  That night Hugh did not return to dinner, in spite of his message delivered by Ariel. Already, before she had returned to the house after her wood’s adventure with Persis and Nicky, Hugh had telephoned from his office in New York that sudden and important business was taking him to Chicago, and asked that Glenn bring him a bag to the Grand Central with enough clothes in it for a week at least. It was Hugh Ariel’s father had sent her to, to await the exhibition, and her consent to come had been because it was her father’s plan for her, and she had taken it for granted that both he and Hugh were in agreement about its reasonableness. But now that she was here, and Hugh away off in the States somewhere, Ariel felt that her presence at Wild Acres was unexplainable, not only to others but to herself. If Hugh had only sent a message back to her by Glenn, who took him his bag, or if he should write her a letter from Chicago, it might tie her down, save her from this sense of floating in her environment without an anchor. But if Hugh had sent a good-by message by Glenn, Glenn had forgotten to mention it, and although several times Ariel started to ask him about it, she never quite brought herself to the point; for if Glenn should be certain that there was no message, then Ariel was afraid of the desolation which she would feel. And no letter came by the post. Anne might have counteracted Ariel’s consciousness of her peculiar position at Wild Acres but for the fact, which Ariel had discovered for herself quite soon, that Anne was not here in her home, in any true sense at all. She might look at you and speak to you, even turn up her lips in a smile in your direction, but she was no more conscious of you, really, or of her surroundings, than the grotesque dolls of which she had at first reminded Ariel. She was alive and conscious in her relations with one other person only,—Prescott Enderly. It was his voice and look and touch which controlled the beating of her heart and pulled the strings of her mechanism. Ariel saw this, and it was rather frightening to see it. As a matter of fact Anne had few opportunities for making Ariel feel at home. She was off with Enderly skiing or teaing or dancing, all day and most of the nights. They were even included in one or two parties at Holly. This was plainly very gratifying to Anne, in spite of her dislike of Joan Nevin, for never before had she even hoped to meet the celebrities who fluttered around Holly’s hospitality. To become intimate with such a brilliant and well-known group of people, even though most of them were, from her point of view, quite aged, was something to talk about after vacation, back at college. That she owed the privilege of these contacts to Prescott Enderly only added to the headiness of it. Already his fame had given Anne a glamour with undergraduates and even faculty at Smith. Glenn spent very little time with his friend or any one else. He was deep in Spengler, adventuring with his own mind, this vacation. He had expected Prescott, when he invited him to Wild Acres, to read Spengler with him part of the time and write the rest of the time on that novel he ought to be getting done. But from the first hour of their arrival Glenn had seen that opportunity for such occupations was not precisely the lure which had brought Prescott to the country. That was all right with Glenn. If Prescott preferred Anne’s company to his, well, he was fond enough of Prescott to want him to have what he wanted. Besides, Spengler was enough for Glenn. He felt no need of further stimulation. Ariel, with whom he would play chess for an hour or two after dinner, was less a girl to him than an atmosphere, at first. He felt her as one feels the clear depths of a stream one may be sitting near, or music one isn’t intellectually following, but which creates a mood all the same. Mrs. Weyman, those evenings of Hugh’s absence, was deep in books on psychoanalysis. It was a recent interest with her and apparently absorbing. She was so occupied just at this time with finding explanations for the things which had hitherto baffled her in her children, her friends and even in herself, that she was saved from too much concern over the stranger under her roof. “Grandam is coming down for lunch. I’m glad we all happen to be at home, now that she’s able to join us again. You haven’t met her yet, have you, Prescott? And Ariel hasn’t.” It was the third day of Hugh’s absence and Ariel’s loneliness. Anne laughed. “Well, neither have I, if it comes to that, Mother. Not this vacation. Do you realize? Each time I’ve tried to go up to say ‘Howdy,’ that old Peters of hers has come across with some excuse or other. She was asleep. Or away on a journey....” “Come, now!” Enderly interrupted. “Your grandmother isn’t a heathen god, is she? You’ve made her pretty mysterious, you and Glenn,—but this is the first time you’ve been so definite in your implications.” “She is mysterious. And I didn’t know you knew your Bible, bright boy! But you might think she’d care to see her only granddaughter, who hasn’t been at home since Christmas, wouldn’t you? She’s getting so exclusive there’s no living with her—literally.” Mrs. Weyman was looking at the clock. Rose had come in to the library some minutes ago to announce luncheon, and if Grandam was joining them at last, it did seem as if she might take a little trouble to be on time. “My mother-in-law is not very strong,” she explained for Enderly’s benefit. “She’s forced to spend her strength very circumspectly. And people tire her.” Glenn shut his book. “Don’t soft pedal so, Mother! We all know that it’s the people who happen to bore Grandam that tire her. She’s an everlasting snob.” Anne laughed again. “You can’t insult your friend, the famous novelist, if that’s your aim, sonny. Grandam wouldn’t know whether Pressy bored her until she met him, would she? No. This time health will have to be accepted as Grandam’s alibi.” “I wasn’t thinking of Prescott, of course. Of you, dear sister. But we’re both in the same boat. Mother too. I think every last one of us bores Grandam, except Hugh. When he gets back, you’ll notice she’ll be down for lunch and dinner rather frequently.” “Well, it’s five minutes past now. And Rose sounded the gong in the back hall, so they know up there that lunch is waiting. Perhaps Grandam has changed her mind, after all. I think we’ll go in.” Glenn, bringing up the rear of the procession dining-roomward called out, “Perhaps it’s Ariel Grandam’s shy of. She isn’t a famous novelist or anything else famous. She’s not even a member of an old New York family. Grandam may feel that it’s too much of a chance—” “Hush, Glenn!” his mother expostulated. “I’m tired of all this rudeness. Besides, we all know perfectly well that Grandam is more democratic than any other member of this family.” Ariel’s face was flushed as Glenn pulled out her chair for her. But it was Mrs. Weyman, not Glenn, who had hurt her. Glenn, noticing the flush, was conscious for a minute of Ariel as a girl as well as an atmosphere. “I’m sorry,” he said, under his breath. “It was my fault. Mother doesn’t mean a thing. She’s just gauche.” They were hardly seated when a woman dressed in a gray-and-white semi-uniform appeared, carrying some violet pillows and with a wide scarf of violet gossamer floating incongruously from one arm. This was Miss Peters, Grandam’s attendant. She was neither a nurse nor a maid, but a combination of the two. For the attendant of a mystery she was commonplace-looking enough,—strong, wholesome, with pleasantly regular features and becomingly marcelled hair. She was middle-aged and middle everything else, one surmised. She went to the foot of the table—Hugh’s vacant place—and put the cushions one on the seat, two at the back of the big armed chair there. Now it had the look of a throne. It was very impressive. Every one was looking toward the door, even Miss Peters, expectantly. And Ariel, strangely, experienced again a touch, at least, of the sense of spring coming, the imminence of personal happiness, she had experienced and lost again her first morning at Wild Acres. She remembered the leaf mold where the children had rolled up the snowball and how she had danced across it into the center of spring-happiness. Now, while Miss Peters’ sensible profile was turned away toward the door, and the others waited, napkins half unfolded in their hands, Ariel looked for veils to blow aside—and wonder to appear. Strange, when it was just an old lady who was coming, so old and so feeble that she had to be comforted in her chair with pillows. Grandam was in the doorway, and every one rose, except Mrs. Weyman. Introductions were made, and then Mr. Enderly and Miss Peters were both holding out the throne chair. When Grandam was established, Miss Peters dropped the scarf over the high back of the throne where it hung like a trailing wing and quietly withdrew. Grandam was beautiful.... But Ariel had known she would be all the time, though no one had ever hinted it, just as she knew that summer in Wild Acres woods would be beautiful, though it was hidden now from sensible knowing under snow and rain, and no one spoke of it. She was no age at all. To think “well preserved” of her would be too stupid. Here was nothing static, but something glamorously in the process of creation. Hugh’s mother, whom until now Ariel had thought so surprisingly young, was flattened and dulled by contrast with her mother-in-law. It was not Grandam’s clothes or make-up that made her young. They had nothing to do with it but were merely exquisite accessories to the exhilarating, lovely person herself. Her eyes, when she met them, took Ariel’s breath. They were violet, long and enchantingly shaped, under finely drawn, dark eyebrows, and fringed with straight, dense lashes. Her hair was both beautiful and strange. It was cut short and dressed into a close-curling crown that looked like wrought silver in its arbitrary design, a close-fitting crown, worn low. It was a frame for the exquisite small face, with its short straight nose, its lovely, poignant mouth, and those breath-taking, violet, dark-fringed eyes. She was wearing a red-violet frock—or perhaps it was more the color of fireweed than of violets—with long deep sleeves like a nun’s, but unlike a nun’s they were chiffon, and folded her arms like half-spread wings. Prescott Enderly was as enthralled as Ariel. No one had happened to tell him, any more than her, that Grandam was beautiful. Mrs. Weyman was saying, “It’s pleasant, having you down again, Mother Weyman. The vacation ends in another two days, and Mr. Enderly wanted to meet you. You will enjoy each other. Mrs. Weyman is a great reader, Prescott. She knew about your book, from the reviews, before I did, and said it must be Glenn’s friend.” Grandam’s violet eyes rested on the young novelist briefly, but she did not follow her daughter-in-law’s lead and begin speaking of his work. Instead she passed him by for Anne. “I’m sorry you haven’t come up at a time when I could see you, Anne,” she said in a voice which surprised only by being so fitting—a low voice, but light, and casual as a bird’s flight is casual. “I’m glad you’ve had such a jolly vacation. It isn’t often, is it, that Smith’s and Yale’s spring vacations coincide?” Nothing that Grandam said was remarkable, or by the greatest stretch of the fascinated onlooker’s imagination could be thought important. It was all talk of the most everyday things—the weather, Glenn’s and Anne’s plans for the long summer vacation, her daughter-in-law’s plans for some serious landscape gardening at Wild Acres; and Hugh’s protracted absence. She could not have had a very vital interest in any of these things she talked about and heard talked about during this meal. Yet, when she spoke to any one or listened to any one in particular, that person had a sense of vital contact, of swift, actual sympathy. This was not because Grandam was insincere. Quite the contrary. She was, even in these casual contacts, as sincere as the flight of a bird is sincere, direct, absolutely unstudied, intuitional. As it happened that she looked or listened to Glenn, Mrs. Weyman, Anne, or Prescott, then Glenn, Mrs. Weyman, Anne or Prescott quickened, grew alive—behaved the way those Japanese toy flowers behave when dropped into water; their personalities expanded, took form and pattern. Ariel saw this, and the simile of the Japanese flowers was hers. As for herself, Ariel was aware that Grandam was aware of her even when she seemed most absorbed in the others. Several times the violet eyes had swept her, lightly but not blindly. And with dessert, when Mrs. Weyman had succeeded in an attempt she had intermittently been making to draw Enderly out, during the meal, and show Grandam how much of a person this guest of theirs really was, and he was in the middle of an anecdote which had to do with a recent party in a famous New York studio—an anecdote studded and aglitter with famous and near-famous names—Grandam suddenly turned to Ariel, and without any real impoliteness to Enderly, for after all he was sitting beside Mrs. Weyman at the other end of the table, and had her undivided, individual attention, said, “They tell me that your father was a painter. Do you care about that? Do you paint or want to?” “No. I haven’t talent—of any sort. That is the trouble. (One instinctively told this lady the trouble, because, no matter what that casual, low voice of hers actually said, the violet eyes said, ‘Here is sympathetic understanding of the most poignant, rarest kind. Snatch it. It has winged your way. Snatch it on the wing.’) But, if one didn’t have to have a high-school education first, I’d like to get hospital training as a nurse. That is what I’d like to do, of the things by which one earns money.” “And of the things by which one does not—earn money?” Well! Ariel was plunging now through ether on a very swift flight, beside Grandam’s flight. Careless flight. So she answered with truth as winged-casual as Grandam’s own, “A mother. I’d like to have children. (But she saw them as the age of Nicky and Persis, dancing with her out of winter into spring.) Or be a lover. Or be a sailor.” “If you have genius for any one of those three occupations you have something that will keep you alive all your life. Children. Passion. Adventure. And you have fairy-tale eyes. Has any one ever told you that?” The flight was very swift, very sure. At its height it must burst into a fountain of song. “Father has. And he didn’t mind their being narrow and green. Oh, Grandam! Why didn’t you come down sooner?” So she might have cried, “Oh, I have been lonely! And you have taken that away, absolutely.” No one had heard what they had been saying or noticed anything except that Grandam had not listened to that amusing anecdote of Enderly’s so bedecked with famous names. And they were preparing to rise now. Luncheon was over. “The sun’s out for the first time in days,” Mrs. Weyman exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you like Glenn to take you out in Hugh’s car for a while, Grandam? Anne will run up and bring down your things. Later we’re all going to a tea-dance over at Holly. Joan’s being very nice to us! But now I know Glenn would be glad—” The sun was shining,—windy, gold afternoon sunlight. They all went out under the portico together to watch Grandam and Glenn off, in Hugh’s roadster. Anne’s arm was linked carelessly in Ariel’s. As they turned back into the hall Enderly cried—now that Grandam was out of hearing, he was the brash young novelist again—“But she’s magnificent, that woman. Sarah Bernhardt couldn’t have managed it any better! (He meant old age, of course.) Some one should have prepared me for her beauty, though. Once she must have been almost too beautiful.” “Her hair’s always been like that, pure silver ever since I remember,” Anne told him. And Mrs. Weyman enlarged upon it. “Ever since Anne’s grandfather died, a few days after Anne’s father was born, it’s been gray. Grandam was young then, hardly twenty. It happened as it happens in romances but never supposedly in real life. Her hair went white in a night.” “Silver,” Enderly corrected. “There’s nothing white about it. It’s silver, like bubbles in the sun. Not silver like Ariel’s. Ariel, you’ve got queer hair. But it’s nice. It’s the color of copper wire to-day. What turned your hair?” Ariel laughed, and her fairy-tale eyes squinted to green slits with merriment. She laughed with them all. She could have danced. Was she going to be really happy again? Was happiness a wave, buoying up the whole of her life, a wave that wouldn’t be kept out, that would flood and make a freshet of her heart—even with her father dead? And buried? Oh, but he was buried in the wave, not in the earth. That was the secret. She started up to her room to get her coat. She would get out quickly. With the sun shining like this, Persis and Nicky must be somewhere near their playground. She would find them. She couldn’t help finding them, now when she was so happy. But she did not open the door to her room. With her hand on the knob, it came to her: of course Grandam had “Noon.” It was hanging all this time in her attic apartment. Hugh adored Grandam, and he would never be so selfish as not to insist that she have the picture up there, where she lived so constantly alone. How dull Ariel had been not to have guessed sooner! But no wonder she had looked up at those windows from the woods day after day with a sense that there was relief from loneliness if she could only reach up to it. “Noon” had been there, with Grandam, waiting for her all the while. The beach. The sunlight. The green water. And Gregory Clare’s love of his daughter made visible, dancing. That is what herself in her father’s paintings meant to Ariel,—not a picture of herself, but a picture of his love for her. She saw herself no more when she looked at his painting than she saw herself when she looked into his eyes. But must she wait until Grandam and Glenn get back from their drive to go up and make sure that, after all her disappointments, “Noon” was there, safe with Grandam? Miss Peters would let her in. She had forgotten that Grandam’s first words to her at luncheon had been “They tell me that your father was a painter.” “Noon” would have made that speech impossible, if Grandam had the picture. But their flight together into understanding had followed that opening too swiftly for Ariel to remember it now. How did one get to the attic? Were there stairs? She had heard mention of an elevator. But she wouldn’t know how to run an elevator. There must be stairs as well. She hurried away to look. |
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