There was a knock at the door, and she flew across the room, alarmed.
Who knew what customs these rich people had? A little clock told her
that it was just ten; she was sure they didn’t go to bed then. She knew,
indeed, from the Sunday papers, that they turned night into day. Perhaps
they had a meal now, and she was expected to be ready for it.
"What is it?" she asked, through the closed door.
"Mrs. Russell wants you at once in her room," said a sharp voice.
So she put on her shrunken, faded little kimono and went out into the
hall. A light burned there, showing a double row of closed doors. In
what possible way was she to know Mrs. Russell’s? She was daunted; she
didn’t even know who composed the household; couldn’t imagine who might
be behind those closed doors.
There wasn’t a sound in the house. She advanced a little, and stopped
again, frowning at her own distress, her own fast-beating heart.
"I’m only doing what I’m paid to do!" she reassured herself. "If I can’t
find her, I’m a fool. I will! I’ll knock at every single door!"
She began with a firm rap on the door next her own. There was no
response, so she tried the next, and at once that agreeable voice called
out:
"Come in!"
Mrs. Russell lay in bed with her eyes closed, in a lace cap and
negligée. Her little rose-shaded lamp gave only a dim light, by which
she looked oddly young and pretty; even her tousled hair was charming.
The rest of the big room was shadowy, with here and there a glint from
glass or silver.
There was absolute silence; Mrs. Russell didn’t stir. Angelica felt
herself at a great disadvantage in her kimono, standing at the bedside,
waiting for orders. It nettled her.
"Well!" she demanded, with a boldness that surprised even herself.
But Mrs. Russell didn’t notice it, or at least didn’t appear to notice
it. She opened her eyes and smiled affably.
"I’m horribly selfish, aren’t I? But I’m such a miserable sleeper, and I
felt--won’t you read to me a bit?"
"All right!" said Angelica; but though she spoke so carelessly, she felt
suddenly quite sick. "What shall I read?"
"Here’s my book. I suppose you don’t read French, do you?"
Angelica reddened.
"Yes, of course!" she answered. "Nothing but French spoken in the
factory, you know!"
"We’ll stick to English, then," said Mrs. Russell, with just the same
smile. "And hand me my cigarette-case, won’t you?"
Angelica did so, and nervously opened the book at a marked page; but
Mrs. Russell stopped her.
"Just a minute please! I want to ask you something. I’ll have to explain
things a little. I told you, didn’t I, that I really engaged you for my
daughter-in-law? She’s in a terrible state, poor soul! She lost her
little boy. He died of pneumonia six weeks ago. Do you know, I’ve always
thought that that poor little creature caught the disease from a friend
of Polly’s, whose husband was just getting over it when she came here.
My husband insists that it’s awfully contagious, or infectious, or
whichever it is. And this woman, my dear, was so heartless about that
poor man! She said, when I asked after him, ‘Oh, nothing will _ever_
kill him!’ Did you ever? But as far as that goes, she’s never made the
slightest pretense of caring for him. But I think--don’t you?--that you
can be decent without being hypocritical. She simply tells every one
that she married him for his money, and that now she’s got it, she’s
going to spend it. Of course, I’ve known her for years, but her
husband’s more or less of a stranger--a Canadian, I think; and really
very nice--too nice, I tell her. I don’t make any pretense about it. I
simply tell her she’s a heartless little beast, and extravagant. It’s
incredible!"
Angelica was bewildered by this volubility. She saw no point in it, and
yet she couldn’t believe that any words spoken in so beautiful a voice,
and with so just and well-bred an accent, were mere nonsense. She sat
staring at the red-haired lady until she came back to her subject.
"But about Polly. She’s the dearest creature in all the world, but she’s
rather peculiar in some ways. She’s--well, exacting. She can’t see--she
wants every instant of my time. Of course I’m willing--I’m glad to be
with her; but after all, one has one’s own life, and there’s my husband.
But if ever I suggest a companion! My dear! We have the most miserable
time. She never says a word, but she lets you see....
"But I simply cannot stop in that room all day long. I’m frightfully
dependent upon exercise. If I don’t get plenty of it, I go all to
pieces. I can’t sit still there hour after hour. I’m terribly sorry
about her child, and all that, but really, what is the good in talking
and talking about it? It only upsets her. And yet, if you try to talk of
anything else, you can see she considers you cruel and unfeeling. She
simply broods over the thing. She’s so morbidly sensitive that it’s
painful to be with her. And I’m not particularly good with sick people
myself. I’m too nervous. My dear, you’ll remember all this, won’t you,
and be tactful with the poor soul?"
"When will I see her?"
"That’s the point. You see, it would never do to bring you in as a
companion. She says she couldn’t stand a hired companion, when she’s in
such a state. She doesn’t seem to understand that I’ve got to have some
sort of relief. That’s why I’m paying you out of my own pocket; but it
won’t do to let her know. That’s why I’ve given you that little
guest-room. I want to tell her you’re the daughter of an old friend, and
that you’ve come to visit me--until she gets used to you. Do you see?"
"Yes," said Angelica. "But do you think she’ll believe it?"
"Don’t worry, my dear. I understand Polly. All you’ve got to do is to
sit with her and listen to her if she wants to talk. She won’t ask you
any questions; she’s too indifferent. That’s really the trouble with the
poor girl--she’s so self-centered. She lies there, brooding. Of course,
it’s hard for her; but after all, we all have our troubles to bear. Now,
to-morrow morning I’ll take you in there and introduce you to her, and
you must----”
She stopped abruptly and yawned. It was a disconcerting habit she had,
as if her incredibly frivolous mind wore itself down by its own erratic
movements.
"Now read, won’t you?" she asked.
Angelica began, took up the book, and plunged into it, concentrating her
mind fiercely on the words alone. She had no idea what the book was
about; what she read conveyed no impression to her mind. Her sole
thought was not to expose herself, not to make mistakes, and of course
she did. There came words upon words which she couldn’t pronounce.
"What?" Mrs. Russell would ask with an amused frown, and Angelica would
have to stop and spell the word and be corrected.
For days they stayed in her head to torment her, those words, those
sounds which she repeated after Mrs. Russell. They danced before her
eyes, rang in her ears at night.
It was a horrible hour. Angelica couldn’t make any sort of
counter-attack, couldn’t assert herself, could only go on, and make
outrageous blunders, and humbly repeat the corrections.
Came a long French phrase, not one word of which she could manage. She
stopped short.
"Go on!" said Mrs. Russell.
Angelica flew at the thing, desperately and recklessly. Mrs. Russell
couldn’t stop laughing. She lay back on her pillows and covered her eyes
with her hands.
"Oh, my dear! That’s really---- You mustn’t mind my laughing, will you?"
"I don’t," said Angelica.
But she did--she hated and dreaded that laughter with all her heart. If
she had planned it carefully, Mrs. Russell couldn’t have devised a
better method for subduing her.
Yet all her recollections of this nightmare of shame and distress were
permeated by the mystic atmosphere that so enthralled her--the
rose-shaded light, the nonchalant, red-haired lady in bed, the sweet
smoke of the cigarettes; all the softness, the seclusion, the luxury,
all the amazing fascination of a dream come true--except, of course,
that she should have been in Mrs. Russell’s place.