Part 25 (1/2)

It was that voice. It was that deep, soft, glowing voice. ”Like purple velvet,” someone had written. Mrs. Murdock's heart beat visibly.

Lily Wynton cast herself upon the steep bosom of her hostess, and murmured there. Across Miss Noyes's shoulder she caught sight of little Mrs. Murdock.

”And who is this?” she said. She disengaged herself.

”That's my tiny one,” Miss Noyes said. ”Mrs. Murdock.”

”What a clever little face,” said Lily Wynton. ”Clever, clever little face. What does she do, sweet Hallie? I'm sure she writes, doesn't she? Yes, I can feel it. She writes beautiful, beautiful words. Don't you, child?”

”Oh, no, really I-” Mrs. Murdock said.

”And you must write me a play,” said Lily Wynton. ”A beautiful, beautiful play. And I will play in it, over and over the world, until I am a very, very old lady. And then I will die. But I will never be forgotten, because of the years I played in your beautiful, beautiful play.”

She moved across the room. There was a slight hesitancy, a seeming insecurity, in her step, and when she would have sunk into a chair, she began to sink two inches, perhaps, to its right. But she swayed just in time in her descent, and was safe.

”To write,” she said, smiling sadly at Mrs. Murdock, ”to write. And such a little thing, for such a big gift. Oh, the privilege of it. But the anguish of it, too. The agony.”

”But, you see, I-” said little Mrs. Murdock.

”Tiny one doesn't write, Lily,” Miss Noyes said. She threw herself back upon the divan. ”She's a museum piece. She's a devoted wife.”

”A wife!” Lily Wynton said. ”A wife. Your first marriage, child?”

”Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Murdock.

”How sweet,” Lily Wynton said. ”How sweet, sweet, sweet. Tell me, child, do you love him very, very much?”

”Why, I-” said little Mrs. Murdock, and blushed. ”I've been married for ages,” she said.

”You love him,” Lily Wynton said. ”You love him. And is it sweet to go to bed with him?”

”Oh-” said Mrs. Murdock, and blushed till it hurt.

”The first marriage,” Lily Wynton said. ”Youth, youth. Yes, when I was your age I used to marry, too. Oh, treasure your love, child, guard it, live in it. Laugh and dance in the love of your man. Until you find out what he's really like.”

There came a sudden visitation upon her. Her shoulders jerked upward, her cheeks puffed, her eyes sought to start from their hammocks. For a moment she sat thus, then slowly all subsided into place. She lay back in her chair, tenderly patting her chest. She shook her head sadly, and there was grieved wonder in the look with which she held Mrs. Murdock.

”Gas,” said Lily Wynton, in the famous voice. ”Gas. n.o.body knows what I suffer from it.”

”Oh, I'm so sorry,” Mrs. Murdock said. ”Is there anything-”

”Nothing,” Lily Wynton said. ”There is nothing. There is nothing that can be done for it. I've been everywhere.”

”How's for a spot of tea, perhaps?” Miss Noyes said. ”It might help.” She turned her face toward the archway and lifted up her voice. ”Mary! Where the h.e.l.l's the tea?”

”You don't know,” Lily Wynton said, with her grieved eyes fixed on Mrs. Murdock, ”you don't know what stomach distress is. You can never, never know, unless you're a stomach sufferer yourself. I've been one for years. Years and years and years.”

”I'm terribly sorry,” Mrs. Murdock said.

”n.o.body knows the anguish,” Lily Wynton said. ”The agony.”

The maid appeared, bearing a triangular tray upon which was set an heroic-sized tea service of bright white china, each piece a hectagon. She set it down on a table within the long reach of Miss Noyes and retired, as she had come, bashfully.

”Sweet Hallie,” Lily Wynton said, ”my sweet. Tea-I adore it. I wors.h.i.+p it. But my distress turns it to gall and wormwood in me. Gall and wormwood. For hours, I should have no peace. Let me have a little, tiny bit of your beautiful, beautiful brandy, instead.”

”You really think you should, darling?” Miss Noyes said. ”You know-”

”My angel,” said Lily Wynton, ”it's the only thing for acidity.”

”Well,” Miss Noyes said. ”But do remember you've got a performance tonight.” Again she hurled her voice at the archway. ”Mary! Bring the brandy and a lot of soda and ice and things.”

”Oh, no, my saint,” Lily Wynton said. ”No, no, sweet Hallie. Soda and ice are rank poison to me. Do you want to freeze my poor, weak stomach? Do you want to kill poor, poor Lily?”

”Mary!” roared Miss Noyes. ”Just bring the brandy and a gla.s.s.” She turned to little Mrs. Murdock. ”How's for your tea, tiny one? Cream? Lemon?”

”Cream, if I may, please,” Mrs. Murdock said. ”And two lumps of sugar, please, if I may.”

”Oh, youth, youth,” Lily Wynton said. ”Youth and love.”

The maid returned with an octagonal tray supporting a decanter of brandy and a wide, squat, heavy gla.s.s. Her head twisted on her neck in a spasm of diffidence.

”Just pour it for me, will you, my dear?” said Lily Wynton. ”Thank you. And leave the pretty, pretty decanter here, on this enchanting little table. Thank you. You're so good to me.”

The maid vanished, fluttering. Lily Wynton lay back in her chair, holding in her gloved hand the wide, squat gla.s.s, colored brown to the brim. Little Mrs. Murdock lowered her eyes to her teacup, carefully carried it to her lips, sipped, and replaced it on its saucer. When she raised her eyes, Lily Wynton lay back in her chair, holding in her gloved hand the wide, squat, colorless gla.s.s.

”My life,” Lily Wynton said, slowly, ”is a mess. A stinking mess. It always has been, and it always will be. Until I am a very, very old lady. Ah, little Clever-Face, you writers don't know what struggle is.”

”But really I'm not-” said Mrs. Murdock.

”To write,” Lily Wynton said. ”To write. To set one word beautifully beside another word. The privilege of it. The blessed, blessed peace of it. Oh, for quiet, for rest. But do you think those cheap b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would close that play while it's doing a nickel's worth of business? Oh, no. Tired as I am, sick as I am, I must drag along. Oh, child, child, guard your precious gift. Give thanks for it. It is the greatest thing of all. It is the only thing. To write.”

”Darling, I told you tiny one doesn't write,” said Miss Noyes. ”How's for making more sense? She's a wife.”

”Ah, yes, she told me. She told me she had perfect, pa.s.sionate love,” Lily Wynton said. ”Young love. It is the greatest thing. It is the only thing.” She grasped the decanter; and again the squat gla.s.s was brown to the brim.

”What time did you start today, darling?” said Miss Noyes.

”Oh, don't scold me, sweet love,” Lily Wynton said. ”Lily hasn't been naughty. Her wuzzunt naughty dirl 't all. I didn't get up until late, late, late. And though I parched, though I burned, I didn't have a drink until after my breakfast. 'It is for Hallie,' I said.” She raised the gla.s.s to her mouth, tilted it, and brought it away, colorless.

”Good Lord, Lily,” Miss Noyes said. ”Watch yourself. You've got to walk on that stage tonight, my girl.”

”All the world's a stage,” said Lily Wynton. ”And all the men and women merely players. They have their entrance and their exitses, and each man in his time plays many parts, his act being seven ages. At first, the infant, mewling and puking-”

”How's the play doing?” Miss Noyes said.

”Oh, lousily,” Lily Wynton said. ”Lousily, lousily, lousily. But what isn't? What isn't, in this terrible, terrible world? Answer me that.” She reached for the decanter.

”Lily, listen,” said Miss Noyes. ”Stop that. Do you hear?”