Читать книгу Bread - Charles G. Norris - Страница 24

It was Sunday, the day he had promised to come to dinner. Dinner, with the Sturgises on Sunday, was always the noontime meal. Cold meat or a levy on Kratzmer’s delicatessen counters, with weak hot tea, constituted Sunday supper. Dinner, however, invariably involved roast chicken and ice cream which was secured at the last moment from O’Day’s Candy Parlor, and carried home by one of the girls, packed in a thin pasteboard box. There was seldom ice in the leaky ice-box, and Sunday dinner was therefore usually a hurried affair, as mother and the girls were always acutely conscious during every minute of its duration of the melting cream in the kitchen.

For this Mrs. Sturgis was responsible. Her frugality would not allow her leisurely to enjoy her meal at the sacrifice of the ice cream. The fear of its becoming soft and mushy pressed relentlessly upon her consciousness.

“Now, dearie,—don’t talk! Eat your dinner. It’s much more digestible if it’s eaten while it’s hot,” she would urge her daughters almost with every mouthful.

No one ever spoke of the ice cream itself. The reason for such close application to the business of eating was never voiced. It was part of the ritual of Sunday dinner that it should not be mentioned. Not until Alice had piled and crowded the aluminum tray with the soiled dishes, carried these away, and returned with the mound of cream sagging upon its platter, could Mrs. Sturgis and her daughters allow themselves to relax. No matter how well the rest of the dinner might be cooked, it must be gulped down and its enjoyment wasted for the sake of a quarter’s worth of frozen cream.

It was upon these circumstances that Jeannette’s rebellious thoughts centered on the morning of Roy Beardsley’s visit. She was worn out after her troubled night, and the prospect of seeing him so soon after the tremendous occurrences of the previous afternoon and her stormy reflections upon them made her nervous, apprehensive. She wanted time to think things out, to consider matters.... Anyhow—what would her mother and sister think of him? What would he think of them?

“Dearie—dearie!” Mrs. Sturgis expostulated more than once. “Whatever makes my lovie so cross this morning? ... You’ll get another position, dearie,—if that’s what’s troubling you.”

“Oh, you make me tired!” thought her daughter, angrily, though the words were unsaid.

“Well, I do hope we can at least have some other kind of dessert,” she said aloud. “We always have to rush so infernally through dinner; it makes me sick! ... Or, I’ll tell you what,” she went on hopefully, “we can get in a little ice.”

“It will leak all over the floor,” Alice objected. “The old thing is full of holes.”

“There’s nothing better than O’Day’s strawberry cream,” Mrs. Sturgis declared; “and there isn’t a thing in the house, so I can’t make a pudding.”

Jeannette said nothing further but gloomed in silence. She elected to be furiously energetic, and undertook a thorough cleaning of the studio, strewing strips of damp newspaper over the floor, sweeping vigorously, her head tied up in a towel. The broom shed its straw, and she discovered little triangles of dirt in obscure corners which Alice had evidently deliberately neglected. The white curtains were dingy, the front windows needed washing, and in the midst of her cleaning, Dikron Najarian came in upon her to ask her to walk with him in the afternoon. In a fury she attempted to move the piano to pull loose a rug, and in the effort, which was far beyond her strength, she hurt herself badly. Her mother found her lying on the floor, crying weakly.

“Dearie—dearie! What happened to you! My darling! You shouldn’t work so hard; there’s no necessity for your being so thorough.”

The girl had really injured herself. Mrs. Sturgis called wildly for Alice, and between them they carried her to her room and laid her on her bed. She had wrenched her back, but she refused to admit it. She wouldn’t be put to bed. She was all right, she told them; just a few moments’ rest, and she would be herself again. It was twelve o’clock and Roy would be there at one!

She lay on her bed, and gazed blindly up at the old familiar discolored ceiling; presently her eyes closed and two large tears stole from under her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. She knew she had hurt herself far more seriously than she would let her mother or sister suspect. Something had given way in the small of her back; she made an effort to sit up, and the pain all but tore a cry from her. But she was determined they should not know; she would get up, and meet Roy, and go through with dinner as though nothing was the matter!

Struggling, with tiny explosions of pent-up breath and smothered groans, her hand at every free moment pressed to her side, she managed to dress herself. The effort exhausted her; a film of perspiration covered her forehead, her upper lip and the backs of her hands. She steadied herself now and then by leaning against the dresser, until her strength came back to her. She did not care, now, whether Roy Beardsley found the studio clean or not, whether or not he was hustled through dinner, thought her home cheap and poor, her mother and sister commonplace and fussily solicitous.

He was ahead of time. She met him with careful step and a fixed smile of welcome. He was glowing with eagerness; his hands trembled a little as he held them out to her. At sight of him, a moment’s wave of yesterday’s emotion swept over her, but immediately there came a sharp stab of pain, and she caught a quick breath from between the lips that held her smile. His anxious questions were cut short by the bustling entrance of Mrs. Sturgis and Alice.

Jeannette’s mother was at once flatteringly hospitable, inviting the guest to sit down and make himself comfortable, while she established herself with an elegant spread of skirts on the davenport, and began to toss the lacy ruffles of her best jabot with a careless finger.

Were Mr. Beardsley’s parents living? Ah, yes,—in San Francisco. They had fogs out there a great deal, she’d heard. And he had lost his mother. Consumption? Ah, that was indeed a pity! ... And his father was a clergyman? Eminently laudable profession.... And he had wanted to come East to college? Quite right and proper. Princeton was a fine college; nice boys went there.... And he had spent some time in New York? Wonderful city,—but a very expensive place to live,—probably the most expensive in the world....

Jeannette recognized a favorite theme and broke in with an inquiry about dinner. She was suffering miserably; she wondered if she would have the strength to get to the dining-room. Alice already had disappeared; the slam of the back door some moments before had announced her departure for O’Day’s Candy Parlor. Mrs. Sturgis excused herself with many profuse explanations, and departed kitchenward, whence presently there came the bang of pots in the sink and the hiss of running water.

Left together, Roy turned eagerly to Jeannette where she stood beside the mantel, a white hand gripping its edge.

“Dearest, I’ve been so crazy to see you! ... Is anything wrong? You’re not angry with me after yesterday?”

Her eyes softened, but, as if to check for that day any moment’s tenderness, there was again a sharp twinge. Involuntarily she winced.

“Jeannette! You’re not well! What’s the matter?”

She laid her hand on his arm to reassure him and steady herself.

“Nothing,” she breathed. “I hurt my back this morning. I must have wrenched it. It’s really nothing. Now and then it gets me.”

She managed a disarming smile.

“Mother and Allie mustn’t know a thing about it. I don’t want to alarm them; they’re so excitable. To-morrow, I’ll be quite all right again.... You must help me.”

“Why, surely; you know I will.... But, dearest——”

“Oh, please! Don’t make a fuss.” Her tone was sharp, and at once he fell silent, watching her face anxiously.

“Do you love me?” he queried in a low voice.

She did not answer; she was in no mood for love-making. In a moment, she moved with difficulty to the window, and stood there, fighting her pain, and looking down vacantly into the street. Provokingly, tears rose to her eyes. She was afraid she was going to cry. She could see Allie returning with the square paper box held with a finger by its thin wire handle, and presently the great front door of the house shut with a jangle.

Roy’s arm stole about her waist, but its touch hurt her.

“Oh, please!” she begged crossly.

“I’m sorry,—awfully sorry. I forgot.... You’re in terrible pain, aren’t you? ... Shall I get a doctor? ... Don’t you want to lie down? ... Would you like me to go?”

She wanted to slap him.

“Just leave me alone!”

Mrs. Sturgis’ eager step was approaching, and in a moment she presented at the doorway a face reddened from the heat of the stove, and moist with perspiration.

“Dinner’s ready, dearie,” she announced. “Won’t you come this way, Mr. Beardsley? We use our bedrooms for a passage-way, although the hall outside, I suppose, is really better, but, you see, it’s much more convenient....”

Jeannette motioned him to precede her, and followed, holding on by the furniture as she made her way. Her mother was in the kitchen and Alice’s back was turned as in anguish she got into her chair.

Dinner was endless. The soup had curdled; the potatoes were scant; the salt-cellar in front of Roy had a greenish mold about its top; Roy, himself, kept fiddling with his silverware,—rattling knife and fork, and fork and spoon; her mother and sister had never, in Jeannette’s opinion, jumped up from the table so incessantly for errands to kitchen or sideboard. The pain in her back every now and then became excruciating. She sat through the dragging meal with a set smile upon her lips, turning her head with assumed brightness from face to face as each one spoke. Her mother did most of the talking, keeping up a continual flow of chatter to fill the silences. Alice rarely volunteered an observation when there was company, and Jeannette’s misery made her dumb. Mrs. Sturgis rose to the occasion and supplied conversation for all three. Jeannette, watching Roy’s face, resented his polite show of interest. Her mother had what her daughters described as a “company” manner. When it was upon her she interrupted herself every little while with nervous giggles and to-day, Jeannette decided, she had never indulged in them so often. She was eloquent during the meal with reminiscences of her childhood’s escapades and early cuteness, and Jeannette watched the animated face with its jogging, pendent cheeks in an agony of spirit that matched her physical misery.

“... Nettie,—we always called Janny, ‘Nettie,’ when she was little,—was only six then, and she was awfully pretty and cute. We were having dinner at a restaurant downtown,—her papa had a friend to entertain. Allie....? I don’t remember where Allie was....”; Mrs. Sturgis gazed in sudden perplexity at her younger daughter. “I guess you were at home with Nora, lovie.... At any rate, we were at this restaurant and a waiter was serving us nicely, and nobody was paying any attention, when all of a sudden Nettie says loud and pertly to the waiter: ‘Now that you’re up, will you please get me a glass of milk?’” Mrs. Sturgis shut her eyes and laughed until her little round cheeks shook. “Imagine,” she finished, “‘Now that you’re up!’ ... To the waiter!” She went off into gales of mirth.

Roy laughed too, a thin, polite laugh, without a trace of spontaneity. Jeannette hated him. She hated her sister, too, for her smug complacency. Alice sat there encouraging her mother with responsive twitterings every time Mrs. Sturgis threw her head back to chuckle. Jeannette felt she was suffocating; the pain dug itself steadily and cruelly into the small of her back; she could not draw one adequate breath.

The platter and remains of the hacked and dismembered chicken, and the soiled dishes eventually were removed; Alice brushed the table-cloth with a folded napkin, sweeping crumbs and litter, ineffectually, as Jeannette noted in utter desolation, into the palm of her hand, carrying the refuse handful by handful to the kitchen, until the operation was complete. The ice cream was borne in, in mushy disintegration, and her mother commented on its melted condition and the various responsible reasons, until the girl thought she would scream in protest.

She could not eat; she could not drink; lifting her hand to her lips was misery. Roy’s solicitous glance was more and more intently fixed upon her; Alice, also, was beginning to send concerned looks in her direction. She felt her strength rapidly ebbing from her. She could endure but little more—but little, little more. Her will power was deserting her, resolution forsaking her, she felt it going—going; it was slipping away ... she was going to fall! ... Ah, she WAS falling....!

“Janny, dearie!” Her mother’s alarmed cry faintly reached her dimming consciousness.