Harriet and the Piper

Harriet and the Piper

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Harriet and the Piper, by Kathleen
Norris #10 in our series by Kathleen Norris
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Title: Harriet and the Piper (Norris Volume XI)
Author: Kathleen Norris
Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5006] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on April 8,
2002]

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Language: English
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AND THE PIPER ***

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THE WORKS OF KATHLEEN NORRIS
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