Wings (Lee)

by Jennette Lee

 

WINGS

By Jennette Lee

The Rector and the Curate faced each other across the study table. They had been going over the list of parish poor. It was a long list and rather complicated, but at last it was finished. They leaned back and smiled at each other comfortably.

“Well, that is done,” said the Rector, “the next thing is to make it work.”

The Curate gathered up the loose papers, thrusting them into the worn bag beside him. He was a young man, with a face like the Hoffman Christ. He had also a wife and five children. The women of the church worshipped him. The men found him a good fellow. The Rector knew him for a hard worker. He watched him now, as he gathered up the papers, with a look of quiet understanding. The relation between them had a certain note of equality. It marked the younger man as capable of making his way without offence.

“By the way,” said the Rector, still watching him, “The Actors' Alliance—how is it coming on?”

The Curate paused among the papers. He pushed back the hair from his forehead. “I've neglected it,” he said. “There have been so many details, and this Chardon case—.” He pointed to the papers.

“Of course.” The rector's quiet nod acquitted him. “You've had too much. But Worden told me yesterday they are making a good thing of it in Hampton. He spoke of one or two phases of the work. It would seem as if we had the best chance here of any parish in the diocese—the 'Sanford Theatre' and the Saturday night plays for the College—.”

“Yes, yes, I know—I've often thought of it. I did manage to do a little last year. But it lapsed.” The tired look in the Curate's face brought out its humanness.

His rector regarded it kindly. “We need another man,” he said, “Meanwhile you'd better give me the Chardon case.” He held out his hand for it. “They need the stern lawgiver. It will do them good and it will free you for some thing better. There is a little girl acting at the 'Sanford,' a mere child, they tell me, drawing crowds. Look her up if you can.”

The Curate took out his notebook. He looked inquiringly at the Rector.

“Oh, I don't know anything—not even her name. The report came up the back stairs early in the week, and this morning Evelyn said that the better class are beginning to go—some of our own people. It's the girl, they say. The play itself is poor stuff. But the girl is different. And being so young, I thought—.”

“I will see her at once,” said the Curate. He replaced his note-book and gathered up his bag and was gone.

 

The girl wandered about the room a little uncertainly. It was a large room with tall windows and huge, meaningless furniture set at regular intervals. The windows looked out into a row of dismal back yards. Across the tops of the houses one saw branches lifting to the sky—a kind of spring lightness. They held life in their tips, and seemed to breathe a little as they opened.

The girl came to the window and looked across to the trees. Her eyes were sombre with quick lights in them. The brow above them, square and wide, was a little drawn and the mouth, in its pointed place, held a line of doubt. No one would for a minute think of the face as beautiful. But one would look at it again, and then again. By and by he would see that the girl knew that he was looking—nor would the brow change its line, nor the mouth. She did not seem to mind that you surveyed the castle wall, that you even admired it and walked around it. She was busy at the citadel. Life opened fast to her—myriads of things that the mind must touch and taste and withdraw from, wondering. Her movements had been those of a free thing. Now she stood with her hands folded, her head a little bent and her eyes looking out to the tree-tops. Her quietness held something vivid—a kind of still waiting. One might have stroked the folded wings, but he would know that life quivered in them—a challenge to the air and wind and storm.

A woman's voice chimed in the room softly. It was like convent bells. It was the kind of voice that sounds behind grey walls, calling the heart to rest.

The girl turned quickly. “Yes, Mother.”

“Would you like to go to walk?”

“To walk?” She paused, looking about the room, “I have been walking, haven't I?”

The mother smiled. “You are restless. The air will do us both good. See, I have finished it.” She smoothed the work in her hand, spreading it out.

The girl came across and knelt beside her, examining it. It was a beautiful piece of embroidery, rich like an altar cloth, but with no trace of the church's symbolism in its lines. The mysterious pattern suggested rather some quaint Eastern source. The girl lifted it with quick fingers, admiring it. “You do such beautiful things, Mother—and they are not the least like you.” She was looking at it, a little wonderingly, as if just struck with the thought. She raised her eyes to the quiet figure beside her—with the grey dress and grey hair and grey eyes looking out—quiet pools fringed with straight-stemmed lines—“Not the least like you,” she repeated thoughtfully.

A light rested in the eyes—a passing wing mirrored and gone. The face caught it and glowed. “You think it is not like me and you said it was beautiful—” She was smoothing the girl's hair, “you do not see the other side.” The girl lifted the embroidery with a quick touch, like a child, turning it over. “It is just the same!” she said, scrutinizing it.

Her mother laughed. “Come, we will go for a walk.” She folded the embroidery carefully and reached for the basket beside her.

A knock sounded on the door. “For Miss Seawell,” said the bell-boy, proudly. He deposited a box on the table and produced a card. He searched in his pocket and found another. He handed them out. “They're both the same,” he said.

The eyes of the mother and daughter met. The mother shook her head slightly. She hesitated. “Tell him he may come up for five minutes,” she said at last, “we were just going out.”

The girl's eyes danced behind the closed door. “Tommy Talcott!” Her fingers were untying the box, lifting a huge bunch of violets. The stems were tied with a white satin ribbon—yards of it. “Like a bride,” she said, trailing it out. “It will make a lovely belt-ribbon.” She laid a bit of it to her waist and danced a step across the room.

“Hush, Lita!”

The girl paused. She waited midstep. Then she walked demurely to the table and laid down the flowers. When she turned to the door her face was impressive and grave.

The youth bowed above her hand with exaggerated devotion. She motioned him to a seat near her mother and moved a little distance away.

The youth's eyes devoured her. He had a round, fat face and blue eyes that tried to look hard. His trousers were turned up a little at the bottom and he carried his arms with an arranged, a careful air—curved like sausages.

The girl surveyed him while he talked. He was richly a man of the world, caressing the silk ankle on his knee and commenting on men and things in quick tones. He clipped his words and stroked his ankle and contemplated the girl with an air of possession—that halted a little, now and then, in doubt.

“Your violets are very beautiful.” She motioned to the table.

“Not much. Best I could get. Beastly town for flowers,” responded the youth.

“Oh, I think they are lovely.”

The youth smiled. He lounged a little on his chair. “Say, do you know you were great last night—just great.” He beamed on her. He expanded to himself.

The girl looked at him indifferently. “Did you think so? I was not so good as usual.”

“Oh, say!” he protested, “You can't tell, you know. That place,” he continued confidently, “that place when you come in solemn and grave and then do those stunts of yours—it's—,” he paused for fit words, “it's great, you know—just great!” He stroked his lip and looked at her largely and seemed to be enjoying the way he was going it.

The mother, who had left the room for a minute, returned ready to go out. “You will excuse us, Mr. Talcott? We were on the point of going when you came.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Seawell, certainly.” He put her at her ease with a wave of his hand, “I'll go along with you.” He was reaching for his hat.

“We would not trouble you.” She stopped him midway.

“No trouble.” He was murmuring it into his hat. “No trouble—”

The door had opened again to a card. The mother was reading it with puzzled brow. “Mr. George Steadman.” She looked at her daughter. The girl shook her head.

“Tell him to come up, please.”

The youth settled back. He would see his rival before he went. He had spent a hundred on her—boxes and flowers. Let any other man cut him out if he thought best. He curved his arms and waited..

It was the Curate, brushing the hair from his forehead and talking dreamily, with some shrewd common sense gleaming through and lighting the dream.

The youth stared at him with cool eyes. The cheek of the old buck! He had seen him somewhere before—Oh, yes—Curate—the pious dodge.

The Curate turned to him. Dreamily he drew from him his class—sophomore?—“I should not have thought it,” murmured the Curate. The youth wriggled a little. “And what church do you attend?” “The Episcopalian? Ah, then I shall have the pleasure of calling on you. I call on all the Episcopal students.” The youth gasped. “Oh—” It was almost a wail—“but I'm not, you know—not exactly.” The Curate looked at him keenly. “I'm likely to be out, you know,” said the youth. It was a last flying leap. But the Curate had him fast. “I can call again,” he said kindly, “I always call again when they are out. I like to see the boys in their own rooms. I seem to know them better.” His tone had changed subtly. “Where do you come from—where is your home?”

“Talcottville.”

“Your father is John Talcott then?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy straightened a little at the sound of his father's name.

“I knew him in college—knew him well. He was years ahead of me, but used to come back to the games.”

The youth stared at him. “You're not Steadman of Ninety-three?”

“I believe I am.”

“Well, I know all about you!” It was half-boyish, half-manly. “But I didn't suppose you were a—minister?”

The Curate smiled. “I am—part of the time.” He took out his card. “You must come and see us. Mrs. Steadman will want to see you.”

The youth received the card in deferential fingers. He slipped away. They heard a door clutch softly. The girl laughed.

“Hush, Lita.”

“But it was truly funny,” she said. Her eyes were on the Curate. She was admiring the Hoffman head.

The Curate turned suddenly and found her doing it. He reddened a little. Women were still a mystery to the Curate. His wife had explained to him many times that there is no sin in admiring a picture by Hoffman. But she wanted him to be careful, and he plunged into explaining the details of the Actors' Church Alliance.

The two women listened with gentle intentness.

“It is what we have wanted,” said the mother, “I had heard of it, but I did not know—and we spend so little time in a place.”

“Precisely—that is the Alliance—to have the connections made.”

“And I am to go to church to-morrow,” said the girl wistfully. She was still looking at him.

“If you will. Ask for my pew. Mrs. Steadman will be there. She will want to call on you if there is time?”

“We stay till Wednesday.”

“Then she will come,.”

A light came into the girl's face. “Would she—would you like a box?”

“A box—?”

“At the 'Sanford'—to see me—” The words laughed a little anxiously. “It is quite proper—now. Nice people go. They let me change the lines—I do as I like. I wish you would come!” Her hands were clasped impulsively. She was like a child.

The Curate smiled indulgently. “When do you want us?”

“Any time—Monday? Would that do? How good you are!” She flitted to a desk and wrote a few words on a card. “There. They will keep the box for you. I shall watch—you will surely come?”

“We will surely come.” The Curate tucked the card into his pocket. “And to-morrow you will be at St. John's?”

“To-morrow, yes.”

When he was gone the girl looked at her mother. “Something is coming,” she said softly. She half put out her hand. “Something beautiful, and strange.” The hand groped a little and drew back. “I think I am afraid.”

Her mother's hand touched her arm and the vision broke. The girl laughed. She ran her hand across her eyes. “Come, let us go out—before it is dark—out-of-doors.”

II

The girl sat in the church, her hands clasped and her soul drifting. The color about her held her, and vague wonder, the stir of something lifting itself, and the gleam of the little windows high in the roof. She had not been in a church for years. They had spent their Sundays in the fields or on the road. She had not known that it was like this. The quiet of the place—falling deep on the heart, and the sense of something coming if one would wait. She had almost ceased to breathe .... the processional was calling, stern and hushed, through closing walls. It hovered faintly, like a bird, then it grew, lifting the heart. The girl leaned forward, watching the white-robed figures. One by one they entered the stalls, crossing her soul with gentle motion. The last was a boy taller than the rest, with a face of light. He took his place by the organ, a little apart from the others.

The girl sank back with a quick breath.

The organ swelled and sang and drew to silence, and the service went its way, intoned and sweet. The anthem rose, filling the nave, and high above it sounded a voice that thrilled the heart—little reeds shaken in the wind—a voice delicate and rare, with shimmering petals that fell through space, stars of light in quick descent. The air quivered to the notes and was still. The windows rained color on bowed heads and stone and wood, and angels trumpeting aloft. High in the chancel hung a bird with outspread wings that shone in the light. The eyes of little children loved it. The gir!'s eyes sought it now, like a child's.

 

The church about her grew vague, and gray, and dark; it fell away into space, and her soul mounted to the bird there swinging in light—to the white wings and polished breast, and the sound of a voice singing, faint and sweet, through the arches—singing, swinging, drifting—with the snow-white bird. Life centered in it, and rest—the great things she planned to do—slowly they circled and gathered in, a shadowy host. Her heart fell to singing—little dreams of truth, swift hopes rising over to the bird and the voice singing.

 

When she came back from the dream the Curate's wife was asking her to dinner. The service was done, the church was empty. The voice had receded, calling her as it went, dying to a last faint sound behind closed walls. “Amen,” a drifting, fading call—“Amen.” The white-robed figures were gone. The church was empty. The Curate's wife was asking her to dinner.

She turned with puzzled eyes and a little shake of the head, looking into the kind, round face. “I must go home,” she said, “Mother would worry. Oh, I am sorry she could not come—sorry—sorry!”

At the door of the church they waited for the Curate to come out. The girl turned to her companion with a frank smile. “It was beautiful!” she said, “I thank you.”

The round face lighted. “You are glad you came?”

“I shall never forget it.” She broke off with a pretty gesture—“Oh, could I see him, just once, do you think? I want to tell him how I loved it!”

The Curate's wife looked stern. “You loved it!”

“Didn't you? It was so strange and sweet. I wanted to clap and clap and cry—why did no one clap?” she demanded, “a voice like that!”

“You mean—,” a light glimmered—“you mean the choir, the singing?”

“I mean that boy with a voice like an angel! Why, in the theatre they would not have let him go—not a sound—I could have cried—my throat ached so!” She put her hand to it, still pulsing.

The Curate's wife relaxed a little. “We do not applaud in church; we go to worship God.”

“I think God was pleased,” said the girl simply; “It must have reached Him; it went so high! Oh, could I see him, do you think? I must see him. I must!”

The Curate's wife was startled. “See God?”

The girl's laugh rippled a little. “The boy that sang.”

“Oh, Jimmie Barlow!” Her brow cleared. “Of course; he is a nice boy; he has a good mother; I will bring him to see you.”

The girl seized her hand, pressing it in both her own and swinging it a little. “Bring him to the theatre,” she said, “to-morrow night—will you?”

The Curate had come up. His wife breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to him. “She wants us to bring Jimmie Barlow to see her act, George. Do you think we could?”.

The Curate was looking at the girl kindly—at the light in her face and the eager, moving hands and swift impatience—“Why not?” he said slowly, “Why not?—the boy would like it.”

With a little gesture of thanks the girl was gone.

The Curate looked at his wife. His wife was looking at him.

“It's all right,” he said easily, “every one in town has been, apparently, except you and me,—and Jimmie Barlow.”

“It isn't that. It's Jimmie.”

The Curate stared a little.

“I mean,” she wrinkled her brow, “He's only a boy and,—did you see her face?”

The Curate laughed. “The boy is sixteen, seventeen almost; we lose him from the choir in May; she will not hurt him.” He made a little gesture. “I should like him to know a nice girl.”

“You are sure she is nice?” The anxious brow confronted him.

“As sure as that you are, my dear; I do not make mistakes in women.”

“Oh, George,” very softly, “George—George!” It was all that was said.

III

The girl broke in with swift breath. She crossed to the grey figure on the couch and dropped beside it on her knees. “I have seen an angel,” she said. Her voice sang a little. Her eyes danced. Her hands laughed, and were still. They smoothed the grey hair. “It was a truly angel,” she said, “in a white robe,—singing.”

Her mother smiled, a look of relief in her face. “It was not the Curate then?”

“The Curate? Oh, dear, no! It was a real angel, with wings, I think, though I didn't see 'em. And he stood in the light and sang, and a great bird came and waited above him and sang, 'Amen, Amen.'” She threw back her head, breathing the words softly. The clear flute call filled the room, dying in little waves. The girl listened to the sound, smiling as it died away. The clear, fresh look in her face held a child's happiness, with something deeper behind it.

Her mother watched it intently. “Tell me about it,” she said. She reached for the quick moving hands and patted them. “Tell me.”

“That's all,” said the girl, “but his name is Jimmie Barlow and I love him; and he is coming to see me and—”

“They lived happy forever after.” A little shadow fell on the words.

The girl laughed out, softly. “But they did.”

“Hush, child!” The mother's hand closed firmly on the flitting one. “It is only a dream.”

They sat in silence, the dream about them—the grey mother looking back to a passion of youth. Out of the Quaker past she saw her life emerge, and break and waste itself. The riot and color and passion had ebbed to grey ... her child should not know wreck. She had watched with jealous breath. The soul of her child had run free beside her. At the first stirring of unrest the door had been set ajar to wings. They had opened and fluttered. They waited now, poised—child—woman—a mystery that laughed and sang and spent itself. The mother's clasp tightened a little. The test was come early to quick blood. Her eyes probed the future. Was it to be again?—the swift outgoing, the saddened return? No help from her who knew so well the way, how it beckoned, mysterious, with gleams of rose and quick, soft grass for speeding feet.... They had dealt harsh blows to her—pitiless. They had driven her out of their grey world. Her child had come to the same place,—too soon.

The girl held the thin fingers, spreading them lightly in her own. There were no rings to break the thin lines or hide the whiteness. She held them to her lips, breathing on them. “They are cold,” she said.

IV

The theatre was crowded, but the boy saw only the stage and the girl who had wanted him to come. How beautiful she was—with her strange face. Something stirred in him. He waited, holding his breath—youth on tiptoe—life with finger on lip.

The Curate touched his wife; their eyes met; hers held foreboding; his own were lighted with gentle pleasure; she shook her head at them, and glanced at the boy; he had not stirred. A swift smile held his lips—the smile that crosses a dream, flitting and wistful and vague. She shook her head again. She looked reproachfully at George. George had returned to the stage.

 

The girl entered the box with a little flutter of feathers. The boy awoke from his dream. She approached him with gentle mien. The Curate's wife had turned, but something in the two faces stayed her. They were looking into each other clearly—as two souls that meet midway from the world to world. The girl spoke first, in a quick, low voice, “Will you come and see me?”

“Yes,” he breathed the word. His eyes had not left her face.

A smile broke its gravity. It called the little lights to her eyes. Her hands moved swiftly. “Come to dinner with me, to-morrow night—all of you?” She had turned to the Curate and his wife, “I want you all.” It was as much a command as a request.

The Curate bowed. His wife opened her lips. The girl laid a finger on them lightly. Her eyes were on the boy's face. “I shall expect you, at six—I must go now. Mother will be waiting. She could not come to-night—Thank you for coming. Thank you!” In the midst of a shower of quick little nods she was gone.

 

It was not yet dark in the dining-room. But candles were lighted. The girl moved about, adjusting the shades and giving a final touch to the flowers. There were lilies in the room, and roses and violets. The air would have been heavy with the fragrance had it not been for the long windows, opened to the balcony outside, and the little breeze that came in, stirring the curtains. The girl lingered, looking about her in a dream. She wore a shimmering gown, soft and iridescent, shining as she turned her throat in the light. She held herself, listening. The handle had turned. It was her mother—a grey presence in the beating room. She ran to her swiftly. “You are well enough to come down! I am glad—glad!” She was watching the pale face. “You must not stand.” She had pushed forward a chair.

Her mother laid a hand on the back of it. But she did not sit down; she stood looking about the fragrant room. “You have made it beautiful,” she said.

“Isn't it! They changed the table—gave me the round one, and took down those ugly things”—she motioned to the curtains. “The rest was easy.”

“I see.” Her eyes lingered on the girl. “You are almost grown up,” she said softly.

“Yes?” The girl's voice rose to a little questioning note. “I do not feel so. I feel like a child. I am so happy!” She had come close to her mother. She took the thin fingers, pressing them to her lips.

A sigh escaped into the room—a breath among the flowers.

The girl turned quickly. “You are tired. We will rest till they come.” She put an arm about the grey figure and they passed from the room.

Half an hour later the curious dinner party was gathered about the table. The eyes of the boy and girl met through a tangle of light and flowers and flame. Above the table a mote of flame was caught in a crystal ball and hung swinging, its heart of rose shimmering through. A murmur of sound moved in and out across the light that seemed to centre in the boy and girl. The Curate's wife spoke little. She found herself thinking of the time she first saw George. Her eyes rested on his gently as she remembered. He had been standing in a crowd—she had not thought of it for years—it was on the street corner, and raining, and he had looked at her and a soft, shining light had spread about them mistily.... She looked from the boy to the girl. They had been hardly older—she and George. People had called them foolish. But she would not have changed it—not a minute of it. All the hard times and the easy ones had grown out of it—that moment of pulsing light. Her eyes met those of the mother across the table. A look of understanding passed between them and was gone.

By and by they rose from the table. The boy stood by the window where the breeze from behind the curtain touched his face. The others had moved a little apart. The girl crossed to the window. Slowly she faced him, the leaden fringes that weighed her eyelids lifting themselves. The boy looked into the eyes. The silence waited. Out of it he reached to her—a boyish smile curving his lips. He did not touch her. It was hardly a gesture. Pan, the god of green things walked the room. His wings struck the fragrant air to light.

“I am going away to-morrow,” she said.

“But you come back?”

“Sometime. Yes.”

There was silence. Above the table the swinging ball held its prisoned flame. They moved back and joined the others.

The Curate's wife held out her hand. “Good-night, children,” she said, “You have to go and rehearse, both of you, and George is going, but we mothers—” she looked again at the other woman. “We can sit awhile and talk.”

They passed out of the room—all of them. The silence behind them pulsed, and grew still. The curtains stirred in the wind. A breath, as of wings, spread itself. It hovered above the flowers.

Two black-coated figures came in. One by one, they went about, putting out the lights till the room was dark. Only above the table the mote of flame glowed in its crystal ball.