Anybody But Anne

From a certain terrace-landing which Anne called her “Sunset View,” we watched the last glowing clouds dull and darken in the west.

A sort of depression had fallen on the party, because—as was perfectly evident—of Anne’s mood. She was distrait and preoccupied; though now and then her dark eyes flashed with what was unmistakably anger.

“What’s it all about, Anne dear?” said Archer, who let himself go a little when Mr. Van Wyck wasn’t present.

Instead of evading or parrying his question, Anne spoke out frankly.

“It’s just this,” she said: “David is going to give away all his fortune. He’s going to build and endow a magnificent library for Crescent Falls Village—a library out of all proportion to a tiny little place like this.”

“All his fortune!” I exclaimed, astounded. “You can’t mean that, Anne!”

“But I do mean just that! He calls it philanthropy—that’s his fad this year. If he were really philanthropic, it would be different; but he has become deeply absorbed in this ridiculous hobby for no reason at all except that he’s always dashing into some new and crazy scheme. And he’s so determined; he’ll give away all his money, and then afterward he’ll be sorry, but he can’t get it back. He has had fads and foibles before, but though sometimes they were trying, they never involved such an amount of money as this.”

“But, Anne,” I went on, “you can’t mean that he’s going to give away all his money! How will he provide for you and his two children?”

“He says I’ve got to strike out for myself,” growled Morland, who had been listening moodily, as with his hands in his pockets he leaned against the terrace-rail.

“Well, he’s going to give nearly a million to the library,” said Anne despondently; “and that’s just about all he possesses. He says it’s right to practise philanthropy and give away one’s fortune while one’s alive.”

“Other good and great men have pursued that same plan,” said Beth Fordyce, with one of her exalted looks.

“Yes,” spoke up Barbara Van Wyck angrily; “but the other good and great men had many millions to start with. Father’s going to give away all he has, except just enough for us to live on in a very small way. It isn’t fair to us, and he has no right to do it, but he is simply immovable in the matter.”

“I feel as Anne does,” said Archer seriously. “If it were real, true philanthropy, it would be a noble deed; but I know Mr. Van Wyck, and he is always rushing suddenly and madly into some new project, which he as quickly abandons and regrets.”

“Ah, Connie,” said Anne, “if there were only a hope of his abandoning this! But when he regrets it, it will be too late.”

“Yes, the committee-men are coming to-night, for the final acceptance of the deed of gift, or whatever you call it,” said Barbara, in a tone of blended rage and despair.

I had thought Barbara Van Wyck was colorless, but in the intensity of her feelings her eyes flashed and the red rose to her pale cheeks until she looked like a veritable avenging angel. I hadn’t known she possessed so much energy, and I turned to her, saying hopefully, “Can’t you persuade your father, at least, to delay it?”

“No; I’ve tried every argument I know of, and so have Morland and Anne. If Anne can’t persuade him, nobody can.”

Though this praise was grudgingly given, it was unmistakably earnest; and it was clear to be seen that, though Anne and her step-children were not congenial, and not even friendly, they had common cause in this impending catastrophe.

And I could not blame them. Such ill-advised and misplaced generosity was absurd, and seemed to me to argue Mr. Van Wyck’s mind somewhat unbalanced. But as a comparative stranger, I didn’t like to offer suggestions, or even comment very emphatically.

Mrs. Stelton, however, felt no such restraint. “It’s outrageous!” she cried. “It’s contemptible! I never heard of such a performance! If I were you, Morland, I should have my father adjudged insane.”

“He is insane on that subject,” muttered Morland; “but what can I do about it? If you knew my father as I do, you’d know that, insane or not, he will have his own way.”

“Yes, he will,” said Anne, sighing, and looking so adorably pathetic that it didn’t seem possible any one could disappoint her as Van Wyck proposed to do.

“Won’t he listen to you, Anne?” I asked. “Doesn’t he care for your comfort and happiness?”

“No,” said Anne, and though she looked the picture of utter hopelessness, she showed also a cool reserve that warned me not to intrude too far upon her personal affairs.

“Of course he cares for Anne,” broke in Archer; “but I tell you, he’s out of his head! He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“He isn’t out of his head, Connie,” returned Anne gently, “and he does know what he’s doing. I’m going to try once more, before the committee comes, to make him change his mind, but I haven’t much hope. Come, people, we must go and dress for dinner.”

Archer threw discretion to the winds and gazed frankly at Anne, as he said, “How can he refuse you anything? No man could, I know!”

Anne, though her color rose a little, didn’t even glance at Archer, but, turning to me, walked by my side toward the house, chatting lightly on trivial subjects.

Later, as we gathered around the dinner-table, one could scarcely believe there was such an undercurrent of trouble among the Van Wycks. Our host was unusually bland and affable, Barbara was placid, and Morland was the debonair man of the world that society requires.

As to Anne, she was a marvel. In a dinner gown of pale yellow satin, which suited especially well her exquisite coloring, her wonderful hair coiled low, and her great eyes shining, she seemed animated by some unusual energy. She was roguish and dictatorial by turns. She was dignified one moment and softly pathetic the next. I couldn’t make her out. Either she had persuaded her husband to abandon his plan, or the matter was still undecided. At any rate, she could not have tried and failed, and still have shown this vivacity.

But I did not yet know my Anne. I sat next her, and dinner was not half over before she confided to me the news of her total failure.

“Not only did David refuse to listen to me,” she said, “but he forbade me to speak to him again on the subject; and he spoke to me in such a way and in such language that I can never forgive him.”

“Anne!” I exclaimed, for, though smiling, her smile was assumed for the others’ benefit; and her low tones, heard only by me, were full of bitterness and desperate grief.

“Anne,” I murmured involuntarily, “let me help you. What can I do?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “No one can help me.”

Perhaps it was the pathos of the situation, perhaps it was her marvellous beauty, enhanced by the dramatic moment, or perhaps it was inevitable, but I fell in love with Anne Van Wyck then and there. Or, rather, it was an awakening to the fact that I had always loved her, even when we were school time friends. Naturally, I had sufficient self-control not to disclose this secret even by a glance, but repeated in carefully modulated tones my desire and willingness to help her, if possible; and then, with an effort, I turned to talk to my neighbor on the other side. It proved to be Beth Fordyce, and her pale blue eyes lighted as she began to talk eagerly to me.

“Let us make a pact, Mr. Sturgis,” she said. “I, too, want to help Anne, and surely together we can do something.”

It was quite evident that she had overheard my words, and this annoyed me; and I answered that, with all the willingness in the world, I failed to see how Mrs. Van Wyck’s guests could do anything in this matter. She took the hint, and changed the subject, but almost immediately after Mrs. Stelton’s shrill voice was heard addressing the table at large.

“Well, I think you’re perfectly horrid, Mr. Van Wyck!” she exclaimed, shaking a beringed hand at him. “To give away all that lovely money that ought to belong to Anne and Barbie and Mr. Morland!” The last name was accompanied by a coquettish glance in Morland’s direction, but she went on, addressing her host: “Why, if a husband of mine did that, I’d—I’d shut him up on bread and water for a week!”

“Perhaps he would enjoy the rest, Mrs. Stelton,” said Van Wyck, gazing at her blandly. The man had a way of saying these things, which, though rude, was rather enjoyable to disinterested hearers.

Good-natured Mrs. Stelton laughed. “Oh, what waggery!” she cried. “But if it brought him to his senses, I shouldn’t mind. I’ve a notion to shut you up for a week, Mr. Van Wyck, and let you think this matter over!”

“Though I always enjoy your witty chat, my dear Mrs. Stelton, I must beg of you to drop this subject;” and this time Mr. Van Wyck’s air of finality brought us a respite from Mrs. Stelton’s silly observations. But Morland gave one parting shaft.

“If you do this thing, Dad,” he growled, “you’ll be mighty sorry!”

A silence fell. It was not so much what Morland said, but the quiet intensity of his tone, which seemed to convey a definite threat. Indeed, his father must have felt it, for he looked up quickly at his son; but he only said sarcastically, “I thank you for your warning,” and then the subject really was dropped.

Anne resumed her gayety, though I now knew for a certainty it was all a pretense. Con Archer nobly helped her out, and chatted lightly and gracefully. Barbara continued to sulk in silence, but all the rest rose to the occasion, and only appropriate dinner-table talk was heard.

Coffee was served in the drawing-room for the ladies, while the men remained at table.

Perhaps from a sense of duty, Archer made one more effort

“I say, Van Wyck,” he began, “I know it’s none of my business, but mayn’t I suggest as man to man, that you think this matter over a bit longer before making your decision? You know, to a disinterested observer, the gift you propose to make seems out of all proportion to its object; and I can’t help thinking that on second thoughts you would agree to this yourself.”

“Mr. Archer,” said Van Wyck coldly, “the only one of your remarks to which I agree is your first one: that it is none of your business.”

Condron Archer flushed, but as David Van Wyck’s guests were not unusued to his scathing speeches, this one was not openly resented; and Archer said nothing further.

And then, seemingly unable to control himself, Morland blurted out, “I say, Dad, you just can’t do it!”

“Can’t?” and the elder Van Wyck raised his eyebrows at his son.

“No, can’t!” Morland went on, blindly angry now. “It’s heathenish! It’s a crime against your wife and daughter, to say nothing of me. I tell you, you can’t!”

David Van Wyck’s clear, cutting tones fell like icicles: “If you will be present, Morland, at the meeting this evening, I shall take pleasure in showing you that I can.”

“You bet I’ll be there!” and Morland looked almost like a belligerent boy as he met the cold stare of his father’s eyes.

“I’m glad you accept my invitation; and now shall we join the ladies?” Rising from the table, we crossed the hall to the drawing-room; and perhaps four angrier men never wore the smiling mask of politeness.

Anne, seated in a carved, high-backed chair, made an exquisite picture, and she turned her beautiful, appealing eyes to her husband as he entered. David Van Wyck crossed the room straight to her. Placing his hands on the two carved griffins’ heads that formed the arms of the chair, he leaned over the beautiful face upturned to his, and whispered a few words in Anne’s ear. Then he lightly kissed her on the cheek, and, without a word to any one else, strolled out of the room toward the study.

What he said to her nobody knew, but Anne turned deathly white, and grasped the carved chair-arms as if in extremest agony.

I was uncertain whether to notice this and go to her assistance, or whether to keep up the farce of gay conversation in an endeavor to cover her agitation.

Morland gave his step-mother one glance, clenched his teeth, and, muttering, “Brute!” strode off after his father.

Without hesitation, Archer drew a chair to Anne’s side, and, sitting down, took her hand in his.

But he erred, for Anne drew away her hand with a freezing dignity, and, rising, came over and sat by Mrs. Stelton.

And then I was surprised by another of Anne’s absolutely inexplicable changes of mood. “What a heavenly brooch!” she said, smiling at Mrs. Stelton. “Florentine work, isn’t it? I perfectly adore those things! I have one something like it, but a more conventional design. Don’t you just love to buy things in Florence, or in Naples, or indeed any part of Italy? Italy is lovely, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Stelton stared at this flow of insane talk, and I suddenly wondered if Anne were hysterical. I saw Archer move as if to approach her and then turn on his heel again, doubtless fearing rebuff. So I dared to venture, myself. “Mrs. Van Wyck,” I said, “won’t you come with me for a little walk on the terrace? I’m sure the cool air will be refreshing.”

“Thank you,” said Anne simply, and she went with me at once, draping the long train of her gown over her arm as we passed through the hall.

“You are very good,” she said, a little wearily, as we stepped out onto the terrace. “How did you know I wanted to get away?”

I stifled an impulse to tell her that love helped me to read her thoughts, and said quietly, “I know you’re troubled about that plan of your husband’s, but let us hope for the best.”

“There is no longer room for hope,” she said dully. “Come, let us look in at the window.”

Of course I followed her along the terrace to the windows of the great study. We could easily look in, and the deep colors of the stained glass prevented our being seen by those inside. And, any way, there was surely no harm in it. We saw Mr. Van Wyck and Morland, and three other men, who doubtless represented the committee.

“Yes,” murmured Anne musingly; “there they are. Mr. Millar, Mr. Brandt, and Mr. Garson. I do not blame them. Of course, if David offers them this money, they’d be foolish not to take it. Mr. Brandt is the only one who has really over-urged in the matter. In fact, he suggested it to David first. Oh, Raymond, isn’t it too bad!”

It was the first time she had called me by my first name, and I felt a thrill that blotted out all thought of Van Wyck or his money.

“And you mustn’t think,” she went on, “that I’m selfish or ungenerous. If David were honestly a philanthropist, or if I weren’t so sure that he’d regret this later, as he does all his erratic impulses, I’d feel different about it. But you see how it is, don’t you, Raymond?”

“Yes, Anne, I see how it is.” And though I spoke quietly, my heart was in a tumult.

“Oh, look!” she cried. “Morland is getting angry! He is quarrelling with his father!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” I said. “Morland can never get the better of that man. His father will not mind anything he says.”

But it was evident that Morland had said something that his father did mind, for the elder man’s temper was roused, and the two were certainly in deadly earnest. We could hear no word that was spoken, but the three visitors looked appalled, and were evidently trying to pacify the combatants.

“Come away, Anne,” I said, sick at heart over the whole matter. “You can do nothing—why torture yourself by looking on? Let me tell you what I brought you for a gift.”

“What?” she asked, but without interest I led her back across the terrace, as I told her of a beautiful piece of Venetian glass that I had brought for her. It was a gem, rare and valuable, but I would not have lauded it as I did except in an endeavor to distract her mind from the sight she had just seen.

“Where is it?” she asked, at last, faintly interested.

“I gave it to a footman when I came,” I replied.

“Then he will have given it to my maid, and it will be in my room,” she said; then, hesitatingly, “Don’t think it strange, will you, if—if I don’t tell David that you gave it to me? He is—he is peculiar, you know.”

“Jealous, you mean,” I said, laughing. “That doesn’t surprise me, and, truly, I’m glad of the fact that I can make him jealous!”

But I’m not sure that Anne heard this, so preoccupied was she with her own thoughts. We returned to the drawing-room, but it was not long before we all went to our rooms.

Anne bade me good-night on the stair-landing. “David and Morland are still shut up with that committee,” she said; “and I am going at once in search of the gift you brought me. I know I shall love it ”

“For the sake of the giver,” I interrupted, with a gay foolery that sounded as if I didn’t mean it; but I did.

“Not at all,” said Anne saucily. “I shall love it only for its beauty and intrinsic worth. And if it’s Venetian glass, it must have both. I hope to goodness it isn’t smashed!”

“I think not; I had it packed carefully. Goodnight, Anne.”

“Good-night,” she said, her long lashes sweeping her cheeks; and then added, as an afterthought, “Raymond.”

And as she disappeared, I wondered whether she had spoken my name from pure coquetry, or—what?

From a certain terrace-landing which Anne called her “Sunset View,” we watched the last glowing clouds dull and darken in the west.

A sort of depression had fallen on the party, because—as was perfectly evident—of Anne’s mood. She was distrait and preoccupied; though now and then her dark eyes flashed with what was unmistakably anger.

“What’s it all about, Anne dear?” said Archer, who let himself go a little when Mr. Van Wyck wasn’t present.

Instead of evading or parrying his question, Anne spoke out frankly.

“It’s just this,” she said: “David is going to give away all his fortune. He’s going to build and endow a magnificent library for Crescent Falls Village—a library out of all proportion to a tiny little place like this.”

“All his fortune!” I exclaimed, astounded. “You can’t mean that, Anne!”

“But I do mean just that! He calls it philanthropy—that’s his fad this year. If he were really philanthropic, it would be different; but he has become deeply absorbed in this ridiculous hobby for no reason at all except that he’s always dashing into some new and crazy scheme. And he’s so determined; he’ll give away all his money, and then afterward he’ll be sorry, but he can’t get it back. He has had fads and foibles before, but though sometimes they were trying, they never involved such an amount of money as this.”

“But, Anne,” I went on, “you can’t mean that he’s going to give away all his money! How will he provide for you and his two children?”

“He says I’ve got to strike out for myself,” growled Morland, who had been listening moodily, as with his hands in his pockets he leaned against the terrace-rail.

“Well, he’s going to give nearly a million to the library,” said Anne despondently; “and that’s just about all he possesses. He says it’s right to practise philanthropy and give away one’s fortune while one’s alive.”

“Other good and great men have pursued that same plan,” said Beth Fordyce, with one of her exalted looks.

“Yes,” spoke up Barbara Van Wyck angrily; “but the other good and great men had many millions to start with. Father’s going to give away all he has, except just enough for us to live on in a very small way. It isn’t fair to us, and he has no right to do it, but he is simply immovable in the matter.”

“I feel as Anne does,” said Archer seriously. “If it were real, true philanthropy, it would be a noble deed; but I know Mr. Van Wyck, and he is always rushing suddenly and madly into some new project, which he as quickly abandons and regrets.”

“Ah, Connie,” said Anne, “if there were only a hope of his abandoning this! But when he regrets it, it will be too late.”

“Yes, the committee-men are coming to-night, for the final acceptance of the deed of gift, or whatever you call it,” said Barbara, in a tone of blended rage and despair.

I had thought Barbara Van Wyck was colorless, but in the intensity of her feelings her eyes flashed and the red rose to her pale cheeks until she looked like a veritable avenging angel. I hadn’t known she possessed so much energy, and I turned to her, saying hopefully, “Can’t you persuade your father, at least, to delay it?”

“No; I’ve tried every argument I know of, and so have Morland and Anne. If Anne can’t persuade him, nobody can.”

Though this praise was grudgingly given, it was unmistakably earnest; and it was clear to be seen that, though Anne and her step-children were not congenial, and not even friendly, they had common cause in this impending catastrophe.

And I could not blame them. Such ill-advised and misplaced generosity was absurd, and seemed to me to argue Mr. Van Wyck’s mind somewhat unbalanced. But as a comparative stranger, I didn’t like to offer suggestions, or even comment very emphatically.

Mrs. Stelton, however, felt no such restraint. “It’s outrageous!” she cried. “It’s contemptible! I never heard of such a performance! If I were you, Morland, I should have my father adjudged insane.”

“He is insane on that subject,” muttered Morland; “but what can I do about it? If you knew my father as I do, you’d know that, insane or not, he will have his own way.”

“Yes, he will,” said Anne, sighing, and looking so adorably pathetic that it didn’t seem possible any one could disappoint her as Van Wyck proposed to do.

“Won’t he listen to you, Anne?” I asked. “Doesn’t he care for your comfort and happiness?”

“No,” said Anne, and though she looked the picture of utter hopelessness, she showed also a cool reserve that warned me not to intrude too far upon her personal affairs.

“Of course he cares for Anne,” broke in Archer; “but I tell you, he’s out of his head! He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“He isn’t out of his head, Connie,” returned Anne gently, “and he does know what he’s doing. I’m going to try once more, before the committee comes, to make him change his mind, but I haven’t much hope. Come, people, we must go and dress for dinner.”

Archer threw discretion to the winds and gazed frankly at Anne, as he said, “How can he refuse you anything? No man could, I know!”

Anne, though her color rose a little, didn’t even glance at Archer, but, turning to me, walked by my side toward the house, chatting lightly on trivial subjects.

Later, as we gathered around the dinner-table, one could scarcely believe there was such an undercurrent of trouble among the Van Wycks. Our host was unusually bland and affable, Barbara was placid, and Morland was the debonair man of the world that society requires.

As to Anne, she was a marvel. In a dinner gown of pale yellow satin, which suited especially well her exquisite coloring, her wonderful hair coiled low, and her great eyes shining, she seemed animated by some unusual energy. She was roguish and dictatorial by turns. She was dignified one moment and softly pathetic the next. I couldn’t make her out. Either she had persuaded her husband to abandon his plan, or the matter was still undecided. At any rate, she could not have tried and failed, and still have shown this vivacity.

But I did not yet know my Anne. I sat next her, and dinner was not half over before she confided to me the news of her total failure.

“Not only did David refuse to listen to me,” she said, “but he forbade me to speak to him again on the subject; and he spoke to me in such a way and in such language that I can never forgive him.”

“Anne!” I exclaimed, for, though smiling, her smile was assumed for the others’ benefit; and her low tones, heard only by me, were full of bitterness and desperate grief.

“Anne,” I murmured involuntarily, “let me help you. What can I do?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “No one can help me.”

Perhaps it was the pathos of the situation, perhaps it was her marvellous beauty, enhanced by the dramatic moment, or perhaps it was inevitable, but I fell in love with Anne Van Wyck then and there. Or, rather, it was an awakening to the fact that I had always loved her, even when we were school time friends. Naturally, I had sufficient self-control not to disclose this secret even by a glance, but repeated in carefully modulated tones my desire and willingness to help her, if possible; and then, with an effort, I turned to talk to my neighbor on the other side. It proved to be Beth Fordyce, and her pale blue eyes lighted as she began to talk eagerly to me.

“Let us make a pact, Mr. Sturgis,” she said. “I, too, want to help Anne, and surely together we can do something.”

It was quite evident that she had overheard my words, and this annoyed me; and I answered that, with all the willingness in the world, I failed to see how Mrs. Van Wyck’s guests could do anything in this matter. She took the hint, and changed the subject, but almost immediately after Mrs. Stelton’s shrill voice was heard addressing the table at large.

“Well, I think you’re perfectly horrid, Mr. Van Wyck!” she exclaimed, shaking a beringed hand at him. “To give away all that lovely money that ought to belong to Anne and Barbie and Mr. Morland!” The last name was accompanied by a coquettish glance in Morland’s direction, but she went on, addressing her host: “Why, if a husband of mine did that, I’d—I’d shut him up on bread and water for a week!”

“Perhaps he would enjoy the rest, Mrs. Stelton,” said Van Wyck, gazing at her blandly. The man had a way of saying these things, which, though rude, was rather enjoyable to disinterested hearers.

Good-natured Mrs. Stelton laughed. “Oh, what waggery!” she cried. “But if it brought him to his senses, I shouldn’t mind. I’ve a notion to shut you up for a week, Mr. Van Wyck, and let you think this matter over!”

“Though I always enjoy your witty chat, my dear Mrs. Stelton, I must beg of you to drop this subject;” and this time Mr. Van Wyck’s air of finality brought us a respite from Mrs. Stelton’s silly observations. But Morland gave one parting shaft.

“If you do this thing, Dad,” he growled, “you’ll be mighty sorry!”

A silence fell. It was not so much what Morland said, but the quiet intensity of his tone, which seemed to convey a definite threat. Indeed, his father must have felt it, for he looked up quickly at his son; but he only said sarcastically, “I thank you for your warning,” and then the subject really was dropped.

Anne resumed her gayety, though I now knew for a certainty it was all a pretense. Con Archer nobly helped her out, and chatted lightly and gracefully. Barbara continued to sulk in silence, but all the rest rose to the occasion, and only appropriate dinner-table talk was heard.

Coffee was served in the drawing-room for the ladies, while the men remained at table.

Perhaps from a sense of duty, Archer made one more effort

“I say, Van Wyck,” he began, “I know it’s none of my business, but mayn’t I suggest as man to man, that you think this matter over a bit longer before making your decision? You know, to a disinterested observer, the gift you propose to make seems out of all proportion to its object; and I can’t help thinking that on second thoughts you would agree to this yourself.”

“Mr. Archer,” said Van Wyck coldly, “the only one of your remarks to which I agree is your first one: that it is none of your business.”

Condron Archer flushed, but as David Van Wyck’s guests were not unusued to his scathing speeches, this one was not openly resented; and Archer said nothing further.

And then, seemingly unable to control himself, Morland blurted out, “I say, Dad, you just can’t do it!”

“Can’t?” and the elder Van Wyck raised his eyebrows at his son.

“No, can’t!” Morland went on, blindly angry now. “It’s heathenish! It’s a crime against your wife and daughter, to say nothing of me. I tell you, you can’t!”

David Van Wyck’s clear, cutting tones fell like icicles: “If you will be present, Morland, at the meeting this evening, I shall take pleasure in showing you that I can.”

“You bet I’ll be there!” and Morland looked almost like a belligerent boy as he met the cold stare of his father’s eyes.

“I’m glad you accept my invitation; and now shall we join the ladies?” Rising from the table, we crossed the hall to the drawing-room; and perhaps four angrier men never wore the smiling mask of politeness.

Anne, seated in a carved, high-backed chair, made an exquisite picture, and she turned her beautiful, appealing eyes to her husband as he entered. David Van Wyck crossed the room straight to her. Placing his hands on the two carved griffins’ heads that formed the arms of the chair, he leaned over the beautiful face upturned to his, and whispered a few words in Anne’s ear. Then he lightly kissed her on the cheek, and, without a word to any one else, strolled out of the room toward the study.

What he said to her nobody knew, but Anne turned deathly white, and grasped the carved chair-arms as if in extremest agony.

I was uncertain whether to notice this and go to her assistance, or whether to keep up the farce of gay conversation in an endeavor to cover her agitation.

Morland gave his step-mother one glance, clenched his teeth, and, muttering, “Brute!” strode off after his father.

Without hesitation, Archer drew a chair to Anne’s side, and, sitting down, took her hand in his.

But he erred, for Anne drew away her hand with a freezing dignity, and, rising, came over and sat by Mrs. Stelton.

And then I was surprised by another of Anne’s absolutely inexplicable changes of mood. “What a heavenly brooch!” she said, smiling at Mrs. Stelton. “Florentine work, isn’t it? I perfectly adore those things! I have one something like it, but a more conventional design. Don’t you just love to buy things in Florence, or in Naples, or indeed any part of Italy? Italy is lovely, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Stelton stared at this flow of insane talk, and I suddenly wondered if Anne were hysterical. I saw Archer move as if to approach her and then turn on his heel again, doubtless fearing rebuff. So I dared to venture, myself. “Mrs. Van Wyck,” I said, “won’t you come with me for a little walk on the terrace? I’m sure the cool air will be refreshing.”

“Thank you,” said Anne simply, and she went with me at once, draping the long train of her gown over her arm as we passed through the hall.

“You are very good,” she said, a little wearily, as we stepped out onto the terrace. “How did you know I wanted to get away?”

I stifled an impulse to tell her that love helped me to read her thoughts, and said quietly, “I know you’re troubled about that plan of your husband’s, but let us hope for the best.”

“There is no longer room for hope,” she said dully. “Come, let us look in at the window.”

Of course I followed her along the terrace to the windows of the great study. We could easily look in, and the deep colors of the stained glass prevented our being seen by those inside. And, any way, there was surely no harm in it. We saw Mr. Van Wyck and Morland, and three other men, who doubtless represented the committee.

“Yes,” murmured Anne musingly; “there they are. Mr. Millar, Mr. Brandt, and Mr. Garson. I do not blame them. Of course, if David offers them this money, they’d be foolish not to take it. Mr. Brandt is the only one who has really over-urged in the matter. In fact, he suggested it to David first. Oh, Raymond, isn’t it too bad!”

It was the first time she had called me by my first name, and I felt a thrill that blotted out all thought of Van Wyck or his money.

“And you mustn’t think,” she went on, “that I’m selfish or ungenerous. If David were honestly a philanthropist, or if I weren’t so sure that he’d regret this later, as he does all his erratic impulses, I’d feel different about it. But you see how it is, don’t you, Raymond?”

“Yes, Anne, I see how it is.” And though I spoke quietly, my heart was in a tumult.

“Oh, look!” she cried. “Morland is getting angry! He is quarrelling with his father!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” I said. “Morland can never get the better of that man. His father will not mind anything he says.”

But it was evident that Morland had said something that his father did mind, for the elder man’s temper was roused, and the two were certainly in deadly earnest. We could hear no word that was spoken, but the three visitors looked appalled, and were evidently trying to pacify the combatants.

“Come away, Anne,” I said, sick at heart over the whole matter. “You can do nothing—why torture yourself by looking on? Let me tell you what I brought you for a gift.”

“What?” she asked, but without interest I led her back across the terrace, as I told her of a beautiful piece of Venetian glass that I had brought for her. It was a gem, rare and valuable, but I would not have lauded it as I did except in an endeavor to distract her mind from the sight she had just seen.

“Where is it?” she asked, at last, faintly interested.

“I gave it to a footman when I came,” I replied.

“Then he will have given it to my maid, and it will be in my room,” she said; then, hesitatingly, “Don’t think it strange, will you, if—if I don’t tell David that you gave it to me? He is—he is peculiar, you know.”

“Jealous, you mean,” I said, laughing. “That doesn’t surprise me, and, truly, I’m glad of the fact that I can make him jealous!”

But I’m not sure that Anne heard this, so preoccupied was she with her own thoughts. We returned to the drawing-room, but it was not long before we all went to our rooms.

Anne bade me good-night on the stair-landing. “David and Morland are still shut up with that committee,” she said; “and I am going at once in search of the gift you brought me. I know I shall love it ”

“For the sake of the giver,” I interrupted, with a gay foolery that sounded as if I didn’t mean it; but I did.

“Not at all,” said Anne saucily. “I shall love it only for its beauty and intrinsic worth. And if it’s Venetian glass, it must have both. I hope to goodness it isn’t smashed!”

“I think not; I had it packed carefully. Goodnight, Anne.”

“Good-night,” she said, her long lashes sweeping her cheeks; and then added, as an afterthought, “Raymond.”

And as she disappeared, I wondered whether she had spoken my name from pure coquetry, or—what?