# The Redemption of Anthony/Chapter 1

THE REDEMPTION OF ANTHONY
CHAPTER I
"I FEEL that this night has witnessed Venus presiding over the feast of Lucullus, while at her right hand sparkled the wit of Æschylus—he was a wit, wasn't he?"
Mr. Peter Schuyler bent low over Mrs. Kaley Martin's hand.
"Good gracious, Peter, you're getting awfully complicated!"
"Well, in words of one syllable, what I wish to say is that you look your loveliest, Tony was great, and I've had a splendid time."
"For all of which I am exceedingly grateful. You off, too, Nan?"
"I am. Peter, move on, so I can say my ​'day-day.' I've had a very nice time, Louise, and lost my heart to The Parson."
"Good! Isn't he a dear? But I warn you, Nan, that you're to let him alone. He's much too nice for you to play with."
"My dear, he's actually clever! Think of anything in the church being clever! And he never said one word about my sins!"
"He knew there was no time—at a dinner."
"Au contraire, he thinks I'm a sort of worldly angel. See if he doesn't—here he comes." Mrs. Crompton nodded gaily at the handsome man approaching his hostess, and went on.
"I have to thank you, my dear Mrs. Martin, for a very pleasant evening," The Parson said. "Such a delightful woman—Mrs. Crompton—real spiritual quality."
"Spiritual, did you say, Parson?" Mrs. Martin laughed. "I should never have thought of that adjective for Mrs. Crompton."
​"No? She seemed so to me. When does the little girl arrive, Mrs. Martin?"
"Priscilla? She comes to-morrow at five."
"Good! I shall come soon to see her, if I may. Good night."
"Good night."
He passed on toward the dressing-room, and a voice behind her said: "Well?" She turned, to face Mrs. Crompton's laughing eyes.
"He thinks you have 'spiritual quality'—them's his words," she gibed.
"Dear old soul!" Mrs. Crompton said.
"I remembered that hundred and fifty I won last week at bridge, and promised him an altar-cloth. Spiritual quality—that's great!"
She disappeared, laughing, and one by one the guests departed, until the door finally closed upon the last, and Mrs. Martin turned, with a sigh of relief, to the man who stood waiting.
"Shall I go?" he asked.
"Oh, no—smoke here."
​He rolled an armchair toward the fire, and when she was comfortably ensconced he turned off the electric lights and came and stood before her in the firelight, looking down at her.
"Well?" said she, looking up at him.
"Well," he replied, lighting a cigar.
"Aren't you going to say anything pleasant, Tony?"
"It was a great success."
"Oh, the dinner—yes; but—"
"But what?"
"Tony, you're so unsatisfactory! Why can't you say that I never looked better in my life; that I made an exceptionally difficult dinner go by sheer force of will; that you think I'm the eighth wonder of the world, and a few comfy things like that?"
He blew smoke leisurely before he answered. "What's the use? I think it, and you know it, so what's the use of babbling about it?"
"How like a man! It's the babbling that counts; not the truth."
​"What nonsense!"
"It's not nonsense. If you think agreeable things, it's your Christian duty to say them. It helps more than anything in the world."
"Well, everybody else has done his Christian duty to-night, so can't you let me off?"
"No—for you're the only one who counts."
"I don't know, you know. I always put my foot in it when I try."
Mrs. Martin sighed and smiled. "No matter—it's really too hard work to extract it. You were great at the table. I should never have swung it without you."
"Ground out a few ancient tales—that's all I did. You were the whole thing."
"I had a splendid time. I felt as if it were my last fling."
"Your last fling?"
"Yes. To-morrow, you know—"
"To-morrow? Well, what happens tomorrow?"
"Priscilla comes home."
​"Priscilla? Oh, yes, the girl. Well, what's the difference?"
"Mrs. Kaley Martin, the mother of a débutante, is not the same person as this Mrs. Kaley Martin."
"What difference can she make in your life?"
"I don't know—she may make none; and yet I have a feeling, a foreboding, that she is going to make a great deal."
"What sort of a girl is this daughter of yours, anyhow?"
"I don't know—really, I don't. I've never gotten at her much. You see, she's been away to school for so long, and before that there were governesses—" She leaned toward him impulsively. "Tony, do you think it's a horrible thing for me not to want this strange young woman to come here and interfere with my whole scheme of life?"
"She'll probably marry."
"I don't know—perhaps. She's rather pretty, I think; but she is not clever."
​"That won't hurt her chances any. Most men prefer the other kind—at home."
Mrs. Martin looked at him fixedly a moment. "I wonder what she'll think of you, Tony?"
He flicked his ashes into the grate. "I assure you it's a matter of total indifference to me. I don't like girls."
"I suppose she'll think it's shocking for an old lady like me to have a beau."
"Am I a beau?"
"Aren't you?"
"No; I'm your creature—a thing you made with your own hands."
"Don't. I only helped you use what the gods gave you."
"You only saved what I was determined to destroy. Don't think I don't know what you've done, Louise."
"Tony, if you should thank me, I'd hate you!" she flung out at him.
"Even I couldn't be so altogether banal as that."
The silence grew heavy.
​"Perhaps the girl is going to bring you a new interest."
"Perhaps"—indifferently.
"She may prove a great comfort to you. You must be lonely sometimes—"
"Tony, you talk like an old woman. Go home—do!"
"You deny that you're lonely?"
"I never think of it. I haven't thought of myself for three years."
"What have you been thinking of?"
"Your success."
"My success! Well, I suppose most people would say that it had come."
She looked at him quizzically. "Most people! What was the sale of the last book? Three editions in—how long was it?"
"Editions? You don't measure success by editions. Do you think I've succeeded?"
"Splendidly."
"You're sure?"
"Quite sure. To me you succeeded from that day you came to me and said: 'From this day I'll never touch a drop to drink.'"
​"Lord, what a drunken sot I was! What on earth ever gave you the hint that there was a spark in me worth saving, Louise?"
"You haven't forgotten that night we met at the Carltons'? How delightfully you talked about your work and your ideals—"
Drake broke in crisply. "And then drank too much champagne and blubbered my failures, I remember only too well, unfortunately. The question is, why did you send for me later?"
"Because I thought it might prove worth while to redeem you."
He laughed. "I remember I tossed up to see whether or not I'd come in answer to your note."
"You were a perfect bear at first; determined not to be patronized, nor made friends with."
"What a brute I must have been, dear!"
She winced, and smiled up at him. "You were an uncouth creature those days, Tony. I feel quite proud of you now when I think back to them."
​"How you lugged me up, didn't you?—step by step! Why, I don't think I ever knew a lady until I knew you."
"Nonsense!"
"Don't belittle any of it. You shamed me into being a decent creature, and what I am I owe to you. I've worked like a slave these three years just to prove to you that you weren't mistaken—that there was something to save, perhaps—and now, as far as the world goes, I'm a successful man."
"Why do you say, 'as far as the world goes'? Don't you consider yourself successful?"
"No, there's no such thing. I write books and they sell, and so some little men who call themselves critics say I'm the hope of the future, and such rot. Does that make me a big man? Does it make me a happy man? Does it make my life rounded, complete?"
He walked to and fro, out of the light into the shadow and back again, Mrs. Martin watching him.
​"What you need is change. Why not go away for awhile? Why not go abroad?"
"I can't. I must work."
"Take your work along."
"Will you go, too?"
"I? I can not. There's Priscilla—"
"Then I can't go. I can't work without you"—impatiently.
"You haven't tried."
"There's no use trying. I know. Your judgment, your taste—I must have them until I'm bigger, surer of myself."
"And then?",
He stopped as if she had interrupted a train of thought. "What?"
"Nothing—nothing."
"Do you think it's been worth your while?"
"Eminently."
"And what have you gotten out of it—except a little vicarious joy?"
"I'm essential to you in your work—you've just said it—that is my reward."
He drew a chair up beside her and took ​her hand. "And now, what next?" he said.
She rose and walked away from him, breathing heavily. "I'm too tired to-night to talk of—that."
"What a selfish brute I am not to remember that! I'll go."
"Yes, please do."
She came to him and gave him both her hands, and he held them closely a minute, looking at her. Suddenly and for the first time he took her in his arms and kissed her lips; then without a word he went out, and Mrs. Martin hid her face in her hands for joy, and—wept.