“They do. Why not?”
Great-aunt tittered.
“Why not? Why not? Listen, little Jenny!”
Anita, as usual, was quite patient.
“Mother, you mustn’t excite yourself. Jenny, give Mother some more tea.
What good would it do Madala to upset my arrangements? Besides, Kent
will have the latest news. I think you may trust him.” She gave that
little laugh that was Great-aunt’s titter grown musical. Then she turned
to me.
“By the way, Jenny, I expect friends tonight. You needn’t change, as
you’re in mourning. You’ll see to the coffee, please. We’ll have the
door open and the coffee in the little room. You might do it now while I
dress.”
The big drawing-room was divided from the little outer room by a
curtained door. It was closed in the day-time for cosiness’ sake, but
when it was flung back the room was a splendid one. The small room held
the books and a chair or two, and a chesterfield facing the door that
opened on to the passage and the narrow twisting stairs. They were so
dark that Anita kept a candle and matches in the hall; but one seldom
troubled to light it. It was quicker to fumble one’s way. Anita used to
long for electric light; but she would not install it. Anita had good
taste. The house was old, and old-fashioned it should stay.
I fastened back the door and re-arranged the furniture, and was sitting
down to _Eden Walls_ again when Great-aunt beckoned me.
“Go and dress, my dear!”
“But Anita said——” I began.
She held me by the wrist, all nods and smiles and hoarse whispers.
“The pretty dress—to show a pretty throat—isn’t there a pretty dress
somewhere? I know! Put it on. Put it on. What a white throat! I’ve a
necklace somewhere—but then Anita would know. Mustn’t tell Anita!”
She pulled me down to her with fumbling, shaky hands.
“Tell me, Jenny, where’s my daughter?”
“Upstairs, Auntie.”
“Tell me, Jenny—any news? Any news, Jenny?”
I didn’t know what to say to her. I was afraid of hurting her. She was
so shaking and pitiful.
“Is it about Miss Grey, Auntie?”
“Carey, Jenny—Carey. Mrs. John Carey. Good name. Good man. But Anita
don’t like him. Anita won’t tell me. You tell me, Jenny!”
“Auntie, it’s all right. It’s all right. She’ll tell you, of course,
when she hears again.” And I soothed her as well as I could, till she
let me loosen her hand from my wrist, and kiss her, and start her at her
knitting again, so that I could finish making ready the room. But as I
went to wash my hands she called to me once more.
“Yes, Auntie?”
“Put it on, Jenny. Don’t ask my daughter. Put it on.”
She was a queer old woman. She made me want to cry sometimes. She was so
frightened always, and yet so game.
But I went upstairs after supper and put on the frock she liked. Black,
of course, but with Mother’s lace fichu I liked myself in it too. I did
my hair high. I don’t know why I took so much trouble except that I
wanted to cheer myself up. It had been a depressing day in spite of
_Eden Walls_. I looked forward to the stir of visitors. And then I was
curious to see Kent Rehan.
When I came down the Baxter girl was already there, standing all by
herself at the fire. She was strikingly dressed; but she looked
stranded. I wondered if Anita had been snubbing her.
Anita was shaking hands with Mr. Flood and with a lady whom I had not
seen before. She was blonde, with greenish-golden hair and round eyes,
very black eyes that had no lights in them, not even when she smiled.
She often smiled. She had a drawling voice and hardly spoke at all,
except to Mr. Flood. If he talked to anyone else or walked away from
her, she would watch him for a minute, and then say—‘Jasper’ with a sort
of purr, not troubling to raise her voice. But he always heard and came.
She wore a wonderful Chinese shawl, white, with gold dragons worked on
it, and whenever she moved it set the dragons crawling. She was powdered
and red-lipped like a clown, and I didn’t really like her, but
nevertheless there was something about her that was queerly attractive.
When she smiled at me because I gave her coffee, I felt quite elated.
But I didn’t like her. Mr. Flood called her ‘Blanche.’ I never heard her
other name.
Anita seemed very pleased to see them. I caught scraps.
“Am so glad—one’s friends about one—such a strain waiting for news. I
phoned this afternoon. No, the usual phrases. Anxious, of course, but I
should certainly have heard if——Good of you to come! No chance of the
Whitneys, I’m afraid—too much fog. And what are you reading to us?”
The Baxter girl, as I greeted her, stripped and re-dressed me with one
swift look.
“My dear, it suits you! I wish I could look Victorian. But I’m vile in
black. Have you seen Lila? I met her on the step. They’ve turned down
_Sir Fortinbras_ in America. Isn’t it rotten luck? Anita said they
would. Anita’s always right. Any more news of Madala?”
Anita overheard her. She was suddenly gracious to the Baxter girl.
“You may be sure I should always let you know at once. And what is this
I hear about Lila? Poor Lila! It’s the last chapter, I’m afraid. I
advised her from the beginning that the American public will not
tolerate—but dear Lila is a law unto herself.” And then, as Miss Howe
came in—“Lila, my dear! How good of you to venture! A night like this
makes me wonder why I continue in London. Madala has urged me to move
out ever since——No. No news. But Jasper’s been energetic——” She circled
mazily about them while I brought the coffee.
“Kent coming?” said Mr. Flood, fumbling with his papers.
Anita shrugged her shoulders.
“Who can account for Kent? It may dawn on him that he’s due here—and
again, it may not. It depends as usual, I suppose, on the new picture.”
“Oh yes, there’s a new one,” recollected the Baxter girl carefully.
“There must be! He was literally flocculent yesterday.” Miss Howe
chuckled. “That can only mean one of two things. Art or——”
“—the lady! Who can doubt? Well, if Carey doesn’t object to his
brotherly love continuing, I’m sure I don’t. But I wish it need not
involve his missing his appointments.” Mr. Flood eyed his typescript
impatiently.
Anita was instantly all tact.
“Oh, we won’t wait. Certainly not. Pull in to the fire. Now, Jasper!”
But Miss Howe, as she swirled into Anita’s special chair, her skirts
overflowing either arm, abolished Mr. Flood and his typescript with a
movement of her soft dimply hands.
“Oh, I’m not in the mood even for Jasper’s efforts. I want to let myself
go. I want to damn publishers—and husbands! Damn them! Damn them! There!
Am I shocking you, Miss Summer?”
She smiled at me over their heads. She was always polite to me. I liked
her. She was like a fat, pink pæony.
“Well, if you take my advice——” began Anita.
“My darling, I love you, but I don’t want your advice. I only want one
person’s advice—ever—and she has got married and is doing her duty in
that state of life——Hence I say—Damn husbands! I tell you I want Madala
to soothe me, and storm at the injustice of publishers for me, and
then—no, not give me a brilliant idea for the last chapter, but make me
tell her one, and then applaud me for it. _You_ know, Anita!” She dug at
her openly.