Anybody but Anne

Chapter II | The Van Wyck Household

Chapter II The Van Wyck Household––––––––

“PRESENTLY,” I returned equably; “but first let me congratulate you on the find of this delightful old place. This room itself is a marvel. It might have been brought over from some English castle.”

David Van Wyck looked around appreciatively. “It is a fine room,” he agreed. “It was built later than the main house, and was originally intended, I imagine, for a ballroom. It has a specially fine floor, and that musicians’ gallery at the end seems to indicate festivities on a big scale. To be sure, the whole scheme of decoration is too massive and over-ornate for these days, but it is all in harmony, and the gorgeousness of coloring has been toned down by time.”

This was true. The lofty walls were topped by a wide and heavy cornice, with an enormous cartouche in each corner, massive enough for a cathedral. But the coloring was dimmed by the years, and the gilding was tarnished to a soft bronze. Most of the furniture consisted of choice old pieces collected by Van Wyck for this especial use, and it was plain to be seen that he took great pride in these, and in his rare and valuable pictures and curios.

“It is my room,” he was saying, as he smiled benignly on his wife, “but I let Anne have her full teas here, because she thinks it’s picturesque. But except at the tea-hour, this is my exclusive domain.”

“You call it your study?” I inquired casually.

“I call it my study, yes; although I’m not a studious man, by any means. It is really my office, I suppose; but such a name would never fit this eighteenth-century atmosphere. I have my desk here, and my secretaries and lawyers come when I call them, and I have even profaned the place with a telephone, so that I’m always in touch with what the poets call the busy mart. Moreover, I confess I’m subject to short lived fads and fancies, and this good-sized room gives me space to indulge my interest of the moment.”

“He is, indeed,” said Anne, laughing. “Last summer he was a naturalist, and this room was full of stuffed birds and dried beetles and all sorts of awful things. But that’s all over now, and this year —what are you this year, David?”

Van Wyck’s face hardened. A steely look came into his eyes, and his square jaw set itself more firmly, as he replied, in a dry, curt tone, “I’m a philanthropist.”

The word seemed simple enough, and yet Anne’s face also became suddenly serious, and, unless I was mistaken, a flash of anger shot from her dark eyes to her husband’s grim face. But just then Archer and Miss Fordyce joined us, and Anne’s smiles returned instantly.

“What mood, Beth?” she cried gaily. “You see, Honey, I’ve been telling Mr. Sturgis that you’re aesthetic and lanky-minded and all the rest of it, and you must live up to your reputation.”

“If I can,” murmured Miss Fordyce, rolling a pair of soulful blue eyes at me; “but I’m only a beginner—a disciple of the wonderful mysticism of the—”

“There, there, Beth, cut it short,” broke in Archer. “We know! The mysticism of the theosophical value of the occult as applied to the hyper-aestheticism of the soul by whichever Great High Muck-a-Muck you’ve been reading last!”

The others laughed, but Miss Fordyce gave the speaker a reproachful glance, which, however, utterly failed to wither him.

“You’d be a real nice girl, Beth,” he went on, “if you’d chuck mysticism and go in for athletics.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Archer,” began Miss Fordyce, in her soft, melodious voice; but Archer interrupted her:

“Now, don’t come the misunderstood racket on me! I won’t stand for it. Practice your wiles on Mr. Sturgis. Take him over there, and show him Mr. Van Wyck’s Buddha, and tell him what you know about Buddhaing as a fine art.”

I walked away with the pale-haired Miss Fordyce, but instead of talking about Buddha, we naturally fell into conversation about our fellow guests.

“I can well understand,” I said slowly, “that the occult would scarcely appeal to such a practical specimen of manhood as Archer. Who is he and what is he?”

“To begin with, he’s a supreme egotist.”

“Oh, I don’t mean his character; but what does he do?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I believe he’s a mining engineer or something. But he’s terribly in love with Anne, and he’s clever enough not to let Mr. Van Wyck know it.”

“But Anne knows it?”

“Of course, yes; and she doesn’t care two cents for him. But she’s a born coquette, and she leads him on, for nothing but an idle amusement. I don’t think a woman ought to do that.”

“Doubtless you are right, Miss Fordyce; but is it your experience that women always do what they ought to do?”

“Very rarely,” returned Miss Fordyce, laughing, and I began to realize that when the girl dropped her silly pose, she was really charming. “And especially Anne,” she went on. “She’s one of my dearest friends, but that doesn’t blind me to her faults.”

“And is it a fault to be attractive?”

“To be as attractive as Anne Van Wyck is a crime.” Miss Fordyce smiled as she spoke, but there was a ring of earnestness in her tone. “She is a siren, and her charm is of the sort that bowls men over before they know what they’re about.”

“I’m glad you warned me,” I returned; “I’ll be on my guard against her fatal glances.”

“You’ve known her a long time, haven’t you?”

“Oh, no; I knew her ten years ago, as a schoolgirl, but she doesn’t seem to be the same Anne now.”

“She’s a dear!” exclaimed Miss Fordyce, warmheartedly, “and I have done wrong in even seeming to censure her. But she does lead men a dance.”

“Isn’t she afraid of her husband?”

“Anne is afraid of nobody on earth,—well, with one exception,—but the exception is not her husband.”

“Who is it then? You?”

“Oh, goodness, no! Why should she be afraid of me? But she is afraid of Mrs. Carstairs, the housekeeper.”

“The housekeeper! How curious. Why is it?”

“I don’t know. But Mrs. Carstairs is really a most peculiar person. She was housekeeper for Mr. Van Wyck before Anne married him. Her son is Mr. Van Wyck’s valet. Well, Anne would be glad to send them both packing, mother and son, but her husband won’t let her.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, he is accustomed to their ways,—and they are both remarkably capable.”

“But why is Anne afraid of them?”

“I don’t think she’s afraid of Carstairs. But the mother is so queer. Anne says she has the evil eye.”

“Aren’t you and Anne imagining these things? Isn’t it one of your ‘occult’ notions?”

“Wait till you see Mrs. Carstairs. You’ll realize at once she’s queer.”

“I thought a housekeeper was always a portly, placid, middle-aged woman, in a black silk dress.”

Beth Fordyce laughed, “You couldn’t guess farther from the mark! Mrs. Carstairs is not middle-aged. Indeed, she seems extremely young to be the mother of the valet. He must be over twenty. Then she is very good looking, with a dark, subtle sort of beauty. She’s small, and slender, and she glides about so softly, she seems to appear from nowhere. Why, there she is now!”

I looked across the room and saw Mrs. Carstairs speaking to Anne. She wore black silk, it is true; but of modish cut and long, graceful lines. Indeed, she seemed to have more of an air of distinction than any of the other women present, excepting Anne.

She had no touch of apology or obsequiousness in her manner, and stood quietly talking, until she had finished her errand, and then moved away, and left the room without embarrassment. Her self-poise was marvelous, and I felt a flash of regret that such a woman should have to pursue what was after all, a menial occupation.

“She looks interesting,” I remarked to Miss Fordyce.

“She is!” was the emphatic reply. “Of course, it's an open secret that she hoped to marry Mr. Van Wyck. She was housekeeper here when he was a widower. Then, when he married Anne, he insisted that Mrs. Carstairs should stay on, to relieve Anne of all housekeeping boredom.”

“And Anne doesn’t want her?”

“Not a bit; but she can’t persuade Mr. Van Wyck to discharge her. The valet is most satisfactory, I believe, and the mother and son refuse to be separated. So, they’re both here. But Anne is afraid of her.”

“How absurd!”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Carstairs hates Anne, and though she is never openly disrespectful, she finds hundreds of little ways to annoy her.”

“And Anne’s stepchildren? How does she get along with them?”

“Oh, right enough. Morland adores her, and though Barbara was offish at first, she is coming round. Anne has shown great tact in managing Barbara, and I think they’ll get to be chums.”

I hadn’t yet had opportunity to converse with Barbara Van Wyck, and under pretense of a quest of fresh tea, I led Miss Fordyce toward the tea-table.

Miss Van Wyck was cordial, but not effusive, and struck me as being what is sometimes called “strong-minded.”

She was a striking looking girl, with a pale face and large dark eyes; but she had no such charm as Anne, nor had she the gentle softness of Beth Fordyce. She managed the tea things with a graceful air of being accustomed to it, and included us at once in a conversation she was carrying on with some other callers.

It seemed the Van Wyck tea hour was something of an institution; and neighbors and village people were always in greater or less attendance.

The discussion was concerning a new public library in the town, and as it was of slight interest to me, I permitted my attention to wander about the room, and began to plan some way by which I could unobtrusively make my way back to my hostess.

But just then a motor car arrived, and a group of callers came in through the great portals of the study. The general confusion of introductions and greetings followed, and when it was over I somehow found myself standing beside Mrs. Stelton, the pretty young widow from whose toils Anne hoped to rescue Morland Van Wyck.

She was attractive in her way, but commonplace compared to Beth Fordyce or Anne. She chatted pleasantly, but her conversation was of the sort that makes a man’s mind wander.

“Are you here for the weekend, Mr. Sturgis?” she rattled on; “you’ll have a heavenly time! It’s the dearest place to visit. And they are all such lovely people. The beautiful Mrs. Van Wyck is a perfect hostess,—and Mr. Van Wyck is an old dear, —though a bit of a curmudgeon now and then.”

“You’re speaking of Mr. Morland Van Wyck?” I teased.

“You naughty man! Of course not. I mean our host. Morly isn’t in the least curmudgeonish!” She tapped my arm with her lorgnon in a playful manner. “As if anyone could be,—to you,” I returned, knowing her type.

“Nice gentleman!” she babbled on. “I admit I like a compliment now and then. I’m glad you're here. We’re such a pleasant house party.”

“Who is that striking looking man standing by the window?” I asked. “We were introduced as he came in, but I didn’t catch his name.”

“Stone,” she replied, “Fleming Stone. They say he is a detective.”

“Stone!” I exclaimed. “Is it really? Detective! I should think he was! Why, he’s probably the greatest real detective who ever lived! What is he doing here?”

“His home is in Crescent Falls,” Mrs. Stelton informed me; “that is, his mother has recently come here to live in the village, and he, naturally, visits her. He is staying with her now.”

“Is he a friend of Van Wyck’s?”

“No, he has never been here before. He came with Mr. and Mrs. Davidson, Crescent Falls Village people, and I think he came principally to see the house. This room, you know, is famous.”

“Not as famous as he is,” I said, gazing at the man I so much admired, but had never before seen.

Fleming Stone was a man who would have compelled notice anywhere, and yet his appearance was entirely quiet and unostentatious. He was slightly above average height, of a strong, well set up figure and a forceful expression of face. His hair was slightly gray at the temples, and his dark, deep-set eyes gave a strangely blended effect of unerring vision and kindly judgment. His manner was marked by a gentle courtesy, and his personal magnetism was apparent in every tone and gesture.

I longed to get away from the uninteresting widow and talk or at least listen to Mr. Stone. As this was not possible, I suggested that we both stroll across the room and join the group that surrounded him.

Though apparently not over-anxious, Mrs. Stelton agreed to this, and we became a part of the small circle that had formed around the great detective.

Great detective I knew him to be, for his fame was worldwide, and yet as he stood there drinking his tea with a careless grace, he gave only the impression of a cultured society man, ready to lend himself to the polite idle chatter of the moment.

He was looking at Anne Van Wyck, and, though not staring, not even gazing intently, I could see that his interest centered in her.

But this was not at all astonishing. I think few men were ever in Anne Van Wyck’s presence without centering their interest upon her.

Her slender figure was exquisitely proportioned, and her small head, with its masses of soft dark hair, was set upon her shoulders with a marvelous grace. Her deep gray eyes, with long, curling, dark lashes, were full of fascination, and her small, pale face was capable of expressing such receptiveness and such responsiveness that one’s eyes were drawn to it irresistibly. Anne’s face was mysterious—purposely so, maybe, for she was intensely clever; but mysterious with the weird fascination of the Sphinx.

And as Fleming Stone’s own deep eyes met those of Anne Van Wyck, in a glance that caught and held, it seemed as if two similar natures experienced a mutual recognition.

I may have been over-fanciful, but I looked upon Fleming Stone as almost superhuman; and though, before my arrival at Buttonwood Terrace, I had felt no special personal interest in Mrs. David Van Wyck, I was now conscious of a dawning realization that the Anne Mansfield I used to know had grown to a wonderful woman.

It was part of Anne’s beautiful tact, that she made no reference to Fleming Stone’s profession or to his celebrity.

She smiled graciously and opened the conversation with a bit of banter.

“It is a great pleasure to welcome you under our roof-tree, Mr. Stone,” she was saying, “but it is also a surprise. For, I am told, you are a confirmed woman-hater.”

“Aren’t ‘woman-haters’ always confirmed, Mrs. Van Wyck?” he parried; “I never heard of one that wasn’t.”

“Nor I,” said Anne, laughing at the quip; “but you evade my question. Do you hate all women?”

“No,” said Stone; “I do not. But if I did, I should say I did not,—out of common politeness.”

“How baffling!” cried Anne. “Now I can form no idea of your attitude toward our sex.”

“Oh, I’ve no reason to conceal that,” said Stone, lightly. “It is merely the attitude of civilized man toward civilized woman. Taken collectively, women are delightful. But any one of them alone, nearly scares me out of my wits.”

“I’d like to try it!” said Anne, with a daring sweep of her long lashes, as she half closed her eyes, and looked at him.

“You wouldn’t have to try. I admit I’m afraid of you already. I’m afraid of any woman. One never knows what they mean by what they say.”

“They rarely know that, themselves,” Anne flung back at him; and Condon Archer, who stood near, added, “Or if they do, they know wrong.”

“These are cryptic utterances,” I put in, laughingly. “Are you good people sure you know what you’re talking about?”

“We’re sure we don’t!” said Anne, gaily, “and that’s just as good. But if we’re really achieving cryptic remarks, we’ll refer them to Beth. She knows all about crypticism,—or whatever you call it,—and mysticism, and occultism ... ”

“Oh, good gracious, Anne, don’t!” cried Miss Fordyce. “I don’t mind people who understand, talking about those things; but you are not only ignorant but intolerant of them.”

“Nonsense, girlie,” said Anne, smiling at Miss Fordyce, “I love you, and so I love all those crazy notions of yours.”

“I’m sure Mr. Stone understands,” Beth Fordyce went on, looking at him with earnest eyes.

It may have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that Fleming Stone had to wrench his attention away from Anne by force, and compel himself to reply to Miss Fordyce’s remark.