# The Redemption of Anthony/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III
"WELL, Priscilla, how have you put in the morning?" asked Mrs, Martin, kissing her daughter's cheek as she sat down to the luncheon-table.
"Pretty well—but it's been rather long," the girl admitted. "I've arranged all the flowers, and settled my things in my room, but it didn't take quite all the time. Couldn't I have some regular morning things to do, mother, so I'd feel more settled here?"
"My dear, your regular morning thing to do will be to sleep, as soon as you get started socially. We must look over your clothes and get Madame Sonci started on some new gowns, and that will take time. We'll keep you busy enough, never fear."
"Thanks. You see, I'm used to being busy. At school we had things to do every hour of the day, so it's pretty hard to drift."
​"Yes, I suppose you'll miss it—the routine life, and your friends, and all. We might ask some of the girls to visit you—would you like that? Who was your best friend?"
Priscilla hesitated. "Well, I don't know that I really had one. I didn't go about with the other girls very much; I always had my—I always spent my time with—"
"Well, with whom?"
"I'd rather not tell you, if you don't mind."
"You'd rather not tell? Why, what do you mean, Priscilla? Who was this mysterious companion?"
"Please don't laugh, mother—it was just somebody I pretended."
"Your best friend was somebody you pretended?" repeated Mrs. Martin curiously.
Priscilla nodded.
"What a strange child you are! Didn't you like the girls?"
"Oh, yes—some of them. But if you just pretend your best friend, she's always with ​you, and she never says mean, spiteful things, nor hurts your feelings, nor laughs at you—"
Mrs. Martin smiled—but it was a winning smile, instead of her habitual satiric one. "It has obvious advantages—you could shut her out when she bored you."
"Oh, but she never bored me!"
"Really? She must have been pretended. I shall ask Mr. Drake to take you in hand—we may make a great novelist of you."
"I liked him. I wasn't a bit afraid, after the first."
"I told you he was harmless. Did he talk to you?"
"At first he was annoyed at my being there, but I told him I only came because I was sent, so then he talked to me, just to be polite."
"He doesn't usually take the trouble."
"I wished he wouldn't. I liked him better when he was quiet. It wasn't stupid quiet; it was just quiet quiet."
​"My conscience, Priscilla! I'm almost afraid you're clever!" said Mrs. Martin, rising.
"Oh, no, I'm not. I'm sorry if I've talked too much."
"Nonsense! You've quite amused me, and I've been bored to death all morning."
"Oh, I'm glad!"
"Now, what do you want to do this afternoon? I'm going to drive to town to do some errands, and I've asked a few people in to tea at five to meet you. Now, will you come with me, or do you want to amuse yourself until five?"
"If you don't mind, I'll take Mary and go to the park and skate."
"Skate? Mercy! Isn't it too cold?"
"It's just right. You don't mind, then?"
"Of course not—only, be back at five."
"All right, Madame Mother," she called, as she flew up-stairs.
Five o'clock found Peter, Mrs. Crompton and The Parson gathered at the tea-table.
​"Peter," said Mrs. Martin, looking at him sternly, "I relied on your tact and judgment, and they have played me false."
"Say not so, fair lady; what shall the owner do to redeem them?"
Mrs. Martin shook her head. "I knew it would come, and I hoped it wouldn't. I am relegated to the position of the mother of my daughter. The Parson, here, comes to my tea-party, and even while he inquires for my health, his eye wanders and he says: 'Where is she?' Nan, here, blows in upon us and ignores us all, demanding: 'Where's your girl?' And now you—my erstwhile slave of the lamp—find me inadequate!"
"Stuff, Louise!" broke in Mrs. Crompton.
"You asked us here for a private exhibition of your latest, and we want to see whether it is a signed proof or a copy."
"We hope it is a copy," said The Parson gallantly.
"Well, my exhibit has gone skating, under strict orders to return at five, and, my dears, it is an original, not a copy."
​"Humph! I don't care much for girls myself. Boys are more my style," quoth Mrs. Crompton,
"Thanks," said Peter, offering her tea.
"Oh, you! Peter, you're a perennial youth, like Cupid. You've been the boy wonder of society for ten years."
"Spare me!" cried the victim, on his knees at once, hands raised.
"Pick on some one your own age, Nan," interposed Mrs, Martin.
"I can't—they're all dead."
"In the person of old age, I offer myself as victim, Mrs. Crompton," said The Parson, sitting down beside her.
Peter returned to Mrs. Martin and the tea-table. "Where's Tony?" he asked.
"I don't know—he'll probably turn up later, but I never depend on him."
"Idiosyncrasies of genius, I suppose."
"No, just a Tonyism. It is one of the things that make him interesting."
"Ah, do you mind if I jot that down? Be unreliable and you will be interesting. If ​any man could be all that the world thinks Tony to be, he'd be the only living world-wonder in captivity."
"You're jealous, Peter."
"I am. I think the whole world runs mad on celebrities. When every third man is a celebrity, why isn't it a distinction to be a commonplace man, like me?"
"You're not commonplace enough; you're—Peter."
The door opened at this juncture, and Priscilla entered. "Oh, mother, I'm so sorry to be late!" she began impulsively, and then stopped.
"Great Jupiter!" said Peter, and they all sat and looked at her.
She certainly was a charming vision, this red-cheeked, bright-eyed Priscilla, in her close-fitting blue velvet skating-suit, setting off her slimness, and Mrs. Martin admitted, with unexpected pride, that this was Priscilla at her best.
"Come in, wicked one," she said, holding out her hand to the girl, suddenly very shy. ​"This is Priscilla, everybody. This is Mrs. Crompton, this is The Parson, and this is—Peter."
"Last but not least—Peter," reiterated that gentleman, bowing.
"How do you do?" said Priscilla gravely.
"Mercy, Louise! why didn't you tell us she was a beauty? You've no right to spring it on us like this."
Mrs. Martin smiled down at the girl.
"Priscilla, Mrs. Crompton thinks you're a beauty," she said, in experiment.
"I'm afraid she's making fun of us, mother," the girl answered simply, and turned away.
"Pour yourself some tea, dear, and talk to Peter. But be careful—Peter's very young."
Priscilla obediently took her seat at the table and poured her tea.
"I hope you won't think me too young to be noticed, Miss Martin," said Peter, watching her.
"Are you so very young?" she asked, ​looking at him directly. "You don't look it."
He laughed. "Thanks—I'm not, really. But I live under that constant curse of eternal youth, due to pink cheeks and curly hair."
"Oh, I see."
"But in spite of it I'm a very nice sort of a chap, and I hope you'll like me."
"I hope so."
"Your mother and Mrs. Crompton will recommend me, I'm sure."
"What's that, Peter? I heard my name. What scandal are you telling that child about me?"
"Miss Martin, I appeal to you—was it a scandal?"
"It may be—he says you recommend him."
This shot was greeted with much laughter, and Mrs. Martin inspected her daughter with surprise. What a combination of naïveté and ease!
"Don't let him mislead you, my dear," ​Mrs. Crompton said; "he's a whited sepulcher, and there are people who think he uses rouge."
"I think poor Schuyler has been punished enough this afternoon," said The Parson, coming over to Priscilla.
"Poor Peterkin! Come over here and sit on my lap," said Mrs. Martin.
Peter and The Parson exchanged places.
"We're very glad to welcome you home, Miss Priscilla," said The Parson, in his genial way.
"Thank you, I'm glad to be home," she answered.
"I suppose it is quite a marked change from the schoolroom to such an atmosphere as this."
"Yes, it is, and I don't know what they're talking about at all; do you?"
He looked at her smilingly. "Not always. You see, their idea is to talk in such a manner as to hide what they really think, and you and I regard conversation as a means of expressing our thoughts."
​"I suppose that's it. I hope I'll get used to it, but it makes me afraid just now."
"You needn't be. If the thoughts are worth revealing, I think our way is the best. What shall you do with yourself?"
"Mother is going to introduce me soon."
"Dear, dear! What a pity! Now, that's the old-fashioned part of me, and the new-fashioned part says: 'What a fine time you'll have.' But I always regret that that mother of yours wastes her brain on social frippery; but there—she's made Drake, and that will stand as her epitaph."
"Made him? How?"
The Parson hemmed a little uncertainly.
"Well, the story goes that your mother discovered Drake's genius, saved him from himself, and made him what he is."
"How splendid!" cried Priscilla, her eyes shining.
"What's splendid?" broke in Mrs. Crompton, looking at them.
"Don't tell her," said Priscilla impulsively.
​"Why, Priscilla!" Mrs. Martin said.
"Faith, and why shouldn't he tell me?" inquired Mrs. Crompton.
"Because you'll laugh, and I don't want you to."
Priscilla appealed to her mother, flushed and miserable. "I beg your pardon," she said then.
"Priscilla has not yet acquired social tact," Mrs. Martin explained.
"Priscilla still dares to speak the truth," The Parson substituted. "Let her alone; she'll soon learn better."
"I never heard you preach before," laughed Mrs. Crompton.
"Some day I shall take for my text 'Laughers and Scoffers,' and then, Mrs. Crompton, beware!" he added lightly.
Drake was announced.
"Come in—do. We're about to have a sermon from The Parson. 'Parlor Talks by a Prominent Parson!" cried Mrs. Crompton.
​"How do you do?" said Drake to Mrs. Martin, who stood smilingly by, watching the encounter. He bowed to the rest, and his eye hovered a moment about Priscilla, who blushed furiously.
"No doubt the sermon is needed," he replied to Mrs. Crompton's fling. "What's the text?"
"Laugh not—that ye be not laughed at!" said Peter.
The Parson took him up. "That does very well—there is obvious need of a protest. We laugh at eveything—political juggling, moral intriguing, business dishonesty, they all amuse us—as part of a game. It is the crying evil of our day—to shrug the shoulders and to laugh."
"That's the text of my next book, Parson," Drake said. "Mrs. Martin really suggested it in something she said once, about how we moderns shift responsibilities—from personal to national ones—"
"Louise ought to make a good agitator—​she's had hers away at school," Mrs. Crompton put in.
"I say, that's a mean shot!" cried Peter.
"It's always unwise to sail too close to a personality, don't you think, Mrs. Crompton?" said Drake. "It always stimulates curiosity about one's own practises."
"Well, I haven't any principles, and my practises are scandalous, so I've a perfect right to cast the first stone."
"You're behaving very badly, Nan," Mrs. Martin said. "There's no vestige left of the spiritual quality."
"It's useless to encourage illusions about yourself in other people's breasts, don't you think so, Parson?" she demanded.
"Illusions are so often safeguards, Mrs. Crompton. Even the best of us like a little haze between the observer and our innermost selves."
"If you weigh nearly two hundred, as I do, there is quite a thick haze between the observer and your innermost self," murmured Peter softly.
​"Oh!" said Priscilla in protest.
The Parson smiled, turning to her. "My dear, they're all sick of this disease save you and me. We must be very careful or we'll catch it."
He offered his hand to Mrs. Martin. "I must run along," he said. "I'm delighted to have met the daughter, and I think"—here he took Priscilla's hand—"I think we are going to be great friends."
"Thank you," said the girl gratefully.
"Parson, if you can put up with me for ten minutes longer, I'll drop you at the parsonage," Mrs. Crompton said.
"Charmed."
"I want to try to reinstate the illusions," she explained. "Hope you aren't determined not to like me," she said to Priscilla.
"Bring her around for tea, Louise. Adieu, Tony. Ta-ta, Peter."
Upon their exit, Peter once more joined Priscilla. "We've made a bad impression on you, haven't we?" he said.
"No, only I'm stupid, and I don't know ​how to talk to you," she answered frankly, as he sat down beside her.
"Why so abstracted?" said Mrs. Martin to Drake.
"I'm not. I came to ask you to marry me."
"Tony! What do you mean?"
"Just that. I've tried to do it twice before and been interrupted, and I want to get it settled."
"Oh, but not here and now!"
"Why not?"
"With Peter and Priscilla here, and all."
"Well, they can't hear us; they seem quite absorbed."
"But, Tony, it's like proposing in a street-car—it's so unromantic!"
"Oh, well, if you come to that, I am unromantic, and no one knows it better than you."
"No, no one does."
"Why not settle it right here, then, and be done with it? I've been thinking over your idea of going abroad, and it seems a good ​one. We can go somewhere in Italy for June—"
"Are you asking me because you love me, Tony, or because you need me?"
"Why, both."
"Oh, you only mentioned one, you know."
"I thought you understood me well enough to know that I can't do this sort of thing like a matinée hero; but I do want and need you more than anything else in the world, Louise."
"I suppose it is thoroughly like a woman to want you to say: 'I love you better than anything on earth.'" She rose. "I want to think it over, Tony; you'll have to give me time."
He rose, too, a trifle annoyed and quite surprised. "Of course, but—"
"You're in a hurry to make your plans? I understand. Peter, you must go now, unless you'll stay on to dinner. We have to dress."
"Mark how she speeds the parting guest! Are you dismissed, too, Tony?"
​"I think I am," Drake replied ruefully.
"Say a good word for me to Miss Priscilla," Peter said in parting. "She thinks I'm unregenerate."
"I don't know what that means," said Priscilla gravely.
"Well, don't learn," Drake said, and bowed his farewell.