Part 14 (1/2)

Lydia came. It was true that Madame Beattie had attained to privilege through courts and high estate. When she herself had ruled by the prerogative of a perfect throat and a mind attuned to it, she had imbibed a sense of power which was still dividend-paying even now, though the throat was dead to melody. When she really asked you to do anything, you did it, that was all. She seldom asked now, because her att.i.tude was all careless tolerance, keen to the main chance but lax in exacting smaller tribute, as one having had such greater toll. But Lydia's wilful hesitation awakened her to some slight curiosity, and she bade her the more commandingly. Lydia was standing before her, red, unwillingly civil, and Madame Beattie reached forward and took one of her little plump work-roughened hands, held it for a moment, as if in guarantee of kindliness, and then dropped it.

”Now,” said she, ”who are you?”

Jeffrey, seeing Lydia so put about, answered for her again, but this time in terms of a warmth which astonished him as it did Lydia.

”She is my sister Lydia.”

Madame Beattie looked at him in a frank perplexity.

”Now,” said she, ”what do you mean by that? No, no, my dear, don't go.”

Lydia had turned by the slightest movement. ”You haven't any sisters, Jeff. Oh, I remember. It was that romantic marriage.” Lydia turned back now and looked straight at her, as if to imply if there were any qualifying of the marriage she had a word to say. ”Wasn't there another child?” Madame Beattie continued, still to Jeff.

”Anne is in the house,” said he.

He had placed a chair for Lydia, with a kindly solicitude, seeing how uncomfortable she was; but Lydia took no notice. Now she straightened slightly, and put her pretty head up. She looked again as she did when the music was about to begin, and her little feet, though they kept their decorous calm, were really beating time.

”Well, you're a pretty girl,” said Madame Beattie, dropping her lorgnon.

She had lifted it for a stare and taken in the whole rebellious figure.

”Esther didn't tell me you were pretty. You know Esther, don't you?”

”No,” said Lydia, in a wilful stubbornness; ”I don't know her.”

”You've seen her, haven't you?”

”Yes, I've seen her.”

”You don't like her then?” said Madame astutely. ”What's the matter with her?”

Something gave way in Lydia. The pressure of feeling was too great and candour seethed over the top.

”She's a horrid woman.”

Or was it because some inner watchman on the tower told her Jeff himself had better hear again what one person thought of Esther? Madame Beattie threw back her plumed head and laughed, the same laugh she had used to annotate the stories. Lydia immediately hated herself for having challenged it. Jeffrey, she knew, was faintly smiling, though she could not guess his inner commentary:

”What a little devil!”

Madame Beattie now turned to him.

”Same old story, isn't it?” she stated. ”Every woman of woman born is bound to hate her.”

”Yes,” said Jeff.

Lydia walked away, expecting, as she went, to be called back and resolving that no inherent power in the voice of aged hatefulness should force her. But Madame Beattie, having placed her, had forgotten all about her. She rose, and brushed the ashes from her velvet curves.

”Come,” she was saying to Jeffrey, ”walk along with me.”

He obediently picked up his hat.