The Golden Vanity (7 page)

Miss Kirkland's approach to talebearing was correct but tedious. If only she would stop fidgeting and rustling among the letters. Temporary blindness had made Mrs. Siddall susceptible to noises.

"You may be angry with me, but I can't bear to see you deceived," Miss Kirkland said jerkily. Mrs. Siddall made a motion of impatience. Miss Kirkland said: "Miss Fuller—"

Jealous, Mrs. Siddall thought. "Deceived? Really, Janet . . ." This was going too far, impugning her intelligence.

A deep sense of injury flooded Miss Kirkland's maiden bosom. It was shameful. The word slipped from her tongue.

"Miss Fuller—is taking a shameful advantage of your confidence—to entrap Mr. Arthur." She stopped, gasping.

Mrs. Siddall's features settled into the semblance of a wood-carving. One did not discuss the Family.

"Pray what do you imply by that statement, Janet?"

"I can't—don't ask me."

"I insist."

"I saw him—coming out of her bedroom. At two o'clock last night. I thought you ought to know."

"What?" Mrs. Siddall gripped the arms of her chair. "I didn't think he had it in him!"

Miss Kirkland stood stunned, amid the wreckage of her ideals. She had brought the roof down upon her own head.

Mrs. Siddall said with firm persuasiveness: "Quite impossible. Of course, you did right to come to me, if you had gained such an impression, however the mistake arose. I am sure you will never mention it again, to anyone. At two in the morning, one is apt to imagine things. I daresay you were not fully awake, and heard someone; Arkright goes round very late, locking up."

"I had a toothache . . ." Miss Kirkland's carefully prepared story died away hopelessly. She wished she was dead.

"A toothache," Mrs. Siddall rose, sweeping aside the main charge, "you're not yourself. A toothache is very distressing; you must make an appointment with the dentist at once. As for this misunderstanding, I rely upon your discretion. It would be most unfortunate if it came to Arthur's knowledge. He is so sensitive and chivalrous. I am sure you realize. . . ."

Miss Kirkland realized. So thoroughly, that she made an appointment with the dentist.

6

M
RS
. S
IDDALL
understood the immense power of inertia. If you let things alone, they usually worked out tolerably well. But that was only if one could say of the difficulty: It won't run away. Some problems will not wait.

Miss Kirkland, regarding only the moral issue, expected an exemplary manifestation. By no stretch of imagination could she have foreseen that her revelation lifted a weight from Mrs. Siddall's mind. She did grasp the meaning of Mrs. Siddall's emphatic incredulity. She had been put in her place. There were to be no scenes, no gossip. But Miss Kirkland still supposed that Gina would be sent away quietly and immediately. Ultimately, Mrs. Siddall would be grateful to her, would recognize her disinterested watchfulness.

Naturally, Mrs. Siddall did consider drastic action. No need to be brutal, or to betray her reason, her knowledge of the affair. Simple enough to decide to go down to Asheville, take Arthur along, and dismiss Gina; she did not need a reader. . . . And perhaps Janet really had been mistaken, had exaggerated some misunderstood incident. But then . . .

Mrs. Siddall rang and gave orders that she was not to be disturbed until Arthur came in, when she desired to see him.

But then ... if Janet was mistaken?

Mrs. Siddall hoped flatly that she wasn't.

Young men recovered easily from puppy love or a casual affair. Sam phrased it vulgarly, but he ought to know; it was usually a matter of "the nearest good-looker." With Gina out of the way, nothing would be required but a little diplomacy and another, more eligible girl.

Mrs. Pearson had a debutante daughter, just out of a French convent. Rather foreign, but an attractive child. Still, those children of divorcées—a bad start. Mrs. Siddall had no abstract prejudice against divorce, except for the odious publicity. She wouldn't have endured Jelliffe Pearson's flagrant infidelity herself. But that was just the point; she didn't want him in the family, as Arthur's father-in-law. Besides, Mrs. Pearson was a
maîtresse femme;
she would want to run the young couple.

There were the Townley twins. No, Arthur would jib. They belonged to the horsey set, smart laconic amazons, who lived in boots and breeches. Lily Adamson? As pretty as a china doll, and as silly. Eleanor Dabney? a man-eater and a jilt; she had broken three engagements within a year. Rosalie Sands? All that clan were spendthrifts, living beyond their trusteed incomes. They'd sponge on Arthur, divide him among them. Mathilde Avery, poor dear; her father had committed suicide to avoid some disgraceful exposure. It was hushed up, but everyone knew what his "appendicitis" was. Caroline Wiggins, a well-mannered girl, with money and sound connections, but so unnecessarily plain; it needn't come to that.

The ideal would be an orphan heiress of pleasing appearance, amiable disposition and distinguished name. Even so, heiresses were apt to be spoiled—too independent, Mrs. Siddall thought, serenely unconscious of irony. ... If Gina had money and position. . . . Mrs. Siddall blinked, astonished at the direction of her own logic.

Arthur came in, bringing an outdoor air. He kissed her cheek as he had always done since he was a baby; he still possessed the naturalness of docile and affectionate children. She took him by the shoulders and searched his face.

He looked . . . innocent. Good and happy. She knew then that it was true.

She asked: "What have you been doing?"

At a book auction, he said; he had bought a first edition of Drayton; she tried to remember who was Drayton. A heavenly day, he added. I daresay, Mrs. Siddall reflected silently. He said he had walked through the park; she ought to go for a drive; wouldn't the doctor permit it yet?

"Perhaps," she said absently, "that is, next week. I remember when it was considered daring for a lady to drive her own turnout. A phaeton, with a parasol whip; that was when I was a little girl; then there were traps and we sat high up and very straight. My first riding habit had a long skirt and I wore a flowing veil."

"You must have looked magnificent," Arthur smiled.

"Chic," she said. "The Comte de Pourtales told me I reminded him of Princess Pauline Metternich."
Une jolie laide,
with black eyes. Mrs. Siddall deceived herself kindly, as most women do in remembering their girlhood; it is one reason why old women are often indulgent toward youthful escapades; they have a weakness for that other, partly imaginary self, the true self in their belief. And though Mrs. Siddall had been plump and fashionable rather than elegant, she had had the note of her period, as she now had the style of her age and her vast wealth. . . . Pourtales had kissed her wrist gallantly; that too was daring. She had been the leader of the dashing young matrons who broke the rigid ranks of New York society in the Nineties. In spite of the stuffy insolent old dowagers, she reflected reminiscently, still sublimely unaware of the humor of a completed cycle. . . . "But my dear," she exclaimed, "my mind is wandering; I'm getting old. That's what I wished to speak to you about; it would be a great comfort to me to see you married."

He was silent. Mrs. Siddall pressed the point. "Haven't you ever thought about it?"

He couldn't lie about Gina; she had only asked him to wait for a propitious occasion; surely this was it.

He said: "Yes."

"Someone in particular?" Mrs. Siddall proceeded carefully. "But you would tell me first?"

"She," he flushed at the pronoun, which had come to have a single meaning to him, "she said I must, as soon as you were quite well. She won't marry me unless you approve. But I'll never marry anyone else."

Mrs. Siddall had never heard that tone from him. He meant it. Of course, with time and tact—but time was the one thing she could not command. Those sensitive, unassertive people were the most difficult, in their own way. Arthur was like his grandfather, her husband. Without the Senator's adroitness, his political talent such as it was—Mrs. Siddall didn't draw any distinction between the opportunist behind the scenes and the man of genuine public abilities—but she felt in Arthur the same ultimate unreachableness. Even while apparently acquiescent, he would escape. Could she endure it again, to have him so near and yet so remote?

"Who is she?" Mrs. Siddall asked, since she didn't want Arthur to commit himself further on the point of honor.

"Gina."

Though she knew it perfectly, his utterance of the name was a blow to her. She forgot to play out the comedy. She didn't know why she said: "Your grandfather—" and stopped there. Her husband had belonged to one of the oldest New York families. She had never let herself know he married her for her money. And she kept a tight hold on the money. She said heavily: "This is a great surprise. It wants consideration. You can't expect —after all, it is hardly the match one would look for—" Now she was surprised by her own lack of resistance; she would never let herself know either that she was not unwilling to flout the old New York families, and their daughters. The Siddalls could do as they pleased. She had shown them once. Furthermore, Gina could never take Arthur away from her as long as she lived. Afterward, Gina would know how to manage him; the fortune would be safe. If Gina had been a flighty adventuress, she would have run off with Arthur. That was the underlying objection to any other marriage; by an alliance with an important family, Arthur would be detached to some extent from his grandmother, drawn into another circle. Not that Mrs. Siddall defined the situation in such plain terms. She merely felt that she dared not be too absolute; disinheritance would cut her more keenly than it would him; what else should she do with the money? She liked Gina well enough; there was nothing against the girl but her obscurity, and that was a kind of pledge.

"I think I had better see Gina, alone," she said. "Before you speak to her again—do you mind, my dear?" She had a vague hope of taking Gina unprepared.

"I'll wait in the library," Arthur said.

After Gina came Mrs. Siddall remained silent a moment, more from embarrassment than arrogance. "Sit down—never mind the papers now. There is something I am obliged to discuss with you. Perhaps you can guess. Arthur—"

Gina's lips parted and closed again; whatever happened, she must not allow herself to think of her actual relation to Arthur. It was like possessing a concealed weapon, too dangerous to display. . . . Where was Arthur?

"Arthur has told me everything," Mrs. Siddall said.

Oh—he couldn't!

"He told you that he wants to marry me?"

Cleverly put, Mrs. Siddall conceded to herself. She nodded. "And that you refused, unless I gave my consent."

Gina wavered, uncertain if she were walking into a trap. She said in a low voice "I don't want to cause—an estrangement." But she had the power. "Because Arthur cares so much for you. And I should be sorry, on my own account. Because I value your—esteem."

"I suppose you are aware that Arthur has very little money of his own?"

"He said he had enough. I shouldn't care about that; you know he doesn't either." Clever of her again, Mrs. Siddall thought; Arthur would never have any conception of the value of money. He might become immensely extravagant without realizing it; he might, on the other hand, fail to realize what he was giving up until long afterward. "But he doesn't believe you'd be offended at him—for long," Gina continued, as if reluctantly. "So I have to consider—it's very difficult—I want him to be happy." She thought, why didn't Arthur warn me? What did he tell her? Has he promised not to see me again? ... She felt the empty pain of the deserted, and a sickness of fear.

'"Would you release him if it seemed to be for his happiness to do so?"

She must chance it, since she could count upon nothing but his word. "If he came and asked me himself, I would," she said in a muffled voice.

"Not for any other consideration?"

"There couldn't be—any other consideration."

Mrs. Siddall inclined her head majestically. They had defined their terms. Gina offered allegiance; benevolence on one side, gratitude on the other. Mrs. Siddall offered cash down. But if Arthur was to be the arbiter—no, Mrs. Siddall knew the answer. She said:"You are right; money doesn't bring happiness." She was quite serious, and so was Gina. "You will find Arthur in the library. Kiss me, my dear; it will be very pleasant to have a daughter in the house." She could at least stipulate that they should live with her.

Arthur was walking up and down impatiently when Gina went to him; yet she perceived he had not been worried. "What did she—"

Gina said: "She was very kind. Let me sit down a minute." The sudden relaxation of strain was almost too much. And with his arm around her, she felt again that dark resentment of his good fortune, his ingenuousness, his delight.

* * *

The next morning, Polly Brant dropped the telephone receiver and upset her breakfast tray. "Bill!"

Her husband appeared from his dressing room, with a fluff of lather on his chin. He had an admirable physique, a drooping hay-colored mustache, and the mild brainless look of the true sportsman. By incessant effort he had risen to the position of substitute on the leading American polo team; and he took his vacations from this life work by shooting big game and exploring the more uncomfortable portions of the uninhabitable globe. He preserved devoutly complete files of the National Geographic Magazine, in which his photograph appeared occasionally in company with a defunct African koodoo, or Kodiak bear, or Ovis Poli, slain for the ostensible benefit of some museum of natural history.

" 'Smatter? You nearly made me cut my throat."

"Aunt Charlotte! I cannot believe my ears!"

"Believe what?"

"Arthur is going to marry that Fuller person!"

"Who?"

"Gertrude the Governess. The girl who reads to Aunt Charlotte. You've seen her."

"I thought her name was Janet."

"I don't deserve this," Polly said in a suffering tone. "Even if I did marry you with my eyes open. I mean the other one. Gina Fuller."