And now for the first time we planned to make a base and harmless advantage of Nichola’s absence. We meant to give a party, a dance, with seven guests. Nichola, we were certain, would not for a moment have supported the idea; she would have had a thousand silly objections concerning my sleeplessness and our nerves and the digestion of Pelleas. We argued that all three objections were inadequate, and that Nichola was made for us and not we for Nichola. This bold innovation of thought alone will show how adventuresome we were become.
We set about our preparation with proper caution. For one whole forenoon I kept Pelleas in the kitchen, as sentinel to Nichola, driving her nearly mad with his forced excuses for staying while I risked my neck among boxes long undisturbed. But then I love an attic. I have always a sly impulse to attempt framing ours for a wall of our drawing-room. I prefer most attics to some libraries. I have known houses whose libraries do not invite, but gesticulate; whose dining-rooms have an air of awful permanence, like a ship’s dining-room; and whose drawing-rooms are as uninhabitable as the guillotine; yet above stairs would lie a splendid attic of the utmost distinction. These places always have chests which thrill one with the certainty that they are filled with something—how shall I say?—something which does not anywhere exist: Vague, sumptuous things, such as sultans give for wedding gifts, and such as parcels are always suggesting without ever fulfilling the suggestion. Yet when chests like these are opened they are found to contain most commonplace matter—trunk straps with the buckles missing, printed reports of forgotten meetings called to exploit forgotten enthusiasms, and cotton wadding. Yet I never go up to our attic without an impulse of expectancy. I dare say if I persist I shall find a Spanish doubloon there some day. But that morning I found only what I went to seek—the lustrous white silk which I had worn on the night that I met Pelleas. We had looked at it together sometimes, but for very long it had lain unregarded and the fine lace about the throat was yellowed and it had caught the odour of the lonely days and nights. But it was in my eyes no less beautiful than on the night that I had first worn it.
I hid it away in my closet beneath sober raiment and went down to release Pelleas. When I entered the kitchen Nichola glanced at me once, and without a word led me to the looking-glass in the door of the clock.
“Yah?” she questioned suspiciously. “Is it that you have been tomboning about, building fires?”
I looked, wondering vaguely what Nichola can possibly mean by tomboning, which she is always using. There was a great place of dust on my cheek. I am a blundering criminal and should never be allowed in these choice informalities.
That afternoon while Nichola was about her marketing, Pelleas and I undertook to telephone to our guests. When I telephone I always close my eyes, for which Pelleas derides me as he passes; and when he telephones he invariably turns on the light on the landing. Perhaps this is because men are at home in the presence of science while women, never having been gods, fear its thunder-bolt methods. Pelleas said something like this to our friends:—
“Do you remember the ball at the Selby-Whitfords’? Yes—the one on Washington’s Birthday forty-nine years ago? Well, Etarre and I are going to give another ball to the seven survivors. Yes—a ball. Just we seven. And you must wear something that you might have worn that night. It’s going to be Thursday at eight o’clock, and it’s quite a secret. Will you come?”
Would they come! Although the “seven survivors” did suggest a steamship disaster, our guests could have risen to no promise of festivity with greater thanksgiving. At the light that broke over Pelleas’ face at their answers my heart rejoiced. Would they come! Polly Cleatam promised for herself and her husband, although all their grandchildren were their guests that week. Sally Chartres’ son, a stout, middle-aged senator, was with her but she said that she would leave him with his nurse; and Miss Willie Lillieblade cried out at first that she was a hermit with neuralgia and at second thought added that she would come anyway and if necessary be buried directly from our house.
The hall was dark and silent again when Nichola came toiling home and there was nothing to tell her, as we thought, what plans had peopled the air in her absence. Nor in the three days of our preparation did we leave behind, we were sure, one scrap or one breath of evidence against us. We worked with the delighted caution of naughty children or escaping convicts. Pelleas, who has a delicate taste in sweets, ordered the cakes when he took his afternoon walk and went back to the shop every day to charge the man not to deliver the things until the evening. My sewing woman’s son plays the violin “like his own future,” as Pelleas applauds him, and it was easy to engage him and his sister to accompany him. Meanwhile I rearranged my old gown, longing for Nichola, who has a genius in more than cookery. To be sure Pelleas did his best to help me, though he knows no more of such matters than the spirits of the air; he can button very well but to hook is utterly beyond his simple art. However, he attended to everything else. After dark on Thursday he smuggled some roses into the house and though I set the pitcher in my closet I could smell the flowers distinctly while we were at dinner. It is frightful to have a conscience that can produce not only terrors but fragrances.
We were in a fever of excitement until Nichola got off. While Pelleas tidied the drawing-room I went down and wiped the dishes for her—in itself a matter to excite suspicion—and I broke a cup and was meek enough when Nichola scolded me. Every moment I expected the ice cream to arrive, in which event I believe I would have tried to prove to Nichola that it was a prescription and that the cakes were for the poor.