Philippina came up to Gertrude in the living room. Daniel was not at
home. Philippina was humming the latest street song, the refrain of
which ran as follows:
_Drah' di, Madel, drah' di,
Morgen kommt der Mahdi._
"There it is," said Philippina, and threw a ball of yarn on the table.
Gertrude had yielded to the girl's importunities, and was addressing her
now with the familiar "thou" and allowing Philippina to do the same in
speaking to her. "We are after all relatives, you know, Gertrude," said
Philippina.
Gertrude was afraid of Philippina; but she had thus far found no means
of defending herself against her exaggerated eagerness to help her with
the housework. And she felt in Philippina's presence what she felt in
the presence of no one else--a sense of shame at her own condition.
Philippina, in fact, saw something indecent in Gertrude's pregnancy;
when she talked to her she always held her head up and looked into
space; her action was quite conspicuous.
"Oh, but ain't people impudent," Philippina began, after she had taken a
loutish position on a chair. "The clerk over in the store asked me
whether there wasn't something up between Daniel and Eleanore. What d'ye
think of that? Fresh, yes? You bet I give him all that was coming to
him!"
The needle in Gertrude's fingers stopped moving. It was not the first
time that Philippina had made such insinuating remarks. To-day she would
come up to Gertrude, and whisper to her that Daniel was upstairs with
Eleanore; yesterday she had said in a tone of affected sympathy that
Eleanore looked so run down. Then she gave a detailed report of what
this person and that person had said; then she turned into a champion of
good morals and gentle manners, and remarked that you ought not offend
people.
Her every third word was "people." She said she knew what a faultless
character Eleanore had and how Daniel loved his wife, but people! And
after all you couldn't scratch everybody's eyes out who annoyed you with
dubious questions; if you did, there would soon be very few eyes left.
Philippina's bangs had acquired an unusual length; they covered her
whole forehead down to her eyelashes. The glances she cast at Gertrude
had on this account something especially malevolent about them. "She is
not so certain of herself and her family after all," thought Philippina,
and made a lewd gesture with her legs as she sprawled on the chair.
"You know, I think Daniel ought to be more cautious," she said with her
rasping voice. "This being together all alone for hours at a time ain't
going to do no good; no good at all, I say. And the two are always
running after each other; if it's not her, it's him. If you happen to
take 'em by surprise, they jump like criminals. It's been going on this
way for six weeks, day after day. Do you think that's right? You don't
need to put up with it, Gertrude," she said in conclusion, making a sad
attempt to look coquettish. Then she cast her eyes to the floor, and
looked as innocent as a child.
Gertrude's heart grew cold. Her confidence in Daniel was unfaltering,
but the venomous remarks made to her left her without peace of mind or
body; she could not think clearly. The very fact that such things were
being said about Daniel and Eleanore, and that words failed her to stop
them because from the very beginning she had borne it all with the
self-assurance that naturally springs from contempt for gossip, only
tended to make her grief all the more bitter.
How hollow any objection on her part would have sounded! How fatuous and
ineffective a rebuke from her would have been! Could she muzzle these
wicked, slanderous tongues by referring to the peculiarities of Daniel's
nature? Could he be expected to go to Philippina and give an account of
himself? A contemptuous smile came to her face when she pondered on such
possibilities.
And yet, why was she heart-sore? Was it because she was at last
beginning to realise that she was unloved?
Involuntarily her eyes fell on the mask; it was still covered with the
withered rose twigs. She got up and removed them. Her hand trembled as
if she were committing some evil act.
"Go home, Philippina, I don't need you any more," she said.
"Oi, it is late, ain't it? I must be going," cried Philippina. "Don't
worry, Gertrude," she said by way of consolation. "And don't complain of
me to your husband; he'll git ugly if you do. If you say anything bad
about me, there's going to be trouble here, I say. I am a perfect fool;
people git out of my way, they do. I've got a wicked mouth, I have;
there's no stopping it. Well, good night."
She rubbed her hands down over her skirt, as if she were trying to
smooth out the wrinkles; there was an element of comic caution in what
she did.
Out on the street she began to hum again:
_Drah' di, Madel, drah' di,
Morgen kommt der Mahdi._