Part 5 (1/2)
”You mean--”
Grizel waved an imperious hand.
”I do _not_! I mean what I say.” She screwed up her little face in an expressive _moue_. ”Poof! Who knows more about a man in love--you or I? Who'd be fairer to another girl?--If more books were written in that way, they'd be a vast deal truer to life. We'll show 'em! Katrine, congratulate us; our fortune is made.”
Katrine's smile was a trifle forced. Of course it was nonsense to suppose that Grizel would be allowed to invade the sanctuary of Martin's room; nevertheless, knowing as she did the heights of her visitor's audacity, she felt it her duty to adopt an air of dignified reproof.
Martin's work was not a subject for jest, it was a serious affair, with the stages of which his sister was well acquainted. First the stage of restless absent-mindedness, during which it was useless to expect punctuality, or even an appropriately sensible answer to a question; next, a brief period of intoxication when the long-delayed inspiration dawned with a brilliance which promised a glory never before attained; thirdly, the long months of labour and anxiety, in which the early triumph faded to at best a temperate content.
Katrine was never admitted into her brother's confidence about his work.
He had allowed it to be known that he could not suffer questions or remarks; never once in those eight years had she dared to question concerning a heroine's eyes. Through mental storms and suns.h.i.+ne, she had ”sat tight,” observant but silent, expressing her sympathy, Martha-like, in soups and sauces. It was not for Grizel to obtrude where she, a sister, might not go.
Katrine pushed back her chair, and rose to her feet.
”You are talking nonsense, my dear. Come upstairs! You look tired to death, and your hair is coming down. I'll give you a book, and you can sleep or read until it's time to dress. I'll carry your things.” She gathered together the scattered hat, gloves, and bag, and led the way upstairs, Grizel trailing slowly in her wake.
The bedroom was sweet and fresh; after the manner of such rooms in country houses, a bowl of roses stood on a table; through the open window the air blew soft and clean. Grizel looked around with smiling satisfaction; then dropping her impedimenta on the bed, and wheeling round with a swift, unexpected movement, she faced her hostess, and nipped her chin between a thumb and forefinger.
The two faces were close together: for a moment Katrine smiled, unconcerned and amused, but the honey-coloured eyes stared on, stared deep, stared with a long, unblinking intentness which brought the colour rus.h.i.+ng to her cheeks. She twitched her head, the small fingers gripped with unexpected tenacity; she frowned and fumed, but the eyes stared relentlessly on. Finally she raised both hands and forced herself free.
”Grizel, what _is_ it? Why are you staring? What in the world has happened?”
”And that, my lamb,” returned Grizel calmly, ”is just precisely what I am axing myself!”
She turned her back, and strolled nonchalantly across the rooms.
CHAPTER SIX.
When Grizel sailed down to dinner two hours later, it would have been difficult to recognise in her the pallid traveller of the afternoon.
She was gorgeously attired in a robe of golden net covered with an embroidery of the same hue. The golden sheaf clung round her, and trailed heavily on the ground; encased in it her body appeared of an incredible slimness, yet from head to foot there was not one angle, not one harsh, unlovely line. Nymph, elf, fay, she was all rounded curve and dimple, from satin shoulder to arched and tiny feet. Though one might marvel that a human being could live in such wand-like form, _thin_ was a word which could never occur. Grizel was no more thin than Katrine herself. Her soft, mouse-brown hair was waved loosely back, and twisted in a fas.h.i.+on which preserved the shape of the head,--a rare and wonderful sight at a time when nine women out of ten carried a cus.h.i.+on-like appendage standing out many inches behind the ear. Grizel was too wise to disguise herself by any such freak of fas.h.i.+on; an artist would have noted with delight that she invariably respected the natural ”line” of the body. Neck and arms were bare of ornament, her cheeks were still pale, but with a warm, cream-like tint which had no trace of ill-health, her honey-coloured eyes reflected the golden lights of her dress. The scarlet lips made the one contrasting note of colour.
Katrine stared blankly at the entrance of the apparition, the inevitable admiration largely tinged with reproach. How ridiculous, and unsuitable, and altogether Grizelish to choose such a dress for a quiet home evening! It was probably the first that had come to her hand, and she had put it on without a thought. When there was a dinner party, and the most important people in the neighbourhood were a.s.sembled to meet her, she would just as likely as not appear in a simple muslin. Katrine had lived through such experiences before, and had suffered much aggravation thereby. She stared with exaggerated surprise, whereupon Grizel gurgled, quick to appreciate the criticism.
”Yes, ma'am. My _very_ best! Ain't I a pr-etty ittle did?”
”It would be very suitable for a Court ball. What possessed you to put it on to-night?”
”I felt like it,--in a golden mood! I always dress to suit my moods.
Besides it's quite new, and the dear thing wanted its turn. It is my Sheba dress, but you aren't nearly so appreciative as Aunt Griselda.
_She_ bowed down before me.”
”I'm not going to bow down, but it's a marvellous frock!” Katrine felt a depressing consciousness of the shabby black net which had done duty for home wear for several winters in succession, and woman-like reflected with a pang that the price of that golden sheaf would probably equal that of her entire summer outfit. How would it feel to own a fairy purse, and bid Paquin do his best?
For a moment she was rent with envy, then curiosity claimed its day.
She crossed the room, and peered with awe and admiration at the elaborateness of the dress, the chiffon skirts poised one upon another, which softened the glare of the satin slip, the exquisite design of the embroidery, the rare and varied beads with which it was intermingled.
”Grizel--what gorgeousness! Every bead is a treasure. It must have taken months to work. And on a piece of perishable net. I have _read_ about such things, but I've never seen them... Mrs Brewston would read you a lesson on wanton extravagance--”
”_Decadence_,” interrupted Grizel firmly. ”You must _always_ call it decadence. And I should perfectly agree. But the poor lambs had embroidered it, so some one _had_ to pay, and Aunt Griselda might as well do it as any one else. I wouldn't have dreamed of _giving_ the order!”