Читать книгу Butterfly - Kathleen Thompson Norris - Страница 3

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The dark November afternoon shut down upon the trampled and packed snow of the streets at about four o’clock; lights began to show pinkish and yellowish in the windows of village shops, and such motor-cars as were moving upon the ice and slush that surrounded the car-tracks in great pools and wallows showed wavering and moving lights in the twilight, as well. At the curbs, on both sides, mud-spattered cars were standing at irregular angles; there was a gush of light from the side door of the grocery, a covered truck was backed against the sidewalk, and young men in heavy sweaters, with red, chapped big hands, were hustling clean pine boxes and cardboard cartons to and fro.

In the shabby private office of John Spaulding, president of the Spaulding Brothers Packing Company of Mount Holly, Hilary Collier, his secretary, was standing idly at the window, her eyes absently fixed upon the familiar bustle of a late winter afternoon in the street, her thoughts, as usual, many miles away. She had spent most of her twenty-three years in the little town; she liked it, but she never seemed to herself to belong here. Beyond Burlington, beyond Camden, lay the great world, and Hilary knew that her destiny, as her mother’s before her, lay somewhere out there in the unknown.

Meanwhile, she was content. The years had been very kind to her since that other November day when, in her sixteenth year, newly fatherless, frightened and doubtful, she had come to old John Spaulding with a half-trembling and half-dignified plea for work—any kind of work. She had had only a few thousands in the world; and there was Dora! Dora was only eleven years old; Dora must be educated for the great destiny ahead of her.

John Spaulding had not realized then exactly what a treasure stood before him in this eager, untrained girl. But he had known at once that he could use Miss Collier somewhere and somehow; she was not the usual type of work-seeking woman in any way.

So Hilary, shaking and anxious to please, came into the packing rooms as checker, made friends, was promoted, acted in this capacity and that cheerfully, always successful and always climbing, until finally she found herself here, in this shabby, stove-heated office that was yet the holy of holies, the vice-president’s own sanctum; found herself his friend, his wife’s friend, popular among all her fellow employees, and—miracle of miracles!—able to take care of herself and Dora with none of those racking periods of misgiving and strain that she had feared would mark the opening years of her business career.

It did not seem to her the achievement that it might have seemed to many a girl of her age, because so much greater achievement lay still ahead. This was but the first step; the hardest, perhaps, in the sense of being the dullest and slowest, but by no means the bravest or most daring. The next step, sketched to her seven years ago, in her father’s fading and difficult voice as he lay dying, was by far more important.

“When Dora is eighteen or twenty... ,” Bronson Collier had whispered, “you must get away then, Hilary. She’ll have had all her groundwork by that time ... she’ll have her wings ... take her where they can teach her to fly!”

The echo of the passionate, anxious words had been Hilary’s creed for all these seven years. Dora must have her groundwork; she must grow into girlhood, strong and well, she must write a gentlewoman’s pretty letter, she must read French and German, know something of history and art. And of music she must know much, work not only with her mother’s violin, but with the piano, with counterpoint and orchestration, with every history of music that Hilary’s loyal eagerness could find for her in the old catalogues and lists of the world. For to Dora had descended the genius that had made her beautiful French mother known, at twenty, as one of the violinistes of her day. “Sabine Charpentier” was only a memory, vague and sweet, to her little daughter Dora, but Hilary remembered their mother well, and she felt herself the torch-bearer between the gifted mother and the gifted child.

How their father, a dreamy, impractical, despondent putterer in the world of music, had ever won Sabine from the brilliant opening of her career, was always a mystery to Hilary. Bronson Collier was a Bostonian, stranded in Munich, when they met. He had been discontentedly and desultorily connected with various orchestras there as pianist; he was the possessor of considerable musical knowledge, and some technical skill, but warmth and magnetism were lacking in his work as in his nature.

Why the gentle, enthusiastic, lovely Sabine loved him perhaps she herself never could say. For his sake she abandoned her art, there was a quiet wedding, there were some years of unsuccessful work abroad, and then they returned to America, where they tried to teach, Bronson darkly gloomy with his piano pupils, his girlish wife distressed and uncertain in her dealing with the few who came to her for work with the violin. In Philadelphia they starved: they moved a few miles away, to Mount Holly.

Meanwhile children came; first the sturdy and spirited Hilary, who seemed to both mother and father a miracle of beauty and charm; and then, four years later, a son. The boy was always delicate, needing care, and causing them an infinite anxiety even in the midst of troubled and uncertain financial prospects. These two were born in France; Dora came when Hilary was five and Bronson two years old; came to dreary little cramped rooms in Philadelphia, where the family struggle for existence was complicated by the bitter winter weather and by her brother’s rapidly failing health.

There was an epidemic of baby sicknesses that year; presently the Colliers left the cruel big city and the little grave of their only son behind them, and took the dancing Hilary and the staring baby into the friendlier atmosphere of the little New Jersey village. But some of the bitter cold of that terrible winter had crept into the mother’s heart, never to melt or thaw again.

The woman who had been Sabine Charpentier ten years ago lay quietly on a couch in the dim little parlour of the Mount Holly house; sometimes her white hands reached for the beloved, slim dark body of the Amati, but for the most part she made no effort, merely watching the other lives about her with dim and smiling eyes. Bronson put on his old greenish coat and went off to his pupils, old Mrs. Poett clattered pans in the kitchen, the baby wakened, whimpered, crowed, and fell asleep again, and Hilary, the one glowing, hopeful thing in her mother’s life, came and went with the joyous racket of healthy childhood.

Hilary brought her mother April violets and the year’s first plume of delicate lilac bloom. Hilary practised dutifully at the old square piano; her clever little fingers rippled through Schubert’s dances and Chopin’s études; when she was ten years old she composed for her mother a little étude of her own. Sabine’s white face was wet with tears as she embraced the little musician passionately; Bronson wasted a few of his precious dollars in having the music published.

And then, slow of growth, but bursting upon them with all the sudden glory of a miracle, came the wonderful thing that was to influence all of Hilary’s life and send her mother, and, when his turn came, her father, contentedly enough into the life beyond. This was Dora.

Dora had always been a beautiful child, obedient, winning, full of enchanting animation and vivacity, and she had shown an odd interest in music even in her baby days. Her mother had said of the baby, at eleven months, that she would finish any theme from the “Ring” if someone began it for her. Dora lisped in musical terms, and to Sabine’s hummed nursery airs Dora supplied a wavering alto at two years. She called the notes of the piano various colours; long before most children know colours at all, Dora was calling C blue, and G orange; she never confused them. She played little duets with Hilary when she was not quite four, and one day Bronson, giving a lesson, discovered to his amazement that the baby could name every note in the scale with her eyes shut. Sabine listened to her youngest-born tenderly, almost reverently, when Dora, in imperfect baby chatter, explained that some of the notes were like velvet, and some like satin, and that the deep bass notes were like the heavy black fur on Father’s old coat collar.

Long before this the child had picked up her mother’s violin, struggling patiently and intelligently toward harmony with the awkward big bow and the difficult strings. At four she stood graceful and erect before the little audience of three, her mane of fair straight hair falling upon her slender shoulders, her brown eyes serious, her lips twitching as do the lips of the great violinists when the beloved instrument is held close between cheek and shoulder. The baby fingers moved quickly and nervously, with that spider-like strength and precision that never come to many a patient worker, but that had been born in the little hand of Dora Collier.

Sabine was dying then, and knew it; but from that hour she was resigned to die. The genius that had been hers lived again in this child that was dearer than her own life; it remained now but to cherish and feed the sacred flame.

She consigned her child to Bronson, and for the remaining years of his life, only seven years, after all, he was passionately loyal to her trust. He watched and guarded and guided the child’s developing gift, and Hilary watched and guarded them both. The very definiteness and energy of her father’s absorption in Dora brought him a sort of prosperity at the end; everyone knew of the little Collier girl and her extraordinary promise, and there was a general tendency to forgive her father his oddities and appreciate his musical thoroughness and fervour at last. Pupils came to the little brick house, if only to have the youthful prodigy, with her mane of hair and her famous violin, introduced when the lesson was done; Bronson actually gave a recital or two of his pupils, with Dora for his star. And nothing, on these occasions, could have been more affecting, if there had been eyes to see it, which there were not, than the older daughter and sister, with her tremulous excitement and admiration for her gifted family.

Dora was eleven years old when Bronson suddenly died. He died with Hilary, who was sixteen, kneeling beside him and promising, with a stern gravity infinitely more moving than tears would have been, that she would take care of Dora. Dora was to be educated, to be trained, to be taken abroad to the best of teachers.

“There’s Kronski,” he said, suddenly, on the very last night of his life. “Konrad Kronski ... he’s only a boy, but they say he’s the coming violinist. Your mother knew his mother, they lived in the same family, she was with her when he was born. Take Dora to him, ask his advice. He’ll teach her, or he’ll tell you ... you’ll find letters his mother wrote us, when we first were married, in one of the chests. But she must be great, Hilary, she must be what we never were ... you can make her great!”

No misgiving as to the possible fairness of this demand, made of a mere girl, ever troubled Bronson. Hilary’s was one of those vital and vivid natures that never dreamed of self-pity. There were in her such a wellspring of energy and self-reliance, such a keen delight in mere living, that she might almost have been said to welcome any loss and any misfortune that gave her a chance to prove her own splendid powers.

She did grieve for her father, heartily and with many a burst of refreshing tears. But she was too busy to grieve long, too deeply absorbed in the fascinating business of managing her own affairs. She had her memories, the household of books and music that her marvellous father and mother had left behind them, and Dora. The eyes of the entire village, sympathetic, admiring, curious, were upon the two little sisters. Hilary felt that she had no choice, she must rise to the demand of life.

Standing here, in John Spaulding’s office, seven years later, Hilary smiled, remembering all this. Poor little courageous fool of a girl of sixteen, how gallantly she had ridden at her windmills! Many a discouraged hour, and weary hour, and hour of humiliation and doubt, lay between that day and this. She was wiser now, less blindly bold, not quite so dramatically confident as that younger Hilary had been.

Dora was eighteen now, with all the musical promise of her astonishing babyhood fulfilled, and Hilary, looking down the street, dimming in the bleak winter twilight, could see the still lighted windows of the bank, where the money that was to take Dora and herself to Europe next year, was safely waiting.

And finally, to set this train of reminiscent thought in motion, her eyes had only to move in a certain direction, to find the picture of a young man, boldly displayed upon a poster in the darkening street: a young man who was represented with a violin upon his shoulder. Under him, in large clear print, were the words: “Konrad Kronski. First Appearance in America. Philadelphia, Evening of December Third.”

Hilary had watched some men pasting the poster on the fence an hour ago. She had never seen Kronski, she had not known until then that he was in America. But a letter, written to him, was in her hand at this moment, ready for the post.

That was the way with her life, she reflected, almost awestruck with gratitude for the suddenly vouchsafed guidance, as she turned back into the dusky office, touched the light, and went to sit down again at her desk. She had been wondering for months how the next great change was to come about. Were she and Dora simply to pack up their clothes, and rent the house, and go away into the unknown? Was that safe?

Dora was fast developing; young men were beginning to admire her. The girl was restless, too, discontented and vaguely dissatisfied—Hilary knew that temperament well! The struggle to keep their lives apart from the lives of the village, to keep their great and sacred end always in sight, had been growing increasingly difficult for the older sister. Dora could not always seem to realize, as Hilary did, that theirs was a great destiny. Dora wanted to go to parties, to wear pretty frocks, to have good times. Hilary knew that the time was coming, and coming fast, when she must act, or fail.

And now, like a guiding star in the east, had come this man’s name out of her past, the name her father had mentioned with his dying breath. She was to take Dora to Kronski—Kronski would advise them! And time had brought Kronski into her reach.

To-night she would look through old letters, find what she could in his mother’s writing to her mother, and make sure her claim, so that when she saw him as she intended to see him, she would know exactly how to reach him. The letter she had written him told him of the old friendship, told him that she and Dora would be at the concert, asked him if they might bring the Amati, and if after the concert he would listen to Dora. And with this opening of the heavens Hilary felt a rush of confidence and delight sweep over her. She had come to work this morning somewhat worried and puzzled; now all was clear. Kronski could not but be impressed by her exquisite “Butterfly,” as she almost always called her little sister; perhaps he had a kind wife, perhaps they would all go back to Europe together——!

An unseen door slammed; she went into the outer office expectantly. John Spaulding’s nephew was expected to-night from New York; he was to spend some time in Mount Holly with his uncle and aunt. She knew him to be a great favourite with his uncle, as indeed with everyone. Echoes of his business ability came from the New York office; and hints of his social successes Dora sometimes found in the daily papers or the illustrated weeklies. He had earned a captain’s commission early in the war, and had acquitted himself creditably in France. To Hilary, as to everyone else in the Spaulding factory, he seemed one of the most important persons in the world.

Hilary had seen him several years ago, when she was a humble little filing clerk, and he a handsome serious youth of twenty-five, walking through the packing plant between his father and uncle, his groomed appearance, his well-cut homespun clothes, and his ready, clear voice in striking contrast to the busy young men and women who watched him silently from above their cutting tables, packing machines, and ledgers. He met their eyes with a friendly, interested look from his own wide-open gray ones; he was of not more than the average height, squarely built, with thick, close-cropped light-brown hair. They all knew that his father was Rodney Spaulding, the head of the firm, and that this boy would inherit the lion’s share of both the New York and the New Jersey plants some day. Old John Spaulding had two daughters, both with wealthy husbands: it was inevitable that young Craig Spaulding should succeed to both his father’s and uncle’s control and management of the business.

Uncle and nephew came together into the office; Hilary stood up for an introduction. Craig Spaulding was just as she remembered him, a little older, a little sterner, perhaps, but very much the poised and courteous gentleman. His voice, and his quick finished speech, were delightful. His eyes were keen, but full of an engaging friendliness that disarmed resentment; his clothes, even this village girl could see, were perfection. The big, dark-red coat was belted, the big gloves were a greenish yellow, the hat had at the back a small flat bow that Hilary had never seen on any other man’s hat, and was tilted at an angle an inch or two more daring.

Craig saw, against a background of ink-spattered letter-files and bundles of old papers, the harsh electric lights falling full upon her, a graceful, well-built girl whose face was oddly and inexplicably bright. Her hair, clinging close to her head in rich waves and heavy braids, was reddish brown, her eyes were a clear surprising blue, and she had an unexpected mouth, a mouth that looked rather wide and grave when she was serious but that had a great and irregular charm when she smiled. She wore what she had worn almost as a uniform for three or four years, but he did not know that. He did not even analyze the simple frock of dark blue corduroy velvet, with the plain collar of dark, creamy lace, but he thought that he liked her and her dress; there was something quaint and honest and interesting about them both.

“You’ve met my nephew before?” said John Spaulding, his face rosy with cold air and exercise, his frosty old blue eye kindly. “Sorry to keep you here, but the train was late, and then we had to go up to the house to see the boy’s aunt. I think it’s a little late to go over things to-night; suppose we put it off until to-morrow?”

Hilary looked at him respectfully, deferentially.

“Just as you decide, Mr. Spaulding.”

“Boys have pretty well gone home, haven’t they?”

“I imagine so.” Hilary glanced at her wrist-watch. “It’s just five,” she said.

A shrill whistle, outside in the gloom of the yard, confirmed her. Young Spaulding and his uncle and Hilary looked out of the side window. It gave upon a large yard bounded by various sheds and doorways; upon these and upon the churned black mud underfoot several bright lights were shining. The doorway of one long building opened, and the employees began to stream out in groups of twos and threes, punching a time-clock as they came. The young men and women were well but shabbily wrapped; they laughed and locked arms companionably as they picked their way toward the gate.

“That whistle is the signal for tea-pots to be filled all along Spaulding Street!” the old president of the plant said in genial satisfaction.

“I like to see them come out like that,” Hilary said somewhat timidly. “It reminds me of something. I don’t know what!” She spoke mildly, merely trying to be polite, to show the great Craig that pleasant relationships existed between his uncle and his uncle’s secretary. For however justly and however staunchly Hilary might feel, elsewhere, the importance of her work in life, and its utter independence of a place as obscure as Mount Holly, here in the factory the Spauldings were the natural rulers of the universe.

“Of what?” Craig Spaulding asked, with his accurate, sharp, and yet kindly manner.

“Well,” she stammered, a little startled, “I was thinking of—of Russia, and of some place, in England, I imagine—where the lights, and the wet, dark yard, and the people streaming along, were like that!”

“You know Russia?” Craig asked, crisply.

“I remember Moscow, when I was five,” Hilary answered briefly.

“But we don’t want our factory to resemble those places!” he said, seriously. “It seems to me that that yard could be floored.”

“The trucks would chew it to pieces in no time!” old John said, pleased with his interest. “But now that you’re here, we’ll do great things!”

“They all prefer to cut across the yard, because it gives into Washington Street,” Hilary explained, shyly. “They could go out the Market Street door.”

Craig listened to her attentively. When she had finished he gave her a sudden smile, his sober face changing pleasantly as he did so.

“A short cut to those tea-pots!” he suggested to his uncle. Old Spaulding assented jovially; it was a great delight to him to have “the boy” here. Craig’s coming had caused quite a stir in the nicest social set of Mount Holly, and the Spauldings, whose daughters were married and gone from home, enjoyed the little excitement.

Even now the telephone rang peremptorily; Mrs. Cutler White expected her daughter and some young friends from college for a house-party next week-end. Was Mr. Craig Spaulding there? Might she just say “Welcome home!” and ask him if he could join them?

Hilary handed him the telephone gravely; she liked his abstracted, almost annoyed expression as he politely snubbed the ubiquitous Mrs. White. He expected to spend almost all his Sundays in New York with his parents, he said pleasantly.

“Whew!” he exclaimed, half-humorously, when the conversation was over, hanging up the receiver, and looking pathetically at his companions.

“You’ll have a good deal of that, my boy!” his uncle warned him.

“Well, now, let’s see. What’s this office, Uncle John?”

“This we call ‘outer office.’ Mine opens from this, you see. Old Kraut—you remember our manager, old Kraut?—has his desk here, and Miss Collier sits here and protects me from the Black Hand and the evil eye——”

“Telephone calls go through her?” Craig asked, smiling.

“Always!”

“Ah, well, then,” he said, in relief, “all I need do is enlist the kindly aid of Miss Collier. Kind as she looks. I imagine she can be a martinet! And, as soon as I am really started here, I shall instruct her to give me no social calls of any description. How about that, Miss Collier?”

“That can be managed,” Hilary said, capably. Her heart was beating in pleasant excitement. It would be a delightful variation of the dull office routine to have this interesting person here in the old factory and to feel that business would give them an inevitable friendship.

“Miss Collier is a very extraordinary person, Craig,” old John said, amiably. “We’re going to lose her, one of these days, like all the rest of the good ones!”

Hilary, smiling, with hot cheeks, realized that this little introduction of the personal did not especially interest Craig, and she wished that her garrulous old employer would hold his peace.

“She takes her little sister abroad, to study music, in a year or two,” John Spaulding went on. “Extraordinary child!”

Craig looked kindly at Hilary, and she saw, with a rush of gratitude, that he perfectly appreciated that the introduction of her own affairs was none of her doing.

“I supposed, of course, that it was something else,” he said, with his keen look.

“Oh, no—no—no! I don’t imagine Miss Collier has much use for the Mount Holly boys!” his uncle laughed. And then immediately they were all talking business in a most businesslike way. Craig would come down in the morning; Hilary would please tell Hubert to bring in the desk, and fix the lights. The young man and his uncle would go over everything at ten o’clock, and so on.

“Sorry to have kept you, Miss Collier,” said her employer. “The train was late, and I thought we might go over that invoice from Goldbaum to-night. Good-night!”

“Good-night!” Her telephone trilled. With her serious eyes upon the two men she lifted it to her chest. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Underwood,” they heard her say. “Yes, I believe Mr. Craig Spaulding arrived this afternoon. Shall I try to get him for you? Yes, that would be better, I think. You could probably get him at the house later on.”

She set down the instrument; all three smiled.

“Miss Collier,” said Craig Spaulding, with his finished, brisk air, “consider yourself retained at any price!”

Hilary echoed their cheerful good-nights, and went through the darkened abandoned offices with a singing heart. She locked the coat-room, let herself out past the watchman, at a side door, and turned off into the quiet little back street that had been her own personal world since childhood. She had to pick her way, there was treacherous slush underfoot, and here among the big trees and decorous old brick walls the street-lights did not help very effectively. She knew all these houses and the people in them: she and Dora had their favourites among the old pink and cream brick buildings, admired this old Revolutionary balcony, or that gracious line of side wall.

She could see lights upstairs in the Brewster house; Minnie and her father and mother were putting the baby to bed. They made a great fuss about Minnie’s baby, the first grandchild. And the Fosters’ side parlour was lighted; perhaps Tom and ’Lizabeth were home. The family never used it otherwise.

Her own lane ran close under the yellow stream from the tall windows; the Colliers’ little home was a tiny brick building of four rooms. It was detached from the big house beside it, now, but it was still called what it had once in fact been: “the Carolan kitchen.” It stood, a graceful little wing, beside the shabby old main house. Both were of creamy brick, mellowed by the snows and summers of nearly two hundred years.

The girl was thrilling, as she hurried home in the cold dark, and was annoyed to feel herself thrilling, to the memory of that last few minutes of talk with Craig in the outer office. It would be good to get home, and begin to toast the croutons, and tell Dora the great news of Kronski. Nothing could be more ridiculous than that Hilary Collier should allow her thoughts to linger even a moment upon the personality of Craig Spaulding.

He was rich; he was—even Hilary could see it!—supremely a man of the world. He thought no more of his uncle’s secretary than she herself thought of the policeman who took her across a muddy Philadelphia crossing, or the conductor who punched her ticket in the train. Women always admired rich and brilliant men, and he was more than that; she knew that he was good and steady and kind. He was probably engaged at this minute to some girl of his own type, some rich and lovely creature who moved in an atmosphere of perfumes and furs and violets, and great, softly lighted drawing rooms.

The Underwood girls! Hilary’s lip curled scornfully. They had not lost much time! Neither one of them need hope for him ... An odd little pang of envy surprised her: at least they were of his world, and she was not.

She came to her own gate: a narrow gate in an old brick wall. It would be good to get home to warmth and rest and Dora.

“Consider yourself retained ... kind as she looks, I imagine she can be a little martinet!” How his phrases and tones came back to her! There had been few men in her busy life; never one like this one. So strangely potent is the first hint of sex in a girl’s heart that these casual phrases, tossed into Hilary Collier’s full and ordered life, were enough to distress her, to upset her careful planning, to stir vaguely the depths that she had never suspected in her own being. Kronski’s coming marked, she knew, a crisis in her life; coming coincidentally with Dora’s eighteenth birthday, his unexpected appearance had all the gravity of a moving Fate.

Yet here she was, her mind working busily along an entirely new line of thought, like that of any one of the foolish village girls in the factory, because old Spaulding’s nephew, exiled for a few months from his clubs and his polo and his yachting, had deigned to draw her into a moment’s careless friendship.

She felt within her a stern self-contempt as she opened the kitchen door.