Cathalina at Greycliff

The maid was doing Cathalina Van Buskirk’s sunny brown hair.

“Do it up high, Etta; it is so hot today! I hope Mother will decide to go to the mountains soon!”

“Just as soon as your brother comes home, Miss Cathalina. I heard her say so yesterday.”

“Last year he met us there!” Cathalina replied, somewhat fretfully.

“Yes, but he is not going back next Fall, you know, and there’s all his things to come here. And then your mother said that she isn’t sure where she will go until she sees him and finds out what he needs and where he wants to go.”

“O, Phil’s always well,—I wish I were!” Cathalina looked mournfully and pityingly in the mirror, where she saw a pretty, delicate face with shadowy, dark blue eyes. A tear threatened to splash over as Cathalina thought what a dull, disagreeable world it was. A miserable piano lesson at ten o’clock, and she supposed she’d have to practice a while before; a party the next day, or was it this afternoon?—and the girls would be offended if she did not go. Always the same old thing anyhow!

Etta quietly took the blue silk kimono that Cathalina had slipped off and brought in exchange a dainty morning dress of fine, sheer lawn.

Cathalina’s bedroom was a beautiful setting for the fair little maid of fourteen years. When the new home was being finished a year before, Cathalina herself, with some direction from her mother, had chosen the blue, white and silver decorations and selected the furnishings. What pride she had taken at first in the delicate effects, the simple, though expensive, fittings. But she was tired of it all now.

As Etta fastened the dress, Cathalina said, with the shy little smile that she always had when she spoke intimately, “I was so cross, Etta, this morning when you brought up my breakfast,—please forgive me!”

“O, Miss Cathie,—if you call that cross! What would you think if you heard what I’ve had to put up with?”

“Better not tell me, Etta,” replied Cathalina, who had been taught not to encourage tales of former service. “I might get hints on how to manage you,” she added, with a laugh. “How loose this dress is getting! Just pin over the girdle a little—or get me that other sash that matches, please.” Then both girls turned to listen to sounds of commotion down stairs.

“What is that? Hurry, Etta,—I do believe it’s Phil! Yes, I hear his voice!”

Gone was Cathalina’s languor. She ran to the door, stood a moment by the bannister, looking over, then flew down the broad stairs as fast as a pair of twinkling feet could carry her.

“O, Phil!”

“Hullo, Kathleen Mavourneen!” And a tall, slim youngster who stood in the hall turned and caught the flying figure on the last stair. He gave her a whirl and then held her off after a brotherly hug. “Why, what’s the matter with you, kitten” for Cathalina was sobbing a little.

“I don’t know—just so glad to see you—I cry at everything lately.”

“Well, come now!” Philip boyishly patted her shoulder. “Come on, let’s find Mothery. O, Mother!”

“Is that my boy?” Another graceful figure came down stairs, not quite so fast, but with face eager and smiling. Philip embraced his mother and tipped up her chin that he might get a good look, with “How’s Madam Sylvia Van Ness Van Buskirk?”

“Beautiful as a dream,” answered Cathalina, who had recovered from her tears and was almost feeling frisky, inspired by Philip’s arrival.

“She actually blushes!” laughed Philip. “Now if it were Dad! Still the same pair of lovers, Mothery?”

“Nonsense, Philip. How good it is to have you again! How did you happen to come so unexpectedly?”

“I was all through, lessons and quizzes, and took a notion to come. Packed in an awful hurry and forgot to telegraph. The bunch was along. But let me clean up, Mother, before I answer questions,—I’m so dingy and hot! You see I’m here, husky as ever, and wasn’t fired! Home looks pretty good to me!”

“Very well, saucy boy!” Sylvia Van Buskirk shook her head, in smiling reproof of her son, who turned to give direction to the butler standing near, unhearing, unseeing, a suitcase in each hand. “There’ll be a big bag, a couple of trunks and some boxes of books later, Watts. Don’t know where I did get all the junk. Have Louis bring up the suit-cases right away. And how are you yourself?”

“Watts’” dignity gave way to a warm smile, for all the servants liked Philip Junior, or “Mr. Philip”, as they called him. Three or four at a time, Philip took the low steps, whistling as he went.

“Handsome and full of fun as ever!”

“Now we’ll have a little life in the house!”

So exclaimed Cathalina and her mother together.

“How are you this morning, Cathalina?”

“O, I was simply cross when I waked up with a headache again, but it was gone after breakfast.”

Mrs. Van Buskirk’s brow contracted anxiously as she looked at Cathalina. Then, arm in arm, they crossed the hall and entered the library, where shades and shutters kept out the glare of the morning sun, an electric fan supplied a breeze and the mail lay upon the table.

The Van Buskirk library was what Philip Junior called it, “a thing of beauty” and “a joy forever”. Philip Van Buskirk Senior was a merchant and importer who dealt in all things beautiful of a material sort. Books were his recreation; and as the producing world brought him silks, ivories, jewels and quaint treasures of all kinds, so this world of books brought riches of thought and a quiet companionship away from business cares. The low shelves in the alcoves were filled with reference books galore, with the standard literature and, best of all, the precious copies of the authors dear to the fine man who selected, read and put them upon his shelves, according to his own fancy of arrangement.

Here, in the broad, well-cushioned window seat, Cathalina loved to curl up with a box of candy and a book or favorite magazine. No wonder that meals did not taste well and that there was a headache in the morning!

This morning’s headache, however, could not be charged to candy, for of late that had been forbidden. Some months before this June morning, Cathalina had been seriously ill. Under careful watching and with a return to the program of more childish days, she had been coming slowly back to health and had even taken up a few studies again. But she had no real interest in anything and in spite of a disposition naturally sweet, bid fair to become fretful and spoiled.

The Van Buskirks were wealthy, enjoying the usual luxuries that money can buy. To a certain extent and among their special friends they entertained, but were not given to display. In the midst of the activities that modern life almost thrusts upon men and women of means, they kept as far as possible to the family traditions and domestic realities. Sylvia was one of several sisters noted for their grace and charm; and when Philip Van Buskirk, young, handsome, somewhat timid in these days, first saw Sylvia Van Ness and met a glance from her grave, sympathetic eyes, his choice was made. A wholesome family life, consideration for others, great interest in their children, soft-voiced women and quiet, efficient men were characteristic of these people and their friends.

After finishing her own letters, Cathalina sat quietly and watched her mother as she rapidly read one after another. Mrs. Van Buskirk’s dark hair, perfectly arranged, made a frame for her sweet, thoughtful face. Little rings of hair, curling from the moist heat, strayed about her brow and ears. “Such a pretty mother,” said Cathalina, reaching over to pat the slender hand resting on the table. Her mother drew Cathalina’s fingers within her own and read on down the last page of the last letter.

Cathalina had always wanted to look like her mother. Often as a little child she had stood before the mirror, anxiously looking to see if her hair were not a trifle darker, her nose a trifle longer! Some one had mentioned pug noses with scorn. Could it be that hers was one? For several months she worried over the matter, until one day one of her aunts had said, “I think Cathalina is going to have the Van Buskirk nose.” That was anything but a pug, she knew, and then she feared that she might have a nose as long as Uncle Martin Van Buskirk’s,—which would never do on a girl! Alas the secret fears of childhood, so real, yet so easily forgotten.

“Well, Cathalina, have you any news?”

Cathalina handed her mother an open letter, asking in her turn, “Anything important in your mail?”

“Three requests for money, a funny letter of thanks from your old Irish admirer, Mrs. Sullivan,—look at it;—a letter from our secretary of foreign missions and a note from Aunt Katherine, saying that she will be over some time after lunch. It must have been left by the chauffeur, as there is no sign of its having been through the mails. It should have been brought directly to me.”

“Why didn’t she telephone?”