Chapter IX

While Athalie was thus engaged her father and Silver were wandering through the quiet graveyard, talking of the past. The man found himself telling his child about his own boyhood, his aunt, his uncle, the old minister, the long sweet services in the quaint old church. There was no bitterness in his voice now as he spoke of the religion of those who had brought him up. Something softening had come upon him. He hardly understood himself.

And then suddenly they had come upon the young minister, stooping over a little new made grave, working with some violet plants in full bloom, planting them in the mellow soil until the little mound became a lovely couch.

They did not see him until they were almost upon him, and then he rose quickly, his hands covered with earth, his hat on the back of his head, his dark hair curling in little moist waves about his white forehead, and a light of welcome in his face:

“I’m just fixing up this place a bit before the mother comes,” he explained. “It looked so desolate and bare, and this was her only child!” He stooped again and pressed the earth firmly about the violets, with strong capable fingers, arranging the plants as he talked till the whole little mound was one mass of lovely bloom. Then he rose, dusted the earth away from his hands and strolled along with them.

“Would you like a glimpse of the old church?” he flashed a smile at Silver.

“Oh, I would!” she exclaimed eagerly, “grandmother used to tell me stories of my father’s home, all she knew, and she always told about the old church. Mother was here—once—wasn’t she?” She looked up shyly at her father who was walking absent mindedly, sadly beside the young people, his hands clasped behind him as if his thoughts were far in the past. He started as she asked the question, and a pain seemed to stab into his eyes as of one who is suddenly brought to view something long lost and very dear:

“Yes, yes! Your mother was here! On our wedding trip! We went to church. We sat in the old pew. She wore a little white hat with white flowers on it, and a thin blue dress—!” It was as if he were musing over a beloved picture. The minister and the girl exchanged swift understanding glances.

“We will go in,” said the young man, “I have the key.”

He unlocked the old oaken door and the sunshine poured behind them into the ancient hall, lighting up the well-kept red ingrain carpet and meeting the sunshine that poured down from a stained glass window above in curious blended dancing colors like the pattern of some well-remembered hymn sacred to many services held within those holy courts.

Patterson Greeves walked beside the young Alice as he had walked beside her mother up those stairs to the assembly room above, so many years ago, and saw again in imagination the eager friends of his youth leaning over the grained oak railing to get the first glimpse of the bride. Felt again the swell of pride in the girl he had chosen, remembered the look of pleasure in the eyes of his Uncle Standish as he met them at the head of the stairs and escorted them down the aisle to the pew, and Alice’s smile as she looked up at him. Ah! That he had thought was to be the beginning of life! And only one short year it lasted! Then all turned to bitterness and night! Fool that he had been that he had thought anything so heavenly could have lasted on this earth! That he had believed there existed a God who cared for him and planned for him! Ah! Well—! Bitterness!

The blood rolled over his frame in a sickly, prickly, smothering wave, and he mopped his brow with his handkerchief, and wondered why he had let himself in for this sort of thing after all these years? Why had he come down to the old church so full of memories?

Then he lifted his eyes to his girl who stood in the open doorway of the assembly room now, framed in all her girlish beauty against the background of the rich coloring of the church, its jewelled windows casting rich fantastic lights in a rainbow flood of beauty, glancing away from the cluster of gilt organ pipes, glinting the gold fringe of the pulpit Bible bookmark, focussing on the blood red of the bright old carpet, and beating it into a tessellated aisle of precious gems, mellowing the age worn woodwork of the square high pews, and the carvings of the pulpit and red plush pulpit chairs. There was something in the look of his girl as she stood there against that background with all the heritage of her grandfather’s and grandmother’s religion behind her that took away the pain again, and made him watch her breathlessly, and trace out every likeness to the mother who was gone, made him glad that she had come in spite of all the pain. Even glad of the pain, if it brought this vision.

The minister was explaining about the organ. “Not a wonderful organ, and a bit old, but one of the good old makes, and with two or three beautiful stops.” Did she play? She did. He was sure she did. Wouldn’t she try the organ?

“Her mother could play! Oh, she could play!”

Greeves had spoken without intending, but the other two gave no sign that they had seen the emotion in his face.

“Yes, I know,” the girl said quietly. “I studied with her teacher for two years. He was an old man but he was wonderful. After he died grandfather sent me away to study for awhile.”

They lingered nearly an hour in the church, the girl drawing sweet harmonies from the old yellow keys, the minister lingering near, calling for this and that favorite, while Greeves sat long in the old family pew and read without seeing them the old familiar texts twined among the fresco, “THE LORD IS IN HIS HOLY TEMPLE. LET ALL THE EARTH KEEP SILENCE BEFORE HIM.” Even now after the years it sounded a certain note of awe in his soul, an echo of the old days when God was real and life a rare vista before him. There were the same old windows. He used to count the medallions in the border when the sermon was unusually long. There was the shepherd and the lambs, and the first verse of the twenty-third psalm. There was the storm one, purple clouds driven hard across an iron sky, trees and shrubs bowing before it, and the inscription, “FOR IN THE TIME OF TROUBLE HE SHALL HIDE ME IN HIS PAVILLION. IN THE SECRET OF HIS TABERNACLE SHALL HE HIDE ME.”

How firmly he used to believe in that when he was a child! How truly he expected to take refuge in that tabernacle if any storm overtook him! And how far he was now from any refuge. What a farce it had been! Beautiful while it lasted. But a farce! He drew himself up with a shudder of disgust at it all and the tones of the organ caught him as Silver’s fingers trailed over the keys while she talked in low tones with the minister:

“Nearer my God to Thee,
Nearer to Thee—”

It had been Aunt Lavinia’s favorite, and it stung its way into his soul in spite of his intention otherwise. He could hear her singing it, twilights in the nursery when she held him on her lap, his earliest remembrance, while her eyes watched the evening sky grow red and gray and deepen into starry blue, and the look about her mouth told him even in his baby days that there was something sad back somewhere in her life, something that she might have given up, possibly for him.

“Nearer my God to Thee, E’en though it be a cross—”

He could hear the gentle murmur of her timid voice in that very pew as he had sat beside her many years. Ah! The tears stung into his eyes unaccountably after all these years. And he? His song had been:

“Farther my God from Thee,
Farther from Thee—!”

How Aunt Lavinia would have agonized in prayer before her deep old wing-chair if she could have known! He had seen her kneeling once thus, in her decorous high-necked long-sleeved night dress with the little tatted ruffles round her throat and wrists, her eyes closed, her gentle face illuminated with a wistful joy that had awed him, her lips murmuring softly words of pleading for him:

“O God, bless our little Pat. Make him grow up a good man, loving God more than all else in life! Make him sorry for his sins! Make him love righteousness and hate wrong—”

The words were indelibly graven on his soul. He had not thought of them in years but they were there just as sharply discernible as when that day he stole into her room to ask some trivial request for the next day’s pleasure, and came upon her unaware, and stood breathless as in the presence of the Most High, stealing away on tiptoe not to disturb her, lying wakeful in his bed till far into the night—! Ah! He turned sharply toward the two and his voice jarred a discord as he spoke to break the spell of solemnity.

“Come home with us and take dinner! Bannard!”

He had not intended to give that invitation. It had been the farthest from his thoughts but a moment before, his tongue had spoken without leave. But now that it was given he found ease in the thought of a guest. Why not? He liked the young man. A guest more or less made little difference in the strange make up of his sudden family. Perhaps it might even help out the embarrassing situation. But he was not prepared for the quick lighting of the young man’s face.

“That would be great!” he responded, “But—” and his eyes sought the girl’s face for the flicker of a glance. “Are you quite sure you want—guests this first evening?”

“Oh, yes, come along!” said Greeves impatiently, half sorry now he had asked him, yet determined not to go back on his invitation. And Silver’s eyes gave him pleasant impersonal welcome.

“I’ll be there at five o’clock,” he said looking at his watch, “I must meet the little mother out in the cemetery first, and there’s an old man who is dying—I must drop in there a few moments. I think I can make it by five. Will that be too soon? There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk over with you ever since I knew you were coming. Will you have a few minutes to spare?”

“Make it by five and we’ll have tea in the garden. Silver-Alice can you make tea?” His tone was a shy attempt at playfulness but it brought a great light into the girl’s eyes as she turned a sparkling face:

“Oh, surely!”

“Then make it five. I acquired a foreign habit of drinking tea in the afternoon while I was over there. We’ll have plenty of time for a talk then. We dine at seven.” Then suddenly it occurred to him that he had another daughter awaiting him and that the prospect was anything but pleasant, so with an almost brusque manner he took a hasty leave. Turning back at the very door he said to the minister: “Oh, by the way. What has become of that young person, Blink, I think you called him? We had an engagement with him this morning, hadn’t we? I had completely forgotten it. Do you know where I could find him to make my apologies?”

“He is washing my car at present,” laughed the minister, “I shall see him before long and can carry your message. You needn’t worry about Blink. He is very wise for his years.”

“Well, suppose you tell him to drop in to dinner at seven. Tell him we’ll talk over bait after dinner.”

Terrence Bannard’s eyes registered appreciation.

“Thank you,” said he, “I doubt if he’ll come. He’s shy and proud among ladies, but he’ll appreciate the invitation.”

“Oh, that’s all right!” said the older man not in the least realizing that he was getting a party of proportions on his hands, but determined to discharge his obligations to the young friend of the evening before. “Tell him to come. I liked him.”

They were gone down the maple-shaded street, and the minister stood for an instant in the doorway watching the graceful girl as she walked beside her father, with a look in his eyes which would have brought the spy glasses of his congregation to play upon him if any had been there to tell the tale.

Meanwhile, Athalie, never long content at a time, grew restless under her story, and wriggling out from the finery on the bed stole to the door and listened. All was quiet belowstairs save a distant subdued kitchen sound somewhere off toward the back. That impudent housekeeper was away about her business. Now was Athalie’s time to pry.

Removing her shoes and substituting blue satin mules she stole cautiously down the hall, and tried her father’s door, the front room on the same side of the hall with her own, but separated by deep closets, one belonging to her room, the other to his.

She stood curiously staring about. It was a boy’s room, with college photographs and pennants, football groups, and Lacrosse sticks, being its chief adornings. Only a Gladstone bag fitted with toilet articles, and a locked suitcase gave evidence of the entrance of the owner after the years of absence. Patterson Greeves had been too weary and too perturbed to unpack or make any changes since his arrival the night before. Athalie made very sure that there was nothing among his belongings to give any clue to his present character. She went stealthily from bag to suitcase, even opened bureau drawers, but no picture, or letter or anything was brought to light that might be of possible interest, though she conducted her search with the manner and wisdom of a young detective.

Coming out she closed the door again and stole across the hall to the room that had been Aunt Lavinia’s.

Her eyes took in the details sharply, the old-fashioned neatness and comfort, the quiet beauty of the room, and the fact that the other girl had been taken there rather than herself, the front room, the best room in the house, with the big sunny windows to the street and at the side! Jealousy filled her heart and her full petulant lips came out in ugly lines. She walked quickly to the bed, snatched Silver’s hat and gloves and flung them across the room behind a chair. She took up her handbag and went through it carefully, ruthlessly, tearing in half and restoring to its silken pocket a small photograph of a woman, the woman whose portrait was down stairs she felt sure. Then she went over to the closet and flung wide the door. After a moment’s survey of two or three shrouded dresses of ancient fashion that hung there she gathered them up and flung them on a chair. Then she went back to her own room and selected an armful of her gayest garments and returning began to hang them on the hooks.

All at once she became aware that someone was near, and turning, her arms still half full of finery, she found herself facing Silver.

Not in the least abashed she looked her up and down contemptuously a full second before either spoke. Then Athalie spoke:

“Well! Who are _you_?” she asked rudely.

“I beg your pardon,” said Silver hesitating on the threshold, “am I intruding? Have I made a mistake? I was told this was my room—”

“Well, it _isn’t_,” said Athalie roughly, “I’m going to take it myself! I don’t like the room that old frump gave me so I’m moving over here. You can have my room when I get out if you’re going to stay over night. I’m Athalie Greeves, and this is my father’s house, so _what I say goes_!”

Silver stood quite still for an instant, the smile frozen on her lips, her eyes taking in the details of this impossible sister, her ears trying to refuse the evidence of the sounds they had heard. Something seemed to flicker and go out in her face, a stricken look flitted over it, succeeded by a sweet dignity and a lifting of her chin that in another might have amounted to haughtiness. Then she said quietly:

“I see. Well, I will not trouble you.”

She walked over to the other side of the bed, recovered her hat and gloves, took up her handbag, and went out and down the stairs. Athalie did not stop to notice where she went nor care. She went on arranging her garments on the hooks, an ugly expression on her heavy young brow.

Silver passed quietly down stairs and found an unobtrusive resting place for hat and gloves on the console in the depth of the wide hall, and then went on to the now open door that gave to a wide bricked terrace with the garden just below, reached by mossy brick steps set in the sod, and edged by crocuses and daffodils. Beyond, a flare of color and the perfume of hyacinths and tulips lured the senses, and the subtle breath of lilies-of-the-valley stole from out the deep green border of the terrace. Silver stood for a moment looking out and trying to quiet the excited beating of her heart from the encounter. Trying to think what she ought to do. Wondering why her father had said nothing about this strange inmate of the house. Wondering why she had forgotten to ask him who the girl was she had seen on the stairs when she arrived. Thinking that in all likelihood the attitude of this other girl would make even a visit to her father impossible, and grieving at the thought.

Already Molly and Anne Truesdale were bustling about, setting out a leaved table on the terrace, spreading it with fine old embroidered linen and delicate cups of other days, quaint heavy silver, plates of delectable cookies, and squares of spicy gingerbread. The pleasant garden and the bright show of flowers, the coming guest and the air of happiness seemed not to belong to her. She felt a sudden loneliness, as if she were intruding, abashed in the presence of the things she could enjoy, appalled by the fact of this other girl in the house. The story then had been true that they had heard, that there had been a child by her father’s second marriage. And she must have lived instead of dying as rumor had brought to them. Her father had never written a word about either birth or death to her grandfather and grandmother. She wondered again why? Her loyal heart refused to admit that her father had been wrong. He was her father. Perhaps there was some excuse. Perhaps there was some explanation.

Sudden tears came at this juncture and threatened to overflow. In a panic she withdrew into the shadows of the hall lest the servants should see her, and almost ran into her father’s arms as he came down toward the door to see if his orders had been understood. He passed a loving arm around her, gently, as if he were almost afraid to touch her, almost shyly, she thought, and he whispered very low:

“I’m glad you’ve come—Silver-Alice!”

Then Anne bustled in to ask some question and Silver slipped back to the library for a moment searching for her handkerchief, and so got control of herself. She came back to walk down the terrace with her father and see the places where he used to play as a child, and hear all about the old fountain and the fairy tales he used to make up about it. Walking thus she almost forgot the sister upstairs who was so ungracious, almost forgot that sometime she would have to speak about her if her father did not speak first.

There was a cloud on her father’s brow. She noticed it first as they paused beside the sun-dial and she traced the line of clear-cut shadow half between the four and five of the quaint old figures. A sun-dial. How delightful! It was like digging up antiquities. Her heart leaped to the poetry of it. Then she looked up and saw the shadow on the stern sad face above her. Something was troubling him. What was it? Her presence here? Perhaps he knew how distasteful it was to the girl upstairs, and he did not know what to do. Perhaps it was best for her not to stay at all—perhaps—!

She put out a wistful hand and touched his sleeve:

“Father!”

“Yes,” he said as if answering the thought of her heart. “There is something I must tell you, child. Come over to the old arbor and let us sit down. It is—unpleasant.”

“Is it about—Athalie, father?” she asked as she turned to follow him.

He stopped and looked at her astonished.

“How did you know? Had any one sent you word she was coming?” with quick suspicion in his voice. Lilla was quite capable of preparing such a setting for the advent of her daughter. She seemed to have a sort of demoniacal insight into what would be exquisite torture for him. But Silver shook her head.

“Oh, no. But I saw her standing on the stairs behind you when I arrived, and again up stairs just now. She was moving her things into the room where I had laid off my hat. She asked me who I was. I am almost sure she does not like my coming. I think—father—_dear_, it isn’t quite convenient for you to have me visit you just now. I believe it would be better if I went back tonight and perhaps came again later, in a few years when she is older, or away on a visit or something. I would not like to make you trouble. And it has been wonderful to see you and to talk with you for even this short time. I shall never feel quite alone in the world again now that I know I have a father—_such_ a father!”

“Stop!” His voice was choked with consternation, anger, something else that sounded almost like humility! Strange to see that expression sitting unaccustomedly on Patterson Greeves’ haughty features.

“Don’t say any more things like that Silver,” he said brokenly, “I can’t bear them. It is bad enough to have got in such a mess. Bad enough to have a daughter like that! Bad enough to have her come here unannounced—she came only a few minutes before you did—without having you reproach me by flying up and leaving. You _cannot_ leave me now my child! You must stay by and help me. _I need you!_”

“Oh, father, dear!” She put out a loving hand to his arm again and he drew her within his embrace and down the path toward the summer house.

It was so that Athalie saw them as coming to the window of her own room, her arms full of more finery, she stood and gazed. Suddenly she dropped her armful, and great jealous tears of rage welled into her large bold eyes. From her handsome full lips a smothered sound almost like a roar of some enraged young animal came and was quickly suppressed. For a moment she watched then she turned about and began to search wildly among the confusion of clothing on bed and chairs, and to hastily array herself in other attire.