Part 21 (2/2)
”To be gone much as a mont', Mr. Gray say.”
”I believe so.”
”Mrs. Cary, dear missus,--vill you look after Edit' vile I'm gone?”
”Why, yes, Peter,” she said warmly, ”I always see a good deal of Edith--we're great friends, you know.”
”Yes, missus, that's vone reason vy I come--Edit' t'ink no vone like you--ever vas, ever shall be. But den--I'm vorried 'bout Edit'.”
”Worried? Why, Peter? She's well and strong.”
”Oh, yes, she's vell--ver' vell. But Edit' love to have a good time--'vun' she say. If I go mit, she come mit me--ven not, mit some vone else.”
”I see--you're jealous, Peter.”
”No, no, missus, not jealous, only vorried, ver' vorried. Edit' she's young, but not baby, like Mr. and Missus Gray t'ink. I don't like Mr. Yon Veston, missus, nod ad all--and Edit' go out mit him, ev'y chance she get. An' Mr. Hugh Elliott, cousin to Miss Sally's husband, dey say he liked Miss Sally vonce--he's back here now, he looks hard at Edit' ev'y time he see her. He's that kind of man, missus, vat does look ver' hard.”
Sylvia could not help being touched. ”I'll do my best, Peter, but I can't promise anything. Edith is the kind of girl, as you say, that likes to have 'fun' and I have no real authority over her.”
As if the object of his visit was entirely accomplished, Peter rose to leave. ”I t'ank you ver' much, missus,” he said politely. ”It's a ver'
varm evening, not? Goodnight.”
For a few minutes after Peter left, Sylvia sat thinking over what he had said, and her own face grew ”vorried” too. Then the garden gate clicked again, and for the next two hours she was too happy for trouble of any kind to touch her. Austin's interview with Mr. Carter had proved a great success, and after that had been thoroughly discussed, they found a great deal to say about their own plans for September. For the moment, she quite forgot all that Peter had said.
It came back to her, vividly enough, a few nights later. She had sat up very late, writing to Austin, and was still lying awake, long after midnight, when she heard the whirr of a motor near by, and a moment later a soft voice calling under her window. She threw a negligee about her, and ran to the front door; as she unlatched it, Edith slipped in, her finger on her lips.
”Hus.h.!.+ Don't let the servants hear! Oh, Sylvia, I've had such a lark--will you keep me overnight!”
”I would gladly, but your mother would be worried to death.”
”No, she won't. You see, I found, two hours ago, that it would be a long time before I got back, and I telephoned her saying I was going to spend the night with you. Don't you understand? She thought I was here then.”
”Edith--you didn't lie to your mother!”
”Now, Sylvia, don't begin to scold at this hour, when I'm tired and sleepy as I can be! It wasn't my fault we burst two tires, was it? But mother's prejudiced against Hugh, just because Sally, who's a perfect prude, didn't happen to like him. Lend me one of your delicious night-dresses, do, and let me cuddle down beside you--the bed's so big, you'll never know I'm there.”
Sylvia mechanically opened a drawer and handed her the garment she requested.
”Gracious, Sylvia, it's like a cobweb--perhaps if I marry a rich man, I can have things like this! What an angel you look in yours! Austin will certainly think he's struck heaven when he sees you like that! I never could understand what a little thing like you wanted this huge bed for, but, of course, you knew when you bought it--”
”Edith,” interrupted Sylvia sharply, ”be quiet! In the morning I want to talk with you a little.”
But as she lay awake long after the young girl had fallen into a deep, quiet sleep, she felt sadly puzzled to know what she could, with wisdom and helpfulness, say. It was so usual in the country for young girls to ride about alone at night with their admirers, so much the accepted custom, of which no harm seemed to come, that however much she might personally disapprove of such a course, she could not reasonably find fault with it. It was probably her own sense of outraged delicacy, she tried to think, after Edith's careless speech, that made her feel that the child lacked the innate good-breeding and quiet attractiveness, which her sisters, all less pretty than she, possessed to such a marked extent, in spite of their lack of polish. She tried to think that it was only to-night she had noticed how red and full Edith's pouting lips were growing, how careless she was about the depth of her V-cut blouses, how unusually lacking in shyness and restraint for one so young. In the morning, she said nothing and Edith was secretly much relieved; but she went and asked Mrs. Gray if she could not spare her youngest daughter for a visit while Austin was away, ”to ward off loneliness.” She found the good lady out in the garden, weeding her petunias, and bent over to help her as she made her request.
”There, dearie, don't you bother--you'll get your pretty dress all gra.s.s-stain, and it looks to me like another new one! I wouldn't have thought baby-blue would be so becomin' to you, Sylvia. I always fancied it for a blonde, mostly, but there! you've got such lovely skin, anything looks well on you. Do you like petunias? Scarcely anyone has them, an'
cinnamon pinks, an' johnnie-jump-ups any more--it's all sweet-peas, an'
nasturtiums, an' such! But to me there ain't any flower any handsomer than a big purple petunia.”
”I like them too--and it doesn't matter if my dress does get dirty--it'll wash. Now about Edith--”
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