Her tone was so gentle, so contrite, that Janie’s spirits were completely revived. She pursed up her lips with maternal severity. “There are the neighbors to consider, Laurie, not to speak of my natural anxieties. A mother must learn to endure them with as much philosophy as possible. It is the selfishness of children. Nor do I think it proper for a female to roam the streets alone at night. One never knows.”
“Ah, but Robbie brought me home in his carriage,” said Laurie, her annoyance returning at the thought that she must inform her brother that he had conveyed her home this morning. It was disgusting. “I was not roaming about so casually as you imply. I asked him to stop at the corner in order that the noise of the carriage might not disturb you, as I know you are a light sleeper.”
But she was already bored. She had not found it necessary these last three years to cajole or appease anyone. That rôle had been reserved for others. Excessively tedious. Laurette entered just then with a smooth inquiry as to what Miss Cauder intended to wear that night at her recital at the Music Hall. Laurie frowned. She had forgotten. These horrible provincial little cities! She said: “Oh, damn. Anything, Laurette. But not the extreme gowns. I think the green satin and lace would be suitable.”
She gave her mother another thoughtful glance, then stripped off her wrapper. Janie was embarrassed. She rose, brushed the crumpet crumbs from her morning dress, and murmuring about the business of the household to which she must attend, she left the room.
Laurie stared at the door which had closed behind her mother. Her peignoir hung from her hand, drifted on the floor. The sunlight, no more golden than Laurie’s flesh, fell full upon her body.
The girl smiled, began to sing softly to herself, while Laurette listened, entranced and adoring. Mademoiselle, she reflected, was in high spirits this morning. Her singing voice was the voice of a woman who loved, the voice of a woman with a lover. She, Laurette, had never heard Mademoiselle sing like this before. It was very exciting. Could it possibly be that she had yielded at last to that so adorable Monsieur Thimbleton?
CHAPTER 56
Laurie was angered and egotistically affronted when a messenger brought her the hasty program for her concert that night. With naïve innocence, the committee in charge of the performance commented copiously on Laurie’s race, and beamingly announced that she would sing “a selection of her Scottish songs, always dear to the heart of this American daughter of Celtic birth. Though Miss Cauder is famous for her exquisite renditions of various operas, notably those of Robert (!) Wagner, a German musician of considerable ability, and though she has condescended to interpret these operas to the fashionable and sophisticated society of New York, she will render for her appreciative audience in Grandeville those simple airs and ballads so beloved of the natural heart, and so dear to those who prefer sincerity to arias sung in foreign languages and composed by musicians unacquainted with the rugged honesty and simplicity of the American people. She will be accompanied on the piano by Miss Rachel Ellicott, descendent of the founder of this flourishing city.”
In spite of her annoyance, Laurie burst out laughing when she read this note appendixed to the program in the most elegant printing. Scotch songs, indeed! These yokels, these vain dolts, with their “rugged honesty and simplicity”! She despised them. It had not occurred to them that she might wish to rehearse her “ballads” with the proud Miss Ellicott, who probably sniffled and had big feet and worse hands. There was nothing else to do, now, but to go to the Music Hall, catch Miss Ellicott between handkerchiefs and sneezes, and hastily go over the “Scottish songs” with her before the performance.
How dared they mortify her with their adoration! With their assumption that they were doing her honor, she the gracious guest of Victoria of England, of Ludwig of Bavaria, of the Bonapartes! No doubt they would consider that they were condescending to her by their amiable worship, and no doubt they would sit in rustic criticism as she sang. How her New York friends would roar at this when she enlightened them during the coming season. She burned with her mortification even while she laughed.
Then her sense of humor, always strong, returned. She hastily searched through her music. Not a single Scottish air or ballad. However, Miss Ellicott probably possessed them among her mincing repertoire.
It would do no harm to give these raw farmers a little pleasure, she reflected. She came upon two sheets of music, and stood very still, looking at them. They had been written down for her by a friend in Paris, a musician of great skill, an Alexandre Bizet, who was yet to write a certain famous opera. He had arranged the music artfully, yet had not obscured the pure beauty and simplicity of the artless songs. She held them in her hand and stared before her, quite pale, her eyes intent. Her breast was suddenly full of pain.
She thought: Five days, before I return to New York. During that time I must so weld him to me that he will never forget. There is a life for us in the future, together. Nothing has ever defeated me; nothing shall defeat me now. He is mine and I am his, and I must make him see that, forever.
She took the handbill of the Grandeville Music Hall down to Elissa Rhinelander and Dick Thimbleton, and enjoyed their laughter. Elissa’s laughter was a little cruel. Dick seemed touched, which annoyed Laurie more than. ever. “They love you, Laurie,” he said. “After all, they are your old friends, and are proud of you.”
“They insult me with their pride,” she said haughtily. Dick looked at her with obscure sadness. There were times, he reflected, when Laurie was quite plebeian, and insensible. Yet these qualities made her what she was: exuberantly healthy, indomitable and robust, full of strength and power. Laurie was returning his look. He did not quite like her harrowing her eyelids this way. The blue between them had now a glint of cold and calculating green. He loved her, yes; but he did not know this Laurie, and did not like her.
He looked at his sister, picking her way fastidiously through her breakfast. He said: “Elissa, my love, I am very sorry, but I think we must return to New York before Laurie leaves Grandeville. Please believe me that it is imperative.”
Elissa was confounded. She looked from her brother to Laurie. Laurie was smiling indifferently. Elissa did not speak. She made a wry mouth, and shrugged. She did not understand. But she presumed that Dick knew his own affairs.
Laurie left them, then, returning to her own rooms. Dick and Elissa were alone. Elissa raised her eyebrows at her brother. “Well, then,” she murmured, “explanations are perhaps in order.”
Dick sighed. “I know when I’ve received my congé. In fact, broadly speaking, I’ve always understood nothing was of any use, with Laurie. Something has happened to her lately. What it is I do not know, but this I do know: she has suddenly dismissed me as being of no consequence at all. She will be grateful to me when I leave. That is the only thing I can do for her now.”
Laurie, in her own room, was writing rapidly. “Tomorrow, I will join you near the river in front of your house at four o’clock. I have much to say to you, for which there was no opportunity yesterday.” She looked at what she had written. Even to her, there was a too commanding note, a too uncompromising order, in the words. She carefully tore up the letter, and rewrote: “I must see you again, near the river, in front of your house, at four o’clock. I have something to say to you, my very dear, for which there was no opportunity yesterday. With all my heart, and all my soul, your Laurie.”
Why was it always necessary to consider the sensibilities of others? The direct approach, the slashing to the heart of a thing at once, always offended. She compressed her lips, sealed the note, put it in her bodice. She would give it to Stuart that night, when she had the opportunity. She stood up, feeling refreshed and in command of all circumstance, and inexorable. But her heart felt constricted and disturbed, her blood too swift. She looked through the windows. The deceptive spring weather had changed. The north sky was already darkening, and there was a snowy chill in the air. Nevertheless, she opened her window and leaned out, letting the cold wind cool a fac
e suddenly hot and fluid in its expression.
She remembered Stuart’s contrition, his gentleness, his fear for her. All at once, she was full of loving scorn. He had hardly believed her when she had cried out her passion for him, her obsession for him, her long path to him. He had thought them the extravagant and innocent ardor of a young girl, of which he was guilty of taking advantage, to her hurt and her misery. For a while, it is true, her wild response to his own lust and desire and savagery had almost convinced him, but they had also taken him aback. He had wished to protect her. Her hands clenched on the wet window-sill. What did he know of her? How could he understand the long desire and dedication which had sent her out on a career which she had believed might inspire him with admiration for her, and pride?
It was hard for him to understand, of course. Laurie, disingenuous, was not entirely dazzled by her passion. Stuart, she knew, was only a provincial merchant, on the brink of ruin. He was extravagant, violent and unprincipled, prodigal and reckless. His appetites would always be larger than his purse, and eventually they would destroy him. He had no brilliance of mind, though his intuition was subtle and discerning. He was disorderly and rampant, and would forever remain unsophisticated, compelled only by his lusts, his tempers, and his gusty cravings.
Why, then, did she love him? What had brought her back to his arms and his despair and his ruin, in this abominable little city which she loathed? She shook her head fiercely to herself. She did not quite know. She knew only that always she had yearned for him with every pulse of her body, every drop of her blood. When she thought of him something in her melted, became pure and tender again, soft and glowing.
What did his ruin matter? What if he lost those ridiculous shops? She had much money. She would have a great deal more. There was no end to what she could do. She saw Stuart and herself in Europe going from one beautiful city to another, the guests of the mighty and the worshipping. They would accept Stuart, at her command. It was expected, by the sophisticated, that a famous singer have her lovers. Stuart would be in the brilliant background of her life, always comforting, always admiring, always proud of her, always loving and passionate. She would return to his arms after each triumph, and lie in them, a girl again, simple and surrendering, soft and beseeching, living only for him.
When the uneasy thought crossed her mind that Stuart might not desire to be the beneficiary of her fortune, she shook her head impatiently. He could not be such a fool. Money was money. He would not be insensible to her fortune, to the riches which would accrue to her. Unknown yet to herself, she grimly wagered everything on the strain of weakness she had already detected in him, years ago. He had made her; it was only just that he accept the rewards of his fashioning.
His life was no impediment to her, or the circumstances of his life. His daughter, that miserable puling little creature? Laurie’s mouth became cruel. She laughed, curtly. She hated Mary Rose with virulent intensity, because Stuart loved her. She, Laurie, would make short work of that sentimentality. She felt the strength and resolution in herself, which nothing could ever deny or defeat. She made her plans for Stuart’s and her own life, and because of the power in her she saw him accepting everything, surrendering to everything. In return, he would have her in her completeness, melting in his arms, giving up her life and her whole soul to him. How could any man resist such a prospect, such a tremendous future?
Annoyed and irritated almost beyond endurance, Laurie returned to the miserable little “dressing-room” behind the drafty stage of the Grandeville Music Hall. The hour’s coaching of the tearful Miss Ellicott had infuriated her. She had browbeaten and bullied that poor creature into some semblance of good execution of the “simple airs and ballads.” That, at least, was Some consolation. Miss Ellicott doubtless hated her thoroughly now, but she had also terrified the ugly chit. Laurie again felt humiliation that she had been subjected, against her will and previous knowledge, to such a situation. She prayed, with exasperation, that Miss Ellicott had not been so completely demoralized that she would fail in her accompaniment.
When she flung open the door of her dressing-room, she found Robbie and Alice awaiting her. Alice was dressed in ample white lace, and wore a deep Cashmere shawl over her pretty little shoulders. Her condition was very evident, a fact by which she was not in the least embarrassed. She embraced Laurie with gentle enthusiasm. “We received your note just before arriving, my love,” she explained, “but could not come sooner.”
Laurie accepted calmly her brother’s kiss on her cheek. She was still vibrant with her cold rage and mortification. But she smiled equably enough. She sat down with a short and explosive sigh, and looked at Robbie and his young wife.
“Well,” she said. She had not seen these two for six months, when they had visited her in New York. She fixed a shrewd eye on Alice. “When?” she asked forthrightly.
Alice blushed. She peeped at Laurie shyly. “In three months,” she said. She stretched out her small white hand and took Robbie’s hand. He returned its pressure absently. He was regarding his beautiful and overwhelming sister with shrewd curiosity and affection. He respected her very much, and his subtle mind read a great deal in her strong and lovely face.
“From all reports, you are doing excellently, Laurie,” he said, after she had wryly congratulated Alice on her prospects.
“I understand that you are not doing so badly, yourself,” replied his sister, giving him one of her charming smiles. She sat on the rough stool before the cracked mirror, all splendor and overpowering majesty. The pale green satin of her gown bellied about her; her hoops were enormous, draped in cascades of lace and rosebuds. The lace bodice hardly concealed her lovely breasts. Her shoulders were entirely bare, and perfect. Her golden hair, simply dressed, was softly drawn back from her heroic face to a heavy and shining chignon, and over her right temple had been fastened a cluster of pale pink rosebuds. About her throat was clasped a chain of blazing rubies, which threw scarlet reflections on her smooth skin. Bracelets to match clasped her wrists below her long bare arms. In that miserable and cold little room, all dust and chaff, she was incredible. In one corner stood a mound of roses and ferns, from Stuart’s hothouses.
The gentle Alice was virtually cowed in Laurie’s presence, in spite of the latter’s affectionate graciousness. She shivered a little.
Laurie regarded them steadily in a sudden silence; her blue eyes were quite dark, and welling, with her peremptory thoughts. She said abruptly, directing her words to Robbie: “It is very tiresome, of course, but I asked you here for a specific purpose. Robbie, yesterday afternoon at four I went to your home to see you and Alice. I wished to discuss some legal matters with you, and to spend some time with your little wife and yourself.” She smiled tightly. “You brought me home, almost at dawn. It was a long visit, for I had not seen you for some time, and I had legal matters to discuss with you, concerning some of my properties in New York.”
Alice stared at her, confused, bewildered. She said: “But Laurie, this is the first time we’ve seen you since you came home!”
Laurie flashed her one contemptuous and impatient look, and turned to Robbie. He had begun to smile quietly.
“Indeed?” he said.
Laurie sprang to her feet. Robbie could feel her profound energy, her contempt for all this subterfuge, and her anger. “What an odious little town this is!” she exclaimed. “But all this lying and sneaking seems necessary. Our dear Ma might question you. Also, I may need to visit you frequently during the next five days.” She looked swiftly at Alice, who was gazing at her in complete stupefaction.
Robbie was frowning thoughtfully. He had no criticism to make of Laurie. He had no questions. He saw that she was a woman, imperative and strong, and full of power. He did not feel any disquiet for her, or uneasiness. She would always know what she was doing.
“Laurie,” ventured Alice, speaking with resolution even under her embarrassment and timidity, “I don’t know about all this. It seems—seems unworthy of yo
u—this scheming. Surely you can trust us.”
Laurie’s teeth clenched. But she said with equanimity: “Doubtless I can trust you, Alice. But I am not one to make a confidant of anyone. I only ask this favor of you, this understanding. My affairs are my own. I consult nobody.” She looked at Robbie. “I trust you are not going to reveal yourself in the rôle of authoritative stern brother?”
This is ridiculous, thought Robbie, highly diverted. She is over a head taller than I, and no doubt weighs half again as much. She could push me over with one finger. “Authoritative stern brother,” indeed! His strong sense of the ridiculous made him smile involuntarily. What was the minx up to? There was a man involved, or he did not know his humanity. But what man? That aristocratic gentleman in his mother’s house? He had read the ecstatic hints in the Grandeville papers. But why did Laurie have to skulk off with him, into the bushes? It could be done easily enough in their own rooms. But, perhaps, he thought satirically, the gentleman did not wish to “violate” the sanctity of Laurie’s home.
He was not in the least shocked, as he might have been with a gentler and more obscure sister. His appraising look at her had seen her for what she was.
He leaned back on his inadequate chair, crossed his neat small legs, and contemplated Laurie quizzically. He said, with mildness, as if discussing something which interested him only academically, while Laurie returned his regard with large impatience and uncompromising sternness: “Laurie, it has become evident to me that you have developed quite a propensity for taking bulls by the horns. Somewhere you have learned, with Euclid, that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Unfortunately for people like you, an axiomatic theory does not allow for human nature and the capriciousness of others, who might rebel against your striding between two points with the wind at your heels. I wonder,” he mused, “whether you follow me?”
Little Alice, who had a mind of her own, nevertheless gazed at her husband in bewilderment. What dear Robbie was saying was not in the least pertinent, she reflected. But Laurie looked at her brother with sudden grimness, and there was an apricot-colored flush high on her cheekbones. The long fingers of her white hand began to tap on the dusty top of her dressing-table, and her foot joined in the tapping.