Lady with Carnations

by A. J. Cronin

  Katharine’s eyes followed Nancy’s to the framed square of needlework upon the wall.

  “That isn’t a text,” she said briefly. “It’s a sampler, and it’s most beautifully stitched.”

  “Well, anyhow,” Nancy said with a sudden burst of nerves, “it isn’t my cup of tea. A week of this place would drive me frantic. I feel they’re suspicious of me here because I’m on the stage. Every time I light a cigarette they look at me as if I were committing the unpardonable sin. There isn’t even a decent movie show in the wretched little hick town. Why couldn’t Chris have produced his dumb relations in Cleveland if he had to inflict them on us? Thank heaven we’re leaving for New York the day after to-morrow.”

  “Nancy!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Katharine!” Nancy relented instantly. Her mouth drooped, and she stood, her wide eyes full of genuine contrition. “I know I’m jumpy and unsatisfactory just now. I shouldn’t have come here till after the show. I’m sorry for Chris’s sake. But at the moment I’m right out of tune. I’m keyed up for something quite different.”

  “For what?”

  “For the play, of course. Oh, don’t you see, Katharine, how much it means to me, how much I want success? I’ve got Chris, I know, and I’m happy, terribly happy with him. But I want the other thing as well, success in my career, oh, terrific success!”

  Katharine was silent, almost staggered by the intensity in Nancy’s voice. For the first time she saw exactly the height and strength of Nancy’s ambition. A slow wave of dismay crept over her. Nancy wanted fame. But had she the quality to win it? Beauty, intelligence, and talent she had, of course. But the other elusive quality, the depth and maturity of character which alone can make an actress great, had Nancy that? Suddenly Katharine was afraid, most terribly afraid for Nancy.

  “Don’t you think you’re demanding rather a lot from life?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Perhaps,” Nancy nodded. “But oh, Katharine, I mean to have it.”

  Coming forward she kissed Katharine good-night, and in a moment she had left the room.

  Katharine remained standing by the window, her figure motionless, her lips compressed. Outside was the still beauty of the night, around her lay the peace of this quiet and unspoiled community. She had an impulse to go to Nancy, to speak to her, comfort her, restrain her. But she held herself back, feeling it would be unwise. She felt herself both baffled and anxious. She sighed and went silently to bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Katharine was awakened next morning by bright sunshine in her room and the sound of much activity within the house and without. Something in the brisk and bustling alacrity uplifted her heart. She jumped out of bed, dressed quickly in a warm tweed suit, and went down to the breakfast room, where Mrs Madden, Chris, Uncle Ben, and young Sammy Emmet were on the point of sitting down to breakfast.

  “Why,” said Mrs Madden, half-rising, her face lighting up, “we didn’t think you’d want to come down for breakfast. Nancy likes to have her tray later in bed.”

  Katharine smiled. “I want to get out, a morning like this. Especially if there’s skating ahead.”

  “Spoken like a man,” cried Sammy, thumping a hot doughnut on his plate. “You’ll come out with young Emmet himself, for that!”

  Katharine took her place, accepting the hot coffee which Mrs Madden poured for her, and the broiled ham which Chris served from the pewter platter in front of him. The doughnuts, recommended by Sammy as Mrs Hickey’s chef d’oeuvre, were crisp and light. It was a happy meal for Katharine. As at supper on the night before, she felt again that atmosphere of candour and unaffected cheerfulness which had so deeply touched her. She could not but see, too, that the simple fact of her joining the family at this early breakfast had given Chris’s mother deep and unconcealed pleasure.

  Immediately afterward they started for the lake. Sammy, who had clearly made Katharine his own affair, would brook no delay, and although there was as yet no sign of Nancy, he rooted out a nice pair of skates from the woodshed and marched her off towards the ice. Madden came with them as far as the landing stage.

  It was a delicious morning. As she walked down the hard road between Sammy and Madden, Katharine could have wished the path an endless one. Everyone they met knew Chris and gave him a quick, spontaneous greeting of friendship and respect. Now, with her impressions of the night before, she had a perfect insight of his real character, his true value, that balance of sympathy and strength which caused him never to forsake his household gods and never to forget a friend.

  At the boathouse Sammy, kneeling with much exuberance and ardour, fitted on her skates. Then they were off, the pair of them, skimming over the glassy surface like birds upon the wing. Madden, standing immobile on the landing stage, watched them vanish round the bend of the creek. His face wore a curious expression. He loved skating and had not had much of it in these last years. He might have wished himself free to go with them, to get on the ice at once. Perhaps it was this which caused his eyes to wear a queer perplexity as he turned and made his way slowly back towards the house to wait for Nancy.

  It was nearly half-past two before Katharine and Sammy returned. Lunch, apparently, was over, the table cleared of food and the house of people, but when they burst in, brimming with laughter and apology, Mrs Madden gave an understanding inclination of her head.

  “Don’t make a fuss,” she smiled. “I saved everything for you in the oven.”

  Within five minutes she had paid a stately visit to the kitchen, the tablecloth was replaced; then she sat, watching them eat, as though she drew a quiet satisfaction from the obvious appeasement of their hunger.

  “Are you skating again this afternoon?” Mrs Madden asked at length.

  Katharine shook her head. “ I feel as if I had no ankles left. And Chris said something about going out after supper. All of us. They’re lighting a bonfire on one of the islands. This afternoon I ought to rest.”

  The old woman hesitated. “ Would you take a cup of coffee with me? I often have one by the fire about three.”

  In the parlour it was quiet and oddly subdued. The eightday clock ticked solemnly in the corner, and the lustres on the walnut tallboy winked and flickered in the firelight. Sammy had departed, whistling, to inspect a litter of puppies which Hickey and he were raising in the barn. Mrs Madden, having poured the coffee, said nothing for a long time. At last however, she moved and, with her eyes averted, remarked:

  “I’m glad you came here, Katharine. Now I’ve got on a bit in years, I daresay I don’t take much to people. But when I do, it means a lot to me.”

  Katharine, both touched and embarrassed, made no reply. And in a moment, inconsequently, Mrs Madden reached out her hand and picked a plush-covered album from the nearby table. It was a family album, an object both grave and ludicrous, a queer survival of the past which would, Katharine involuntarily reflected, have instantly set Nancy’s teeth on edge. But there was nothing to take exception to in Mrs Madden’s voice as she went on:

  “There’s a likeness of Chris here. It’s quite a good one.”

  Katharine accepted the open album, her gaze falling upon a faded yellow photograph of a little boy, not more than seven, in short pants, and a ridiculous old straw hat turned up from his brow. Yes, it was Chris. She would have known at any age those dark eyes that glanced towards her from the childish face with such a serious inquiry. Her breast contracted with tenderness. By a great effort she conquered the rush of foolish tears that sprang instinctively beneath her lowered lashes.

  “It’s a lovely little photograph,” she said. “ You must show it to Nancy.”

  “I have,” said Chris’s mother slowly.

  Katharine looked up quickly, then quickly looked away again.

  She had surprised in the other woman’s eyes a troubled look that cut her to the heart.

  “It’s stupid of me to say it,” Mrs Madden went on even more slowly, “but I’d like my Chris to be happy.”

  “He will be
,” said Katharine.

  “Nancy’s mighty sweet.” Mrs Madden hesitated. “Yet somehow I can’t get used to her being on the stage. Old-fashioned, I reckon.”

  “She’ll settle down all right.” Katharine spoke warmly.

  “We got talking about that the other night,” mused Mrs Madden. “Somehow it cropped up. Before you came. And Nancy seems to be figuring on keeping on with the stage after she marries Chris. She made quite a little speech about it. Got all worked up. Said nowadays a girl could be married and have a career as well. In my young days being married was a girl’s career. But I guess it’s different these modern times. We must be reasonable. I like Nancy a lot. I only want her and my Chris to be happy.”

  “They will be,” said Katharine impulsively. “I know Nancy. She’s very young, but she’s fine all through. And I don’t honestly believe she’ll want to go on with the stage much longer. At least…” she paused, remembering her premonitions of Nancy’s ultimate disappointment, “when Nancy finds she can’t be a star, she’ll settle down and be a wife. If we let things alone, they’re bound to straighten themselves out.”

  “I hope so. I hope so!” repeated Mrs Madden with that quiet gravity in her thoughtful eyes.

  The entry of Mrs Hickey with a plate of fresh-baked biscuits interrupted the conversation. And thereafter neither Katharine nor Susan Madden resumed it.

  Katharine did not go out that afternoon. She judged that the expedition arranged for the evening would prove sufficiently exciting. Indeed, when suppertime came, an even larger party arrived than on the night before. But there was no time wasted at table. They were all eager to get away. And so about eight o’clock a score or more of them went down from the house towards the lake. Madden was there, but Nancy had refused to come, vowing, pleasantly enough, that if anyone showed her a skate again, she would go crazy. In any case, she added, she was going to her room to work.

  At the boathouse, when skates had been adjusted, they all set off under the sparkling radiance of the sky, with arms crossed and hands linked, swinging down the ice in one long human chain. The motion, combined and rhythmic, blended insensibly with the ecstasy of the night. Above them the moon, like a great lantern hung high in the heavens, cast its light upon the frozen waters. To the south the snug rooftops of the village lay glittering with frost. To the east the mountains made a ridge that might have been the threshold of the gods. In front lay the lovely stretch of ice, dark yet luminous, polished as marble, smooth as agate, reaching forward, forward out into the bay.

  Breathlessly, Katharine swung onward. Often at home she had skated upon the tiny ponds around London, in gloomy fog or threatening thaw. But never had she known such a glorious expanse, such splendid air, such virgin ice as this. Her heart soared. The ring of the skates made music in her ears. The wind, whipping her cheeks, sending her scarf ends sailing, sent the blood coursing in her veins more madly than champagne.

  They reached the island at last, a little round hummock of dry spruce and bush willow five miles down the lake, and there, in a few minutes, the bonfire prepared beforehand was sent leaping into life. As the flames went sparkling upward, the skaters gathered round in a wide circle. Vacuum flasks were unscrewed, and hot milk and coffee passed from hand to hand. Betty Lou, unearthing treasure, produced a bag of ginger cookies from her sealskin muff. Then Andy Dunn, the clerk at the village store, unslung the accordion from his shoulder and began unobtrusively to play. He played the old familiar tunes, tenderly, dreamily—‘Swanee River’, ‘Aunt Dinah’s Quilting Party’, ‘Uncle Ned’—the thin sweet melody rising heavenward towards the stars. Before they knew it, they were singing.

  Katharine glanced round the circle, at the happy singing faces lit by the firelight, and for the second time that day a tear of genuine emotion trembled upon her eye. She wished with all her heart that Nancy had come. There was within this ring a tacit admission of affection, of that common brotherhood which bound all humanity upon the earth.

  And now they swung into the loveliest tune of all, ‘Juanita’. Katharine could not help herself. Her soul was drawn from her, she was one with this company now. She joined in the song.

  Glancing suddenly at Madden as she sang, she caught his eyes upon her. All that day—indeed, since her arrival—she had scarcely seen him. But now something queer and almost startled in his look caught her unawares. He was staring at her as though seeing her dimly, or strangely, or for the first time in his life.

  When the song finished, there was a long pause, then, as if realizing that nothing more could now be sung, they rose with a burst of chatter. Immediately Katharine was conscious of Madden at her elbow. He spoke in a voice that seemed oddly strained.

  “It was nice of you to join with us like that.” “ Why not?” She laughed a little uncomfortably. “Even if I can’t sing a note.”

  “What does that matter?” he replied. “ It was just the way you did it.”

  When they linked arms to go home, Madden was still by her side. His hand in its coarse woollen glove clasped hers lightly. He scarcely spoke during their return up the lake, and when they reached the house, he stole a quick glance at her, then bade her good-night in that same suppressed tone.

  But he did not go directly to bed. Leaving the others, he strode out into the orchard where the moon made strange distorted shadows amongst the apple-trees. He stood for a moment as though bewildered. In an absent, fumbling fashion he tried to light his pipe. But the pipe went out and was clenched, unheeded, by his teeth. Then a light sprang suddenly to being in Katharine’s curtained window. It seemed to bring equal enlightenment to Madden. He stared at it dumbly, then, turning, he pressed his brow against the cold bark of a knotted branch. His face, caught in that pallid light, was distorted as the shadows of the orchard trees.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Back in New York again. It was only Monday, and yet, for Katharine, ages seemed to have passed since she had stepped into Grand Central Station three days before. Surrounded by the tumult of the city, the whole experience of her visit to Graysville became remote and intangible as a lovely dream.

  Nancy and Madden had come down, too, since Bertram had arrived on the Imperial, and rehearsals had begun at once. Madden intended going on to Cleveland later, but meanwhile, at Nancy’s behest, he was again at the Waldorf.

  During the ensuing days Katharine saw nothing of him, and, indeed, she had little enough of Nancy’s society. Now Madden seemed the exemplar of devotion, for although Nancy was obliged to spend most of her day at the theatre, he was continually on hand, ready to escort her for lunch, tea, or dinner to such of the exclusive restaurants as her whim demanded. Nancy, restored to sophistication, plunged enthusiastically into work. Yet though she was so busy she somehow managed to enjoy her return to city life. Arranging ahead, she made a date for Thursday, when she, Madden, and Katharine would go to a night club.

  Katharine, on her part, had no inclination to go, but she yielded to Nancy’s whim. Meanwhile she tried hard to concentrate her activities exclusively upon business. She thought a great deal of the miniature, waiting with increasing tension for Brandt’s arrival.

  It was, she told herself, this atmosphere of uncertainty which played upon her nerves. When Thursday came, her mood was unsettled, and she felt jumpy and overstrung. Only one thing was clear—deep yet unacknowledged, her longing with all her heart to see Madden again.

  But when she did see him on Thursday she was startled by the change in him. He seemed thinner, older, and there were black shadows beneath his eyes.

  It was a strange meeting. All their intervening friendship, the memory of those intimate days in London and during the early part of the crossing, of that recent night when they had skated back across the lake at Graysville, seemed to have slipped away from him. His manner was constrained, almost painfully detached. He did not look at her. His hand, when she took it, was cold. For Katharine it was a cruel moment. Nancy, wrapped in herself, noticed nothing.

  They stood for a f
ew minutes in the lobby of the hotel. Talk went haltingly. And then, as though striving to ease the situation, Madden led the way outside to a taxi. The night club was crowded when they arrived, but they found an especially good table reserved for them. Again Katharine, holding the image of Madden in his dark sweater, a simple person amongst simple country folk, was confounded by the brevity with which he secured the best in service and attention. He seemed different, harder than before. He ordered champagne, a magnum.

  Despite the champagne, once again conversation languished. Fortunately almost immediately the lights were lowered, and the first part of the cabaret began. Daisy Jervis was the star. Caught by the spotlight, she came forward to the microphone in the middle of the floor and began her first number. She was a famous radio and cabaret performer— not beautiful, yet she had intense vitality, a personality which came over like the kick of a mule.

  Nancy listened attentively, her professional faculties critically alert. But Katharine, though compelled by something in the strident rhythm of the song, could not take her eyes from Madden’s profile, which in this light appeared thinner and more harassed than before. She could not understand the change in him. He was smoking incessantly, and his restless fingers were yellow with nicotine. She had never noticed this before. Was it evidence of the secret strain which seemed by some mysterious mischance suddenly to have possessed him? He continued to avoid her eyes. His lips were pinched, the set of his jaw was fixed and sombre.

  The number finished, Nancy, still oblivious of anything unusual, sipped her champagne and commented upon their neighbours. Already Nancy was familiar with most of the social figures about town, and her remarks, thrown out with a slightly patronizing air, made a satiric monologue which might, in other circumstances, have been amusing. Suddenly she waved her hand, recognizing a party from the cast of Dilemma in a far corner.