V
He went out of the room, and closed the door behind him, but he did not go downstairs; he stood there in the dim and drafty hall, thinking. He had been going to show Mimi the right way to live, had he? He had brought her here, to this house, to these malarial mosquitoes, to this “nasty, unwholesome place.” He had made her eat her breakfast from a red and white checked cloth; he had deprived her of doilies and frilled curtains.
He had been the most heartless, the most presumptuous, priggish, despicable ass who had ever lived. Even his aunt had known better. His “plan”! It had served one purpose, though; it had shown him to Mimi as he really was, a blind, obstinate, humorless, cheerless—
She was coming up the stairs now; he knew her light, quick step. So he pretended that he was coming down, and in the middle of the flight they met.
“I was looking for you!” she announced cheerfully. “Dinner’s ready!”
He stood before her in silence for a few moments, his head bent; then suddenly he said:
“Mimi!”
Such a miserable voice!
“Oh, what’s the matter?” she cried, anxiously.
“I haven’t appreciated you!”
His tone was very contrite.
“Heavens!” said Mimi. “I don’t care such an awful lot about being appreciated, Mr. Hughes!”
“But I do love you!” he declared. “I always have loved you. Only—I didn’t appreciate you. I thought—if you came here—”
“Well,” she said, “you were right! You knew perfectly well that if I came here, and saw you in this awful house—and such an awful, dismal life—You knew! It wasn’t fair!”
“I never thought of such a thing!” he protested, indignantly. “My plan was—”
“Anyhow, it’s too late now,” she pointed out. “The harm’s done.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, with a sinking heart.
“I mean,” she replied sternly, “that you’ve simply got to have somebody to take care of you!”
He looked down at her. The size of her! The age of her!
“But—do you mean—that you are going to do that?” he demanded.
“Yes!” she cried. “That’s my plan!”
He came down onto the step where she was standing. And she had really very little trouble in convincing him of the merits of her plan.[Pg 407]
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
JUNE, 1926
Vol. LXXXVIII NUMBER 1
Vanity
MADELINE HOLLAND HAS A TRYING HOUR WHEN SHE SEES HER MIDDLE-AGED HUSBAND ATTRACTED BY A YOUNGER AND PRETTIER RIVAL
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
MRS. HOLLAND came out of her room, closing the door carefully behind her. A shaft of sun came through the skylight, but beyond that bright bar the hall was dim and very quiet, for her footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. She stood there for a moment, as if listening. A tall woman she was, straight and slender, with a proudly carried head and a proud and serene face. She did not look her fifty years, but she felt them this morning.
She listened, but she heard nothing, and presently she went on through the warm patch of sunshine that for an instant brightened the smooth blackness of her hair. At the head of the stairs she heard a sound of life. Some one was coming up from the basement, breathing hard and walking heavily, and accompanied by a pleasant little jingling of china and silver.
Mrs. Holland began to descend, and halfway down the flight she met Hilda, carrying a tray.
“I’ll take it to Miss Joyce, Hilda,” she said.
“No, ma’am,” replied Hilda firmly. “Don’t you bother.”
“I’d like to, Hilda,” returned Mrs. Holland with equal firmness.
“It’s too heavy, ma’am.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Holland.
Her hands, cool and slender, grasped the tray and came into contact with Hilda’s roughened fingers; and Hilda, the vassal, was somehow shocked by this.
“All right, ma’am,” she agreed.
Mrs. Holland took the tray and turned back. She heard a miserable little sniffle from Hilda, but she dared not take notice of it. She was not prepared to give consolation to other people this morning.
She set the tray down on the floor, and opened one of those closed doors. It was like another world in there, bright with sun, and a breeze rioting through, setting in motion all the charming disorder there—ribbons and silks and tissue paper in half open boxes, gay and frivolous things hanging over the backs of chairs. It was a very untidy room, but Mrs. Holland knew it would never be like this again. After to-day it would be a neat, quiet, empty room.
She closed the window, and then went over to the bedside. Joyce lay there, with the sheet huddled about her so that only the top of her rough, bright head was visible. Mrs. Holland touched her shoulder.
“Wake up, child!” she said.
She forced herself to stand there and to greet Joyce cheerfully on this last morning.
“Here’s your breakfast, you lazy little thing,” she added.
Joyce sat up, dazed and heavy-eyed. Mrs. Holland held out a dressing gown, and the girl slipped her arms into it with a childlike passivity.
“It’s a beautiful day,” said Mrs. Holland. “You couldn’t have a better day.”
Suddenly Joyce awoke. Her dark eyes widened, and over her face stole a shadow—a look so tender, so lovely, that Mrs. Holland was obliged to turn away to bend over the tray.
“Don’t let the toast get cold, child,” she said.
Joyce did not speak, and when Mrs. Holland turned toward her again she saw tears in her child’s steady, shining eyes.
“Joyce,” she said, “my dear, my dear, let’s make this a very happy, a very wonderful day!”
They looked at each other, and Joyce’s lip quivered, but Mrs. Holland still smiled.[Pg 409]
“I must bear this,” she told herself. “I must, and I can.”
She pulled the table close to the bedside, poured out a cup of coffee, and put cream and sugar into it, just as Joyce always liked it. Then she lifted the silver cover from the toast.
“Poor Hilda was so disappointed!” she said. “She wanted to bring the tray herself. Come now, my pet! There, there!”
Joyce’s eyes were still fixed upon her mother’s face.
“This won’t do!” said Mrs. Holland, and then, with that gracious gayety which so few were ever permitted to see in her, she tied a napkin about the girl’s neck and began to feed her—a spoonful of coffee, a bit of toast, a spoonful of coffee.
“Spoiled little thing!” she scolded. “Naughty little thing, when there’s so much to be done to-day!”
“I know it!” cried Joyce, sitting up straight. “Mother, what shall we do about old Mrs. Marriott’s candlesticks? When she comes and doesn’t see them with the other presents, she’ll be so frightfully hurt!”
“I found them last night in a hat box,” replied Mrs. Holland, laughing.
“And, mother, suppose the jeweler hasn’t got that new clasp ready?”
“Your father’s going there as soon as he has had breakfast. He told me to tell you that if that clasp isn’t ready, he’ll buy you another necklace.”
“But I want the one that daddy picked out! I—oh, mother!”
The girl stretched out her arms, with tears raining down her face; but for an instant Mrs. Holland did not respond. She stood motionless, with an odd, stony look, as if beyond measure affronted by those tears.
“Oh, no, no!” she cried in her heart. “How can I stand this?”
“Mother!”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, took her child in her arms, and stroked the ruffled head that lay against her breast.
“Don’t, my darling,” she said gently. “It’s not right. It’s not kind to Nick.”
“I c-can’t help it,” Joyce answered in a stifled voice. “You and daddy—my own darling people—”
“You must help it, my sweetheart. You’ve eaten nothing at all. I’m going to run your bath, now, and afterward Hilda will bring you some hot coffee and toast.”
She disengaged the clinging arms from about her neck, and took both the girl’s hands in her own. She looked steadfastly into her child’s face, and still smiled.
“Don’t be so naughty!” she said. “There! Sit up and read your letters until the bath’s run.”
The tiled bathroom was dazzling in the sunlight. The nickel fittings flashed like silver, and the water filling the tub was a wonderful translucent green.
“Mother!” Joyce called out. “Uncle Thomas has sent a check and an awfully sweet letter!”
Mrs. Holland pretended not to hear. She could not speak just then. She sat on the edge of the tub, staring down into the shimmering, greenish water, and even her child’s voice sounded very far away. The last moment was almost here. In a few hours Joyce would be gone.
“I must not spoil her day,” she thought. “I’ve got to be brave, just until she goes; and then—then I don’t care.”
The water had risen high enough. She turned off the tap and went back into the bedroom.
“All ready!” she said cheerfully. “Don’t dawdle, sweetheart.”
“I won’t, mother,” Joyce promised.
She had dried her tears, now. She was very grave, but quite composed.
“That’s exactly how she looked when she went to apologize to grandma for losing the family photographs,” thought Mrs. Holland. “She was a tiny girl, then, and she was wearing that funny little plaid dress. She doesn’t look any older now. She’s so young—so young!”
She crossed the room briskly, opened the door, smiled back over her shoulder, and stepped out into the dim, silent hall. It seemed to her that the house had grown terribly old, a pompous, dull old house. She went down the stairs slowly, for she was old, too. Her life was finished. Joyce was going away.