# The Redemption of Anthony/Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV
OUTSIDE, the carriage doors closed with an unremitting bang-bang-bang, and the crowd of guests hurried on past the idle crowd of onlookers, up the stairs to the dressing-rooms, whence later it merged itself into the stream flowing into the ballroom.
It seemed to Priscilla as if the whole world was marching up to her, shaking her by the hand, greeting her monotonously, and passing on again. She stood beside her mother, very straight, her head up, her face flushed, determined not to disgrace this glorious mother of hers, no matter what the cost. But it seemed strange to her that any one could think this clatter and crowding pleasant.
Her thoughts flew back to the little school dances which constituted her idea ​of social events, when the girls with handkerchiefs tied about their arms were the only men; then she looked about her at the beautiful ballroom—a dazzle of lights—the brilliant throng that moved about it, and men—there were apparently thousands. She glanced up at her mother, who was fairly radiant to-night, and recalled Mrs. Crompton's remarks in passing: "You may call it your swan-song, if you like, Louise, but it's the best song I ever heard you sing!" Whatever it meant, her mother had laughed gaily.
"I don't often go to balls, Miss Priscilla," said a familiar voice, "but I couldn't resist the temptation of coming to yours."
"Oh, goody!" she cried impulsively as she came out of her dream to find The Parson shaking her hand.
The Parson and Mrs. Martin laughed.
"Priscilla's flattery is direct," said Mrs. Martin. "Suppose you take her along and get her a cup of coffee, Parson; the poor child's tired to death already. I think every ​one is here. The cotillion is at ten, you know."
"Won't you go in my place, mother?"
"Mercy, no, child, I'm used to it! You run along."
"Come along, and make me the proudest man here," said The Parson, offering his arm.
"I wish to tell you once again that never in your life have you looked so 'gorjoose,'" murmured Peter to Mrs. Martin, as he joined her.
"It helps greatly, Peter, thank you," she answered. "Priscilla is in the dining-room with The Parson, so when you want to start things go and get her."
"The Parson? Why didn't you let me take her to the dining-room?"
"You have privileges enough. The Parson can't dance the cotillion with her, you know."
"Drat the Parson!" said Peter, hurrying on,
Some other people held Mrs. Martin's at​tention for a time, and when they passed on Drake was beside her.
"So you decided to come?".
"Yes, I didn't want to hurt the little girl's feelings."
"Oh, I thought perhaps you came to see me."
"I did."
"Well, you're just in time to lead me away to the other end of the ballroom. It is time for Peter to get people seated. Isn't it a nice party, Tony?"
"Yes, great," he answered, as if he had just noticed that it was a party. "Where is your little girl?"
"Gone to get some coffee with The Parson. How do I look, Tony?"
"You look fine," he answered promptly—much too promptly.
"Tony, Tony, what am I going to do with you?" she objected despairingly.
"Marry me, I hope," he replied.
Mrs. Martin overlooked this entirely.
"Wait until you see Priscilla, and then you'll ​think I look like old Aunt Sadie from the country."
He laughed and looked at her, in the full bloom of her womanhood, brilliant, beautiful, perfectly poised, and began to voice his protest at her gibe, when suddenly he stopped and looked straight ahead, as if at a vision. The stream of people following stopped, too, and looked. At the far end of the room, two steps above the level of the ballroom floor, there was a door leading into the dining-room, which had been twined with vines and roses, and there, poised a minute before she descended, stood Priscilla, in her white tulle gown, her eyes shining, and the light on her yellow hair making an aureole about her head—Priscilla, like an artist's ideal of youth.
"Elaine, the Lily-maid," Drake murmured, half to himself. Then the moment passed, Peter led Priscilla into the room, the music began, and Mrs. Martin pulled herself together sharply.
"She's very lovely to-night, isn't she?"
​"Yes," said Drake.
"She had twenty-two bouquets, and she chose to carry yours. It was sweet of you to send lilies of the valley, Tony, and so significant—the violets for me!"
"She is carrying my flowers," Drake repeated.
"We both are," she answered, pointing to her own corsage.
"I am very proud," he said.
"Mother, Mr. Schuyler thinks we'd better begin. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Drake? I'm so glad you came."
"Thank you," he said, looking at her intently.
"I'm frightened to death, mother. If it wasn't for Mr. Peter, I couldn't possibly do a thing."
"Priscilla, you're getting on," said her mother. "Go ahead, Peter. I'm dancing with Colonel Bracken—ah, here he is now. Sorry you don't dance, Tony. Go make yourself agreeable to some other old lady!"
The dance began, and Drake betook him​self to a vantage-point and watched the throng. Quite unconsciously, his attention concerned itself with the two figures, mother and daughter, that dominated the scene. Priscilla blew about the room like a bit of thistledown, a white butterfly, as he put it to himself, while Mrs, Martin, regal, imperious, directed and managed it all, as ever, the power and motive force. As the evening wore on he wandered about, smoked, talked, and came back to his comparisons. As he stood watching, after an elaborate figure, he saw Mrs. Martin go to Priscilla and say a word, and then Priscilla, after an apparent moment of hesitation, came to him.
"Mr. Drake, mother is going to lead this figure, and I'm to rest. Will you take me away for a bit? I won't have to talk to you," she added, as she took his arm and led him to a seat in the music-room.
"Are you having a good time?" he asked, looking down at her.
"Oh, splendid!" she answered. "I'd no ​idea coming out was like this. It's such fun, and everybody is so nice, and Peter—I mean Mr. Schuyler—dances grandly!"
"You don't tell me! I have never had my attention called to Peter's grandeur before."
"I think he's fine, don't you?"
"Yes—but let's talk about you instead of Peter."
"Oh, that's the trouble with me—there's never anything to say about me. Doesn't mother look lovely?" she added, catching sight of her as she passed the door.
"Yes, she does. She always does."
"Yes, but not always like to-night. I think people have heights of looks, like heights of happiness, don't you?"
"Do they? I'm afraid I don't notice those things much."
"No, I don't think you do—it shows in your books."
"Oh, does it?"
"Yes, you never make any one want to ​see your heroines, because you never care anything about seeing them yourself."
He laughed. "What do you know about my heroines?"
"I know all about them. I've read all your books."
"Poor child. I feel for you."
"Now, don't you do it, too."
"Do what?"
"Laugh at me."
"Forgive me—I won't ever again. How did you happen to read my things?"
"Well, I found The Soul of Ignace in Paris, and I liked that pretty well, so I got the others. The Soul of Ignace is the best thing you've done."
"I agree with you. It was written when I had the most to say."
"Were you Ignace?"
A dark flush mounted Drake's face, and burnt itself out in his hair. It might have been anger or embarrassment or shame.
"Yes," he answered finally.
​"I thought so."
"No one ever dared to ask me that before," he added.
"Perhaps no one ever guessed," she said.
"Your mother knows," Drake confessed.
"Oh, mother—she knows everything. Isn't she wonderful?"
"She's the most wonderful woman I know."
"I'm so glad you think so, too. You see I've never had any one to talk to before about mother—any one who would understand, I mean."
He nodded.
"I don't know why I chatter along this way to you."
"I like it," he said simply. "Your mother has played the most important part in my life of any one who has ever come into it."
"Has she? How?"
"I can't tell you—but she came and hauled me up out of the mire and made a man of me."
​"I'm so glad mother did that. You see, I used to feel badly sometimes because she never let me stay with her, but all those years she was helping you, and that was better worth while than just helping me."
"I'm not so sure of that. Perhaps you could have given her more in return than I ever can."
"Oh, well, I should always love her just the same, no matter what she did—she's so wonderful. I don't see how I ever happened to belong to her."
Mrs. Martin appeared at the door. "Come along, Lady-bird; it's my time to rest now. Oh, Tony—you're here, are you? Take her along back and then come and talk to me."
"Shall I send you in some coffee, mother?"
"No, thanks."
Mrs. Martin leaned back and closed her eyes. She was glad of the quiet. Priscilla's ball was a great success, but it had been a strain, and she was tired. She al​most envied Priscilla her thrills; but there—she wanted her girl to drink the pleasure of it to the full. How she was stealing into her heart and interest, with her honest eyes and her unrepressed adoration!
"Oh, no, he won't—at least, I hope he won't. It would ruin his chances of greatness if he married Louise," came Mrs. Crompton's clear voice from the other side of the divan. "He ought to marry the daughter—he needs just such a spontaneous young thing to stir him up. He's twisted Louise's mind dry of all ideas; and, then, she's too old for him. He doesn't care for society, of course"—the voice dwindled off as the couple disappeared again.
Mrs. Martin sat there as if carved in stone. "He ought to marry the daughter—he's twisted Louise's mind dry of all ideas—she's too old for him"—she went over it and over it. How often she had said that Nan Crompton's tongue went to the heart of things, like a surgeon's knife to the seat of a disease. Was she right now? Had she ​played her part in Tony's life, and must she march on now and give her place to—
"Here I am—why, what's the matter, Louise?" he asked in quick alarm.
"Nothing. Why?"
"You look as if you'd seen a ghost."
"I have."
He took her hand with rare tenderness.
"You're overdoing lately. Why don't you let me take you away?"
"I can't. You remember what we were saying the other day about shifting responsibility, and how Nan Crompton hit the nail on the head by saying that I kept my responsibility in school while I preached?"
"Odious woman!"
"But it was the truth, Tony, and now I want to make it up to Priscilla—a little. I'm finding out that the shirked responsibilities are coming back to me doubled."
"She's been talking to me about you to-night. She seems to adore you."
"I know, and I think I'm going to love her better than I have ever loved anything ​in my life. I think, perhaps, I am going to give her the thing I hold most dear."
"Oh, I don't think you're called on to do that," he said lightly.
"Do you think her very sweet, Tony?"
"Yes, and interesting, too—strangely interesting."
"I want you to like her tremendously."
"Of course I'd do that, because she's yours."
"No, I want you to because she's herself."
"When are you going to answer that question I asked you the other night?"
"I don't know. If I answered it to-night, I should say that it can never be."
"Then I won't speak of it again until you wish me to."
"Thanks. I shall not be long, but it takes some time to face the truth fairly and squarely, and give it welcome."
Later, when the house was dark and quiet, Mrs. Martin went to Priscilla's door. The girl sat before the fire, toasting her toes, ​and at sight of her mother she sprang up joyfully.
"Why, mother, how nice of you to come! Sit down here"—she pushed a big chair up—"and we can talk."
Mrs. Martin let herself be pushed into the chair, and a pillow placed behind her head, then Priscilla sat down cross-legged on the hearth, facing her.
"Wasn't it too lovely, all of it? I'm just trying to begin at the beginning, and remember everything everybody said to me, and how many times I was favored."
Mrs. Martin smiled. "I'm glad you had such a good time. You were a great success, Priscilla. I prophesy that you will be a belle."
"Me a belle? Oh, mother, how could I be?"
"Modesty is a sort of a disease with you, dear."
"I might be just because I'm your daughter, but not because I'm me," she said, leaning her cheek against her mother's hand. ​She looked very slight and childish in her white gown, her hair about her face.
Mrs. Martin touched a chain she wore about her neck. "What's this?" she said, examining the locket which fell into her hand.
Priscilla flushed. "You wouldn't care to know," she said.
"But I do care. May I look?" Mrs. Martin persisted, suspecting some childish love-affair.
"If you like," Priscilla whispered. "It is the picture of my pretended best friend."
She put her head down, and waited centuries while her mother looked, and then she heard a sob—deep, rending, like the breaking up of ice long hardened. She was drawn into her mother's arms, and on her face she felt the rain of tears.