"That was dear of him, but he is always too kind."
"He says that there will be no great beauties, as democracy increases, just as there will be no more great men or great heroes. Do you believe that? Grandfather has very queer notions. Mamma told me he was so queer when he was young that everybody was surprised when he made a good living. I asked him about that, and he laughed and said that he made a good living by putting an end to himself. Do you see what he means?"
"I think I see," Mrs. Birdsong murmured in a wistful voice, "but you couldn't, dear, not until you are older. It may be better, I'm not sure, if what he prophesies does really happen and everything is made level. Any difference, especially the difference of beauty, brings jealousy with it, and worse things than jealousy."
"But it must be wonderful," Jenny Blair sighed enviously. "People love you without your having to take the least bit of trouble." Her eyes dwelt on the romantic contour of Mrs. Birdsong's head, with the soft twist of curls on the nape of the neck.
"Oh, you do take trouble if you have a reputation to keep up, and no fame on earth is so exacting as a reputation for beauty. Even if you give up everything else for the sake of love, as I did, you are still a slave to fear. Fear of losing love. Fear of losing the power that won love so easily. I sometimes think there is nothing so terrible for a woman," she said passionately, while her thin hands clutched at the blown curtains, "as to be loved for her beauty."
"But you have so much else. You have everything else. Grandfather says--"
"Ah, yes, your grandfather. . . . Men never know. Men know many kinds of fear, but not that kind."
How she loved her! Jenny Blair thought, how she pitied her! If only love, if only sympathy, could help one to bear pain! "Oh, you must not, you must not!" she cried, while the shadow of tears that did not spill dimmed the light.
"No, I must not make you sad." When Mrs. Birdsong smiled, the rouge on her cheeks and lips seemed to glow, too, with life. "You are a darling child, and I wish I could tell you the way to feel a great love and still be happy. But I cannot. I have never learned how it can be. I staked all my happiness on a single chance. I gave up all the little joys for the sake of the one greatest joy. Never do that, Jenny Blair." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she brushed the hair from her forehead as if she were trying to brush away a cobweb of thought. "Never do that." Putting the girl's arms aside, she rose and stoodwith her gaze on the azure drift of the morning glories. A bird outside called twice, and the canary answered gallantly but hopelessly from the cage. "I sometimes wonder," she said, turning away, "if it is fair to keep a single bird, even a canary, in a cage. If I let him out, what would become of him?"
"He would fly away. You would never find him again."
"Yes, when a bird flies away, you never find him again."
Walking across the room as delicately as if she were made of glass, she looked into the mirror with a scornful expression. Though she stopped only a minute, she winced and hesitated before she lifted her hand and tucked a silvered lock of hair beneath the bronze waves on her temples. Then, withdrawing a few hairpins, she shook her head and released the profusion of bright curls, which rippled over her shoulders and over the haggard line of her throat. "It is too hot," she complained fretfully.
"Curls are so becoming." Jenny Blair glanced round admiringly while she removed the coverlet from the bed and turned down the cool old linen sheets, which were scented with dried rose-leaves and lavender. "They make you look very young."
"And that I'll never feel or look again. Will you pick out a fresh gown, dear, or shall I wear the pretty one you've just given me?"
"Oh, wear mine, wear mine. I know it will look lovely on you. I told Mamma it was made for you."
Tossing her kimono aside, Mrs. Birdsong slipped the folds of blue crêpe de chine over her head, while her crumpled nightgown of batiste dropped to the floor.
"Is that right?" she asked listlessly, as she stooped to pick up the gown at her feet. "Have I put it on straight?" Then, without glancing at the mirror, she stretched herself between the sheets with a sigh of infinite weariness. "Will you lower the shade, dear, just a little. Yes, it is good to be in bed again, to lie flat and let everything, persons and shadows, go by without caring." For a moment she seemed scarcely to breathe, and in the mellow light, tinged with gold and ivory, she looked pale, serene, almost transparent. Her eyes were closed, she seemed to be dropping into a sleep of exhaustion, when suddenly her eyelids quivered and opened, while she started up and listened attentively. "George has come," she said softly, for she had heard his step on the walk. Her thin shoulders trembled erect, and she waited motionless, unnatural, and extraordinarily vivid, with her eager gaze on the door. "This is his afternoon for golf, and we are having lunch a little early. Can't you stay, Jenny Blair?"
"No, I must go in a minute. Mamma is expecting me." What was the meaning? Jenny Blair asked herself. What was the secret? "I will not speak to him," she determined, as she heard him ascending the stairs. "No matter how hard he tries to make me, I will not speak to him." When he came into the room, she thought, "He must have been out of doors, for he smells of summer. He smells of summer when the sun is hot, and your face is buried in red clover." Something had happened. The air of the room had become restless with animation, with suspense, with a delicious excitement. A glow flamed over her, as if her whole body were blushing. Life was filled to the brim with possibilities of adventure. All her senses were awake, only her will was caught and held fast in the net of emotion.
"Have you been out already?" Mrs. Birdsong asked, smiling.
"Yes, I've had a round. There was nothing to do at the office so Burden and I slipped away and played nine holes." He was bending over his wife, and, for a moment only, she seemed to surrender. Her shoulders drooped again, but more softly; the wave of energy flowed on into her raised arms, which clasped his shoulders, and into her upward adoring glance. Then, as swiftly as it had risen, the ardour in her look wavered and vanished. Her head sank back on the pillows, while the expression of weary indifference dropped like a veil over her features.
"Are you worse again, Eva? I had hoped you were better."
"No, I'm only tired. I had to tell Berry about the packing. Then I rested a little. You haven't spoken to Jenny Blair."
"Why, I didn't recognize her!" He spoke in a tone of airy banter. "The Jenny Blair I know is a little girl, but this is a young lady." And he did not look at her! Though she had stood there, waiting in the same spot ever since he had entered the room, he had not even glanced in her direction. He was treating her as if she were still a child. "I don't love him, I hate him," she thought. But this sudden hatred was more intense, was more burning, than love. She felt it quivering over her, and even trembling in her elbows and knees. Never had she been so angry before, not even with John Welch when he teased her. That had been temper of a different sort. Then she had only wished to turn and walk away; but the rage she felt now seemed to bring her nearer to George than she had been when she loved him. "I must go," she thought, while she lingered. "I shall take no more notice of him," she told herself, while the devouring innocence of her gaze rested mutely upon him.
"Don't be a tease, George," Mrs. Birdsong remonstrated. "Jenny Blair is a darling. Haven't you eyes to see that she grows prettier every day?"
"She was always pretty enough," he rejoined flippantly. "I remember when she was ten years old, or perhaps it was nine, telling her that she had the eyes and hair of a wood-nymph. I meant, of course, yellow eyes and green hair."