Читать книгу Her Mother's Daughter - Nalbro Bartley - Страница 8

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EVEN in Rutledge the days of decorous dancing, when musicians were not seen but heard, had ended by 1917. Canteen hostesses joined hands with débutantes in according privates the attention due major generals.

Finishing the last trot of an all-night romp given for some transient regiment, Gloria Beaumont whispered the word to a chosen few that breakfast waited at the Beaumont home. She was growing faint and wan for her coffee and waffles.

Ignoring the embryo heroes, who had endured patronage and petting as they were prepared to endure the trenches, there stole from the community hall four young things and Jerry Fisher. Jerry played around so beautifully that he felt righteous indignation when contemporaries asked him to stag dinners.

The first to tumble into Gloria’s car was Enid Sayre, distant cousin and official toady for Miss Agnes Duff-Porter, known to her intimates as Duffy. Enid was one of those who asked a little extra of life with the hope that some day she might get it. She was tall and classical featured with shining green eyes and dull brown hair wound around her head in quaint braids. There was something impressive about Enid until she began to speak. Following came Jerry Fisher, slightly egg-shaped of figure and mottled of face, pompous and gray haired. Gloria often fancied that his protruding yellow teeth were not unlike fangs. Pushing Jerry with the end of her swagger stick was Dodo Grant, her closely cut black head nodding vivaciously as she gave orders as to the seating. Dodo’s was the vitality of the Murillo type, dark, inscrutable eyes and a sallow, healthy skin. She stood out among a thousand of young things—the boyish, athletic type that could wear untrimmed hats pushed far back on her clipped head and say timely, clever things whenever conversation lagged. It seemed natural for Dodo to smoke incessantly and wear knickers for walking. One thought of her as a sexless, delightful comrade whose main interests were golf and dogs and social settlement work. No one remarked at Dodo’s appearing at a dance in a severe white frock and upon all other occasions in mannish tailleurs and swashbuckling neckties centered by a sparkling cock made of diamonds. No one anticipated the day when Dodo Grant would marry and no one could have been persuaded that she was other than sincere and original, her prejudices as strong as her loves, even the minor ones, including a loathing for parsnips and men who read poetry.

Behind Dodo was her brother. Officially, he was Theodore Ainslie Grant, an assistant city bacteriologist. Unofficially, partly for abbreviation’s sake, he was Tag—and almost always “it.” In his arms was Gloria Beaumont. He carried her as easily as Gloria’s mother carried flour sacks in the old days. Six foot one and ugly in a fascinating way, Tag presented a striking contrast both to Dodo and to Gloria. He was thin, almost scrawny, freckled of face and sandy of hair. His honest, gray eyes were magnified by thick glasses and his nose was hopelessly too long while the firmness of his chin was offset by an annoying dimple. Tag was untidy even in formal dress, a characteristic and not intentional untidiness.

Gloria cuddled in his arms as she always cuddled whenever there was an opportunity. Tolerant scorn was in Dodo’s eyes as Tag set her future sister-in-law at the wheel, wrapping a silver cape about her shoulders.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, placing himself beside her.

The car started with a jerk that sent Enid and Dodo and Jerry tumbling against each other.

“One too many Manhattans,” they called out.

“One too few—let’s give four cheers that the night is spent,” Gloria was driving recklessly through the dawn-tinted streets. “I drew nothing but dumb-bells. The one high spot of the evening was the pacifist we sneaked off to hear.”

“She ought to be reported,” Jerry began briskly. “Who is she? Some Slav taking an American name? This country has admitted every undesirable that wanted to come. Now, when we’ve ideals to defend, we must expect that they’ll welch. I’d like to report—”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Gloria turned to beam at him. “You were my guest. I dug up the excitement for you. Then, too, you’d have had to go to police headquarters and would have missed my breakfast—mere patriotism is not worth it.”

“Oh, she’s the screaming, soap box type—harmless,” Jerry defended, “but it’s the principle.”

“Cut it,” ordered Dodo. “You enjoyed the lark and you’d be a rotter to squeal. I thought her anything but harmless. Didn’t you, Gloria?”

“Y-yes,” Gloria was thoughtful. “But she didn’t give me a single new idea. I hate going places unless I come away with something new to think about, if it’s only a hat.” She slowed up before an imposing house on the corner of Blaine Avenue.

Another ten minutes and they were around the breakfast table, calling for coffee and ham and eggs. Min Beaumont, portly of figure, all flaming, marcelled hair, pink negligée and diamonds—rather a theatrical horror—had welcomed them and been unofficially dismissed.

“Nobody’s spiffed, mama, so you can run back to bed,” her daughter ordered in her sweet, imperious way.

“Have a good time, children, the house is yours—I guess you know that when Gloria has a party, everyone has a good time,” had been Min’s response.

Later the subject of the pacifist meeting was renewed. It had been Gloria’s notion of a bat when she heard that a Mrs. Angiette Vaughn was to speak against war and the present government in an east side hall.

“The name sounds like a Pullman car but it might be fun,” she reported. “Let’s look in. I’m fed up on saluting the colors and selling things for French orphans.”

For all of an hour they endured the stuffy hall crowded with fanatics and listened to Mrs. Angiette Vaughn advocate the downfall of government and the uplift of herself.

“I believe in her theories,” Tag insisted, before devouring his ham and eggs. “Only theories are never practical.”

“Scrap heap ’em,” flung in Dodo.

“Don’t you believe in war?” giggled Enid. “Isn’t it fortunate that your poor eyes bar you? You’d be interned if you had a commission and then said such a thing.”

“I think we must fight in this war. It is war, per se, that I decry.”

“Nonsense—Tag’s such a pacifist,” explained Gloria, “that he’d train his dog to hunt mushrooms instead of rabbits. I adore war: cannons, submarines, air raids, murder and sudden death! I’m heartbroken because Tag can’t go. They can’t stage the thing too fiercely to please me. This war is just what I want, even if it sounds selfish. I’m enjoying it ever so much.”

“We’re upstage,” said Dodo sensibly. “What do we know about war—or peace? What does smug Rutledge know of it, for that matter?”

“Hear, hear,” cried Tag.

“We youngsters have a slovenly manner of thought,” Dodo continued. “Or rather we don’t know how to think. Gloria wants to make a party out of a world tragedy. But I don’t think she ever has known just what she wanted.”

“I do, too—Tag,” cried out Gloria.

“But you’ve always had me,” reminded Tag.

“Have I? Oh, of course. Then it’s How Cum, the adorable Chow at the Waverly kennels. How Cum is what I must have ... and just a sliver of bacon, Jerry, please.”

“I wonder if any of us will choose to go off at the deep end. You can either wade out until you’re obliged to swim or else dive off ker-plunk and swim instanter. Funny idea, perhaps—but it seems to me that most of us stay at the shallow end these days, paddling like kids. I wonder if something won’t shove some of us off at the deep end, whether or no.”

“Oh, applesauce——”

“Don’t be a plumber——”

“You’re as useful as the cat’s spare time——”

“Snap out of it, Tag. Just because you are going to marry Gloria doesn’t mean we can take you seriously. She doesn’t!”

“If you talk that way,” Gloria warned, “we will be Ships That Pass in the Night. I can’t endure anyone with principles, Tag. I adore people with pasts—and even with a philosophy. But never principles. They’re wearying. Do you know what you sound like whenever you try to preach? As if Uncle Remus and Bunyan had collaborated. Oh, but you do—half hi-brow and half nonsense and quite Tagesque ... I’ll have some more jam, please. It’s rather late. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t asked any of you. I want Tag to take you home and then come back and let me warn him what will happen if he tries to have me jump off at the deep end ... Enid, I love your dress. Where did our Duffy get that hat she sported yesterday? The smashed-in affair with a large, surprised bird crouching on its rim? And were you helpless to prevent her wearing her sapphires on the toes of satin slippers? Or do you really consider it shows individuality? Forgive me, Tag, but she’s going to be my Aunt Duffy, too. I’m afraid I can’t regard her as a legend like the rest of you pretend to do ... I think Bagatelle House is an awful sell—”

“I thought you were a blonde with a brunette disposition,” cut in Dodo effectively, her severe, white frock with its high collar giving her the appearance of a Carmelite novice. “Have I overestimated?”

“But Duffy is absurd,” Gloria protested. “What is the use of coming to the breakfast table if you can’t talk about the absent members of the family? Besides, Duffy objects to my calling her Pekinese a Pekinese.”

“What is it, pray tell?” demanded Jerry, enjoying himself no end.

“It is a living ornament,” Gloria chanted solemnly, her eyes bright with mischief. “It has the soul of an oriental for it neither forgets nor forgives. That is what she claims for Foo Wee, doesn’t she, Enid? Enid has to stand by and say, ‘Yes, Duffy, you’re quite right’ at intervals. Wait until How Cum mistakes Foo Wee for an unoccupied toupee! I’m afraid I can’t overlook the fact that Duffy is responsible for Tag’s being a bacteriologist. The only rival I could name would be some rare germ. Children, I appeal to you—ought Tag to be a bacteriologist? Ought he devote his life to the fleas’ ductless glands instead of me? I really need him—down at the shallow end. Is it fair that he spends months discovering that scarlet fever germs are never at the same house party with cholera germs and that the soul of a measle is not worth saving?”

“I said cut it,” ordered Dodo, “and adjourn. We’ve all got to show at the canteen bridge this afternoon. All in favor of a cold shower, four hours sleep and a nip of Scotch say ay—”

Enid rose from the table and posed herself effectively against the red draperies. “Oh, Gloria, you are such an amazing person,” she purred, “do you remember what they called you at school—the pattycake princess?”

“You’re such a press agent,” retorted Gloria as she finished a square of toast with a topknot of jam. “What you mean to say is that I’m heir to the Beaumont money, the Beaumonts being a ‘sturdy, limited peasant pair who made a fortune out of flour while we lost ours in a foundry.’ That was the way Duffy sized it up when my engagement was announced. Oh, but I listened. I’m always underbred if there is anything interesting in the air. Besides having the money, I’m neither crosseyed nor humpedback and mama obeys me far better than How Cum ever will. Lastly, I’m to marry Tag and become one of the sacred and inner circle of Rutledge’s royal family. And because this is America no one can prevent its happening.”

Gloria had risen from her chair in her quick, graceful way. There was something vivid about her personality in spite of her baby-doll features—the short, tilted nose with its sprinkle of faintish freckles, the petulant, cupid’s-bow mouth, the rounded chin with a one-sided dimple that showed whenever she wore a one-sided smile and eyebrows like tiny golden feathers, one placed a trifle higher than the other: her “ladylike” eyebrow and her “roughneck” eyebrow as she called them. Her vividness was not unlike a flame, now burning steadily, now flickering low only to burst into a brilliant flare.

At this particular time she was like an exquisite figurine in her dress of brocaded cream satin made after the fashion of a Russian bridal costume with long, tight sleeves and high neck line. A head dress of pearl beads was woven in and out of the waves of yellow hair and her deep sea blue eyes fringed with heavy golden lashes glanced coquettishly at Tag as she spoke.

But Enid had her revenge. Pushing aside the draperies which led into a back hall, she revealed the vanishing of a pink negligée. It was Min Beaumont who had been crouching, as was her custom, outside the scene of her daughter’s social triumphs. If Min was ordered off stage, she considered it her privilege to return as a silent watcher. There was something soul satisfying in seeing Gloria as the ringleader of action.

“That’s the worst of entertaining clever people,” Gloria said easily as the others rose to go, ignoring the incident. “The cook is trying to write scenarios and she is on a still hunt for copy.”

“How charming! To have the cook in flamingo taffeta, typical of her boiled state of mind, I presume ... ’bye, lamb, thank you for a marvelous party.”

Gloria stood in the doorway as Tag drove her car away, a flutter of hands waving at her from the windows. Then she turned back and a firmer, less flippant expression came into her face. Smothering a yawn she started towards her mother’s room to “report in.”

On the threshold she paused. Min was taking a last of forty winks nap. She lay at one side of her ornate walnut and gilt bed, a plump, red hand clutching the lace coverlet.

Gloria was not sorry to have found her so. She glanced about the room, a garish place in spite of the interior decorators and Gloria’s tyranny. On the desk was a pile of envelopes ready for the foreign post. Gloria knew what each contained—a sheet of monogrammed, violet shaded paper with a few effusive words and a great many “Glorias” in Min’s round hand. Underneath the signature or beside the monogram was pasted the newspaper announcement which was causing Rutledge to murmur:

“I wonder how Agnes Duff-Porter is taking it?”

Grant—Beaumont

Mrs. Jules Auguste Beaumont of Blaine Avenue announces the engagement of her daughter, Gloria, to Mr. Theodore Ainslie Grant, nephew of Miss Agnes Duff-Porter of Bagatelle House. The marriage will be solemnized the first week in June.