Up at the White House Lady Anne Garland was entertaining Millicent Sheldon. The entertainment to Lady Anne proved somewhat weighty. The carefully mended Millicent was a different person from the one she had previously known. Her whole aspect was altered in Anne’s eyes. She no longer saw her, as Millicent no doubt saw herself, a calm gracious Madonna, stretching out healing hands to a weary humanity. To Anne she was simply a very ordinary woman who had failed the man she had once loved—or professed to love—in his need.
And Anne suddenly realized that for all Millicent’s grand and noble statements she had no use for failures. Let a man have his foot firmly planted on the ladder of success, albeit on the lowest rung, Millicent spoke of him with gracious condescension, held out the hand of friendship to him. Those who had fallen from the ladder, or who were struggling towards it with little chance of reaching it, were not in her eyes worth a moment’s consideration. Truly the cracks were horribly, terribly conspicuous, and Anne had much ado to prevent Millicent from recognizing that she perceived them. She looked forward to the day of Millicent’s departure with a guilty hopefulness, a secret longing which she felt was almost indecent in a hostess. And then something happened to delay that day.
Dickie, the solemn-eyed Dickie, fell ill. It was one of those sudden swift illnesses of childhood that grip the hearts of parents with a terrible fear, and Anne and Millicent, who loved the small boy as if he were their own, watched the little fever-stricken body with grave anxiety, and dreaded to think what news the next mail to India might not carry.
The villagers came daily to inquire. Voices were hushed when the child’s name was mentioned. Peter alone, to whom no one ever spoke, did not know of the illness. He only wondered why Dickie, who had escaped his vigilant nurse more than once, did not come to the cottage.
And then one day, when the fever was running high, Dickie began a plaint, a piteous little moaning for the Piper. Backwards and forwards on the pillow tossed the small fevered head; the dry lips called ceaselessly to the Piper to come and pipe to him. In some vague way Dickie had confounded him with the Pied Piper of Hamelin, and wanted Peter to take him through the mountain and show him sparrows brighter than peacocks and horses with eagles’ wings. Peter had told Dickie many a tale of fancy during his visit to the cottage.
“Who is it he wants?” asked the doctor sharply, watching the child. “Can no one fetch him?”
Anne, who was near the bed, stood up.
“I know,” she said. “I will write a note and send——”
The doctor, a little man with a crusty manner and a heart as tender as a woman’s, interrupted her testily.
“Can’t you go yourself?” he snapped. “I know what servants are when they’re sent on messages. The child is—I’m anxious, and as cross as an old bear,” he concluded.
Anne was already at the door.
“I’ll not be long,” she said. “Miss Haldane will be here if you need her. I’ll send her to you. Nurse is with the baby and Mrs. Sheldon is lying down. She was up most of last night.”
A few moments later Anne was walking down the drive. It was a grey afternoon, lapped in soft clouds, and with a little sad wind in the trees suggestive of autumn, though it was only August.
Anne felt a sensation of depression, a faint foreboding as of impending ill. She told herself that it was merely fatigue. Dickie would get well—she knew he would get well. And yet she did not really think that anxiety regarding Dickie was causing this depression. It was something more remote, something intangible and vague.
She determined not to think about it—to throw aside the slight uneasiness. Yet again and again it crept over her in insidious little waves, despite all her efforts to the contrary.
Peter was busy writing when the knock came on his door. Now, whether it was telepathy or clairvoyance is not known, but his heart jumped at the knock, and he got up quickly, opening wide the door.
“What is wrong?” he queried anxiously as he saw Anne’s face. He almost forgot to be surprised at her presence there.
“It’s Dickie,” said Anne. “He’s ill, very ill. The child has got some queer ideas into his head. He has mixed you up in an odd way with the Pied Piper of Hamelin. He has been talking about you a great deal—half in delirium, you understand. He wants you to pipe to him.” She stopped.
“Oh!” ejaculated Peter, his voice full of sympathy. “The pathetic little mite! I’ll come at once.” And then he, too, stopped, hesitated. “If you will go on,” he said, “I’ll follow you.”
“Can’t you,” asked Anne, “come back with me now at once? I fancy—I may be wrong—that the doctor thinks every minute is of importance.”
Peter flushed. “Of course,” he said, “I’ll come now. It was only—” Again he stopped, and Anne waited, wondering.
“Only,” said Peter desperately, “that I thought perhaps you would rather not walk with me. I—the villagers, you know, look upon me with disfavour.”
Anne raised her chin. There was a little regal [Pg 198]air in the gesture. “But really,” she assured him, “I am not accustomed to consider the opinion of the villagers.”
“Oh, you idiot,” groaned Peter inwardly, “you idiot, you double-dyed dolt! Now you’ve offended her, though I protest your intentions were good.” Aloud he said meekly, “I’ll come with you at once.”
He turned and picked up his hat from a chair. As the long peacock feather caught his eye, again he groaned inwardly. He was for flinging the hat aside, but Lady Anne was watching him. He put it on his head desperately, and came out on to the path beside her, feeling for all the world a mountebank, a popinjay, a fool. Why, oh why! had he maliciously defied the Fates? Why, oh why! had this peacock feather lain in his path once long ago? And still further, why had he been idiot enough to pick it up and wear it merely in a spirit of contradiction, because once upon a time a woman had announced her belief in a superstition regarding peacock feathers.
He attempted to appear unconcerned, at his ease, but he was aware that the attempt was a poor one. Nor did the amazed glances of the villagers, as they crossed the green, tend to rea............