In the whole realm of the mother’s mind there was no room for anything at present but her measles-smitten household. She looked at Dosia as if making an effort to understand. “Why, yes, I suppose he will be there. Just don’t have anything to do with him if you don’t want to. You will not need to; he is out of the house most of the time, anyway.”
“Oh, very well,” assented Dosia, chilled and yet relieved. The blood of youth was already running riot at the delightful prospect of another change. But she slipped into the nursery to kiss poor little feverish Redge good-by, and leaned out of the carriage that was driving her away to wave her hand again and again to Zaidee, whose red cheeks and little snub-nose were pressed close to the window-pane.
Mrs. Leverich was a woman who was somewhat below par in birth and education, devoid of certain finer instincts, and used to an overflow of luxury in her daily living that amounted sometimes to vulgar display. To balance this, she was still handsome, if somewhat too stout, and hospitable to a superlative degree. “Staying company” was a necessity to her happiness. She had an absolute passion for making other people comfortable, and surrounded her guests with a kindness and forethought so enveloping that it almost spoiled them for contact afterwards with a rude world. She really possessed in this regard an unselfish good-heartedness, mingled with a sort of vanity that was pleased with applause at its manipulations; her own comfort was indifferent to her beside the subtler and warmer pleasure of being the source of good to others. It is no figure of speech to say that she was willing to do anything to promote the welfare of her guests; it was no hardship to give up her own way in their interests, or to do any act, however tiring and distasteful, that gave pleasure to anyone. She hated cards, yet she would play long, tedious games with beaming incompetence, to make up a hand; she disliked the smell of tobacco, but was never satisfied until every man around her was happily supplied with cigars or pipes. Music was a jangle to her, and any book above the caliber of the fiction which displays a low-necked authoress upon the cover a weariness indeed; but she would labor unceasingly to place both music and literature within the reach of her guests. She had windows opened when she herself was chilly, and fires lighted when she was suffering with the heat; she took long drives in the hot sun when she would have much preferred a nap; she chaperoned girls uncomplainingly until five o’clock in the morning. The least wish of a guest, spoken or divined, was gratified if within her power. It is true that she had a retinue of servants at her command, but, if necessary, she would have served her guests with her own hands, and had been known to do so. There was only one drawback to her hospitality—she welcomed, but did not speed the parting guest. It was difficult indeed to leave without a pitched battle, and the effort of temporary disunion was so great as sometimes to result in a permanent rupture of friendship. Her “I see—you don’t want to stay with us any longer” voiced that injured feeling which blasts whatever it comes in contact with, and which disclaimers serve only to heighten. Once away from her, her interest in the former guest ceased almost entirely, no matter how close the association had been under her roof; outside of it everyone was lost in a haze which called for a distinct and wearying effort, seldom undertaken, to penetrate.
In appearance she was on the Oriental type of her half-brother, Lawson Barr, but with a softness, both of expression and contour, which he did not possess. She was ten years older than he. Her motions and the tone of her voice were languid. Her husband—who enjoyed the benefits of being the chief and permanent guest in this household—was extremely fond of her, and proud of her beauty and popularity. Leverich was one of those coarse-seeming and coarse-acting men who, nevertheless, come of a race of gentlefolk, and who have innately, and no matter how much they may choose to overlay the fact, certain traditions. He had been known to say, in rebuttal of some criticism on his wife’s breeding, what was quite true—that she was good enough for him; but he had, underneath, a little contempt for her because she was. It was one of the traditions that a man should find a quality in his wife to revere.
Leverich liked to surround his wife with luxuries, to give her everything that money could buy and that her gently sensuous temperament craved. Her attachment was riveted to him by gifts of clothing and jewelry and bric-à-brac as well as money—such things being to her the only tangible evidences of affection. Dosia had hitherto seen the house only as a caller. She was impressed now by the richness of the furnishings above, as she was led up to her room, a large, many-windowed apartment on the second floor. It was all a gleam of polished mahogany, and brass and mirrors and silver toilet articles, blended with rose-silk draperies; the alcoved bed was spread with a flowered silk counterpane, the floors covered with rich Eastern rugs; easy-chairs and low tables spread with books dotted the room; a couch piled high with down cushions stood at a seductive angle. A maid glided forward to take Dosia’s hat and cloak, while another knelt at the hearth to light the logs upon the brass andirons, and Mrs. Leverich came in and out in an overflow of solicitude.
“I really think you had better rest. You must be tired. No, of course”—at Dosia’s laughing remonstrance—“the drive was nothing, but the shock—a shock like that tells on you before you know it. Here comes your trunk; have you the key? Elizabeth, unpack Miss Dosia’s trunk, and get out a dressing-gown for her. I’m going to insist on your lying down on the lounge for a while. Now, don’t do that, Elizabeth will take off your shoes for you. And, Amelia,”—this to the maid at the hearth,—“bring up some tea and biscuits. No, you don’t care for tea? Well, a glass of sherry, then, and some hothouse grapes. My dear Dosia,—you’ll let me call you Dosia, won’t you?—you may not feel the need of it now, but it will do you good. I’m not going to stay with you, I’ll just move this little table with the magazines on it near you, and leave you to rest; but first I want to show you this.” She opened the door of a smaller, hexagonal apartment adjoining. “I’m going to turn it into a music-room for you.”
“Oh, Mrs. Leverich!” protested Dosia, in amazement.
“I’ve been thinking of it all the way home in the carriage. Of course, you won’t want to practice down-stairs, where people are coming in and out all the time; it would be very annoying to you. This has been used as an extra dressing-room. I shall have those thick hangings taken down and the furniture moved out, and put in light chairs and a cottage piano, and a few palms over by the window. You’ll see!”
“But, Mrs. Leverich——”
“Now, don’t say a word; it’s all settled. Elizabeth will come to you when it’s time to dress, so you need give yourself no anxiety about that. Just let me draw this coverlet over you and tuck your feet in. Now, how sweet you do look, to be sure!”