The Lady With Wings

HE steamer was late. The “head clerk” looked critically at the chandelier. Then he went out to fetch the dust-cloth and a piece of chamois. He took down the glass lamps and wiped each one carefully and put it back in its place in the chandelier, blowing bits of dust from the fixtures and running the dust-cloth carefully in and out along the brass filigree of grapes and vines.

It had been a busy day in the office—and upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber—for to-day the rush season began. They always came the first of August—shoals of them—and by the middle of the month the house would overflow. There would be cots in the parlor and the “head clerk” would retire to the wood-shed to sleep—such sleep as he could get—a few winks between midnight and dawn—and dawn began with cockcrow. The “head clerk's” back had a busy, contemplative air as he regarded the chandelier, alert for any smudge of dust. It was not strictly his business to dust the chandelier, perhaps, or to fill the lamps, or bring in eggs, or set the table. His chief business in life was to make the boarders comfortable. Incidentally he did things that no one else found time for: He met the boat twice a day—carried up bags and trunks and golf sticks—brought the mail and distributed it from the piazza steps—with jokes for the boarders—he ran errands and filled water-pitchers and fed the hens and brought vegetables from the garden when the rest were too busy, and superintended the dining-room when things went hard—visiting with the guests and gathering up cups and plates and omelets, coffee, and fish hash, with his long arms that reached skilfully among them while he talked.

He had finished the chandelier and he returned the dust-cloth to its place and went to the window to scan the horizon.... Far to the west a little blur appeared on the sky. He looked at it again and then at the clock—twenty minutes before she would be in. He glanced again around the room, running a quick, thoughtful hand along his black hair—every chair and pen and blotter and toothpick in place. Some one passed the office door and he looked up.

“Oh, Annie!”

She turned back a little. “Yes, Joseph—?” She hesitated, and came in, smoothing her apron. She was a dark little figure, with clear, straight eyes.

Joseph looked, and his glance deepened approvingly. “First rate, Annie! Don't wear the gingham one again—not afternoons—will you?”

She smiled—a demure, shy smile—and turned away, as one might from the sun when it shines too bright. “Mother likes it better—this one,” she said, smoothing the starched surface again.

“Of course she does.” Joseph was hearty. “And the boarders will. You through work?”

“All but some flowers. Mother said petunias.” She had started to go.

“That's right.” He nodded again, his eyes on the dark, clear face. “We'll have a lot of people to-night.”

“Yes.” She lingered over the word and turned to go, and waited—a breath—

The clerk's eyes were on her kindly.... A whistle sounded—a long, low note that broke the quiet and echoed a little and sounded again—low and hoarse.

She started. “It's the boat!” She had slipped through the door and down the long hall toward the garden.

The clerk's face wore a puzzled look. It was almost dreamy as he went down the piazza steps. The day had a kind of radiance. He had not known that it was like this. He looked across the stretch of road that led to the water. There were flowers everywhere and tall grasses that swung on light stems, and dandelions fluffing and butterflies, yellow and white. Joseph's eyes took it in with slow content. It was the quiet air that made it so beautiful—there had been no wind all day.... They would have had a good passage and would eat, he thought. He quickened his steps a little. The boat was off the Head now; there was no hurry, but he liked to be at the dock as she came in. He liked the bustle and the calling, as he liked to be first on board to gather up hand-bags and luggage and start the boarders right. There were no other hotels on the island—only a couple of boarding-houses that did not boast a head clerk between them—but it was safer for Joseph to be there and he liked it.

He stood among the crowd on the dock looking at the boat as she steamed in. She was a round, clumsy craft, riding high in the water. A little group of people gathered in the bow waved gaily as she came. Parasols—bits of color, red and deep blue—twirled in the light. The crowd on the wharf waved back and called out foolish things. Summer was alive, pulsing between the great boat and the island.

Then Joseph saw her first—standing on the deck of the steamer, her eyes scanning eagerly this new island she had come to. Her parasol was not blue or red, but a kind of creamy light that circled about her and shut her off from the sky.

The tide was high and the landing was made from the upper deck. So she came down the gangplank, her light skirts held daintily away and the creamy parasol atilt to shade her face. Behind her followed Joseph, laden to the chin with booty, and before and behind them came various youths who carried the surplus. She was accustomed to little swarms of men waiting on her. Since her earliest babyhood she had had them; they had danced at her feet, and she would not have known how to travel without them. She did not need them so much for the wraps and bags and parasols and flowers, perhaps, as for a kind of moral support—to applaud softly when she spoke, and to remain dumb.

T WAS a pretty picture she made, coming down the steamer plank—with her attendants before and behind. But no one would have guessed, from the curve of her pretty mouth or the tilt of her chin, that she was aware how pretty she was, or that she had taken in the whole long wharf, the radiant island, and Joseph in his black coat and tie with one sweep of her lashes before the eyes fell. It was such an absent, preoccupied prettiness—not self-conscious or put on for the wharf, but genuinely preoccupied—as if she had retired for a while to the citadel—to commune with her self—perhaps to plan a campaign of happy laughter—a slaughter of hearts. It was not easy to know what was going on under the filmy hat—behind the absent eyes, and so everybody guessed.

If she had been an inch taller she would have been majestic—and her admirers would have known why they ran helter-skelter to do her bidding—or if an inch had been taken off, she would have been fragile—needing protection. She was neither tall nor short—only straight as a flame, from the little slender feet; and she was neither witty nor wise—but all the men who knew her waited on her lightest wish—because such is the way of men.

To Joseph, lumbering behind, with the luggage, these things were a sealed book. He knew woman nature—through many summers and much tribulation he had learned that some women are to be placated and some are to be commanded, and as “head clerk” he had done his duty by them all. No one could say that he had a favorite among them—fishballs and flowers and towels were dealt out with impartial hand—for Joseph's ideal in life was to be a faithful “head clerk.”

But the clerk's head reeled to-day, as he followed the happy cortège up the road, between the flowery fields. The flowers nodded as before and the long grass waved and butterflies were everywhere—but the radiance of the day was not in them. It had gathered in a straight, slight figure that went before him—like a cloud. Poor Joseph!—as he turned the register on the desk and dipped the pen in its ink and placed his finger on the black line where the first guest was to sign—he knew that his world had tumbled upside down and that things were falling out.

But when she came to the desk and took the pen in her fingers and looked at it a moment, dubiously, and then at Joseph, before she signed, his trouble went away. He saw things clear again and he knew. Whatever she might wish him to do it would be done.

“Mrs. Gregory Blair, Garyville, Kentucky, and Miss Anita Blair,” with ditto marks, ran its fresh blackness across the page and the pen was in his fingers again—with the lightest smile for thanks. He laid the blotter, almost tenderly, upon the page—as if it guarded a secret for him, while he assigned guests and rooms and played his part as mere “head clerk.”

They had never had a guest from Kentucky ... and Joseph might have known, had he not been a very ignorant “head clerk,” that there is a charmed land, and its daughters have the smile of the sun, and he upon whom that smile falls has tasted wine that will linger with him till old age—a smile of charm and gladness and the purity of heart that little children have, yet somehow faintly troubled with the downcast look and listening eyes of Mother Eve while the serpent coiled his shining length and bent his weaving head to whisper wisdom in her shell-pink ear. So when she had smiled her thanks and handed back the pen, Joseph's head swam with the draft the gods had brewed for the sons of men since the first light fell upon the earth. Alas, Joseph!

HE was not a coquette—but, like the lady of Ferrara, she “liked whate'er she looked on—and her looks went everywhere.” The hotel woke up. There were riding parties and driving parties and boating and golf and tennis—only bridge, in the parlors, seemed to languish a little, and the old ladies, gathered in sheltered corners of the piazzas, were no longe1 safe over their bits of news and scallops and wool—for the piazzas chattered and hummed. Chairs rocked with gay little ruffles and creaked and whispered when the ruffles had fled. If one would keep up with the pace, he must rise early and sit up late, and even then he could not be sure that something delightful going past, some charming little guess at life, had not escaped him. As for Joseph, devoted to kitchen and office and hens, he lived in one long, glorious dream that knew no waking—and no sleep. Never had life pressed so hard and never had he been so happy.

It could not be said that she flirted with Joseph, but neither could it be denied that Joseph was singled out. If she was the center of the group and dispensed favors, it was Joseph who stood at her side and placed the favors in her hand.

She was planning this morning for a driving party to Southern Head and back. They would take luncheon and drive back by moonlight—everybody—old ladies and all. She was very determined about the old ladies. Why she wished this would be a secret between herself and heaven—since the old ladies did not wish to go—and there were not horses enough on the island to carry so many old ladies to Southern Head and back in a day. Joseph had pointed this out to her carefully, sitting on the piazza railing, one long, black leg swinging back and forth as he talked.

And she had listened—with her pretty head bent—and she had nodded and raised her eyes, and continued her plans, which included all the old ladies and luncheon for everybody.

And Joseph had gone away and created horses out of dust and air and had changed a roast dinner, with vegetables and soup and ice-cream, into a cold boiled luncheon, with sandwiches and relishes and a delicate, spicy drink that she liked. These were not easy days for Joseph, but his countenance shone with joy.

He had not known what living meant before. He recalled now—how far away it all seemed—the first night she came, when the hotel was about to settle down to its placid, accustomed sleep, and she had appeared in the dining-room, with her court about her and a chafing-dish borne aloft—and had demanded cheese and butter and eggs and paprika and beer! That it was a prohibition island Joseph had explained with his most courteous gravity, and that you must have beer for a Welsh rabbit, she had explained with her sweetest, gravest air, and while their two souls wrestled together, a feather-brained youth, who had no principles, had scoured the place and produced the beer—just one bottle—and it was Joseph himself who stood at her right hand and poured it in—a little at a time, as she commanded, while some one at her left did the paprika, and some one else the cheese, and her wooden spoon was everywhere, a kind of baton that kept order and beat the time—and the air was full of laughter and gay little sounds that tinkled and sweet, high-pitched commands that sent Joseph on useless errands and called him back and praised and scolded him in a breath till it seemed too good to be true. So, in heaven, the angels might call to each other, from bench to bench—but surely earth never brimmed so before.

Joseph smiled now, the long, slow smile that always rested on his face when he thought of her—Joseph was always thinking of her. Did he go to gather the eggs—it was to select the freshest and daintiest and slip it into his black coat pocket, to be boiled later, with his own careful eye on the clock, and borne in triumph to place before her. The day was a blaze of glory for him if she said: “Thank you!” and if she only raised her lids a little and looked at it, half-curiously, half-indifferently, still Joseph's heart sang within him, and when her fingers swung the knife that broke the shell with even cut, Joseph's heart went crack, too—just a little. For Joseph had seen a great light upon the way, and—like the rest of us—he would never be the same again.

HE Southern Head was bathed in sunshine. The great cliffs that circled back from the sea were red at heart—like vast orchestral stalls that waited, silent and empty, for the accustomed gods—perchance they were asleep or gone upon a journey. So the day slept; and over the quiet sea, gulls wheeled on slow, outspread wings.

Now and then a face peered above the edge of the cliff, and was withdrawn, or a stone dropped from the top and fell into space—giving back no sound. The guests went warily along the path that edged the cliff. The path was well back from the sea, but there were ugly rumors—enough to make one cautious. A misstep and one might not see the sunshine again, or breathe the air. They went in little groups, laughing and talking, the bowl of sky above them and the great cliffs at the left that dropped to the sea.

It was not a day to linger indoors. Even the old ladies, wrapped in shawls, but without the knitting, had ventured a little way. They would not go far—they would be within call of the bell when it rang. Already, before they left the house, the smell of coffee had met the nostrils, and Joseph was here and there and everywhere, his black coat awry and the wisp of necktie standing under one ear, giving orders, bringing in baskets, unpacking cups and glasses and plates. The old ladies walked slowly past the stables where the horses could be heard through thin boards blowing softly and crunching their hay and oats. The way from the stable to the cliffs ran through an open field and the old ladies went with leisurely foot. One of them, who carried a black parasol, raised it to shield her eyes from the light. And it was as if heaven mocked her—for a little black cloud, like a parasol gone aloft, sailed between her and the sun and rested there. She looked up with blinking eyes and lowered the parasol, smiling. The other old ladies looked up—the cloud was on the sun and other clouds were coming—from the east and from the west. There had been no warning—but the sky was overcast. Great masses were rolling up, hurrying to blot out the heavens, from the four corners of the earth. The old ladies turned in their places with swift thought. They gathered up their skirts—as if the rain were already descending—and ran, their wide soles gleaming in the light as they went. Before they reached the house, the first drops fell, splashing big.

Joseph on the steps of the rough shelter house greeted them, smiling 'and helping them up the steps. They laughed and twittered and shook their wraps and peered through the windows, and watched the rest of the party hurrying now across the open field, fleeing from the wrath of the rain. They came flying—skirts drawn protectingly over bent heads—hats under arms—blown by the wind, hurrying, drifting to shelter, half-amused and half-angry at the power that drove them on.

It was Joseph who met them on the steps, scanning each group as it came—his quick eye running beyond it to search the field in the distance. She was not come— No, they did not see her—but she must be here. She started with them—yes, of course. It was so sudden—they had to run, single file—no one could tell. But Joseph had not listened, he was gone—across the field—hatless, in the rain.

They watched him, from the piazza, down the path. He would find her. She was surely safe—waiting under some rock, probably—wiser and safer than all of them. The other young men were searching the house hastily. Then they turned back into the rain. The last bevy of girls drifted into the house, shaking the wet from their garments, crowding about the blazing fire.

The wind had risen with the storm. They heard it whirling outside. The sky had grown black. They could scarcely see each other, except by the lightning flare.... The man who ran by the cliff called as he ran, lifting his face to listen. The ran had drenched him, but the wind that sailed past lifted the soaked coat and whipped it about him, slapping his face. He fought it down, peering ahead. He darted to the edge of the cliff and threw himself flat—far below an angry, muffled sound came up out of darkness. He rose to his feet and ran—stumbling, calling: “Anita! Anita!” The wind lulled a little and he made a hollow of his hands, calling to her: “Anita! Anita!”... Then louder, as the wind grew and louder again and again: “Anita! An-i-ta!”—dying away pitifully like a sob. It was only the wind that heard him and hissed across the headlands. He stumbled and fell, and the wind echoed it again while he lay, beaten upon. by the rain. When he rose a little three-cornered cut was in his forehead and a red streak trickled down his face as he fought the wind for foothold. He had reached the end of the path now, where it dips to the sea and curves back toward the great procession of cliffs.... If he should not find her. He went cautiously, feeling the treacherous rock with his hands, slipping, sliding, catching at brambles, and waiting while huge pebbles. loosened from their place, rattled and fell, striking against the. side of the cliff once—and again and were lost to sound. He strained his eyes to pierce the dimness. The lightning flared high—and gleamed white on the sky and the cliff—and on something lodged below. He caught fast hold of the cliff and held himself against the beating of his heart that would thrust him off. Swiftly he had stripped himself of the black coat and was tearing it in slits, testing each link with set lip. He gripped the strong cloth fiercely, as if he swore it to service. The tense fingers had found a cervice [sic] where a huge root thrust out and made fast the ribboned coat. It might not hold—God knew.... There was not time to go back.... She lay with the rain falling on her face, and below her the darkness fell away— If she awoke.... He put his foot cautiously down.... The rope held fast and he swung himself faster—and faster—careless now.... He would reach her.... The rain blinded him ... but he held her, strained to his breast.... He had lifted her up the great cliff... “Anita!” He sobbed it, bending to her, and the eyes opened and smiled wistfully and closed in the night. He stumbled and ran—hatless and coatless—babbling with joy—for he carried her safe.... Like a child, he cradled her, shielding the face from the rain.... The gods were jealous. ... He held them at bay ... he thrust them back....

So he met the others, coming toward him through the storm, and gave her to them. But she had struggled to her feet and went along among them, laughing a little as her feet stumbled and they held her up on every side.

At the stables Joseph left them. He went in among the wagons and sobbed like a child.

And when he came to the house, the coffee was made, and Anita, sitting by the fire, held a steaming cup to her lips. When she saw him she put it down and looked at him with gentle eyes—and the gentleness in her eyes mocked him.

HE day lay like a pearl upon the sea. The world was new-washed by the storm—all the flowers and the grass and the little leaves.

Under the trees in the orchard Joseph waited for her. She had said she would come—with a little nod of her head and laughing eyes she said it.... She would come.... She was coming—with light feet—there on the grass.... He could see her.... Out of some other world.... She was coming.... She had paused for a moment to speak to the group by the path, then she came slowly on. Her eyes were on the ground, a little smile on her lips.

When she looked up, her glance rested on Joseph in his black clothes—waiting—and the smile faded, and she came more quickly and stood beside him. “I didn't mean to keep you waiting,” she said. The light through the green leaves filtered and fell on the tilted face. It nodded to him kindly. “I meant to come right off, but it takes so long to pack, you know—to find your things and say good-by... and I always forget something.”... The candid eyes appealed to him for sympathy.

But Joseph did not give it. He had started forward a step, his hand half-clenched at his side—words struggling on his lips.... But it was the “head clerk” that spoke....

“You took your rooms—till the first—” The voice was harsh.

“Yes, I know. But we must go... I just can't stay—”

“Sit down,” said Joseph. He motioned to the bench. “I want to say something.”

She sat down obediently, her light skirt trailing a little and the slender foot peeping from among its ruffles.

Joseph stood before her humbly. His dark head was bent and the light traced lines of silver on it.... She looked at them curiously. “I haven't thanked you—” she said gently.

His hand put it aside with a gesture. “Wait... I didn't know you were going ... I can't let you go—” He spoke fast—breathless—and dropped to one knee beside her—half resting on the bench....

She did not move away—a grave look had crossed the childish petulance of her face. “I wish you wouldn't say things like that to me,” she said. She was speaking very low.... “It makes me quite unhappy—” She spread her little hands.

Joseph looked at them. “I would not make you unhappy, or hurt you—for the world—”

“No ... no—”Her lips half parted with a little smile—“I know you wouldn't. You're such a kind, good man—and I love you. Everybody does, you know— They just can't help it...” She was looking, strange and inscrutable into his face—as if all the mirth and all the sorrow of the world dwelt in her eyes.

“I want you to love me,” said Joseph. “I want you to marry me.” But his face was unutterably sad.... “I can not live without you—” he added simply.

She looked down at him with swift eyes.... “I wish you wouldn't... I couldn't marry you.” She shook her head. “I just couldn't marry you—I'd be glad if I could—”

There was silence in the orchard all about, and the golden day brimmed with it. He had not stirred from his place.

She half put out her little hand toward him and drew it back.... “You see, I don't expect to marry anybody—not anybody—” She shook her head gravely.... Then her eyes laughed. “I'd like to, real well—but I don't ever expect to.”

The toe of her slipper found a little pebble and pushed it about. “You wouldn't like it—to live with me—” she said; “I'm as hard as hard to live with.”

He looked up and smiled—a slow smile, that was full of tenderness and gentleness. “Don't—Anita—I understand—now—” He stood up, his hands behind him, looking down at her.

“I'm sorry I ever came to this island,” she said... The quick eyes brimmed and ran over. She was searching among the flimsy ruffles for a bit of handkerchief. When she found it she dabbed them fiercely.... Then she stood up, both hands outstretched. “You'll just have to forgive me,” she said. A little smile struggled up among the tears.

He took the hands, holding them fast, looking into the face of Eve—mother of men. Then he dropped them slowly. “I am glad I have loved you,” he said.

“Oh—dear! Please don't—I'm going to cry again!” She searched for the handkerchief frantically. Then the laugh bubbled up. The day was filled with it and the orchard light and all the great world, and the smell of salt crept up from the sea. “Good-by.” She turned away, but the eyes had brimmed again.

So he watched her move away, under the trees—out into the light, where the sunshine caught her and the flowers made a path for her, and the butterflies, on either side, rose and circled and fell as she went.

HE ticking of the office clock on the wall behind him was like the echo of his thought.... She was gone—but the sun was shining out on the water and the sky was blue. He turned away from the window and crossed the empty room and sat down. The season was done now. There would be a few more days, then the last guests would go and the house would be closed. His hand in his pocket felt for something and drew it out—a fragile bit of lace and lightness.... He held it in his hand, gazing at it stupidly. It was so frail and gossamer and useless.... The clock ticked past the hour ... but he had not stirred.

Some one in the hall passed the door and looked in and passed on with light foot. By and by the step came again, pausing a little by the door. Then he looked up. “Did you want something—Annie?” The girl's face held its clear light steadily.

“I thought you might want me, Joseph—to do something—”

“No—there is nothing to do—now. Things are about over.”

“Yes—” But she waited. She did not look at the closed hand that held something in it, but only at his face.

“The cut in your forehead is worse,” she said. She had come nearer, looking at it.

“Is it? I don't know—” He raised a stupid hand. “Never mind,” he said.

But she was looking at it—with clear eyes. “I have something—” Her gaze lightened. “One of the boarders left it—for me. When you put it on, it heals. You wait—”

She was gone and he dreamed again. The clenched hand opened and the bit of lace fell to the table beside him.

When she returned, she pushed it a little aside, making a place for the dish of water she had brought, and the scissors and a tiny bottle of fluid.

“I wash it first—in carbolic—” She drew the dish toward her. Then she reached out. “This will do—nicely—” she said. “I forgot the cotton.” She had gathered up the little handkerchief and dipped it lightly in the water.

“Bend down, Joseph—just a little, please—”

The dark head, with its silver streaks, was bent obediently.... °

The little hand that dabbed the water was very firm, but she gave an anxious look. “Does it hurt?”

“No—” He smiled a little.

“There—” She drew a quick breath. “It's clean—now.” She lifted the bottle. “I put some of this on. It makes a kind of new skin, you know, and cures it—” She stood on tiptoe ... reaching up. “It will hurt—a little—at first, but you won't mind—?”

“I shall not mind,” said Joseph.

The cool finger-tips worked quickly. “There!” She stood off, looking at him.

A smile crossed the sad, quiet face. “Thank you, child,” he said gently.

“You're quite welcome.” She lifted the bit of handkerchief from the water and squeezed it with careful fingers and laid it on the table—a little wet ball.

But her eyes were on the cut. “It will be better to-morrow,” she said.

Joseph's hand had reached out to the table. It returned to his pocket. “I think it is better now,” he said.

Her face glowed with happiness. “You have to be careful of hurts like that.” She nodded gravely. “Sometimes they stay and get worse and make a lot of trouble—if you don't take care.” She gathered up the things she had brought—the dish of water and the scissors and the little bottle of fluid. Then she turned away, her face full of happiness and a kind of childlike courage.

When she had gone the room was still again. Joseph sat motionless, staring before him. Only the tick of the clock on the wall ... and the sun shining outside. He drew his hand from the pocket and looked down at it—a little ball of filmy wetness, in the great palm.... The ticking of the clock on the wall echoed his thought.