JL JL N N L^ nH j ty of California ern Regional iry Facility i w n*v ANNE PAGE ANNE PAGE BY NETTA SYRETT AUTHOR OF "THE CHILD OF PROMISE," ETC. MCMIX PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED LON-DON AND BECCLES An righti reserved ANNE PAGE AT the hour between sunset and twilight Miss Page was generally to be found in her garden. The long irregular front of Fairholme Court faced the west, and before it, through the interminable evenings of summer, was spread the pageant of the sunset, the quiet glory of the after-glow, and finally the tran- sition, mysterious, indefinably subtle, from the light of day, to the vaporous purple of night. It was at this quiet end of evening that the garden, always beautiful, took on an added grace, the dream-like delicate charm which belongs to the enchanted places of the earth places such as Corot knew, and with a magic equal to their own, has transferred upon canvasses which hold for ever the glamour of the dawn or the mystic spell of twilight. The house, built originally in the last years of Elizabeth, and enlarged in succeeding 2 ANNE PAGE CH. i. reigns, was a medley of incongruous archi- tecture, resulting in a style delightful and fantastic enough for a dwelling in a fairy tale. The latest wing, added in Georgian days, its red brick toned now to a restful mellow colour, imparted an air of formal stateliness to the irregular but charming structure. Roses wreathed the latticed window-panes of the older part of the house ; clematis rioted over part of the roof and climbed the chimney- stacks. On the sunny walls of the later wing a vine had been trained. The door of the panelled hall in the middle of the house opened upon a square of flag- stones, and level with these, a lawn, its smoothness unspoilt by flower-beds, stretched to a sunk fence from which meadowland, whose broad expanse was broken here and there by groups of elms, extended far as the eye could see till its verge touched the sunset sky. On the lawn to the right of the house, one magnificent beech tree swept the ground with its lower branches, and then soared majes- tically towards the sky. On the left there was a group of chestnuts. But, except for a small white fountain opposite the hall porch, the lawn in its velvet softness was left unadorned. CH. i. ANNE PAGE 3 The fountain Miss Page had brought back after one of her periodical journeys to Italy. It was a slight, graceful thing, of delicate workmanship, its thread of water falling from a fluted shell into a square marble basin. It was a fountain beloved by the fan-tailed pigeons, who from their dovecote behind the kitchen garden came to it often to drink. When they perched on the edge of the shell, or walked near it on the grass, their snowy tails out- spread, a hint of Italian courtyards, a sort of fragrance of Italy, was wafted into the English garden. All the flowers grew in secluded sheltered spots, protected by high walls or hedges of yew. Away from the lawn, behind the beech tree, a moss-grown wall into which a little gate was set, gave promise of scent and colour within of a garden enclosed. This particular enclosure, one of many, was known as the "lavender garden." It was arranged in the formal Dutch fashion divided into square beds filled with pink monthly roses, each bed surrounded by a thick border of lavender. A sundial stood in the midst, and against the sundial, her elbows resting upon its lichen-stained plate, leant Anne Page, her face turned towards the lingering sunset. 4 ANNE PAGE CH. I. She was expecting friends to dinner, but unable to resist the temptation of the garden, she had wandered from the drawing-room into the sweet evening air. She wore a dress the colour of which, in its shades of grey-green and purple, might have been suggested by the lavender in the borders. It was a graceful flowing dress ; beautiful naturally, inevitably. Anne Page possessed the gift of surrounding herself with everything that was exquisite, as simply as a flower surrounds itself with leaves and dainty buds. She was not a young woman. She had indeed travelled quite far on the road that leads from youth to death. It was even on record that a girl staying at the vicarage had alluded to her as an old lady. Every one had started with shocked sur- prise. None of Anne Page's friends were accustomed to consider her age. To them, she was just "beautiful Miss Page." In the same way, one never thought of analyzing her appearance, nor of criticizing her features. It would have seemed an im- pertinence. One felt vaguely that she would have been quite as lovely without any, for her beauty was like a rare effect of light that has no connection with the object it transfigures. CH. i. ANNE PAGE 5 Certainly her face had the delicacy of a white rose. Certainly her eyes were blue ; blue as cornflowers ; blue as the sea. But they were Miss Page's eyes, and one instinctively compared them to lovely natural things. She turned her head as the gate creaked. Burks, ^in a frilled apron and a becoming cap with streamers, was hurrying up the path towards the sundial. "There's a carriage coming up the drive, ma'am," she said. " Thank you, Burks, I'll come." The maid hastened back, her skirts ruffling the lavender borders, and, gathering up the filmy folds of her own gown, her mistress followed her. At the gate, she turned for a last glance at the dying sunset sky. On her way across the lawn, she noticed, with a thrill of pleasure, the beauty of the trees, motionless, -dreaming in the dusk. White and slim in the half-light, the little fountain suggested to her a strayed nymph, transfixed with surprise and fear to find herself so near the haunts of man. Smiling at the fancy, Anne entered the drawing-room by one of the long open windows, and waited for her guests. In a few moments, Burks admitted the Vicar and his wife. 6 ANNE PAGE CIL i. The Reverend George Carfax was of the type already somewhat vieux jm t of the muscular school of Christianity. Good-looking, clean-shaven, bullet-headed, his appearance was rather that of a country squire than of a vicar of Christ. An excellent cricketer, hearty in manner, sound in health, he was nevertheless the ideal pastor for the rising generation of youths and maidens, whose muscles were possibly better worth developing than their souls. His wife was the dowdy little woman, who inevitably by a process of natural selection becomes the mate of the muscular Christian. In her first youth she had possessed the un- distinguished prettiness common to thousands of English girls whose character, composed of negative qualities, renders them peculiarly ac- ceptable to the average self-assertive man. Now, at forty-five, in spite of her family of children, her figure was as spare and meagre as it had been at twenty, and the gown she wore, a black silk, slightly cut out at the neck, and trimmed with cheap coffee lace, was as dowdy as any of the dresses of her girlhood. Miss Page walked with a charming dignity, her long gown moving over the floor with a soft frou-frou suggestive of silk, and cloudy concealed frills. Her appearance as she bent CH. i. ANNE PAGE 7 towards the dowdy little woman, made a con- trast almost ludicrous, if it had not also been somewhat pathetic. Mrs. Carfax, innocent of contrasts and all they implied, took her hand in both of hers with an affectionate movement, and in the Vicar's firm handshake, and in his hearty words of greeting, the same evident liking for their hostess was expressed. "Dr. and Mrs. Dakin," said Burks, at the door, and again Miss Page's smile welcomed the new-comers. She particularly liked the tall thin man who entered. Dr. Dakin was a scholar and a dreamer, a man too unpractical by nature adequately to cope with a profession eminently practical. The doctor was only a partial success at Dymfield, where a man of the Vicar's stamp, genial, a trifle blustering, always cheerful, would have inspired more confidence than the dreamy medical man, who did not treat illness in the high-handed fashion uncon- sciously expected by his patients. Only his success with one or two really serious cases in the neighbourhood preserved for him some measure of respect, and a general concurrence of opinion, that absent-minded as he appeared before the milder forms of ailment, when it came to graver maladies, Dr. Dakin 8 ANNE PAGE CH. i. was presumably to be trusted. To no one was his lack of force and "push" a greater trial than to his wife, whose ambition for her husband had been a London practice, and for herself a smart amusing circle of acquaintances. She was a pretty little woman of six or seven and twenty, with soft dark hair, and a slim figure. Endowed with all the nervous energy her husband lacked, she bore the traces of her discontent about her well-shaped mouth, and in the expression, exasperated and queru- lous of her brown eyes. They softened into a wholly admiring glance however as they rested on Miss Page. " My dear lady," she whispered, " that's the most lovely dress I ever saw in my life ! Where do you get your things ? And how- ever do you manage to look so delightful in them?" Anne laughed. " Let me return the compliment. You look charming, Madge." Mrs. Dakin blushed with pleasure, as she turned to shake hands with Mrs. Carfax. "We are waiting for another guest," said Miss Page, sitting down in one of the big, chintz-covered chairs. " Monsieur Fontenelle, who, as I dare say you know, has just been CH. i. ANNE PAGE 9 made President of the International Art Congress." Dr. Dakin looked up quickly from the examination of an eighteenth-century fan, which he recognized as a new treasure in a cabinet filled with ivories, enamel snuff-boxes, old lace, old treasures of all kinds. " Really ? " he exclaimed. " That's most interesting. The Monsieur Fontenelle, in fact?" " He's a very old friend of mine," said Anne. "In England for the opening of the show next week, of course ? " " Yes. He's been staying for a couple of days at The Chase, and as he goes to London to-morrow I asked him to join us this evening." To none of Anne's visitors but the doctor was the Frenchman's name significant. Dymfield was not interested in the world of art. Very few of its inhabitants had ever heard of the International Art Congress, and even if they had, it would have conveyed nothing to their minds. Nevertheless, a tremor of excitement and curiosity passed over the faces of Mrs. Carfax and Mrs. Dakin. Strangers at Dymfield were rare, and a visitor who was staying at The Chase, as the io ANNE PAGE CH. i. guest of Lord Farringchurch was on that account alone, a distinguished if not an alarming personality. "A Frenchman!" exclaimed Mrs. Carfax. " I hope he speaks English ? " she added below her breath. " Oh, perfectly," Anne assured her, as the door opened. " Monsieur Fontenelle ! " Burks, who had frequently accompanied her mistress in foreign travel, delivered the name with commendable swing and correctness of accent. The man who entered looked considerably younger than his forty-seven years. Slight, still elegant in figure, his face possessed the dis- tinction of clear-cut features, combined with an expression which only the charm of his smile saved from a suspicion of arrogance. His hair, a little white on the temples, was thick and slightly wavy. His blue eyes, keen above a hawk-like nose, gleamed every now and then with a trace of irony ; that irony which has become habitual, the recognized medium through which its possessor views the world. A shrewd observer would have guessed the character represented by such a face to be difficult and complex. Instinctively one knew that Fran9ois Fontenelle would be no very en. i. ANNE PAGE u easy man to thwart ; one guessed also that he might be a man apt to form his own rules of conduct, to carve his own path in life, without too much consideration for the con- venience or the paths of others. As Miss Page rose and stretched out her hand, he stooped and kissed it with the grace- ful ease of manner natural to a Frenchman. Mrs. Carfax felt quite embarrassed. " So foreign," she thought ; the phrase expressing unconscious disapprobation. " Glad we haven't those monkey tricks ! " was her husband's half-formed mental exclama- tion. Mrs. Dakin's heart gave a curious little flutter for which she could not account, except that she liked the manners of Frenchmen, and was for the moment acutely conscious of the dulness of life. To her husband, the action suddenly recalled the days of Madame de Pompadour. He glanced at the fan he still held, and his mind wandered to a book of that lady's period which he had long coveted, and had hitherto been unable to obtain. Absorbed in reverie, he missed Miss Page's formal introduction, and was only recalled to the present day by the general movement following the announcement that dinner was served. 12 ANNE PAGE CH. i. The dining-room at Fairholme Court, in the older part of the house, was a long, low room with casement windows, and carved beams supporting the ceiling. In its midst the table sparkled with glass and silver, arranged with studied care between the shaded candles in sconces of Sheffield plate, and the crystal bowls of roses. It had the look of something exquisite, something in fact which belonged to Miss Page, and was marked with her individuality. Mrs. Dakin made anxious notes. Her dinner-table never looked a work of art, and in the intervals of her study of, and speculations concerning Monsieur Fontenelle, she wondered why. Several times her glance wandered to Miss Page, whose eyes were bright, and whose faint pink colour was rather deeper than usual. Did the Frenchman she wondered, repre- sent Miss Page's romance ? It was strange how little one knew about Miss Page. Nothing, in fact. Mrs. Dakin realized the fact for the first time with a little shock of surprise. But then one never expected Miss Page to talk about her own affairs. Quite naturally, inevitably as it seemed, one went to Miss Page for advice, for sympathy, for encouragement about one's self. But this man must belong to the past life CH. i. ANNE PAGE 13 of her hostess, whatever it had been some- thing charming, something gentle, since Miss Page had lived it. Of course she had been loved. She was too pretty not to have been loved. Had this man loved her perhaps ? If so, why had they not married ? Mrs. Dakin roused herself, and began to pay attention to the conversation to which, so far, she had only contributed mechanical, unheeding remarks. Indefinitely she felt that it was on a higher level than usual ; the sort of conversation to which Dymfield was unac- customed. The Frenchman talked with the vivacity the wealth of phrase and imagery common to his race, and Miss Page talked too, eagerly, fluently, leaning a little forward, as though enjoying a much-loved rarely indulged delight. Dr. Dakin, roused at last from his dreaming, also sat upright, glancing from one to the other, throwing in now and again a question or a comment which was often seized upon appreciatively to form fresh material for con- versation. Mrs. Dakin sat and wondered, mystified, scarcely comprehending. The topics over which the talk ranged, abstract subjects for the most part, illustrated by frequent references to books ; novels, French novels mostly, of which she sometimes just 14 ANNE PAGE CH. i. knew the titles, philosophy of which she had never heard belonged to a class of ideas which as yet had never appeared upon her mental horizon. She was interested, as well as overwhelmed, by a new view of her hostess. Miss Page, this brilliant conversationalist, this subtle reasoner, to whose words the French- man, himself so fluent, such an acute critic and thinker, accorded a deference so obviously spontaneous and sincere ! Miss Page, who would spend hours in discussing the organiza- tion of a mothers' meeting, of a local flower show, of a Church bazaar. Miss Page, to whom one applied for recipes for pot pourri, for dainty invalid dishes, for remedies against chills. Miss Page, who suggested the fashion for one's new summer muslin, and cut out night-shirts for the children in the Cottage Hospital ! "How we must bore her!" was Mrs. Dakin's involuntary mental exclamation. " And how well, how delightfully she disguises it," was her next reflection. She remembered other dinners at Fairholme Court dinners at which the guests had dis- cussed the new curate, the latest book of Miss Marie Corelli, the village cricket match, the fund for the new organ. She remembered Miss Page's gracious CH. i. ANNE PAGE 15 charm of manner on these occasions, her apparent interest in each of these trivial topics. Even now, surprised, uncomprehending as she was with regard to most of the conversa- tion, she did not fail to remark the tact which with a word, with a question easy to answer, she kept three of her guests, at least, ostensibly within the pale of the conversation. " It's quite fair. We are evenly matched, to-night. Our stupidity has always outweighed her intelligence before, so she never had a chance," thought Mrs. Dakin. The bitterness of the reflection was caused by the conviction that it was ignorance, not lack of ability, which kept her, at least, out of discussions which interested her. Mrs. Dakin was one of those women whom mental laziness, not lack of brain quality, goes far to ruin. Her mind, naturally active and restless, was unemployed. She had never trained herself to think. To-night, with sudden self-recognition, she regretted both circumstances. Harry, she noticed it with a curious sen- sation, half jealousy, half pride, was not out of the talk. He was no conversationalist, but he understood, he appreciated, he contributed. That his point of view was valuable, she knew by the brightening of Miss Page's eyes i6 ANNE PAGE CH. i. when he spoke ; by an occasional vivacious affirmative nod from Monsieur Fontenelle. An idea, odd, staggering in its novelty, occurred to her. " Perhaps I bore Harry ? " Never before had this aspect of affairs presented itself to her consciousness, and the notion passed like a flash. The conviction that the exhausting mental ailment of boredom belonged by right to her alone, was too firmly established to be upset by a fugitive ridiculous fancy. Again she listened. The Frenchman's eloquence and vivacity amused and excited her. He spoke rapidly, and though the words were English, pro- nounced with only the slightest foreign accent, their use, their handling was French. Never before, for instance, had she heard any one utter at length a panegyric such as that to which she was now listening. It was evoked by the name of an author of whom she had never heard, and it was the sort of thing which in a book she was accustomed to skip. Spoken with the ease and certainty which indicated a natural habit of fluent speech, it amazed and impressed her. Never before had she guessed that Miss Page was witty. Wit at Dymfield was not CH. i. ANNE PAGE 17 understood ; it was ignored, passed over in silence disapproving because uncomprehended. Quicker than her neighbours, Mrs. Dakin realized that in an argument on a play of Bernard Shaw's which Monsieur Fontenelle had recently seen in America, Miss Page was saying good things. In opposing his view, her raillery, delicate and ingenious, brought a frequent smile to his lips, and more than once an appreciative burst of laughter. Mr. Carfax, who had never heard of Bernard Shaw, asked for the story of the play. His hostess told it in a few words. That they were in every respect well chosen, Mrs. Dakin, who had also never read the works of the latter-day apostle, guessed from a faint smile of admiration, which at various points in the narrative lighted the Frenchman's face. Mr. Carfax nodded his head approvingly when she ceased. " Very good, I should say. Full of common sense and right views. We want some one to elevate the stage ; and I'm glad this man, what's his name ? Ah ! Shaw is a Britisher. I believe in home-grown literature ; something that expresses the character of the English people. A fine, sturdy character ; the best in the world." i8 ANNE PAGE en. i. Miss Page rose without looking at Mon- sieur Fontenelle, whose smile, for greater safety, had taken refuge in his eyes. Mrs. Dakin and Mrs. Carfax followed her into the drawing-room, and as though stricken with fear lest the dinner-table topics had re- sulted in dissatisfaction for her guests, she moved close to Mrs. Carfax. " I saw Sylvia, to-day, looking so pretty," she began in her gentle, caressing voice. Mrs. Carfax bridled, half pleased, half unwilling to accept a compliment on behalf of a daughter who was unsatisfactory. " Looks don't matter so much as right behaviour," she returned. " She displeases her father very much with what he calls her advanced ideas. I don't know what they are, I'm sure, except wanting to get away from a good home. I wish you would speak to her, Miss Page. She thinks so much of you. You might bring her to her senses." " Poor little Sylvia," said Miss Page, softly. " She's very young, my dear and she's a sweet child at heart. Do ask her to come to tea with me to-morrow." " I think your French friend is most in- teresting," remarked Mrs. Dakin, suddenly, putting down her coffee cup, and taking a seat beside Anne on the sofa. CH. i. ANNE PAGE 19 Her hostess turned to her with a pleased smile. " I'm so glad. You are always apprecia- tive, Madge." " I never heard any one talk like you two," continued Mrs. Dakin, slowly. " I'm afraid we talked too much." The quick colour sprang to her cheeks. " I hope you weren't bored?" She included the two women in a swift, apologetic glance. " Talking too much is an old habit of mine, a habit of long ago, which revives when I see Frangois. I " she paused suddenly. " I was never so interested in my life," said Mrs. Dakin, with such obvious sincerity that Anne's face cleared. "Very clever, I'm sure. Very clever," murmured Mrs. Carfax. " Tell me, my dear, what shall I do about Emma ? The girl gets worse and worse. She's no good at all as a parlourmaid. I've been thinking about her all dinner-time, and wondering whether I should give her notice, or whether " The entrance of the three men interrupted the heart-searchings of Mrs. Carfax. Monsieur Fontenelle stood a moment just within the door. His eyes fell upon Mrs. Dakin, who sat in the corner of the sofa, her slender little figure in its white dress 20 ANNE PAGE CH. i. showing to advantage against its coloured background. A tremor of pleasure shook her as he drew up a chair of gilded cane, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, began to talk to her. Mr. Carfax and Dr. Dakin, who both made simultaneously for Miss Page's corner of the room, were met by her with a little amused laugh, to which each responded. " We can't both talk to her," declared Mr. Carfax, " because of course we each want her advice." " I yield to you," said the Doctor, charac- teristically. " But you mustn't keep her too long." "Time passes all too quickly with Miss Page," returned Mr. Carfax, with his hearty laugh. " I can make no promises." " Do you really want to consult me ? " asked his hostess, turning to him with her flattering air of undivided, interested attention. " About many things. There's that case of Mrs. O'Malley's. It's really very difficult. Now, what would you advise ? " He recounted at length a conversation he had lately held with the drunken old woman, on the circum- stances of whose life, though upon this point she was silent, Miss Page's knowledge was considerably fuller than his own. CH. i. ANNE PAGE 21 She listened thoughtfully, and suggested a different method of attack. "Thank you," said the Vicar, his brow clearing. " I never thought of that." " Anything else ? " asked Miss Page. " Oh well, yes ; but I haven't time for that now. I must come some other day. I want to have a long talk with you about Sylvia. I can't make the girl out." He frowned. " She's so restless and discontented. I can't imagine why she doesn't settle down and be of some little assistance to her mother. The girl annoys me. I have no patience with the modern shirking of home duties." " Dear little Sylvia I " repeated Miss Page. " She's coming to tea with me to-morrow. I always like talking to Sylvia. She's so pretty and charming." Mr. Carfax looked a little mollified. " There's Dakin thinking I've overstepped my time-limit," he declared. " Come along, Dakin, your innings now." The doctor approached Miss Page's chair, a smile on his long thin face. " I only want you to show me your latest toys," he said, glancing at the cabinet. " I see you have one or two new things there." She rose with alacrity, and in a few 22 ANNE PAGE CH. i. moments they were bending over and discuss- ing a piece of Battersea enamel. Dr. Dakin, also an enthusiastic collector, was especially interested in the dainty trifles of the eighteenth century, which Anne too loved. It was a period which specially ap- pealed to him, and the conversation passing from the frail things they handled fans painted on chicken-skin, ivories, patch-boxes soon ex- tended to books, many of which he found Anne possessed. Their conversation became engrossing, and Mrs. Dakin turned to her companion with a laugh. "My husband is very happy," she' re- marked. " No wonder," he returned. " Every one is happy with Miss Page." " And she's so pretty, isn't she ? " " The most beautiful woman of my acquaint- ance," he replied gravely. " Because she has acquired her beauty secreted it, in the same marvellous way that from hidden cells a rose draws its colour and its sweetness." Mrs. Dakin glanced at him curiously. " It takes a Frenchman to say that. But it describes Miss Page," she added. She hesitated a moment, curiosity very strong within her. CH. i. ANNE PAGE 23 " You have known her a long time ? Many years ? " she asked. " I first met sweet Anne Page twenty years ago, in this very house." He smiled, a quiet reminiscent smile. " And she wasn't young even then ! " exclaimed Mrs. Dakin, involuntarily. " Pardon me. Anne Page was always young, in the sense that the brooks and the hawthorn-trees and the roses are always young." The smile was still on his lips, and Mrs. Dakin blushed. " Oh yes, I know," she began hurriedly. " One never thinks of age with regard to her. I didn't mean that exactly." " He must have been in love with her ! " The idea ran into the undercurrent of her thoughts. " Perhaps he is still. It would be awfully romantic. And not absurd at all," she added, as a sudden mental supplement. " Sweet Anne Page is quite pretty." Aloud, still impelled by irresistible curiosity, she went on asking questions. " But this house didn't belong to her then, did it ? We haven't been at Dymfield long enough, of course, but the old people in the village remember when Mrs. Burbage lived here." 24 ANNE PAGE en. i. "Mrs. Burbage ! Yes, I'd forgotten. That was the name." " It was quite a romantic story, wasn't it ? " went on Mrs. Dakin, vivaciously. " You know it, of course ? Miss Page was companion to old Mrs. Burbage for years before she died. She had a nephew, and naturally every one imagined that he would come into the property. But he displeased her in some way, and she left every- thing to Miss Page. At least, so I'm told. Is it right ? " Monsieur Fontenelle bowed. " I believe so." He laughed suddenly. " When I first knew the house, it was horrible. This beauti- ful room, for instance, was full of antimacassars and wool-work mats. The old lady had how do you call it? Mid-Victorian yes, Mid- Victorian tastes." " Glass shades with wax fruits underneath, I suppose ? Rep curtains and that sort of thing." " Oh, cttait affreux ! " he agreed, with a comic gesture of horror. " How Miss Page must have enjoyed re- furnishing it ! She has such exquisite taste, hasn't she ? But the garden ? The garden must always have been lovely." " It was neglected. Mrs. Burbage was an invalid fortunately. For the garden, I mean. CH. i. ANNE PAGE 25 But Anne had begun to work her magic even then. The first time I ever saw her she had been planting roses round a sundial." " Oh, in the lavender garden ? " " She took me there this morning. The rose hedge is very tall now, and the rose leaves were dropping down on to the sundial " he stretched up his arm " from a height like this, above it." " Yes. Fairholme Court is the most beauti- ful place in the neighbourhood. Certainly the most beautiful place I've ever seen." There was a moment's pause, during which Mrs. Dakin glanced towards the sofa, to which Anne had returned. Her green and lavender gown fell in grace- ful folds round her feet. Against the cushions of dim purple at her back, her hair shone with a sort of moon-lit radiance. The poise of her head, the smile that wavered constantly near her sweet mouth, the radiance of her blue eyes, above all a certain dignity, too gentle to be quite stately, yet suggesting stateliness, made her a lovely and a gracious figure. " Do you know," said Mrs. Dakin, sud- denly, " what surprises me is that the people who knew her long ago, when she first came here, scarcely remember her. They say, ' Oh, she was a quiet creature. Very shy. We 26 ANNE PAGE CH. i. scarcely noticed her. She was just Mrs. Burbage's companion.' Things like that, you know. It has often disappointed me. I should have thought she must have been so beautiful as a younger woman." " She was always beautiful," said her com- panion, quietly, " to those who had eyes to see. But she has learnt to use her beauty. She had first to learn that she possessed it. That took her a long time." Again he smiled his odd little smile of reminiscence. "They are quite right when they say that she was shy. There are many people in the world, madame, who could be beautiful if they knew how. Beauty, the truest beauty, is an art. A subtle blend of many powers, mental and moral, which result in a mastery of the physical qualities. A knowledge of them, a perfect handling, a moulding of them to the ideal of the spirit. Do you remember what your critic Pater, says of Mono, Lisa ? It is a well-known passage, but it expresses what I am trying to say so poorly, so inadequately." Mrs. Dakin shook her head. " I'm a very ignorant person," she said, with an embarrassed laugh. " He is speaking of the portrait which is lovely, according to the spirit rather than the flesh, and he says, ' It is a beauty ivrought out CH. i. ANNE PAGE 27 from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries, and exquisite passions' " Mrs. Dakin wrinkled her forehead. The last words shocked her a little. Her plea of ignorance was a true one in every sense of the word. It was the plea of a woman who had passed most of her life with ordinary conven- tional people, as oblivious to the complexities of human life as to the world of ideas in art, in philosophy, in all the realms invaded by human thought and emotion. If her existence was troubled, it was with the discontent of a child who cries for the moon which it regards as a pretty material plaything, rather than the trouble of a woman to whom the moon is a symbol of the rare, the exquisite things of life, which she weeps to find beyond her reach. Yet her next remark pleased her com- panion. " I think what you said about the rose de- scribes her much better," she ventured, rather timidly. He smiled. "You're quite right. I see you understand our sweet Anne Page. She doesn't belong to the Mona Lisa type. She's made up of all the beautiful natural things ; of the sunlight and the roses, and the dew. 28 ANNE PAGE CH. i. Tiens ! Don't say I'm ignorant of your poets. One of them has come rather near it when he says, ' And beauty born of murmuring sound has passed into her face! ' Mrs. Dakin had never heard the lines before, and hurriedly wondered how she could find them. She felt flattered, shy, and troubled at the same moment. It was rather a fearful joy to be talked to by this Frenchman, who was evidently so used to what she called " clever " people, that he quite naturally assumed her comprehension of his language. She won- dered who Mona Lisa was, and half thought of asking Harry. It occurred to her that Harry read a great deal ; that his study was lined with books into which she had never thought of looking. He never talked to her about them. " I suppose that's because he thinks me too stupid," was her impatiently scornful reflection. She was half relieved, half sorry when Mrs. Carfax, with a conventional exclamation upon the lateness of the hour, rose to go. "Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand to her companion. She hesitated, and then, shyness making the words a little brusque " If you are ever here again, I hope Miss Page will bring you to see us," she added. CH. i. ANNE PAGE 29 " Enchant^, madame ! " he returned with his easy bow and smile. "Delightful fellow that!" exclaimed Dr. Dakin, as he stepped into the motor-car after his wife. He spoke with an animation unusual to him. " It's been a nice evening, hasn't it, Madge?" " Very," she returned shortly, pulling the rug round her, and relapsing into silence. She was thinking of the Frenchman's smile, and of his voice. He had beautiful hands, she remembered. Her husband looked at her and sighed a little. He would liked to have dis- cussed the party, but Madge was in one of her moods, and he knew that the attempt would be useless. "There's an air of unreality about foreigners," remarked Mr. Carfax, pulling up the window with a jerk, as the hired brougham turned out of the drive. " Theatrical, rather the way that fellow talked, wasn't it ? " " Quite absurd," agreed his wife. " I didn't listen. Miss Page is generally more interest- ing than she was to-night." " Yes. Women do better as a rule, to keep to the subjects that suit them," announced the Vicar. " Not that Miss Page isn't a 3 o ANNE PAGE CH. i. clever woman, I believe. At least, Dakin says so, and he ought to know." " I suppose this Monsieur what's his name was one of the friends she made when she was travelling ? " " I suppose so. She was away long enough to make shoals of them." " You didn't know her, George, did you, when 'you were a young man ? " The Vicar shook his head. " I may have seen her once or twice when she was old Mrs. Burbage's companion. I had just left college then, and was at my first curacy in Notting- ham just before we were married, you know. I came back to the Vicarage once or twice in those days to see the old Dad, and I sup- pose she must have been at Fairholme Court then. But I don't remember her. She was nurse and general factotum to the old lady. Mrs. Burbage was an eccentric woman, you know ; rather dotty towards the end, I believe. I can imagine that poor Miss Page hadn't much of a life with her." " And then directly she had the place left to her, she shut it up and went away ? " " Yes. That must be nearly twenty years ago. How time flies ! " " I remember we came to the Vicarage just after she had gone, when Sylvia was a CH. i. ANNE PAGE 31 baby ; the year after your father died. It was a nine-days' wonder then. And I re- member the people at The Chase saying what a piece of luck it was for such a dowdy quiet woman to come into a fortune." " They can't say that now ! " observed the Vicar. " No. I never was so surprised in my life as the first time I saw her. That must be ten years ago now, George ? " "Yes. She was away ten years, and she's been back at the Court nearly the same time. That makes it about twenty years, as I thought. Dear me, it seems impos- sible ! " "She doesn't alter at all, does she? Her hair may have got a little whiter since I first saw her, but I believe she's prettier even. Well ! Foreign travel must be wonderful if it can change a plain, dowdy creature into a woman like Miss Page." " Money ! " exclaimed the Vicar, senten- tiously. " Money. It may be the root of all evil, but it's a great power a great power, Mary." " Mrs. Dakin's always very much over- dressed, isn't she ? " remarked his wife, as they approached the Vicarage porch. "Yes. Foolish little woman that foolish 32 ANNE PAGE CH. i. little woman. Take care how you get out, Mary ; the step is awkward." The sound of a high sweet voice floated out upon the darkness, and Mrs. Carfax looked up sharply at a lighted window on the first floor. " There's Sylvia singing ! " she exclaimed in an exasperated tone. " She'll wake all the children. Run up and tell her to stop at once, George! Really, she is the most annoying girl I ever met" II LEFT alone for a few moments while his hostess was making her farewells in the hall, Monsieur Fontenelle sat still admiring the beautiful room, quiet now, its long windows open to the night and to the sound of the whispering trees. Lighted by pink-shaded candles, its white panelled walls, its rose-patterned chintz curtains and chair-covers gave it an air of exquisite freshness and purity. Everywhere there were flowers. Roses glowed between the candles on the mantelpiece. China bowls rilled with sweet peas, with pink mallows, with snapdragon, stood on tables, or on the top of Sheraton bureaus. Even the deep fireplace was filled with flowering plants. Appreciatively, Monsieur Fontenelle glanced at the delicate workmanship of a Chippendale chair, noticed the graceful shape of a writing- table, and the beauty of an inlaid bookcase with a lattice-work of wood over its diamond panes. There were only one or two pictures on the walls, whose creamy surface made a 33 D 34 ANNE PAGE CH. n. restful background to the colour in the room. Monsieur Fontenelle examined them. His quick eye detected a Corot, a tiny sketch of Whistler's, and then on the wall opposite to him, a landscape at the sight of which a peculiar brightness sprang to his eyes. He crossed the room and stood looking at it. He was still looking at it when the rustle of a gown made him aware that Miss Page had come back. Then he turned. She was standing just within the door, watching him, and in her eyes also there was the same curious brightness. He looked at her a moment whimsically, without moving. " You are a wonderful woman ! " he ex- claimed at last, speaking in French. " Why ? " she returned in the same language. He shrugged his shoulders. " I leave that to the bon Dieu who made you. He's responsible, I suppose, for women of your type." She smiled without replying. " You tell me you're happy ? " he asked. " Quite happy, Frangois." Again he shrugged his shoulders. " Come, let us talk," he said, taking her by both hands and leading her to the sofa. " I only saw you for ten minutes this morning." CH. ii. ANNE PAGE 35 " Let us talk," she replied. And in French, " Ca me f era du bien" Instead of speaking at first, he looked at her. " Anne," he exclaimed after a moment, "you are amazing! How do you manage it ? You look younger than the day I first saw you." " But I was old then," she returned, shaking her head " very old. A woman who had done with life." He answered her seriousness with a slow smile. " Life had not done with you, had it ? " She did not reply, and with a change of voice, he said " So these are your neighbours." " Some of them. They are dear people. I can't tell you half their kindness to me." " It's not difficult to be kind to sweet Anne Page." She gave him a quick glance. " It's nice to hear the old name again." "No name ever suited a woman better. So you can live with the inhabitants of Dym- field without boring yourself to extinction ? But of course you can. I never saw you bored." " Boredom is a modern disease, isn't it ? And you know I am not a modern woman." 36 ANNE PAGE CH. n. " Thank God ! " he exclaimed wkh fervour. " The little woman whose pretty head I've been puzzling all the evening, suffers from it terribly, though." " Boredom ? You're very quick, Francois. You always were. Poor little thing ! " she added with a sigh. " Why ? Doesn't her husband amuse her ? " She shook her head. "No. It's one of those unnecessary tragedies of life. They don't try to understand one another. The material for happiness is all there, and they miss it. He's a dear fellow. Kind, and good ; and a scholar too, as of course you discovered." " Yes. You have one person at least with whom you need not talk in words of one syllable. "Words of one syllable are often the sweetest." He laughed. " You remind me of the lady from whose lips whenever she opened them, a flower fell. Your floors ought to be strewn with roses and violets by this time. But come ! I don't want to discuss your neighbours. I want to talk about you. Do you know that in ten years I have only seen you three times ? And you must have been through Paris very often. What have you to say for yourself? " "Twice when I went to your studio you CH. ii. ANNE PAGE 37 were away. The last time, the concierge told me you were with a lady." "Well?" " Well I didn't come up, of course." He laughed. " Anne ! You are the same Anne. So demure so discreet." " I thought you would have married by this time, Fran9ois," she said after a moment. He shook his head. " No dear Anne, you didn't. You know I am not the man to marry." She returned his glance. " You are right," she answered quietly. "You have become such a celebrity Fran9ois, that I ought to be afraid of you," she added. His face changed. " I have become a popular painter, you mean." " You are not satisfied ? " She put the question softly. He shrugged his shoulders. " One becomes what one is fit to become. I'm a lazy devil, Anne. It wasn't in me to bear the heat and burden of the day without my hire. I have learnt to give the public what it wants, and to laugh in my sleeve at its stupid shouting. The result is that in every paper the world is assured that I have achieved an international reputation. And next week I shall stand at the head of a staircase, solemnly shaking by 38 ANNE PAGE en. n. the hand, innumerable stupid people who know nothing, and care less about art, but have come because it is one of the functions of the season, to stare at the President of the International Art Congress. Quelle farce /" He laughed a little. " It seems far enough away from that summer twenty years ago, when we all sat in that garden," he nodded towards the open window, " and talked of our dreams and our ambitions. Ah ! we were going to revolutionize art, weren't we ? We were going to bring the world to our feet like the young painters in L'Oeuvre, do you remember ? The young painters who used to walk about Paris, talking, for ever talking, mad with hope and enthusiasm. And now ? Henri is writing o for La Presse . . . Sacri tonnerre de Dieu, as Lantier and Sandoz used to remark so fre- quently. What stuff! And how it pays ! (Henri has a flat, Rue Malesherbes Empire right through.) Paul has abandoned music, and is making vast sums on the Bourse, and I am President of the International Art Congress." He paused. "And Rene is dead," said Anne. There was a silence. The lamp-lit room with its colour and fragrance was very still. To both of them, their minds filled with the scenes of other days, it assumed for a moment CH. ii. ANNE PAGE 39 an air of brilliant unreality, like a room seen in a dream. Outside, the trees whispered very softly* " Whom the gods love " began Frangois. He rose abruptly, and moved to the pic- ture he had been examining when Anne entered. "That's the real stuff!" he exclaimed. "God! how good it is! How did you get this ? " he asked. " I bought it." He wheeled abruptly round. *' Have you much of his work ? " " I bought all I could get. The Bathers and The Forest are in my room upstairs." " Then France is the poorer by three masterpieces." " France will get them back at my death." " You have arranged that ? " She nodded. " They belong to his country, of course." He came and sat beside her again. " I told you that the Luxembourg had bought my portrait of you ? " " Yes. Dear Frangois the news gave me more pleasure than anything I have heard about you for a long time." " It was to be my masterpiece, if you remember. They're quite right. I've never 40 ANNE PAGE CH. ir. done anything to touch it since. It belongs to my youth." He saw that she was pale, and that her eyes looked sad. " I've distressed you. I'm a brute ! " he declared impulsively. " And we're not all hommes rates, thank Heaven ! Some of the men of the old Rue de Fleurus days are not to be despised." "Thouret, Bussieres, Giroux," murmured Anne. " Yes ; they have big names now. But after all Anne, it's you who have made an art of life. You're the only real success. You and Rend who was wise enough to die," he added. "Talk to me about Paris," Anne urged. " What is your new studio like ? Very gorgeous, I suppose ? " " It's the studio of a popular portrait- painter. Now you know all about it." " And the Duclos ? And Georges Pasteurs ? " He began to talk gaily, while she ques- tioned him, and they both laughed at reminis- cences. There was no end to her eager inquiries. "How you remember the people!" ex- claimed Fra^ois, presently. CH. ii. ANNE PAGE 41 " How can I forget ? " she asked. It was late when he rose to go. " To-morrow, early I start for London, to prepare for the fuss of next week. I'm glad you won't be there, Anne." His whimsical mocking smile met her as she raised her eyes. " I should prefer you not to see your old friend playing the solemn fool." He shrugged his shoulders. " Well ! One can't have everything, and I have five thousand a year. It's enough to make one comfortable." " But not happy," she said gently. " That, till forty, depends on one's tempera- ment. Afterwards on one's dinner. I'm very happy to-night. Your cook was chosen with your usual discretion. She laughed. "You will be coming through Paris this winter ? " " Not to stay. Paris hurts me a little, old woman as I am. On my way back, in the spring perhaps." He kissed her hand. " Most certainly in the spring. It's au revoir? Ill AN hour after her friend had gone, Miss Page sat by the open window in her bedroom. The room was full of moonlight, for she had put out the candles and drawn back the curtains. Somewhere in the garden, or near it, a nightingale was singing. Deep shadows lay across the lawn, and all the trees were dreaming. Far out, the meadows covered with a light mist, were like a mystic silver-flooded sea. For a long time Anne did not move. Her long talk had revived memories. They crowded so swiftly to her mind that she grew bewildered, and as though impelled by a sudden impulse to seek relief, she rose and crossed the room to a tall bureau opposite the window. Its interior revealed a number of pigeon- holes, and tiny cupboards with brass knobs. Pressing a spring under one of these, a deep drawer sprang open. She felt in its recesses for a moment, and 42 CH. in. ANNE PAGE 43 presently drew out a book bound in a linen cover. Then lighting a candle and placing it on the table near the window, she resumed her seat. In the quiet air the candle flame burnt clear and steady, and opening the book, Anne began to read a journal begun in her childhood. The volume was an ordinary thick exercise book such as schoolgirls use, and on the first page, in a large childish hand, was written "Anne Page, " Tuft on Street, " Dalsfon, "London, 1 8 . " This is my birthday," it began. " I am twelve to-day, and I have made up my mind to keep a diary like Charlotte and Emily and Anne Bronte. At least I think they didn't exactly keep a diary. They wrote down what they were all doing at a certain time, and then four years afterwards, they opened their papers and compared notes. I think that was a good plan. But I shall write in my book once a year, on my birthday. So few things happen to me that I dare say that will be quite enough. " As I have never written a journal before, I will say all I can remember about myself before this birthday. Perhaps if I don't, I shall have forgotten it by the time I'm old. 44 ANNE PAGE CH. in. " I live at Dalston, and father is one of the curates at St. Jude's. Mother died when I was two years old, so I don't remember her. She left me her watch and chain and two bracelets. I have one brother Hugh, but last year he ran away from home, and went to sea. He ran away because he wasn't happy. Father was very strict with him. It is a good thing to be a boy, and be able to run away. I can't, because girls can't be sailors, and there's nowhere to run to. I miss Hugh dreadfully. He was fourteen, and he was very nice to me. I still cry about him sometimes at night. But it's no good. " Our house is very ugly. It's in a street. It has a little back garden, but nothing will grow there because it's full of cats. " I have a governess. Her name is Miss Atkins. She comes every day at half-past nine, and gives me lessons till twelve. Then we go for a walk. But there are no nice walks here. In the afternoon I do needlework, and learn my lessons for the next day, and Miss Atkins goes at six o'clock. She has corkscrew curls, and her hair is sandy like Thomas, our cat. She is cross every arithmetic day, because I can't do arithmetic. But she says it's because I won't, but that is not true. I like history and poetry, and all about the poets and writers. CH. m. ANNE PAGE 45 And especially Shakespeare. Sometimes I read out of Lamb's tales for my reading lesson. I should like to read out of Shakespeare, but Miss Atkins won't let me. She says it isn't fit. I don't know why she says this, because I have found a Shakespeare in father's study, and some of it is beautiful. I like the Midsummer-Night's Dream, and Romeo and Juliet. The Shakespeare is the only nice book in the house. Most of them are sermons, and about religion. " I'm going to put a wicked thing in this book, so I must be careful always to lock it up. I dorit like religion. "Miss Atkins says she loves God, and I asked her whether father did. She was shocked, and said of course he did, because he was a curate. I wish he loved me, but I don't think he does. He is nearly always cross, and I'm always being punished." Miss Page let the book fall on to her lap. Mechanically she turned her face towards the meadows with their islands of motionless trees emerging from the mists. But she did not see them. The childish words, already consider- ably more than forty years old, already a little yellow and faded, had brought into sight instead, the dreary house in Tufton Street. 46 ANNE PAGE CH. in. With the clearness and precision of actual vision, she saw the narrow staircase covered with oilcloth, which led up to the bedroom in which she had spent so many hours of solitary confinement. She saw the pattern on the shabby wall- paper. She saw her little iron bedstead, covered with a counterpane of thick white material, with a raised pattern upon its surface ; the curtains of dingy drab rep on either side of a red blind; the outlook across a leaden street, swept by wind and rain. She thought of her father, a morose, irritable man whose persistent bad temper, condoned to himself under the guise of necessary chastise- ment, had driven her brother from the house. She remembered him in the clothes of his office, shabby and ill-cut, going doggedly about the duties which in later years she knew had been uncongenial. Half reluctantly Anne took up the book again. " I said that nothing ever happened to me. But one lovely thing happened last year. I went to stay at Dymfield, with Mr. and Mrs. Burbage. Mr. Burbage was some relation to my mother a cousin, I think. Anyhow they wrote to father, and asked him to let me come. CH. m. ANNE PAGE 47 Their house is called Fairholme Court, and it is a lovely house, only the furniture is ugly (except upstairs in some of the bedrooms, where Mrs. Burbage can't see it). Mrs. Bur- bage is very funny. She was kind to me, and I liked her rather, but not nearly so much as Mr. Burbage. I liked him better than any one I ever saw, though he doesn't talk much, but reads all day long. Perhaps that's what makes his eyes look so tired and sad. He has a lovely study full of books, and he let me read anything I liked. It was there that I read about Charlotte and Emily and Anne Bronte. They are very interesting, but I wish Emily had been called Anne, like me, instead of the youngest one. I like Emily best. And I read Hans Andersen too, and when I came away Mr. Burbage gave it to me. It is the loveliest book in the world. My favourite story is ' The Little Sea Maid.' Some day when I am grown up, I will go to places where there are orange trees, and marble palaces, and the sea is quite blue. " My bedroom was so pretty. It was like a room in a fairy-tale. There was furniture with spindly legs in it ; the kind of furniture Mrs. Burbage said "was ugly and old-fashioned. But I thought it was very pretty. There were white curtains to the bed, and the wall-paper 48 ANNE PAGE CH. in. had pink rosebuds on it, and the window was like a little door with lots of tiny panes, and it pushed outwards. There was clematis all round the window, and white roses which tried to grow into the room. In the morning I used to hear the birds chirping in their nests, and then I used to jump out of bed, and see the sun rising over the fields. And the garden was all shining with dew, and everything look enchanted. " I was there a month, while Miss Atkins was away for her holiday, and I was too happy. But now I shall never go there again, because father has had a quarrel with Mr. Burbage. It was something about me, I think." Her eyes still fixed on the round hand- writing, Anne's memory was working. Years later she knew that her old friend had once loved her mother, his cousin and play- fellow. At her father's death she had found, on going through his papers, the letter in which he had offered to provide for the child of the woman who would not be his wife. It was a letter full of tact and delicate feeling, but it indicated how much of the little girl's loneli- ness he knew and understood. He pointed out that companions of her own age were necessary for the happy development CH. in. ANNE PAGE 49 of her temperament. He wanted to educate her with some neighbour's children, so that she might live at Fairholme Court, in the country which she loved. She was not strong, he declared, and London air obviously did not suit her. There would of course be no attempt to separate her from her father. She could return to him during the holidays, when- ever he wished to see her. It was a letter written from full knowledge of the circumstances. He knew the atmosphere of struggling poverty in which Anne, as the daughter of a curate with an income of little more than a hundred a year, passed her existence. He knew also that the man had little tender- ness for his daughter, and he hoped that his suggestion might come as a relief. Even at the age of twelve, Anne could have undeceived him. Already, unable as yet to put her know- ledge into definite form, she knew her father well. Gloomy and morose, a man of narrow intelligence and invincible obstinacy, he re- sented any overtures which to his mind savoured of patronage. In later years Anne knew the bitterness of his life. 50 ANNE PAGE CH. HI. The son of a rich stockbroker, he had just finished his course at Cambridge when the financial ruin, which killed his father, struck the death-blow to his own ambitions also. He had been reading for the Church, with dreams, easy as it then seemed to be realized, of a splendid living, and a possible bishopric. The girl to whom he was engaged, the daughter of an impoverished Irish landlord, was penniless. She refused to give him up, and he married her, after taking orders, and entering the Church as a miserably paid curate. Together they settled in the dingy little house near the Church of St. Jude, at Dalston, to prove that love in poverty was a different matter from the same emotion experienced in affluence. Henry Page was not strong enough to bear misfortune well. His temper, naturally irrational and im- patient of hardship a temper which it would have required much material prosperity to soften, became soured and exacting under the stress of daily anxious necessity. Five years after their marriage, his young wife, crushed and saddened, gave up the struggle and died, leaving her two children in no very gentle hands. The boy, determined to call his life his en. in. ANNE PAGE 51 own, had cut the knot of uncongenial family existence by flight. Anne was left. Miss Page turned over the leaves of the exercise book slowly. On the whole, the child she remembered had kept her resolution fairly well. " To-day is my birthday. I am thirteen. I am fifteen. I am seventeen.' 1 The words marking another year met her eyes constantly as she fluttered the pages. Several times there was a mention of Hugh. She had heard from him. He was getting on. He hoped some day to be captain of a trading vessel. He had sent her some funny writing-paper from Japan. Another time it was a pressed flower, or some curious seeds from the South Sea Islands. Once this was recorded after her seven- teenth birthday he had come home for a week. " He is nineteen, and so brown and hand- some and strong," was the remark in the journal. " He did not get on well with father. He told him that I ought to go away that I had no friends, and that my life was very dull. Father was terribly angry. Now Hugh has gone, and I'm wretched wretched. The house is so quiet. I can hear the clock in 52 ANNE PAGE CH. in. the hall ticking even when I'm upstairs in my bedroom. It is raining, and the sky is like lead." Anne still turned the leaves. There were big gaps in the journal, but if they had been filled, the word across the page would have been the classic nothing of the diary of Louis XVI. In thought Anne went back over the long, dreary years the incredibly empty years of a woman whom lack of means as well as lack of opportunity cuts off from the world. A woman moreover, whose youth was spent under conditions less elastic, less favour- able to development than those of modern days. The cold bare nave of St. Jude's rose vividly in her mind. She saw the pews full of women in frowsy faded bonnets the bonnets of Dalston. She saw the parish room lighted by un- shaded gas-burners, in which, shy as she was, she had held classes for work-mrls. Aq^ain