Part 18 (2/2)
The room in a minute looked as usual, and she knelt in front of the hearth, piling up a kindling of pine-cones and little f.a.gots, on which she laid a picturesque old root of olive-wood.
”You seem to be alone,” he remarked.
”Yes; Estelle's gone out.”
He was not sorry to hear it. Miss Madison, whom he entirely liked, affected him curiously, or, to express the matter more exactly, in a curious degree failed to affect him at all. Her personality did not bite on his consciousness. Unless some chance left them on each other's hands, he had difficulty in remembering her presence. It was not that she was colorless; not by any means. She obviously had character, brightness, individuality, even charm; but so far as he was concerned she might have had none of these. Particularly when her big friend was by Gerald ceased to see her. He recognized the danger of her negative effect on him, and often made a point of devoting to her a special amount of attention, being toward her of an unnatural amiability, trying thus to keep her ignorant of the extent to which she did not exist for him. Now he suddenly remembered that from the choice little treat provided for Mrs. Hawthorne Miss Madison had been left out--forgotten.
He was dismayed. Then a pleasant side to the affair revealed itself by a dim gleam. He was mortified by his forgetfulness, but the ladies were after all not Siamese twins.
”You must wonder what brought me at this unusual time of day,” he said.
”Any time's good that brings you. But what in particular was it?”
”I wanted to ask you to keep free next Sat.u.r.day afternoon and, if you will be so good, spend it in part with me. I should like to take you to Mrs. Grangeon's.”
”Mrs. Grangeon's...?”
”Don't you remember? Antonia! It is Antonia's real name. On the first evening of our acquaintance you had a good deal to say about her. If I remember rightly, you expressed then a desire to meet her--see her face.”
”Yes, yes. Antonia, of course.”
”She is a figure of importance here in Florence. She is in truth a very gifted woman--in her way, great, and of wide reputation. And she is clever, except in just some little spots. Geniuses, one has observed, are seldom quite free from such spots. She has kept herself very much to herself now for several years, so that an occasion to see her is grasped eagerly. This affair of hers on Sat.u.r.day is the first thing of the kind in an age. Her villa at Bellosguardo is most interesting and full of interesting things. And the view from her terrace is worthy of a pilgrimage. You perceive, Mrs. Hawthorne, that I am doing what I can to _faire valoir_ the sc.r.a.p of entertainment I have to offer.”
”I think it perfectly lovely of you! Of course I'll go, and delighted to. And see how it fits in--” She kindled to joyful enthusiasm. ”We've just bought a lot of her books. We realized we'd got to have some books to make this room look finished off. We bought hers in paper covers and have had them beautifully bound. Just look here.” She went to take a specimen from the bookcase, a white parchment volume with gold tooling, a crimson fleur-de-lys painted on the front cover. ”Aren't they lovely?
An idea! We'll take some of them up to her and ask her to write her name in them. Wouldn't that be flattering?”
”Ye ... es.”
”I've been trying to read some of it over since these came home from the binder's. My! Aren't those people of hers wonderful--where you'd think the ladies never could have a stomache-ache nor the gentlemen a corn!”
”I hope Miss Madison will not think I forgot her,” he disingenuously said, ”when in replying to Mrs. Grangeon's invitation I begged permission to bring you, and that she will do me the honor some day very soon--”
”Oh, Estelle won't mind!”
The mention of Estelle seemed to change the color of Mrs. Hawthorne's thoughts, casting a shadow over them.
”Estelle and I had a spat this morning,” she told him.
”Oh!”
”That's why I was sweeping and why she's gone for a walk by herself.”
”I'm so sorry!” was all he found to say.
”It doesn't amount to anything,” she cheered him. ”We've had times of quarreling all our lives, and we've known each other since we were children. Her aunt and my grandmother had houses side by side in the country; there was just a fence between our yards. That's how we first came to be friends. All our lives we've had the way of sometimes saying what the other doesn't like. And do you know what's always at the bottom of it? That each one thinks she knows what would be most for the other's good to do, and we get so mad because the other won't do what we ourself think would be best for her! Just as some people abuse you because you're a pig, we as likely as not abuse the other because she isn't a pig. One of the biggest fights we ever had was because once late at night, when she was dead tired, tired as a yellow dog, I wanted her to sit still and let me pack for her, or, anyhow, let me help her pack. And she said I was as tired as she,--as if that was possible!--and if I didn't go to bed and get some rest myself and let her alone to get through her packing as she pleased if it was daylight before she finished she should have a fit. And from one thing to another we went on getting madder and madder till we said things you would have thought made it impossible for us ever to speak to each other again. But the first thing next morning, when we opened our eyes, we just looked at each other and began to laugh. Another time we fought like cats and dogs because I wanted to give her something and she refused to take it.”
”I don't call those quarrels, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
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