[Illustration: (A necklace with large cut stones)]
I
I first met Myra Henshawe when I was fifteen, but I had known about
her ever since I could remember anything at all. She and her runaway
marriage were the theme of the most interesting, indeed the only
interesting, stories that were told in our family, on holidays or at
family dinners. My mother and aunts still heard from Myra Driscoll,
as they called her, and Aunt Lydia occasionally went to New York to
visit her. She had been the brilliant and attractive figure among
the friends of their girlhood, and her life had been as exciting and
varied as ours was monotonous.
Though she had grown up in our town, Parthia, in southern Illinois,
Myra Henshawe never, after her elopement, came back but once. It was
in the year when I was finishing High School, and she must then have
been a woman of forty-five. She came in the early autumn, with brief
notice by telegraph. Her husband, who had a position in the New York
offices of an Eastern railroad, was coming West on business, and they
were going to stop over for two days in Parthia. He was to stay at
the Parthian, as our new hotel was called, and Mrs. Henshawe would
stay with Aunt Lydia.
I was a favourite with my Aunt Lydia. She had three big sons, but no
daughter, and she thought my mother scarcely appreciated me. She was
always, therefore, giving me what she called “advantages,” on the
side. My mother and sister were asked to dinner at Aunt Lydia’s on
the night of the Henshawes’ arrival, but she had whispered to me: “I
want you to come in early, an hour or so before the others, and get
acquainted with Myra.”
That evening I slipped quietly in at my aunt’s front door, and while
I was taking off my wraps in the hall I could see, at the far end of
the parlour, a short, plump woman in a black velvet dress, seated
upon the sofa and softly playing on Cousin Bert’s guitar. She must
have heard me, and, glancing up, she saw my reflection in a mirror;
she put down the guitar, rose, and stood to await my approach. She
stood markedly and pointedly still, with her shoulders back and her
head lifted, as if to remind me that it was my business to get to
her as quickly as possible and present myself as best I could. I was
not accustomed to formality of any sort, but by her attitude she
succeeded in conveying this idea to me.
I hastened across the room with so much bewilderment and concern in
my face that she gave a short, commiserating laugh as she held out
to me her plump, charming little hand.
“Certainly this must be Lydia’s dear Nellie, of whom I have heard so
much! And you must be fifteen now, by my mournful arithmetic--am I
right?”
What a beautiful voice, bright and gay and carelessly kind--but she
continued to hold her head up haughtily. She always did this on
meeting people--partly, I think, because she was beginning to have a
double chin and was sensitive about it. Her deep-set, flashing grey
eyes seemed to be taking me in altogether--estimating me. For all
that she was no taller than I, I felt quite overpowered by her--and
stupid, hopelessly clumsy and stupid. Her black hair was done high
on her head, _à la_ Pompadour, and there were curious, zigzag, curly
streaks of glistening white in it, which made it look like the fleece
of a Persian goat or some animal that bore silky fur. I could not
meet the playful curiosity of her eyes at all, so I fastened my gaze
upon a necklace of carved amethysts she wore inside the square-cut
neck of her dress. I suppose I stared, for she said suddenly: “Does
this necklace annoy you? I’ll take it off if it does.”
I was utterly speechless. I could feel my cheeks burning. Seeing that
she had hurt me, she was sorry, threw her arm impulsively about me,
drew me into the corner of the sofa and sat down beside me.
“Oh, we’ll get used to each other! You see, I prod you because I’m
certain that Lydia and your mother have spoiled you a little. You’ve
been overpraised to me. It’s all very well to be clever, my dear, but
you mustn’t be solemn about it--nothing is more tiresome. Now, let us
get acquainted. Tell me about the things you like best; that’s the
short cut to friendship. What do you like best in Parthia? The old
Driscoll place? I knew it!”
By the time her husband came in I had begun to think she was going
to like me. I wanted her to, but I felt I didn’t have half a chance
with her; her charming, fluent voice, her clear light enunciation
bewildered me. And I was never sure whether she was making fun of me
or of the thing we were talking about. Her sarcasm was so quick, so
fine at the point--it was like being touched by a metal so cold that
one doesn’t know whether one is burned or chilled. I was fascinated,
but very ill at ease, and I was glad when Oswald Henshawe arrived
from the hotel.
He came into the room without taking off his overcoat and went
directly up to his wife, who rose and kissed him. Again I was some
time in catching up with the situation; I wondered for a moment
whether they might have come down from Chicago on different trains;
for she was clearly glad to see him--glad not merely that he was safe
and had got round on time, but because his presence gave her lively
personal pleasure. I was not accustomed to that kind of feeling in
people long married.
Mr. Henshawe was less perplexing than his wife, and he looked more
as I had expected him to look. The prominent bones of his face
gave him a rather military air; a broad, rugged forehead, high
cheek-bones, a high nose, slightly arched. His eyes, however, were
dark and soft, curious in shape--exactly like half-moons--and he wore
a limp, drooping moustache, like an Englishman. There was something
about him that suggested personal bravery, magnanimity, and a fine,
generous way of doing things.
“I am late,” he explained, “because I had some difficulty in
dressing. I couldn’t find my things.”
His wife looked concerned for a moment, and then began to laugh
softly. “Poor Oswald! You were looking for your new dress shirts that
bulge in front. Well, you needn’t! I gave them to the janitor’s son.”
“The janitor’s son?”
“Yes. To Willy Bunch, at home. He’s probably wearing one to an
Iroquois ball to-night, and that’s the right place for it.”
Mr. Henshawe passed his hand quickly over his smooth, iron-grey hair.
“You gave away my six new shirts?”
“Be sure I did. You shan’t wear shirts that give you a bosom, not
if we go to the poorhouse. You know I can’t bear you in ill-fitting
things.”
Oswald looked at her with amusement, incredulity, and bitterness. He
turned away from us with a shrug and pulled up a chair. “Well, all I
can say is, what a windfall for Willy!”
“That’s the way to look at it,” said his wife teasingly. “And now
try to talk about something that might conceivably interest Lydia’s
niece. I promised Liddy to make a salad dressing.”
I was left alone with Mr. Henshawe. He had a pleasant way of giving
his whole attention to a young person. He “drew one out” better than
his wife had done, because he did not frighten one so much. I liked
to watch his face, with its outstanding bones and languid, friendly
eyes--that perplexing combination of something hard and something
soft. Soon my mother and uncle and my boy cousins arrived. When the
party was complete I could watch and enjoy the visitors without
having to think of what I was going to say next. The dinner was
much gayer than family parties usually are. Mrs. Henshawe seemed to
remember all the old stories and the old jokes that had been asleep
for twenty years.
“How good it is,” my mother exclaimed, “to hear Myra laugh again!”
Yes, it was good. It was sometimes terrible, too, as I was to find
out later. She had an angry laugh, for instance, that I still shiver
to remember. Any stupidity made Myra laugh--I was destined to
hear that one very often! Untoward circumstances, accidents, even
disasters, provoked her mirth. And it was always mirth, not hysteria;
there was a spark of zest and wild humour in it.
[Illustration: (An elegant, high fence)]