There was, as always, an elaborate, steaming supper, with his mother, in
a pelisse of black silk ruching, and Amity Merken at their places. He
noted that an empty chair had been put, as customary, at the opposite
end of the table, and with a trace of impatience ordered its removal. He
wondered momentarily at his petty act; and then his thoughts returned to
Susan Brundon. Jasper Penny saw her blue gaze lifted to his face, the
hesitating smile; he felt again the pervading influence of her delicate
yet essentially unshrinking spirit. She would possess an enormous
steadfastness of purpose, he decided; a potentiality of immovable
self-sacrifice. Yet she was the gentlest person alive. An unusual and
resplendent combination of traits, rare possibilities.
She had told him that she seldom went about--her school absorbed her,
and her eyes needed care, rest. He must ask Stephen Jannan further about
her. They were sitting, Jasper Penny, his mother and her sister, in the
parlour; a large, square chamber hung with dark maroon paper and long,
many tasselled and corniced window curtains in sombre green plush. A
white wedgewood mantel with ornaments in olive and blue, above a
brass-fretted closed stove, supported a high mirror, against which were
ranged a pair of tall astral lamps shining in green and red spars of
light through their pendants, a French clock--a crystal ball in a
miniature Ionic pavilion of gilt--and artificial bouquets of coloured
wax under glass domes. A thick carpet of purplish black velvet pile
covered the floor from wall to wall; stiff Adam chairs and settee with
wheelbacks of black and gold were upholstered in dusky ruby and indigo.
Ebony tables of framed, inlaid onyx held tortoise shell and lacquer
ornaments, an inlaid tulip-wood music-box, volumes in elaborately tooled
morocco, and a globe where, apparently, metallic fish were suspended in
a translucent, green gloom.
The light from the multiple candelabras of ormolu and cut lustres
streamed from the walls over Jasper Penny, sunk forward in profound
absorption, and his mother's busy, fat hands working with gay worsteds.
At her side a low stand of rubbed Chinese vermilion held her spilling
yarns. Her face was placid, dryly pinkish and full. An irreproachable,
domestic female. Herself the daughter of a successful Pennsylvania
German Ironmaster, her wealth had doubled the Penny successes. There had
been other children; Jasper could only faintly remember two, mostly in
the form of infantile whimpering.
The inevitable termination of the evening was readied by the appearance
of a pitcher of steaming, spiced mulled wine. A cupful was formally
presented to Amity Merken; Gilda Penny sipped hers with an audible
satisfaction, and Jasper Penny absently drank the fragrant compound of
cinnamon bark and lemon, cloves, sugar and claret. A measure of that,
before retiring, could not but be beneficial to Susan Brundon, fatigued
by the duties of her Academy. He thought of the sharper breath of the
brandy and oranges compounded by Essie Scofield. A thin odour of
foxglove clung to the memory of his wife.