Part 10 (1/2)
”I haven't the nerve to go on with a moral conversation in which you are getting the better of me at every turn,” Peter laughed. ”I'm sure it's unintentional, but you make me feel like a good deal of an a.s.s, Eleanor.”
”That means a donkey, doesn't it?”
”It does, and by jove, I believe that you're glad of it.”
”I do rather like it,” said Eleanor; ”of course you don't really feel like a donkey to me. I mean I don't make you feel like one, but it's funny just pretending that you mean it.”
”Oh! woman, woman,” Peter cried. ”Beulah tried to convey something of the fact that you always got the better of every one in your modest una.s.suming way, but I never quite believed it before. At any rate it's bedtime, and here comes Mrs. Finnigan to put you to bed. Kiss me good night, sweetheart.”
Eleanor flung her arms about his neck, in her first moment of abandonment to actual emotional self-expression if Peter had only known it.
”I will never really get the better of you in my life, Uncle Peter,”
she promised him pa.s.sionately.
CHAPTER X
THE OMNISCIENT FOCUS
One of the traditional prerogatives of an Omnipotent Power is to look down at the activities of earth at any given moment and ascertain simultaneously the occupation of any number of people. Thus the Arch Creator--that Being of the Supreme Artistic Consciousness--is able to peer into segregated interiors at His own discretion and watch the plot thicken and the drama develop. Eleanor, who often visualized this proceeding, always imagined a huge finger projecting into s.p.a.ce, cautiously tilting the roofs of the Houses of Man to allow the sweep of the Invisible Glance.
Granting the hypothesis of the Divine privilege, and a.s.suming for the purposes of this narrative the Omniscient focus on the characters most concerned in it, let us for the time being look over the shoulder of G.o.d and inform ourselves of their various occupations and preoccupations of a Sat.u.r.day afternoon in late June during the hour before dinner.
Eleanor, in her little white chamber on Thirtieth Street, was engaged in making a pink and green toothbrush case for a going-away gift for her Uncle Peter. To be sure she was going away with him when he started for the Long Island beach hotel from which he proposed to return every day to his office in the city, but she felt that a slight token of her affection would be fitting and proper on the eve of their joint departure. She was hurrying to get it done that she might steal softly into the dining-room and put it on his plate undetected. Her eyes were very wide, her brow intent and serious, and her delicate lips lightly parted. At that moment she bore a striking resemblance to the Botticelli head in Beulah's drawing-room that she had so greatly admired.
Of all the people concerned in her history, she was the most tranquilly occupied.
Peter in the room beyond was packing his trunk and his suit-case. At this precise stage of his proceedings he was trying to make two decisions, equally difficult, but concerned with widely different departments of his consciousness. He was gravely considering whether or not to include among his effects the photograph before him on the dressing-table--that of the girl to whom he had been engaged from the time he was a Princeton soph.o.m.ore until her death four years later--and also whether or not it would be worth his while to order a new suit of white flannels so late in the season. The fact that he finally decided against the photograph and in favor of the white flannels has nothing to do with the relative importance of the two matters thus engrossing him. The health of the human mind depends largely on its ability to a.s.semble its irrelevant and incongruous problems in dignified yet informal proximity. When he went to his desk it was with the double intention of addressing a letter to his tailor, and locking the cherished photograph in a drawer; but, the letter finished, he still held the picture in his hand and gazed down at it mutely and when the discreet knock on his door that const.i.tuted the announcing of dinner came, he was still sitting motionless with the photograph propped up before him.
Up-town, Beulah, whose dinner hour came late, was rather more actively, though possibly not more significantly, occupied. She was doing her best to evade the wild onslaught of a young man in gla.s.ses who had been wanting to marry her for a considerable period, and had now broken all bounds in a c.u.mulative attempt to inform her of the fact.
Though he was a.s.suredly in no condition to listen to reason, Beulah was reasoning with him, kindly and philosophically, paying earnest attention to the style and structure of her remarks as she did so. Her emotions, as is usual on such occasions, were decidedly mixed. She was conscious of a very real dismay at her unresponsiveness, a distress for the acute pain from which the distraught young man seemed to be suffering, and the thrill, which had she only known it, is the unfailing accompaniment to the first eligible proposal of marriage. In the back of her brain there was also, so strangely is the human mind const.i.tuted, a kind of relief at being able to use mature logic once more, instead of the dilute form of moral dissertation with which she tried to adapt herself to Eleanor's understanding.
”I never intend to marry any one,” she was explaining gently. ”I not only never intend to, but I am pledged in a way that I consider irrevocably binding never to marry,”--and that was the text from which all the rest of her discourse developed.
Jimmie, equally bound by the oath of celibacy, but not equally constrained by it apparently, was at the very moment when Beulah was so successfully repulsing the familiarity of the high cheek-boned young man in the black and white striped tie, occupied in encouraging a familiarity of a like nature. That is, he was holding the hand of a young woman in the darkened corner of a drawing-room which had been entirely unfamiliar to him ten days before, and was about to impress a caress on lips that seemed to be ready to meet his with a certain degree of accustomed responsiveness. That this was not a peculiarly significant incident in Jimmie's career might have been difficult to explain, at least to the feminine portion of the group of friends he cared most for.
Margaret, dressed for an academic dinner party, in white net with a girdle of pale pink and lavender ribbons, had flung herself face downward on her bed in reckless disregard of her finery; and because it was hot and she was homesick for green fields and the cool stretches of dim wooded country, had transported herself in fancy and still in her rec.u.mbent att.i.tude to the floor of a canoe that was drifting down-stream between lush banks of meadow gra.s.s studded with marsh lilies. After some interval--and s.h.i.+ft of position--the way was arched overhead with whispering trees, the stars came out one by one, showing faintly between waving branches; and she perceived dimly that a figure that was vaguely compounded of David and Peter and the handsomest of all the young kings of Spain, had quietly taken its place in the bow and had busied itself with the paddles,--whereupon she was summoned to dinner, where the ten Hutchinsons and their guests were awaiting her.
David, the only member of the group whose summer vacation had actually begun, was sitting on the broad veranda of an exclusive country club several hundreds of miles away from New York and looking soberly into the eyes of a blue ribbon bull dog, whose heavy jowl rested on his knees. His mother, in one of the most fas.h.i.+onable versions of the season's foulards, sleekly corseted and coifed, was sitting less than a hundred yards away from him, fanning herself with three inches of hand woven fan and contemplating David. In the dressing-room above, just alighted from a limousine de luxe, was a raven-haired, crafty-eyed ingenue (whose presence David did not suspect or he would have recollected a sudden pressing engagement out of her vicinity), preening herself for conquest. David's mind, unlike the minds of the ”other gifted members of the We Are Seven Club,” to quote Jimmie's most frequent way of referring to them, was to all intents and purposes a total blank. He answered monosyllabically his mother's questions, patted the dog's beetling forehead and thought of nothing at all for practically forty-five minutes. Then he rose, and offering his arm to his mother led her gravely to the table reserved for him in the dining-room.
Gertrude, in her studio at the top of the house in Fifty-sixth Street where she lived with her parents, was putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on a faun's head; and a little because she had unconsciously used Jimmie's head for her model, and a little because of her conscious realization at this moment that the roughly indicated curls over the brow were like n.o.body's in the world but Jimmie's, she was thinking of him seriously. She was thinking also of the dinner on a tray that would presently be brought up to her, since her mother and father were out of town, and of her coming two months with Eleanor and her recent inspiration concerning them.
In Colha.s.sett, Cape Cod, Ma.s.sachusetts, the dinner hour and even the supper hour were long past. In the commodious kitchen of Eleanor's former home two old people were sitting in calico valanced rockers, one by either window. The house was a pleasant old colonial structure, now badly run down but still marked with that distinction that only the instincts of aristocracy can bestow upon a decaying habitation.
A fattish child made her way up the walk, toeing out unnecessarily, and let herself in by the back door without knocking.
”h.e.l.lo, Mis' Chase and Mr. Amos,” she said, seating herself in a straight backed, yellow chair, and swinging her crossed foot nonchalantly, ”I thought I would come in to inquire about Eleanor. Ma said that she heard that she was coming home to live again. Is she, Mr. Amos?”