  The younger Weymans had been skiing most of that afternoon with their guest, Prescott Enderly. Although Enderly was Glenn Weyman’s intimate at Yale and only a year or so older, he was a novelist of some notoriety. He had written only one novel, it is true, but during the past summer—the book was published in the spring—it had skyrocketed to fame. Its publishers described it in their advertising as an honest and fearless description of the private life of almost any averagely intelligent college man. Its author was now—except for the necessity of doing some classwork if he were to graduate this year, and taking time out for being a lion—working on a second novel. It was late in the afternoon when they returned home from their skiing in the snowy country around the Weymans’ estate on the Hudson. Glenn went up to his room to lounge and read until dinner time, but Anne staggered with an exaggerated air of fatigue into the library, and Enderly followed her. A fire, recently lighted, blazed its invitation from the far end of the long room, and although it was not yet quite dark outside, the heavy velvet curtains had already been drawn across the windows and several table lamps were glowing through rich, soft-colored shades. Enderly, without asking Anne’s leave, went the round of the lamps, turning off their lights. But even without the lamps the freshly lighted fire kept the room alive and awake. Anne threw herself into the exact center of the deep divan which was drawn up before the fireplace, and Enderly, without hesitation or a word, settled himself close at her side. She leaned her head against the back of the divan, shut her eyes, and murmured “Hello. Where’d you come from?” as though already half asleep. Her voice was oddly, boyishly deep, but with a slight catch in it which turned it thrillingly feminine. Enderly liked Anne’s voice: it was the thing that had attracted him to her in the beginning, when he had met her at a house party in New Haven. “Why, I’ve been tobogganing, darling.” “So’ve I. Funny. There was a creature along with us,—name of Prescott Enderly. Thinks he’s a novelist and quite important, you know. Perhaps he can write, but he’s not so good in the snow.” “Really? Well, darling, you are magnificent in the snow, so it doesn’t matter about me. You were a gorgeous red bird, always flying somewhere ahead in the face of a dead, white world. Beautiful!” Anne opened her eyes and glanced down at her flannel skirt, ruby in the firelight. “But yesterday, Pressy, you insisted I was a flame. I’d really rather be a flame than a bird. Aren’t I more a flame? Say, ‘yes’!” He laid his hand over her two hands which were clasped on her crossed knees. But he laid it casually, looking into the fire. Her eyelids flickered at the contact, but her hands did not stir or tremble. “You’re a flame in the house—now. Close like this.... But a bird in the open. How’s that? Satisfied?” His cheek just brushed hers. “No, not satisfied,” she insisted huskily,—and then pretended to yawn, because huskiness was a symptom of feeling with her, and Prescott knew it. “They all say ‘flame.’ It isn’t because it’s original with you that I like it. Think it was?” His hand pressed harder on her clasped hands. “Why do you want to remind me there are others?” he asked. “One takes that for granted with a—flame, you know. It’s been some time, darling, though, since there were others for me. Perhaps I’d better look around. If there were a little competition you might be nicer. How about Ariel Clare?” Anne threw off his hand, sat bolt upright and cried “Ariel Clare! Good Heavens! I’d forgotten all about the creature. Hugh was bringing her out after lunch. Where’s she now, do you s’pose?” “I heard your mother telling some one on the telephone, I think, that the Bermuda was several hours late. But I wonder whether she’ll have any—flaming qualities!” “Nobody knows anything about that in this household, except Hugh, and he’s been persistently uncommunicative ever since Mother hit the ceiling the morning he informed us that such a person was about to descend upon us to be a second daughter of the house for an indefinite period. Mother came down—from the ceiling, you know—almost at once, but she’d said enough to shut Hugh’s mouth. He merely says we’ll see for ourselves when Ariel gets here what she’s like. But he’s justified in his high-handedness. It’s he who runs the house—his money, I mean. So if he wants to have a guest, he’s a perfect right. Any kind of a guest, even the awfullest.” “But she may be all right. Why not? I don’t see—” The click of a lamp being turned on startled them. Mrs. Weyman, home from her Shakespeare Club meeting in Tarrytown, had come into the room unnoticed. Enderly sprang to his feet and in a second was slipping his hostess’ coat from her shoulders, taking her gloves. “We didn’t hear you,” he said needlessly and added, “We were discussing the expected guest. Anne and I are wondering what she’ll be like.” He carried the coat, hat and gloves swiftly out to the hall, deposited them in good order there on a chair, and came back. Mrs. Weyman had sat down beside her daughter and was leaning forward, holding chilled hands to the blaze, rubbing them slightly. They were long, essentially aristocratic hands, Enderly noted, like Anne’s. Mrs. Weyman glanced up. “Hugh has invited her to visit us because of his friendship for her father,” she explained. “She was only a little girl when he knew her. We shall have to wait to see what she is like now.” “Clare was an artist, wasn’t he? Didn’t Glenn tell me?” “He called himself one. But no one has ever heard of him. Or have you, perhaps?” There was a sudden access of hope in Mrs. Weyman’s modulated voice. But Enderly shook his head. “Not I. But that doesn’t signify. What I don’t know about art—” Mrs. Weyman stopped him. “You’d have at least heard the name. No. Hugh’s the only one who ever did hear about this particular artist, I suspect. But they were great friends. And it’s that that matters.” “Of course. But I didn’t realize that Hugh cared so much about art, that he was interested—” Anne laughed, a laugh throaty and hesitant as her speaking voice. “He isn’t,” she exclaimed, snatching Enderly’s attention from her mother. “Joan Nevin squashed all that promptly on its first appearance. You see, Joan does know a thing or two about art, and artists too. They swarm at her house, Holly, and she’s a patroness of exhibitions and a godmother in general to the aspiring. She knows all the big painters, the important fellows, here and abroad, and she has a collection of her own that’s A1,—but you know all about her, of course. Hugh’s always been in love with her. His devotion is almost as famous as her private collection. So when, all on his own, he discovered this artist in Bermuda, he proudly bought and lugged home one of his paintings to her. But she—” Mrs. Weyman touched her daughter’s arm warningly. This was an Anne who distressed and embarrassed her. But Enderly, for the minute too genuinely interested to be tactful, said, “Oh! So Mrs. Nevin has a painting by this unheard-of artist. I’d like to see it.” “No, Mrs. Nevin hasn’t it,” Mrs. Weyman corrected him, her fingers by now firmly pressing Anne’s arm. “I don’t know how Anne knows that Hugh even intended it as a present for her. He never said so. He merely got her over here to see it, as I remember, and she wasn’t very much impressed.” “So it’s here?” Enderly was looking about as though actually expecting to find the picture on one of the library walls. “In the attic. Hugh lost no time in stowing it way after Joan had laughed at it. He knew that she knew, you see. But Hugh is loyal to his friends. He doesn’t count the cost of friendship. And Ariel Clare may be charming, no matter how much a failure her father was as an artist.” Mrs. Weyman got up, snapped on another light or two and started out to dress for dinner. But Enderly, clinging to his tactlessness, detained her by inquiring, “Where’d she go to school? Do you know? England?” Mrs. Weyman turned in the doorway to answer but Anne, released from the restraining pressure of the maternal fingers, got ahead of her with: “We have no evidence of any education whatever having happened to Ariel. It’s one thing Hugh doesn’t try to claim. What she’s really been doing all these years is being a model—her father’s model, of course—and that may have taken all her time, poor thing. Hugh tells us that he never painted a picture without putting her in. Where most artists put their signature he put his daughter, do you see. Not the subject of the picture, just a sort of afterthought, off at the side, or in the air or in the water,—a kind of sprite or accompanying angel. Sweet idea. And—” Mrs. Weyman interposed. “I wouldn’t go on embroidering, Anne. It’s time to dress for dinner, and Ariel is to be our guest. I mean to remember that, and you must, too. By the way, Joan’s back. Came on the Bermuda to-day, with Ariel Clare, but didn’t notice any one she thought would be she. I saw Holly lighted up and stopped in to say ‘Hello.’ She’s coming over after dinner—” “Oh, that’s a shame!” Anne cried, persisting in clashing with her mother. “She’s been gone so long Hugh’s almost begun to take an interest in other things. And here she’s back to spoil it all. Why can’t she leave him alone?” Enderly followed Mrs. Weyman into the hall. “Frankly, I’ve been palpitating to meet your Mrs. Joan Nevin for a long while,” he was saying. “In New York every one has promised it. Party after party they are almost sure of her, and then, for some reason or other, she isn’t there. I shall think myself in luck to-night, if she actually does come here, and isn’t, as I’d begun to suspect, a lady of fable merely,—an intriguing legend. Wild Acres is really a delicious place to visit!” Enderly was working into Mrs. Weyman’s hands at last. She paused, turned back to him, and replied, “So nice of you to think so. And Mrs. Nevin is very worth meeting, of course. But one forgets her fame as a collector and all that. At least, I do. To me she’s just a very dear girl whom I’ve known practically all her life. A lovely person. She’s been away most of the winter, and I’ve missed her. All of us have.” Anne, already at the foot of the stairs, put in, “Huh! I’d be willing to miss her permanently, for Hugh’s sake. But come along, Mum. Let’s not be caught downstairs by Hugh and his incuba. Better to take her first along with dinner. Food may sustain us over the first shocks.” “I’ll go up too, and write a paragraph, perhaps,” Enderly said, behind Mrs. Weyman and her daughter on the stairs. “My publishers are tiresomely inconsiderate, keeping at me about the new book. They’re following me even here with urgent telegrams. They don’t hope for miracles—they expect ’em.” “Is the lamp in your room right for writing, and is it warm enough there?” Mrs. Weyman asked, her hand on the knob of her bedroom door. Genuine concern for his comfort was mingled with the satisfaction in her mind that Glenn had such a worth-while friend at college and had succeeded in bringing him home for the holidays. Enderly assured his hostess of the complete comfort of her arrangements for him. “They’ve laid a very handsome fire for me ready to light. I’ll start it now and be most particularly luxurious,” he said. “You’re very good to me.” Then the bedroom doors were closed, and quiet reigned upstairs and down in the big, rambling house. |
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