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Harriet and the Piper By: Kathleen Thompson Norris (1880-1966) |
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HARRIET AND THE PIPER VOLUME XI TO DANIEL WEBB NYE DEAR MAKER OF BOOKS AND FRIENDS
HARRIET AND THE PIPER
CHAPTER I
Richard Carter had called the place "Crownlands," not to please
himself, or even his wife. But it was to his mother's newly born
family pride that the idea of being the Carters of Crownlands made
its appeal. The estate, when he bought it, had belonged to a
Carter, and the tradition was that two hundred years before it had
been a grant of the first George to the first of the name in
America. Madame Carter, as the old lady liked to be called,
immediately adopted the unknown owner into a vague cousinship,
spoke of him as "a kinsman of ours," and proceeded to tell old
friends that Crownlands had always been "in the family." It was a home hardly deserving of the pretentious name, although
it was beautiful enough, and spacious enough, for notice, even
among the magnificent neighbours that surrounded it. It was of
creamy brick, colonial in design, and set in splendid lawns and
great trees on the bank of the blue Hudson. White driveways
circled it, great stables and garages across a curve of green
meadows had their own invisible domain, and on the shining highway
there was a full mile of high brick fence, a marching line of
great maples and sycamores, and a demure lodge beside the mighty
iron gates. Much of this was as Richard Carter had found it five years ago,
but about the house, inside and out, his wife had made changes,
had lent the place something of her own individuality and charm.
It was Isabelle Carter who had visualized the window boxes and the
awnings, the walks where emerald grass spouted between the bricks,
the terrace with its fat balustrade and shallow marble steps
descending to the river. Great stone jars, spilling the brilliant
scarlet of geraniums, flanked the steps, and the shadows of the
mighty trees fell clear and sharp across the marble. And on a soft
June afternoon, sitting in the silence and the fragrance with
boats plying up and down the river, and birds twittering and
flashing at the brim of the fountain, one might have dreamed one's
self in some forgotten Italian garden rather than a short two
hours' trip away from the busiest and most congested city of the
world. On one of the wide benches that were placed here and there on the
descending terraces, in the late hours of an exquisite summer
afternoon, a man and a woman were sitting. They had strolled
slowly from the tennis court, where half a dozen young persons
were violently exercising themselves in the sunshine, with the
vague intention of reaching the tea table, on the upper level. But
here, in the clear shade, Isabelle Carter had suddenly seated
herself, and Anthony Pope, her cavalier, had thrown himself on the
steps at her feet. She was a woman worthy of the exquisite setting, and in her richly
coloured gown, against the clear cream of the marble, the new
green of the trees and lawns, and the brilliant hues of the
flowers, she might well have turned an older head than that of the
boy beside her. Brunette, with smooth cheeks deeply touched with
rose, black eyes, and a warmly crimson mouth that could be at once
provocative and relentless, she glowed like a flower herself in
the sweet and enervating heat of the summer's first warm day. She
wore a filmy gown of a dull cream colour, with daring great
poppies in pink and black and gold embroidered over it; her lacy
black hat, shadowing her clear forehead and smoke black hair, was
covered with the soft pink flowers. She was the tiniest of women,
and the little foot, that, in its transparent silk stocking and
buckled slipper, was close to Anthony's hand, was like a child's. The man was twice her size, and as dark as she, earnest, eager,
and to day with a troubled expression clouding his face. It was to
banish that look, if she might, that Isabelle had deliberately
stopped him here. She had been behaving badly toward him, and in her rather
irresponsible and shallow way she was sorry for it... Continue reading book >>
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