Little sister

by Mary Burchell

  "I see."

  He stood there beside the car, smiling slightly, until the great revolving door swung behind her and the magnificent portals of the Gloria swallowed her up.

  Then he gave a shrug and, with an extremely thoughtful expression, he got back into the car and drove away.

  When Alix came into the hotel suite once more, Varoni was not at home. Only Prescott was there, writing as usual. Alix couldn't imagine that she often did anything else.

  "Hello." Prescott looked up. "Had a good time?" She put the conventional question without interest. Nor did she appear to have any interest in Alix's reply that she had thoroughly enjoyed her afternoon.

  Alix went and took off her things, and then came back into the study.

  "I suppose you haven't any idea what time Nina will be home?"

  "None at all," Prescott said.

  "She rather suggested she'd be late, didn't she?"

  "Yes."

  "I wonder if that means in time for dinner or really very late in the evening."

  "It might mean either." Prescott evidently had no intention of being helpful. And then, just as Alix had given up hope of anything further, she added: "Why? Are you getting worried about your own dinner?"

  "Well, I just wondered what Nina wanted me to do."

  "She won't care in the least. She probably hasn't given you another thought."

  Alix couldn't help reflecting that Prescott had a very

  disagreeable way of putting things, but before she could say anything Prescott went on:

  "If you take my advice you'll never waste time trying to decide what Varoni or Moerling or anyone like that wants you to do. It changes every five minutes in any case. Besides, they forget about one for hours on end. You'll get used to it."

  'To being — ignored, you mean?"

  "Yes. And to not knowing where you are, or which things mean something and which things mean nothing. The times I've heard Varoni say: Til write to you, darling, or ring you up!' Nothing's really further from her intention, but they yawp at her and say: 'Do, do, Madame Varoni! How charming!' And then they bother me every day for a week. 'Hasn't Madame Varoni left a message? Oh, but she said she would. I can't understand it'."

  "And what do you say?" Alix laughed a little, although Prescott's description of things always made her uneasy.

  Prescott shrugged.

  "I say I can't understand it either, or that she's had dozens of rehearsals, or that I believe she tried to telephone the day before and couldn't get through. Then I promise to tell her that they rang, and I ring off."

  "And do you tell her?"

  "Only if I know she will be interested. Otherwise, I send them a couple of tickets for the kind of seats that don't sell well, and a note saying: 'So sorry I missed you, but I hope you enjoy the performance. We must meet next time I am in England'. And then they don't mind about the seats being at the side because they think the note is in her own handwriting."

  "And is it?"

  "Oh no," Prescott said indifferently. "But mine is very similar by now."

  Alix laughed irresistibly.

  "I don't think you have many illusions, Prescott, have you?"

  Prescott shook her head.

  "No," she said, with a smile that was more than half friendly. "There aren't any flies on me — not even butterflies. I think I hear Varoni. by the way."

  And, sure enough, a second later the door opened and

  Varoni came in, followed by Moerling. They were both talking in German and neither seemed in a specially good temper.

  Varoni tossed her coat on a chair and came over to Pres-cott without taking any notice of Alix. Moerling picked up a couple of letters and began to read them without taking any notice of anyone.

  "You're home early," Prescott observed.

  "Yes. It was terribly stupid." Varoni shrugged. "And much too hot, and I think I'm going to have a cold. This is a most ridiculous climate," she added, as though something ought to be done about it.

  "It's nothing like so ridiculous as the climate you want to go into," observed Moerling without looking up.

  "Oh!" Varoni exclaimed impatiently. And then, in answer to Prescott's look: "I've had an offer of a concert tour in Scandinavia, perhaps extending to Russia. Moerling doesn't want me to take it."

  "You know I cannot cancel my American engagements," Moerling said shortly.

  "No one has asked you to cancel your American engagements," Varoni retorted smoothly, and there was a heavy silence.

  "One needn't decide in a hurry," Prescott observed stolidly, and Alix had the distinct impression that she was on Moerling's side.

  "No, of course not. There's no need for anyone to get into a temper about it yet," Varoni said to Moerling's back, which remained completely unresponsive.

  She turned away and her eye fell on Alix.

  "Hello, sweetheart!" Her wonderful smile flashed out, and she held out her hand.

  Alix came to her side and was immediately and very warmly embraced, every trace of annoyance apparently gone.

  "Did you have a nice afternoon with Barry?"

  "Yes, thank you. Lovely."

  "What did you do?" Varoni patted Alix's fair hair and smiled at her, as though there were no question whatever of her having behaved very shabbily in this business herself.

  "We went to Whipsnade."

  "To where?"

  "Whipsnade. The Zoo, you know."

  "Barry took you there?" Varoni laughed incredulously.

  "How very English," observed Moerling without looking up.

  "Why?" Alix asked, with uncontrollable curiosity.

  Moerling put down his letters and began to cut and light a cigar.

  "Because, of all things in the world, the English love either to chase a ball or stand and admire animals. Their interest in art, religion and politics, all put together, scarcely equals their interest in animals, and doesn't compare with their interest in sport." Moerling smiled at Alix, his good temper entirely restored. "And if a newspaper placard says 'England collapses' it has no relation to a political or financial disaster. It merely means that someone had been chasing a ball up and down a field rather faster than the Englishman. Well, Herzchen—" he put his arm round Nina. "What about dinner?"

  It was the first time Alix had heard Moerling use an actual term of endearment to her mother, and somehow she found it exceedingly moving to see the way those soft brown eyes rested on Nina and that autocratic mouth softened.

  "I'm glad someone loves her so much," Alix thought suddenly. She had the queer impression that it was something Nina needed — if only as a protection against the worst part of herself.

  "I suppose I ought to be shocked," Alix reflected the next minute. "I am shocked, if what Barry suggested is true. Only—" She glanced at her mother and Moerling.

  He was laughing, and saying something to her in a coaxing undertone, while a reluctant but lovely smile was just touching Varoni's mouth. Alix watched that dark head bent close to the bright golden head of her mother. They were very beautiful together, she thought with an almost protective tenderness.

  They went down to dinner after that — Varoni, Moerling, Alix and Prescott. On this occasion they had their meal in the public restaurant, and for the first time in her life Alix savoured the strange thrill of appearing in public in company with a couple of celebrities.

  It was very queer and exciting to realize that their table

  was a centre of interest, that people nudged each other and murmured: "Look, there's Varoni. That's Moerling with her." And once Alix was aware that even she herself was pointed out as an object of interest and speculation.

  Moerling and Varoni seemed unaware of it, but an instinctive smile of amusement and pleasure crossed Alix's face.

  "What is it?" Varoni asked her, smiling in her turn.

  "Oh, nothing." Alix shook her head. But immediately Varoni leant over, with one of those absurd and charming impulses, and whispered as though Alix were a child:


  "Tell me! Is it a secret?"

  It was with difficulty that Alix kept from kissing her.

  "Only that I liked to see people look at you," she whispered in return. "I'm so terribly proud of you."

  "Oh, you darling child!" Varoni laughed softly, obviously touched and delighted. And for the next ten minutes she could not make enough of Alix.

  Moerling, too, addressed one or two kindly remarks to her, and even Prescott was occasionally betrayed into being almost affable.

  It was a lovely life, after all, Alix thought. She was beginning to understand the new conditions much better. She had a real and delightful friend in Barry; she got on well with the overwhelming Moerling — even with the difficult Prescott; and above all, there was this sweet and intimate bond with her wonderful mother.

  Towards the end of the meal, Moerling called for the evening letters, and, tossing Varoni's mail over to Prescott, he became immersed in his own correspondence.

  Prescott flicked over the pile with a scornful thumb, for she had little sympathy with admirers who insisted on spilling themselves on paper.

  "This box appears to be for you." Prescott handed over to Alix a smallish box that looked as though it might have come from a florist.

  "For me?" Alix was exceedingly surprised, for no one except Betty knew where she was staying, and certainly the firm black writing on the label was none of Betty's.

  Smiling a little with pleasure and excitement, she undid the string and took off the lid. Inside was a delicate spray of creamy pink roses.

  "Why, how lovely!"

  She lifted out the card that lay across the stems of the . roses.

  "Thank you, Alix" she read, "for a delightful afternoon. I happened to see these roses, and thought how like you they were — sweet and unsophisticated, yet interesting. Will you please accept them — Barry."

  "Who is the admirer?" Moerling's voice struck across her thoughts — amused, but not unkindly.

  "Barry!" Alix exclaimed, not noticing the form in which the question was put. "Oh, how kind of him! — and what a sweet note!"

  She bent her head over the roses and lifted them tenderly out of the box. They were delicious! It was the kindest thought.

  Suddenly she became aware of the extraordinary quality of the silence around her and, raising her head quickly, found that all three of them were looking at her. Moerling with a satisfaction which the quizzical lift of his eyebrows did nothing to hide. Prescott with cynical, incredulous amusement. And Varoni—!

  As Alix met those slightly narrowed blue eyes, a terrible knowledge struggled to life within her. This was not the all-conquering singer, nor the wonderful mother who meant all her world. At that moment Varoni was simply a beautiful, angry woman, staring with something like fear at a rival who had the deadly advantage of youth.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "CHARMING taste. The colour is really beautiful," Moer-ling said very coolly. And the nightmare picture began slowly to dissolve.

  Feeling almost sick, Alix,put the roses back into the box, though her fingers were shaking so that it was not very easy. She wouldn't look at her mother again just now, but even with her head bent, she could see Varoni's hand as it rested on the table. It was not exactly clenched, but there was something very rigid about the way the fingers were curved.

  Then she saw Moerling's hand come down on it. lightly but firmly. He spoke again, quite casually, about a letter in the evening's post, and Alix sensed dimly that the calm flow of words and the unobtrusive hand clasp made some sort of protection around Varoni.

  Nothing more was said about the roses, but Alix was uncomfortably aware that, for the rest of the meal, her mother did not once address her directly.

  It seemed, when the meal was over, that Moerling and Varoni had work to do. Alix scarcely thought it could be a rehearsal at that time of night, but in any case they didn't discuss it with her. They merely went on to some other part of the hotel, and she was left to go up with Prescott again in the lift.

  There was something so odd and disjointed about it all, Alix thought with a sigh. At home with Grandma, one never did anything without saying something about it. "I'm just going down to the village — I shan't be more than half an hour," or "I think I'll take my book into the garden — it's so hot in the house," or even "You won't want me for half an hour, will you? I'm going to wash my hair."

  But here no one ever seemed to know what anyone else was doing. They just drifted in and out on unexplained activities. It was rather like the comings and goings of people in a dream.

  As they went up in the lift, Alix said to Prescott:

  "Surely it can't be a rehearsal at this time of night?"

  "It could be," Prescott said. "But not after a substantial

  meal. They're having a discussion of some sort with the producer."

  "'1 hen Nina probably won't be late?" Alix sounded eager, in spite of the snubbing she had received.

  But Prescott refused to commit herself.

  "I couldn't say, I'm sure."

  Again there came over Alix the strangely unfamiliar feeling of being entirely at a loose end. She followed Prescott into the study, still holding her florist's box. And then, on sudden impulse, she said:

  "Prescott, why didn't Nina like Barry sending me flowers?"

  Prescott had been bending over the desk sorting some papers, but she raised her head at that and looked across at Alix.

  "Don't you really know?" Her expression was grim but not exactly unfriendly.

  "No."

  "No one in Varoni's circle ever receives flowers except Varoni herself. She has grown to think that all flowers belong to her by right divine."

  "But she has — so many." Alix was completely bewildered. "She couldn't grudge me a single spray. I don't understand."

  "I suppose it must be difficult for you to see," Prescott conceded with a shrug. "It hasn't anything to do with the number of flowers. It's just that it frightened and astonished her that anyone else should receive such a familiar tribute. And you're so cruelly young, Alix — that makes it hurt all the more. And, worst of all, it -was Barry Elton who sent the flowers."

  "What do you mean?" A queer little pain sharpened the words. "Why shouldn't it be Barry? Do you mean — you can't mean that she's fond of him?"

  "Fond? Oh no, I don't expect so. I don't think she's fond of anyone but herself. Perhaps Moerling a little. And perhaps you a little," Prescott added reflectively.

  "Me!" The colour rushed into Alix's face, and her voice shook with eagerness. "Do you think she is fond of me, Prescott?"

  "Well, she has little rushes of animal feeling towards you that may be affection," Prescott said grudgingly.

  "Oh." It didn't seem much, put like that, but some instinct told Alix that the description was uncannily accurate. She was silent for a moment, thinking that over. Then she returned to the original question. "But why did it matter that — that Barry sent the flowers, if you say it's nothing to do with — fondness?"

  "Oh, it may be, of course, it may be," Prescott said impatiently. "But the point is that he's been an admirer of hers for years — even before I worked for her. I don't know how much of an admirer, or whether there was anything romantic or improper or whatever you like to call it. I never inquire into these things — it isn't my business."

  Prescott ignored the horrified way the colour was shocked into Alix's face and away again, and after a moment she went on.

  "He may be in love with her or he may just be in love with her voice. Lots of people are. But the result is the same — florally speaking. There's never a premiere without flowers from Barry Elton — and usually he comes himself if it's anywhere nearer than South America. These rich men with not enough to do can, you know," Prescott added grimly.

  "I — I see."

  "I suppose she always thinks of him as one of the unshakable pillars upholding her personal glory. The pillar shook a bit tonight, and it was you who shook it. You mustn't expect her to like it. That's all."
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  "But I wouldn't have hurt her for the world!" Alix could have wept with the intensity of her feelings. "I'd much rather she had the flowers if that's how she feels. But why did she send me out with Barry if she didn't want us to be friends?"

  "She won't again. That was a bad slip," Prescott said dryly. "She hasn't realized until now that you're very attractive in your odd way. She thought he would just put up with you because she had told him to. It won't happen again. Any other arrangements with Barry Elton you will have to make yourself."

  "Perhaps he will make them," Alix retorted, a little stung.

  "Oh, quite. But it will be for you to decide whether it is wiser to accept or to refuse."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Just what I say. Now run along and think it over somewhere else. I have plenty of work to do."

  So Alix went to her own room and sat on the side of her bed and thought what a strange and difficult world it was.

  She liked Barry so much. She loved her mother so passionately. But it seemed the two feelings wouldn't mix. Did that mean that she must give up the charming friendship which promised so well?

  "But that's ridiculous!" Alix said aloud^ "It simply doesn't make sense." Only she couldn't get away from the fact that something of the sort was suggested in Prescott's hint about the wisdom of refusing engagements.

  Very soberly she got up and put her roses in water. Then, because there didn't seem to be anything better to do, she had a leisurely bath and went to bed, taking with her one of the books from the low bookcase under the window.

  Years ago, Grandma had firmly taught her the value of concentration, and for a long while she read steadily, determinedly fixing her thoughts on something other than the insoluble problem in hand.

  But at last her eyes grew weary, and, switching out the light, she lay there in the dark, a prey to her thoughts again.

  Was there something utterly ruthless in the make-up of her wonderful mother? Was it the plain fact that if you lived in the orbit of Varoni you had to sacrifice everything

  — logic, feelings, interests, to her wishes, expressed or unexpressed?

  For a fantastic moment she appeared to Alix like some lovely pagan goddess, before whom perpetual offerings must be laid. But the moment passed, and Alix was once more simply the worried, loving daughter who longed to make peace with her puzzlingly angry mother.