Ernestine Christian did not return to town until February, having been
induced to play engagements on the Pacific coast. It was the mid-winter
thaw when she arrived. She telephoned Thurley almost immediately and, to
Thurley’s delight, asked her to come and have coffee that afternoon as it
was a Sunday and lessons were not a consideration.
“Sure you won’t come along?” Thurley asked Miss Clergy, dutifully, as she
made ready.
“Quite sure, my dear. This wind would start every bone aching to
perdition,” Miss Clergy told her, “and do put on a prettier dress—there
may be guests.”
Thurley looked at her proverbial blue serge with hesitation. “Oh, I
can’t bother to be done up in a real creation—we’ve such loads to talk
over and Ernestine’s clothes are the sort one never really notices and
yet, describing them as detached things, they are quite wonderful. Do
you think I ought to change?” for it suggested itself to her that Bliss
Hobart might drop in for greetings.
“I should. You can’t be too particular, Thurley. The time is coming
when the world will want to know what sort of frocks you wear every
clock stroke of the day.” Here Miss Clergy yawned and settled back among
innumerable cushions and Thurley spied the cover of a popular novel—one
of Caleb’s, to make it the more amusing—peeping forth.
“Well, if I must—I must,” she said, darting into her room and donning a
tea-green velour with wee fur buttons up to the arctic verge of her pink
ears. She wrapped a mantle of green around herself in careless, becoming
fashion, kissed Miss Clergy somewhere between the chin and forehead and
left her to revel in Caleb’s self-starting romance in which a homely hero
was quite the mode.
She found Ernestine walking about her salon with Silver Heels perched
cordially on her shoulder, purring for joy at his mistress’ return.
Ernestine was busy telling the maid wherein she had neglected to carry
out orders and why the decorators would be recalled to make amends. There
was a pettish air about her criticisms, Thurley thought, for when Thurley
came in with wide opened arms, Ernestine merely gave her a shoulder pat,
saying,
“Don’t try to visit until I’ve finished my anvil chorus. On Caleb’s
recommendation I had a firm do things for me—gaze at the fiasco. It is
terribly disquieting to leave one’s place as one likes it and return to
find it the back parlor of a flourishing merchant!”
“Oh, but it doesn’t look so!” Thurley defended. “That fire screen is a
joy.”
“It may as well be put away,” Ernestine told the maid. “There’ll be a
charity kettle-drum soon enough and I’ll have to donate something for
the raffle. That will do nicely. Every one wants things one has worn or
used—I’ve a notion the next time to send my last quarter’s telephone
directory—I don’t doubt but what it would actually be bid for ... there,
Agnes, get hold of the firm early in the morning and don’t call me. You
know what is wrong and I cannot personally stand a battle with interior
decorators. Come inside, Thurley; take off your green riding-hood cloak
and let me see you. Ah, lovely, lovely!” she caressed the gown as
Thurley would have wished to be caressed herself. “Why, you have promoted
yourself famously—the hair is charming, not a hint of Birge’s Corners
left! Nice child, how proud we shall all be—go ’way, Silver Heels, I’ve a
new playmate—shall we stay in my room and pray heaven no one interrupts
us? I ordered black coffee and crullers so we can be extra wild. Tell me
all you have seen and done.”
Ernestine threw herself on a chaise longue gracefully—she had a perfect
way of doing everything. Caleb had declared her to be the only woman
who could really look fetching while done up in curl papers! As she lay
there in her negligee of skillfully blended blue and gray chiffon without
a hint of lace to relieve the sulky loveliness of the colors, Thurley
experienced the same shyness she had that first day in Bliss Hobart’s
studio.
“Did your concerts go well?” she asked.
“Do you want these cushions piled on top of you and myself acting as
paperweight on top of them?” Ernestine raised herself on one thin arm.
“_Continuez!_ Why not ask if unknown admirers sent me red, red roses or
if I played Chaminade for the Benevolent Newsboys’ Association when I
was their honor guest—ask if I climbed Mt. McKinley or was lost in Death
Valley—you disappointing _midge_, your looks belie you utterly.”
“What is the popular topic?” Thurley was capable of teasing, too. “Caleb
Patmore?”
Ernestine’s sallow cheeks flushed. She made a clucking noise which
brought Silver Heels from under the lounge. “I hope you eat so many
frosted crullers you’ll take on weight, bringing Bliss’s wrath on your
impudent shoulders. I want to know about you—whom have you met?—how is
the ghost-lady?—the voice of gold—what do you think of us now? Sorry you
came?” She laughed over at Thurley in friendly fashion and the fagged
artist vanished.
So Thurley, while February slush-rain beat in vain at windows and raw
winds mercilessly blew, told Ernestine all that had happened from the
time they said good-by in December.
“I did hate you when you wrote so about Christmas. That wasn’t fair. Why
couldn’t you have let me have that last bromidic holiday?”
“My child, I cannot endure Christmas and birthday things. I can stand
Valentine’s Day much easier. I don’t know—but I’m so weary playing
holiday matinées and having the audience one glitter of new watches,
bracelets and other trifling remembrances, of having their minds groggy
from too much dinner and demanding me to play carols with tumity-tum
tunes while my piano must be holly decorated. Rather prejudiced me. And
birthdays are devil days since they remind me I never wanted to be born,
yet some unknown law of rhythm would have it so. Here I am, earthbound in
a sallow, fleshy envelope when I’d love to be cloud free to drift here,
there, without restraint, creed, convention—or the greed for crullers,”
helping herself to a second. “Perhaps it was rough on a new little
beggar, smashing up her bandbox ideas. Never mind, I thought of you—run
open the second drawer of that white chest and find the jeweller’s box—it
is for you. See if you like it.”
Thurley obeyed, coming back to her chair to examine the box. “How good
you are!” she said, as she came upon a little blue leather and gold faced
clock not much bigger than a revenue stamp.
“A practice clock when you go on deadly tours. Tuck it in your bag as a
memento and years hence you can say, ‘Ernestine Christian—rest her bones
for they seldom rested when I knew her—gave it to me in my salad days.’
One can always use such trifles. That reminds me, I have a beaver jacket
Polly may be induced to accept; write ‘Polly—jacket’ on that pad so I’ll
remember. I’ll hunt her up to-morrow. Caleb says she has been doing supe
work in the movies; tough luck for any one but Polly. But I’ve no doubt
she fancies it gains inspiration for her for the America opera.
“So! Bliss says a nice word occasionally and you like Sam Sparling—one of
God’s own, Thurley—now _he_ believes in Santa Claus. And you think Collin
Patmore’s pictures superb? Wait until you see his house—Parva Sed Apta he
has named it—and his garden! There is a fierce rivalry between Collin’s
garden and Caleb’s and likewise their houses. Collin dubs his a château
and I think Caleb claims his is a really true lodge! Funny boys! We’ll
go up there in the summer and see for ourselves. Oh, yes, Thurley, tell
me about Miss Clergy! I want to ask her if I may take you abroad this
summer; three months across would do wonders for you. Bliss mentioned
it before I went away. I want to see your eyes the first time you gaze
at the Alhambra in the moonlight. We’ll give Italy half our time, a
few weeks in Paris and six days in London. You’ll return not knowing
yourself.”
“But the money? When, oh, when can I earn?” Thurley asked in distress.
“Don’t bother about money; just let me tell you what to pack and what to
leave behind. Collin goes to sketch near Barcelona and we may take the
same steamer over—wouldn’t that be a lark? Collin is the nicest courier
I know, besides being the greatest portrait painter. I suppose he will
give his next season’s subjects Spanish coloring and a red rose just
tumbling off their left ear à la Carmen. One year he did Russia and I
vow every western society woman he painted had the mysterious air of
stilettos concealed in fans and poisoned cigarettes that Moscow alone
can impart. He’ll run out of countries by and by, as France, Italy and
England are old stories.”
“Can’t he paint people just as they are?”
“That’s the trouble. He would if he was not careful to have a supply of
‘atmosphere’ to shoot into muddy complexions and wriggling noses and to
blur softly over deep-seated moles and other excess facial baggage. I am
the only woman he ever painted without thought for future commissions.”
“Did he ever paint Mr. Hobart?” she wondered if she betrayed a blush.
“Haven’t you seen? But, then, you’ve never been at Parva Sed Apta. It was
Bliss’s portrait that gave Collin his sudden rise. When you look at it,
you will understand.” Ernestine fell to telling of Sam Sparling’s early
stage days and her own début when she actually had worn white net with
pearls, following by a dissertation on Polly’s angelic stubbornness and
hopelessness and on how she planned to snub Caleb if he wrote a sequel to
“Victorious Victoria” and advice about the attitude Thurley had best take
towards her future associates at the opera house.
“Won’t we be terribly intimate?” she asked in surprise.
“Dear, no! Oh, you’ll have pictures taken together in loving attitudes,
go to parties and all that—send each other flowers at proper times. But
you’ll never be like the ‘family’ towards each other and, when you are
older, you will realize the singular honor it has been to become one of
the family so readily. You may loathe the tenor who sings _Romeo_ to
your _Juliet_ and the woman who is leading contralto may be a deadly
enemy—but that matters nothing. You sing your rôle and leave it and your
art personality behind in your dressing-room. You will find that the
others also have their own affairs, interests and opinions. They are not
keen for the advent of a new, charming _diva_ of whom they are certain
to be jealous and angry of success so swiftly, easily achieved. You are
a musical phenomenon, Thurley, and, as there are not many in any one
generation, you must be guided accordingly.”
“Please tell me how the ‘family’ started.” Thurley had not yet reached
the stage where talking of herself and her accomplishments was of keen
interest.
“It was Bliss’s idea,” Ernestine paused as if undecided how much to tell.
“He is a rare soul—the jewel in the toad’s head, we call him. But he
wears an armor of worldly practicability and cynicism; he must be very
sure of one before he lets one know the real man.... Some years ago, when
his opinions were just beginning to find favor, he met Sam Sparling and
they had a fearful row—terrific—Sam said Bliss Hobart was all sorts of
a fool and, after they had it out, they found that each meant the same
thing when you sifted it down to the makings. So they were comrades. They
were together quite a lot because Sam had him put on plays and then Sam
went to London and Bliss into the opera and music field.” Here she paused
again. “Anyway, they had really started the family—and when Bliss had a
letter from Sam about Collin Hedley, an American starving in London, whom
Sam was sending back to New York to paint Bliss’s portrait, he prepared
to welcome this Collin as a brother, and so he did. The great picture
was painted and Collin was made. Now Collin and Caleb came from the same
little Middle West town and, lo and behold, up turns Caleb fresh from a
fifteen-dollar-a-week newspaper job and keen as mustard for writing ‘big
stuff.’ Inspired by Bliss’s picture and by Bliss and the whole outlay of
atmosphere into which they led him, Caleb wrote his first best seller—it
had heart in it, too—and although Bliss and Collin wanted to duck him in
the rain barrel for degrading his talent, they loved him for himself and
he joined them. Then, enter Ernestine Christian! Now this was funny—I was
playing London concerts then and I met Sam: he recited at a royal benefit
at which I played. We sat out between the numbers talking about ‘what I
like to eat’ and ‘what you like to eat’ and ‘what color you like best’
and ‘what color I like best’ and so on, you know, the usual procedure.
And when I sailed for America I had a letter of introduction to the trio—”
Thurley finished the confession. “Then they all met and loved you in
different ways.”
“Tell me how?”
“Bliss as a comrade and Collin as a big sister and Caleb as a real man
loves a real woman.”
“You’ve grown up, Thurley,” was Ernestine’s comment. “But I must tell
you that little Polly was added quite unexpectedly. She was posing as a
sprite for Collin; you know Collin does children’s portraits with pastel
backgrounds of favorite fairy tales, half indistinct—very good idea and
quite the rage. Polly is an ideal sprite, brownie or gnome model and
Collin had run across her by accident. The first morning she posed she
fainted dead away—slam bang—on the floor, and it was a real faint because
she hadn’t had a square meal in two days, just samples of cereals and
Hudson River elixir. They discovered her fierce pride and her tragic
ambition and her adorable self, so she has been our Polly ever since—”
“Loving Collin—”
“Loving Collin, woman of the world,” repeated Ernestine. “Then Polly blew
in one night in her audacious fashion accompanied by Mark Wirth. Now we
had seen Mark dance and enjoyed him but knew him to be a will o’ the wisp
person and Lissa Dagmar, who I hope stays in Paris for all time, had
bewitched him and we really don’t approve of that kind of thing. Mark,
however, was like the foundling in a basket, crying feebly during the
stormy night, and we just could not turn him away although Lissa tried
her best to make inroads into our ‘family.’ She cried and bribed and
writhed because she still remained aloof from the charmed circle. And we
kept Mark and made him one of us, scolding him roundly every chance we
had.”
“And now I am the infant,” said Thurley slowly, “but why don’t you like
Madame Dagmar?” recalling the purring voice she had once heard.
“She is impossible—a large person dressed fantastically in sort of
medieval patterns; she has Titian hair and serpent green eyes, those
heavy, white lids in which purplish veins spread in profusion, and a
wretched voice with the unexplained phenomenon of being able to reach a
tiptop note far above the range of any other soprano in the world. This
one note is as soft and clear as if it were heaven-sent. It has made
her a name and a fortune, the one divine sound coming as a reward for
poor technique and wobbly trills. She tried opera, failed miserably,
and does concert tours where people crowd to see her gowns and wait for
that tree-top call. The rest of the time she gives singing lessons. We
call her the ‘Voice Assassin,’ and Bliss Hobart threatens to appeal to
the authorities if she does not take down her shingle. Ten dollars for
twenty minutes and nothing of value to the pupil save seeing and hearing
what is wisest to avoid! However, like many impossible persons, she has
a following, a personality—a—a—way with her. She will pet and coo over
you, if Mark does not, and you had best be outwardly polite; it is wisest
thus, paying no heed to her since Lissa proceeds on the principle of
‘what he thought he might require, he went and took the same as me.’ To
Lissa playfulness always means experience, although the other fellow may
not know it! And then—”
“Madame Dagmar, Mr. Mark Wirth,” the maid announced.
Ernestine sank back among the cushions, groaning. “I cannot be a low
order of animal life and refuse to see her—she has just returned from
Paris, I presume ... oh, Thurley, help me up! Say we’ll be in,” she told
the maid, staggering to her feet with an exaggerated gesture.
Surpressing a very genuine giggle, Thurley followed Ernestine into the
drawing room where they met an effusive person wearing a hat which
expressed all the best ideas of the Wright brothers and a gown of
shimmering mauve with gaudy peacock embroideries.
“My sweet children,” Lissa began in her cloying voice, “to think I find
you both here ... and this is Thurley? What a dear! I know all about
you, because Mr. Hobart speaks of no one else with the same enthusiasm.
Of course I never hope to be called in as a consulting teacher—dear no,”
here she gave a snarly little laugh, “I’m considered a real villainness
by certain persons. But I shall be fairy godmother anyway—there always
is an unasked fairy at the christening, you remember! This is Mark
Wirth—” a sweep of her white, jewelled hand intimated the handsome chap
with burnished gold hair and eyes as blue as Thurley’s. Two things
about Mark saved him from being merely an Adonis—his long forehead, the
forehead of a man who often complains of being persecuted because of his
tenacity to prove his point, and the astute expression of his eyes.
“Sit down, every one. I am just back from tour myself—well, what are your
hopes and fears?”
Ernestine let Lissa take the center of the stage.
“Mark isn’t going on tour, I can’t spare him,” here another snarly laugh.
Thurley fancied Mark Wirth flushed with annoyance.
“Oh, Mark, when you have such bully chances!” Ernestine protested.
“I can stay in town as well—do let’s talk of some one else,” he said.
“I want Mark to stop Grecian dancing, there is no definite future in it
now débutantes have taken it up”—her artificially shaped eyebrows lifting
as a danger signal—“and make a specialty of ballroom dancing—”
Ernestine held up her hand. “God forbid,” she said reverently. “I saw
Mark dance in the Harvard Stadium—please let him continue to use his
brains as well as his feet.”
“There’s room for a difference of opinion. For myself, my classes promise
to be large this season—and I’ve wonderful frocks. I’ve reopened the
Hotel Particular and tried to get Collin or Caleb on the ’phone but their
men say they are not about. I only saw Bliss by accident,” she gave a
side glance at Thurley, “it was then I learned about you!”
“Is the Hotel Particular as smart as ever?” Ernestine hastened to ask.
“I’ve had no end of things done to it. Come and see. Which you never
do. Isn’t it strange, Miss Precore, I pay five calls to this person’s
begrudged one?” and Lissa smiled in her most disagreeable fashion.
Ernestine tried to smooth over the accusation by praising Lissa’s frock.
“Mark played rouge-et-noir at Monte Carlo and I won a winter’s wardrobe,”
Lissa boasted.
Ernestine rose and ordered fresh coffee. She was embarrassed that Thurley
must meet the first real scandal in her house, not but what she would
and must meet many such and not that it shocked Ernestine for she had
always been indifferent to such situations. But latent motherhood pricked
through the armor of indifference. She began in an extremely spirited
manner to talk of things to which the answers could be anything but
personal. She directly engaged Lissa in conversation, leaving Mark free
to drift over towards Thurley. Within a few moments they began laughing
over some nonsense, to Lissa’s annoyance, in the same spirit with which
Thurley and Dan had one time laughed—at least two lifetimes ago!
Mark sat on a straddle chair before her to admire her wild-rose coloring,
contrasting it with Lissa’s well rouged cheek. He liked Thurley’s green
frock which brought out the whiteness of her skin and the glorious, deep
sea eyes, purple in the winter’s afternoon light. Presently this embryo
prima donna and the famous dancer, who for the time being mistook shadow
for substance, found themselves discussing juvenile sports which both
really had rebelled at leaving behind.
“You skate? So do I—let’s go incog—I’ll wear a mustache—there is certain
to be a crowd if we’re known,” Lissa heard Mark saying.
“ ... and in summer I can play five sets of tennis—and dance half the
night,” Thurley made answer.
“Splendid—Collin has a wonderful court, I want to take you up there—”
Lissa’s pink lips were thin and shrewd. “Come, dear,” she said to Mark in
her softest voice, “the little girl will be hoarse to-morrow if you keep
her chattering like a magpie.”
And Thurley, as Ernestine told Hobart afterwards, sank in her first
feminine harpoon! She rose as obediently as if she were but half her age,
saying,
“We can plan about it later, your _aunt_ is calling you!”
After which Lissa, snarls and purrs all in one, and Mark more confused
and brief in his farewells than Ernestine had ever seen him, made an
inharmonious exit. And Ernestine kissed Thurley and twirled her about,
saying, “Oh beautiful—beautiful—_beautiful_!”