"I think she was the most beautiful lady, That ever was in the West Country----"
He was even humming it under his breath, unheard amid the hum and stir of the crowded city street.
The shops on either side of him displayed in their low windows a wealth of tempting things. Rugs with a sheen like the bloom of a peach--alabaster in curved and carved bowls and vases, old prints in dull gilt frames--furniture following the lines of Florentine elaborateness--his eyes took in all the color and glow, though he rarely stopped for a closer view.
In front of one broad window, however, he hesitated. The opening of the door had spilled into the frosty air of this alien city the scent of the Orient--the fragrance of incense--of spicy perfumed woods.
In the window a jade G.o.d sat high on a teakwood pedestal. A string of scarlet beads lighted a shadowy corner. On an ancient and priceless lacquered cabinet were enthroned two other G.o.ds of gold and ivory. A crystal ball reflected a length of blue brocade. A clump of Chinese bulbs bloomed in an old Ming bowl.
Richard went into the shop. Subconsciously, he went with a purpose. But the purpose was not revealed to him until he came to a case in which was set forth a certain marvelous collection. He knew then that the old song and the scents had formed an a.s.sociation of ideas which had lured him away from the streets and into the shop, that he might buy for Anne Warfield a sandalwood fan.
He found what he wanted. A sweet and wonderful bit of wood, carved like lace, with green and purple ta.s.sels.
It was when he had it safe in his pocket, in a box that was gay with yellow and green and gold, that he was aware of voices in the back of the shop.
There were tables where tea was served to special customers--at the expense of the management. Thus a vulgar bargain became as it were a hospitality--you bought teakwood and had tea; carved ivories, and were rewarded with little cakes.
In that dim s.p.a.ce under a low hung lamp, Marie-Louise talked with the fat Armenian.
He was the same Armenian who had told her fortune at Coney. He stood by Marie-Louise"s side while she drank her tea, and spoke to her of the poet-king with whom she had walked on the banks of the Nile.
Richard approaching asked, "How did you happen to come here, Marie-Louise?"
"I often come. I like it. It is next to traveling in far countries." She indicated the fat Armenian. "He tells me about things that happened to me--in the ages--when I lived before."
A slender youth in white silk with a crimson sash brought tea for Richard. But he refused it. "I am on my way to lunch, Marie-Louise. Will you go with me?"
She hesitated and glanced at the fat Armenian. "I"ve some things to buy."
"I"ll wait."
She flitted about the shop with the fat Armenian in her train. He showed her treasures shut away from the public eye, and she bought long lengths of heavy silks, embroideries thick with gold, a moonstone bracelet linked with silver.
The fat Armenian, bending over her, seemed to direct and suggest.
Richard, watching, hated the man"s manner.
Outside in the sunshine, he spoke of it. "I wouldn"t go there alone."
"Why not?"
"I don"t like to see you among those people--on such terms. They don"t understand, and they"re--different."
"I like them because they are different," obstinately.
He shifted his ground. "Marie-Louise, will you lunch with me at a cheap little place around the corner?"
"Why a cheap little place?"
"Because I like the good soup, and the clean little German woman, and the quiet and--the memories."
"What memories?"
"I used to go there when I was poor."
She entered eagerly into the adventure, and ordered her car to wait. Then away they fared around the corner!
Within the homely little restaurant, Marie-Louise"s elegance was more than ever apparent. Her long coat of gray velvet with its silver fox winked opulently from the back of her chair at the coa.r.s.e table-cloth and the paper napkins.
But the soup was good, and the German woman smiled at them, and brought them a special dish of hard almond cakes with their coffee.
"I love it," Marie-Louise said. "It is like Hans Andersen and my fairy books. Will you bring me here again, Dr. Richard?"
"I am glad you like it," he told her. "I wanted you to like it."
"I like it because I like you," she said with frankness, "and you seem to belong in the fairy tale. You are so big and strong and young. I don"t feel a thousand years old when I am with you. You are such a change from everybody else, Dr. d.i.c.ky."
Richard spoke the next day to Austin of Marie-Louise and the fat Armenian. "She shouldn"t be going to such shops alone. She has a romantic streak in her, and they take advantage of it."
"She ought never to go alone," Austin agreed, "and I have told her. But what am I going to do? I can rule a world of patients, Brooks, but I can"t rule my woman child," he laughed ruefully. "I"ve tried having a maid accompany her, but she sends her home."
"I wish she might have gone to the Crossroads school, and have known the Crossroads teacher--Anne Warfield. You remember Cynthia Warfield, sir; this is her granddaughter."
Austin remembered Cynthia, and he wanted to know more of Anne. Richard told him of Anne"s saneness and common sense. "I am so glad that she can be with my mother, and that the children have her in the school. She is so wise and good."
He thought more than once in the days that followed of Anne"s wisdom and goodness. He decided to send the fan. He expected to go to Crossroads for Christmas, but he was not at all sure that he should see Anne. Something had been said about her going for the holidays to her Uncle Rod.
Was it only a year since he had seen her on the rocks above the river with a wreath in her hand, and in the stable at Bower"s, with the lantern shining above her head?
CHAPTER XIX
_In Which Christmas Comes to Crossroads._
NANCY"S plans for Christmas were ambitious. She talked it over with Sulie Tyson. "I"ll have Anne and her Uncle Rod. If she goes to him they will eat their Christmas dinner alone. Her cousins are to be out of town."
Cousin Sulie agreed. She was a frail little woman, with gray hair drawn up from her forehead above a high-bred face. She spoke with earnestness on even the most trivial subjects. Now and then she had flashes of humor, but they were rare. Her life had been sad, and she had always been dependent. The traditions of her family had made it impossible for her to indulge in any money-making occupation. Hence she had lived in other people"s houses. Usually with one or the other of two brothers, in somewhat large households.
Her days, therefore, with Nancy were rapturous ones.
"There"s something in the freedom which two women can have when they are alone," she said, "that is glorious. We are ourselves. When men are around we are always acting."
Nancy was not so subtle. "I am myself with Richard."
"No, you"re not, Nancy. You are always trying to please him. You make him feel important. You make him feel that he is the head of the house. You know what I mean."
Nancy did know. But she didn"t choose to admit it.