about the costume, Anne," Mrs. Hulburt comforted, "what's in the child would have come out anyhow. Up to this time there's been the effect of her mother's influence. But it couldn't last forever. And now she's thrown it off. That's a part, too, of what attracts people to her—the mystery. Nobody knew through all these years that Louis had a daughter."
"The distressing thing," Miss Anne asserted, "is that we can't afford a popular debutante. But Louis won't listen to reason. He says he'll eat and drink and be merry—and end in the poorhouse. You know that sort of thing."
"What does Hildegarde think about it."
"She told her father flatly she wouldn't have any more new clothes. And that he mustn't entertain for her. But she loves it. You can see that. And Louis is inordinately proud of her. He says it's a shame she shouldn't have her chance."
"Well, it is," Mrs. Hulburt agreed.
"I won't ride for a fall," Miss Anne said, with decision. "I've told Louis. And he says he doesn't want my money. It seems that Neale sees a way out for him financially; but I am not very hopeful. I've counted too many chickens."
Mrs. Hulburt interrupted: "The girls are coming."
Hildegarde and Sally, passing other tables on their way to their own, were much observed. Sally's engagement and Hildegarde's success at Winslow's ball had given the two of them an almost sensational prominence. And now, slim and straight in their dark coats, Sally with a close scarlet hat and Hildegarde wearing the new broad effect with a bunch of violets flat on the brim—they gathered to themselves all the eyes in the room. And the whisper went around "Carew's daughter."
Vivid, swift in her movements, with an effect of restrained high spirits that gleamed in her eye and curled her lip, Hildegarde was transformed. A cat in the wind! A cat in the wind! Miss Anne had not heard Delia's phrase, but if she had she would have confirmed it. She was aware in Hildegarde—of the forces which had always swayed Louis—modified, perhaps, but to be reckoned with none the less, and to fear.
She was half-afraid now, though Hildegarde sitting opposite her was saying, mildly enough, "Did you order for us?" and receiving a negative answer had demanded of Sally, "Shall we have the table d'hôte? I'm starved."
They had, they explained, been walking for hours. "With Merry and Bobby Gresham," Sally elucidated. "Hildegarde was a whirl—with her eyes under that hat. Bobby is simply limp with love for her."
"Sally," her mother reproved.
"Well, you know what I mean. Mad about her."
Miss Anne glanced at her niece. Not a sign of embarrassment. How the child had changed. In three weeks. Taking admiration with an air as if she had always been used to it. And before that there had been no lovers, except Merry, and that country boy, Crispin.
Which reminded her: "A letter came to you, Hildegarde, just before I left. Special delivery. I intended to bring it, but forgot it. I think it was from Crispin Harlowe."
"Crispin?"
"Yes."
A fleeting shadow across the shining eyes! Then the soup came, and Hildegarde went at it with an appetite. Miss Anne like Delia was obsessed by a phrase. Who was it, in the face of great emotion, "went on cutting bread and butter?" Werther's Charlotte, of course. Well, Hildegarde was like that—eating chops and salad and strawberry tart with an effect of insensibility which was astonishing. A month ago she would have blushed herself to death at the mention of Crispin's name. And now, did she ever think of him?
That she was thinking more of him than was apparent on the surface was evidenced when she finished her strawberry tart. "I'm going to run up to the house, Aunt Anne, while you and the others finish your shopping. I want to get Crispin's letter."
"Is it as important as that?"
"Crispin's letters are always important," Hildegarde said coolly, "and I am wondering why he sent this one special."
Miss Anne's house was not far away from the shops. It was on an old-fashioned street near the Cathedral, and had fan-lights over the door, and a fenced-in garden at the back. It was charming, quaint, and with the other houses around it formed a little island of seclusion against the encroaching wave of commercialism which had swept down upon the residential streets and turned them from their ancient purposes. Its drawing-room was on the second floor, and what had once been a bay window had been enlarged into a sun-room which overlooked the garden.
It was to this sun-room that Hildegarde took her letter. It was a delightful place with green parrots on its chintzes and a real green parrot on a perch. A lacquered table or two in black and gold and a mirror framed in lacquer gave a modifying touch to the brightness. There was a shallow bowl of goldfish, and another bowl held narcissus.
The real parrot said, "Hello." Her name was Dickory, and she liked company.
Hildegarde stopped for a moment by the perch. "Hello," she responded and scratched Dickory's head.
Dickory gave a little chuckling murmur. She was quite content. Life in Miss Anne's sun-room had its monotonies. But it was, in the main, safe. For a philosophic parrot it was, perhaps, more satisfying than a native jungle. No enemies lurked, there were no alarms.
Hildegarde sat down on one of the chintz sofas and took off her hat. It was a lovely hat. She put it on again, and peeped into the mirror. Then, with it still on her head, she began to read Crispin's letter.
And as she read she forgot the lovely hat. She forgot all the frivolities that had been in her mind that morning. She forgot Bob Gresham and the excitement of his pursuit, she forgot everything but the words that Crispin had written, and the spell they cast upon her.
"I had to write. I've just come in from a walk. The wind was blowing so that I had to struggle against it, and at last I stopped and got in the shelter of a big tree, and watched it streaming by—all the leaves flying and the clouds racing. And then, suddenly, just as if it were real, I saw you, Hildegarde. I wonder if you remember? The day you were coming from town and found me under the oak? It was that same tree, and you were beating your way up the road against the wind. Your hair was blown straight back from your face so that it gave you a different look, and your cheeks were red, and there was a red scarf like a banner!"
"And when you saw me, you ran and got in the shelter of the tree with me. You were out of breath and beautiful—! And in that moment I knew that you were mine forever. Am I claiming too much? Well, we'll let it go at that. I shall claim all I can get, Hildegarde, even while I'm sure that I don't deserve half of it.
"And now, when are you going to write to me? When you have read this? Why not? I shall be waiting, and watching every mail."
She laid the letter down. Crispin under the old oak? Of course she remembered. She could see him now as he had stood there—strong and young and laughing.
She had laughed a great deal in the past three weeks. Bob Gresham was very funny. He said comic things with such a solemn face and only the flick of an eye towards you to see how you were taking it.
Yet when Bob was not with her, she forgot him. He was no more interesting than a lot of other people. Indeed, she much preferred to talk to Merry. Yet she had to admit that Bob's devotion flattered her. She was, after everything was said, very human, with a feminine liking for adoration. No one but Bobby had ever sent her such flowers and candy or bought tickets for all the plays, or placed such stunning motor-cars at her disposal. Gresham was only a part of the "unbelievable romance" as she had called it. He wasn't a fairy prince. He was, rather, a court jester—and she liked his cap and bells. Everyone tried to tell her of his importance, but she felt that if he had not had money people would have laughed at him, not with him. He was, it were, a pole on which to hang his posessions.
And here was Crispin without any possessions and needing none. His manhood was, as a matter of fact, worth all of Bobby Gresham's millions. She couldn't think of Bobby under the old oak in a streaming wind. Bobby did not fit into such backgrounds. With a sparkling sense of the fantastic, she saw Bobby caught up by the blast and blown away with coat-tails flying!
She re-read Crispin's letter. And sat down at her desk to answer it. She had plenty of time. She was to meet Sally and the others at Winslow's for tea. There was nothing on hand until then.
"Of course I remember that day. It was great fun. Sometimes I think that nothing I am doing here matches such moments. But it is a different Hildegarde who likes all this from the one you knew then, Crispin. Everybody here calls me "Carew's daughter." Does environment make such a difference. And if I were back would I be just as I used to be? Not knowing anything different or wanting it? I'll admit that I don't know. I am having a gorgeous time. And I love it. That's the truth, and the whole of it. I sometimes wonder what mother would think of me. Yet she knew when she sent me to father what I would find. I think she had faith to believe that my head wouldn't be turned. I hope it won't be. But it is all rather wonderful!"
"When are you coming to see me? Soon, please? For a week end? Can't you? I'd love it."
When she had signed and sealed the letter she changed her dress, and walked down to Mount Vernon Square. Winslow's house was one of the huge old-fashioned mansions which gave no hint without of the magnificence within. It had for its neighbors other huge mansions, a tall spired church, the Peabody Institute, the Washington Monument, and the Barye bronzes.
It was while she was making her way across the Square that her father joined her. "Anne said you were coming. So I watched out for you."
She tucked her hand in his arm. "I like to be watched for, Daddy."
He smiled down at her. "You're wonderful in that hat."
Hats! Yet . . . there had been a time when she had run bare-headed in the wind!
Her father brought out a bit of news with the effect of a thunderclap. "How would you like to sail early next month?"
"Sail?"
"For Paris. Anne and I have been talking about it. She tells me we've got to tear ourselves away from all this or sell the family jewels!"
Startled, she said the first thing that came into her head.
"I thought we were to stay for Sally's wedding."
"Ethel says that Sally is putting Neale off again. She insists she is going to take the trip with us. That she can buy her trousseau abroad, and come back and settle down. I am not sure that Neale will stand for it. But Sally's elusiveness may have its charm."
"I hate that type of man." Hildegarde blazed: "If he loves Sally, why should it increase his interest to have her want to run away from him?"
"The eternal masculine—my dear—"
"Crispin isn't like that—"
His face darkened. "Young Lohengrin? How do you know? You fly from him and he follows—."
"He cared when I didn't fly."
"Oh, well . . . we won't argue. And wait until you see Paris. You'll love it, and the life we'll lead. It doesn't take much money—and there's color to it, and glow. You'll forget the Puritan in you and be pure pagan for a bit. And we'll play together."
He laughed light-heartedly: "Wait till you see—Paris," he said again.
She found herself laughing with him. She had always dreamed of Paris . . . ! was she going to let that dream be spoiled by a vision of an old oak, a streaming wind, flying leaves, and a young and laughing figure?