Part 22 (1/2)
”But, Judith, what do you mean?” she asked. ”Dress? Of course you all dress beautifully. Haven't I loved simply looking at you all, as if you'd been the most exquisite birds? But how could I do it? I haven't the money; I never have had. If one has no money, one must be either aesthetic or dowdy, and I've always prefered to be dowdy.”
”Yes, I saw that; I liked you for that. There's hope for the dowdy, but none for the aesthetic; the one is humble, and the other is complacent.
Your clothes express renunciation simply--and the summer sales. But though it is a question of money, some women who have ma.s.ses of money never learn how to dress. They remain mere dressmakers' formulas; and others, with very little, can't be pa.s.sed by. They count anywhere.
You've noticed my clothes. I've hardly any money, yet I'm perfect. All my clothes mean just what I intend them to; just as Vera's mean what she intends, and Mrs. Travers-Cray's and Lady Dighton's, and Milly's, for Milly already is as clever as possible at knowing her thing. But you've abandoned the attempt to intend. You've sunk down, and you let the winds rake over you. You've always made me think of a larkspur, that blue and silver kind, all pensive grace and delicacy; but you're a larkspur that hasn't been staked. Your sprays don't count; they tumble anyhow, and no one sees your shape or colour. Last night, for instance--that turquoise-blue chiffon: not turquoise, and not that sort of chiffon.”
”I know it. I hated it,” she said.
”Of course you did, and so does any one who looks at you in it.”
”But I couldn't afford the better qualities,” she appealed. ”And in the cheaper ones I couldn't get the blue I wanted, the soft j.a.panese blue.”
”No, you couldn't. And you thought it wouldn't show if you had it made up on sateen. It always does show. No, it needs thought and time and computing, too much time, too much thought, to say nothing of too much money for many women, of course; for them it wouldn't be worth it. There are other things to do than to live in paradise. But for you it is worth it; to show him that you can look like an angel, and to show him that Vera can look like a cat. No, _I'll_ show him; mine is the responsibility. It's worth it, at all events, to me. I'll put in the stakes, and tie you and loop you and display you. You'll see. I told you I'd a clever little dressmaker. That's an essential. And we'll sc.r.a.pe up the money. You shall be dressed for once as you intend.”
She was bewildered, aghast, tempted, and, on the top of everything, intensely amused. Her face was lighted as I'd never seen it before with pure mirth, and it looked like still, silver water that becomes suddenly glimmering, quivering, eddying, and sunlit. She was charming thus lighted. It was a sort of illumination of which Vera's face is incapable; her gaiety is always clouded with irony.
”It is all too kind, too astonis.h.i.+ng, too funny for words,” Mollie said.
”Of course I should love to be well dressed for once, and I can't see why I shouldn't avail myself of your little dressmaker now,--especially now, since, as you tell me, I offend through my dowdiness. And I do really need some new clothes. I'm wearing out my trousseau ones, you know. Yes; wasn't it a horrid little trousseau? But, don't you see,” and the sunlight faded, ”I can't be a real, not a real angel, not a real paradise. It's much deeper. It's a question of roots. It's the way they smile, the way they walk, the way they know what they want to say and what they don't want to say.”
I nodded. ”You know, too, and you'd say it, if people saw you and cared to hear what you said.”
”That would help, of course. I've never felt so stupid in my life as here. But, oh, it's deeper!” said Mollie. ”I don't belong to it. How they all make me feel it! I'm an outsider; and why should I pretend not to be?”
”It wouldn't be pretending anything to dress as you'd like to dress. No one who _sees_ is an outsider now a days, if they can contrive to make themselves seen. That's the whole point. And there's nothing you don't see. You see far more than Vera does. Don't bother about the roots. Take care of the flowers, and the roots will take care of themselves; that's another modern maxim for you. Your flowers are there, and all that we need think of now is how to show them. Wait. You'll see. We'll go to London to-morrow,” I said; ”and this very evening we'll have a talk about your hair.”
You may be sure that I was on the spot to see a week or so later my larkspur's debut as an angel. We were all a.s.sembled in the drawing-room before dinner, and she was a little late, as I, not she, had intended that she should be. It was precisely the moment for a mild sensation.
The day had been hot and long. Everybody, apart from being anxious,--for everybody was anxious, Sir Francis and Mrs. Travers-Cray with sons at the front and Lady Dighton's husband in the Dardanelles--apart from that ever-present strain, everybody to-day was a little jaded, blank, and tired of one another. There reigned, as a symptom, that silence that in the moments before dinner falls sometimes upon people who know each other too well for surmise or ceremony. They stood about looking at the evening newspapers; they picked up a book; they sat side by side, knitting without speaking. Vera, sunken in a deep chair near my sofa, yawned wearily. No one, in fact, had anything to look to before bedtime except the stimulant of the consomme or a possible surprise in the way of sweets.
I had known that I could count upon Mollie not to be self-conscious when she appeared in her new array, but I hadn't counted upon such complete and pensive simplicity. Her eyes were on me as she entered, her husband limping behind her, and they seemed to ask me, with a half-wistful amus.e.m.e.nt, if she came up to my expectations. She far surpa.s.sed them. I never saw a woman to whom it made more difference. ”It,” on this occasion, was blue--the blue of a night sky and the blue of a sky at dawn, the blue, too, of my larkspurs, lapping at the edges here and there, as delicately as filaments of cloud crossing the sky, into white.
It made one think, soft, suave triumph that it was, of breezes over the sea at daybreak and of a crescent moon low on a horizon and of white sh.o.r.es and blue Grecian hills; at least it made me think of these things, it and Mollie together; and with it went the alteration of her hair--bands of folded gold swathed round and round her little head. No one but myself had ever seen before that Mollie had the poise and lightness of a Tanagra figure nor that the shape of her face was curious and her eyes strange and her skin like silver; but I knew, as she advanced down the long room, that Vera, sunken in her chair, saw it all at last, drank in every drop of it, with an astonishment that, though it expressed itself in no gesture, I was able to gauge from her very stillness, her concentration of stillness, as she watched the relegated becoming visible at last. It's not pleasant for anybody to have to own that they've been blind and made a mistake, and Vera was specially fond of discovering oddity and charm and of claiming and displaying and discussing a discovery. And here was oddity and charm which she had not only failed to discover, but had helped to obscure. Mollie was indeed visible, and every eye was on her as she drifted quietly forward in the evening light and sat down beside me. She was mine, and no one else's; that was quite evident, too.
That Captain Thornton had received something of a revelation was also evident, though it had not probably amounted to more than seeing, and saying, that Mollie was looking awfully well; but it expressed itself in the fact that, instead of joining Vera, as was his wont, he came and sat down next to Mollie on my sofa. We began to talk, and, though the watching pause was prolonged for yet another moment, the others then began to talk, too. It was as if, not quite knowing what had happened to them, they were all a little cheered and exhilarated; as if they'd had their consomme and as if the sweet had been altogether a surprise. A spectacle of any sort has this effect upon a group of jaded people. Only Vera kept her ominous silence.
Dinner was announced, and we all got up. Percival, with a new alacrity, approached Mollie,--he almost always had Mollie,--the others paired off as usual, and Vera rose to Captain Thornton's arm. It was then that she said, smiling thoughtfully upon Mollie:
”Aren't you doing your hair in a new way, dear?”
I saw from Mollie's answering smile that she was still ingenuous enough to hope that she might win Vera's approval with that of the others, the hope, too, that while Clive might think of herself as a first-rate angel, he should never see Vera as a cat.
”It is new,” she said. ”I've just learned how to; Judith showed me. Do you like it?”
Leaning on Captain Thornton's arm, Vera, with gently lifted brows, rather sadly shook her head.
”I suppose I don't care about fas.h.i.+ons. It's very fas.h.i.+onable, isn't it?
But I loved so that great, girlish knot. People's way of doing their hair is part of their personality to me. Judith cares so much about fas.h.i.+on, I know. Do you care about fas.h.i.+on, Captain Thornton? Do you like this fas.h.i.+onable way? You know, I can't help always thinking that it makes women's heads look like cheeses; in napkins, you know--Stiltons.”
It was the first scratch. Mollie, though with a little startled glance, took it with all mildness, making no comment as Percival led her away, Percival remarking that it was, he thought, a ripping way of doing her hair; and I, as I went out manless, heard Captain Thornton, behind me, saying, in answer to Vera's murmurs:
”Yes; I see; I see what you mean. But, do you know, all the same I think it's most awfully becoming to Mollie. It brings out the shape of her face so.”