“Victorine!”
She started up, and in a panic, hid the doll under a coverlet. Her heart beat so fast that she had to wait before she could answer. She couldn’t have felt guiltier if she had been caught naked in the most self-indulgent act of all. Her guilt, like her love, it seemed, was without specific subject-matter and without an object either. Lost in her feelings as thoroughly as in the backwoods, Victorine was, without a compass in the bush. Sickened, as if she had renewed some infantile habit, like sucking her thumb, she banished the lot of the dolls next day to the attic and never so much as gave them tea again. Were they being punished and damned to eternity for the greater thrill she had got with The Glamorous Tomboy? As well as the incestuous pleasure of her brother’s body? It’s hardly fair to ask. Certainly Victorine was unaware of self-deception, and it could be that the inanimate dolls were symbolic of some kind of nasty innocence. Distasteful objects; Things. Childish things that should be put away—“I have put away childish things.” Perhaps, to her credit, the dolls were calcimined phallic symbols and she did well to banish them. Dissociate herself from the dissociate.
Chapter IX
Homer Speaks
Well, what could have been more innocent fun than the children’s afternoon, but Victorine’s mounting jealousy, Lydia’s reckless pursuit of Costello, had a terrific drive behind it. Dearest Costello, maybe she was his woman after all . . . Lydia.
“If you get Lydia Van Zandt in trouble, my boy, Hump Van Zandt will be over here with a shotgun and more than likely withdraw his account,” said Homer.
Allison, helping Dennis with his spinach in branches, looked at Homer; what was he talking about at such length? She smiled at him.
Victorine put down her knife and fork and stared at Costello.
“Get Lydia Van Zandt in trouble?” said Costello softly, he glanced at his mother; she shook her head ever so slightly. “Lydia?” he looked at his father.
“You heard me, son,” said Homer.
“Lydia?” said Victorine.
“Never mind,” said Homer sharply. “I’ll talk to you later, Costello.”
“But, Dad,” said Costello, “it’s funny.”
“Not exactly,” said Homer.
Costello laughed, he did not catch Allison’s warning look.
“Go to your room!” said Homer, jerking his thumb.
Costello blushed and obeyed.
Victorine was near tears.
In the stillness of the closed room a saccharine perfume made itself felt, as flowers in a vase will, suddenly, as if crushed, send out a powerful scent.
“I smell something sweet,” said Allison, “it’s lovely.” Her heart ached for Costello and she patted Victorine’s knee for encouragement. Homer rose and opened the window. He was irritated that he had neglected to scrub his hands and annoyed at the little telephone operator for dousing herself in the stinking stuff. He made a note of it.
“It’s me,” said Dennis. “Elthie says so,” and he stirred his spinach vigorously. “Here we go round the mulberry buth.”
“There’s an increase in green coffee futures,” said Homer to Allison.
“I’m glad,” she said.
•
“I’ve left your bringing-up to your mother,” said Homer, “but your mother is an unworldly woman.” He looked out of his son’s bedroom window across the fields that were shining in the moonlight; the same spire that Nanny’s friend had seemed so absorbed in as Nanny attempted her pierced the sky like a streak of steel.
“Yes, sir,” said Costello.
“That’s better,” said Homer. Was it over? Would he lapse into silence? What he had said was certainly obvious, hardly necessary to state. He turned to go, but he swung around in the doorway. “I simply want to give you the benefit of my advice,” he said.
“If it’s about Lydia . . .” said Costello.
“It’s about women!” snapped Homer. He took out his watch and placed it on the chest of drawers as if Costello had asked him for an appointment and there were others waiting in an anteroom.
“Oh, I . . .”
“Let me do the talking!” interrupted Homer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Put nothing in writing,” said Homer.
Costello was too amazed to say anything.
“If you’ve already written her love letters, get them back and write no more.”
“Love letters!”
“Well, whatever,” said Homer.
“But I’m not in love with Lydia,” said Costello. He blushed at the idea.
“A young man of your age doesn’t see as much of a young woman as you do of her without one thing in mind.” It was a long speech and he glanced at his watch. “I’ve no objection,” he said, “at your age, if you want to experiment in the village, but there, too, it still holds, no promises, and under no circumstances . . . letters. That’s all!” But as he slipped the watch back in his vest pocket he talked too much, for once in his life, “And quit mooning around by yourself, out back,” he jerked his head, “it’s bad for the health, kid stuff, leave it to Dennis.”
Costello’s gentle nature that stored up insult and injury against improvidence, like a succulent plant against a dry spell, had trembled within him for the given time, and anger, fierce anger, blazed in his eyes, as it had at Millie’s when he wanted to kill her; and this time it was patricide he wished for. He clenched his fist and lowered his charming head, and took a step towards Homer.
“What about Millie!” he said in voice he himself did not recognize, neither had he known what would come out of his mouth. Millie!
If Homer blanched within he did not show it. His icy blue eyes remained wide and unswerving as a dead man’s. He waited a full minute before saying, “And what about Millie?” He said it constrainedly but quietly. Homer had plenty of self-control.
“You!” said Costello excitedly.
Homer came farther into the room and deliberately sat down in the one chair in Costello’s room, he picked up a book, looked at the title, throwing back his head as if to see better. “Yes?” he said. “What is it you have to say about this Millie?”
“I . . .”
Homer laughed insultingly. “Not bad looking,” he said, but he stood up and was on his guard. His son was tall and well-built and there was a dangerous look in his yellow eyes. But Homer was still the better man, as Millie had more than implied, and he caught his son’s wavering glance in his own as a bird in a net. Unflinchingly he looked him in the eye. If he was frightened at the revelation that Costello knew about him and Millie, he gave no sign, and if he considered, for the moment, confiding in his son to insure the brotherhood of man, swear him to secrecy with a fraternal handshake, he did not.
“No letters,” he said and went away. “Good night, son.” There was neither tenderness nor abjectivity in his tone. He had said his say and it was a lot for Homer. It was the first and last man-to-man talk he ever had with Costello, and he would be six feet under ground when Dennis, after sleeping with his first woman, would write the sonnet that is so justly famous, “My mistress has an arrow in her heart.” There will be no comment from Homer on this rather daring imagery, signed Dennis L’Hommedieu.
Chapter X
Old Sadie Lovejoy
Way back, in Victorine’s time, when the grandparents had been alive, the old people had, once a year, left cards on Sadie Lovejoy and after a proper length of time the call had been returned. The ritual had been neglected, however, by Victorine’s parents, and formal calls had, as elsewhere, become sporadic and finally ceased altogether in Havermeyer County. The little glazed pasteboards that had meant so much, once, to the young bride, the newcomer, the invalid and the broker’s wife, after being used as place cards and then to play hare-and-hounds in the woods by the children, finally moulded into near nothingness, along with the falling leaves, the sea-shells, and breast feathers of brooding birds, in the earth. But Victorine’s love of mystery and the story that has, or seems to have, no lo
gical plot or conclusion, kept the old lady alive in her imagination. Old Sadie Lovejoy seemed scarcely alive otherwise, and except for Victorine, had been almost entirely abandoned. It was out from her hedge, you remember, that the sleek fox terrier had bounded, as if through a hoop, frightening so Victorine in the midst of a daydream, hand in hand, as she had been, with Misael, and today, as she walked along the same narrow path, she was on the alert.
The local gentry, in the past, had, like Victorine’s grandparents, left their cards on Sadie Lovejoy, although they all knew her history, that Victorine didn’t. A few slightly younger and haughtier hostesses had fussed and fumed a little but the old guard had stood by Fitz Lovejoy, with perhaps the notation, “But for the grace of God there go I,” or “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” In any event the swells of the county, up until a few years ago, when Fitz, aged eighty, was thrown from his mare and died within the hour of a broken neck, had continued to accept the hospitality of Green Acres and their wives had, too. And Sadie, the little parlourmaid, who had formerly helped them with their wraps and served them tea, and hadn’t made any never minds when the gentlemen kissed her on the neck in the pantry or pinched her plump behind in the hall, made a charming hostess and a sensible housekeeper. That Fitz had married her when he was drunk as a lord, too soon for decency after his first wife’s prolonged illness and death (she had been a Miss Montmorency), was excused because Fitz was such a lovable and generous chap and such a good sort and the little parlourmaid had been, in spite of her bouncing “figger” and easy-going ways, closer to forty than twenty, which somewhat pacified the ladies. Even at that she was twenty years his junior and it was said certain younger men in the village had priority anyway. Exactly seven and a half months after Fitz Lovejoy’s sanctified misalliance the boy was born who was seldom seen after his christening, at which ceremony he was stood for by the best people and received as many silver spoons as if he were hydra-headed rather than half-witted, as he soon proved to be.
But all that is what is called The Past. Victorine, not too curious, or attentive to, facts, even if she had heard of them or known of them, imagined old Sadie Lovejoy who smiled at her outside Trinity Church and bowed to her from her town car, a real lady, a great lady, and it never entered her head, as all the oldsters and village folk knew, that “Fool Fred” was any relation to The Old Lady.
Today, as Victorine watched out for the fox terrier, on guard, not wanting to be surprised by him, she pictured old Sadie Lovejoy in lace, drinking out of fragile pink teacups with cupids on them. She imagined the old lady who looked as if she were painted on a fan, as recognizing herself as a fellow spirit, one of her own kind, well bred and good looking (Come here, child, what is your name?) (Victorine L’Hommedieu, Mrs. Fitz Lovejoy) (You must not be afraid of my Pedro, he means no harm), Victorine looked behind her, the little dog trotted silently at her heels and he wore a big smile on his pointed face; he was gentle as a lamb, and Victorine began all over again at the beginning (Come here, child, what is your name?) (Victorine L’Hommedieu, Mrs. Fitz Lovejoy) (I have long wanted to make your acquaintance, dear, will you stop in and have a cup of tea with me?). Victorine was about to cross the wide entrance driveway when the fox terrier became hysterical, he whirled in a circle and danced on his toes, he barked in a high falsetto. He had scented his mistress, and the town car, used in the fall and winter, rolled into the driveway. It stopped directly in front of Victorine, barring her way, and one of its little windows was rolled down from inside by a small gloved hand. “Good afternoon, child” (the little dog was rolling abjectly on the ground almost swooning with delight), “will you hand me Pedro, how silly he looks. Pedro!”
Victorine bent over and grasped the little dog firmly but he did not like it, he wanted, no doubt, to enjoy his frenzy of adoration a little longer, and he snapped at her wrists.
“Pedro!”
In mid-air, as Victorine bravely handed him to his mistress, he violently and apologetically wagged his stump of a tail and his tongue hung out over his shoulder; he rolled his bloodshot eyes.
“Thank you, dear; you may drive on, Waring.”
“Thank you, miss,” said Waring; he was the toothless ancient chauffeur, so small and wasted that he could scarcely see over the wheel, but he was handsomely uniformed. He touched his visored cap.
Victorine stepped back, but the window slid down again. “Wait, Waring; aren’t you Victorine L’Hommedieu?” said the old lady. “It’s quite cold for such a long walk, won’t you come in a moment?”
Victorine hesitated, confused that her dream, which she meant to have lasted all the way home, seemed to be coming true in the middle, she was almost sorry.
“Do, child,” there seemed to be a pleading note in the tender voice, “we shall have a cup of tea.”
“I’d like to very much,” said Victorine.
As they drew up to the house, Fool Fred darted into the back woods and no one spoke of it.
Waring struggled with the heavy door and then stood at attention. “Anything else, ma’am?” He was smiling at Victorine and nodding encouragingly; he even gave her a friendly wink and coughed into his gauntleted hand.
“You may go,” said old Sadie Lovejoy. “Come, child.”
Victorine, well brought up and used to a certain amount of luxury, did not want to stare or show amazement, but she drew in her breath and her eyes shone at the fabulous insides of the big old house behind the hedge, that she had only imagined in her daydreams. Outside the paint was peeling off and the copper gutters were green and sagging, the great Greek columns supporting the entablature were stained in streaks from rusty overflow and the sides of the house, from the screens, that were never removed. But the inside surpassed her imaginings. Unlike the country houses she knew it was richly carpeted from wall to wall and sumptuously furnished. Soft golden stuff hung from the high windows, looped back at the sides, it cascaded and folded itself comfortably upon the floor. And on the walls that seemed to be covered in a pale green cloth were paintings of gentlemen on prancing horses, they wore white wigs and their hair was tied back with a ribbon, little rabbits peered out from behind clumps of emerald green grass and fat clouds curled overhead. There were ladies, too, on the wall, with half-turned smooth faces and pink bosoms escaping from silvery lace and with strawberry-pink trains and sitting on yellow satin sofas. Smaller paintings were hung between the big ones, and Victorine recognized two Corots.
“Corot,” she breathed.
“Really, dear?” said the old lady.
“How beautiful!” said Victorine.
“Naughty Pedro!” admonished old Sadie Lovejoy. The little dog, in his excitement, had already raised his fourth leg against two of the brocaded pink chairs, you could see the wetness, and he stood at a third looking straight at the old lady and doing it again. But at the sound of her voice he gave a shove with his hind legs and scampered out of the room.
“Ring, dear, right there at your left hand; Hilda, Pedro has been naughty and we will have our tea in my sitting-room.”
Hilda spied the little dog in the big hall heading towards a suit of shining armour in the corner and pounced on him. “Naughty, naughty, naughty,” she crooned, hugging and kissing him, “Hilda’s naughty little boy.”
“Hilda.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Miss L’Hommedieu will have a slice of pound cake.”
Victorine followed the picture-postcard old lady up the wide staircase, and turning to the right, passing through magnificent master bedrooms done in giant roses wallpaper and billowing draperies, came to a small sitting-room that might have been a dressing-room for one of the big bedrooms. In one corner was an old-fashioned Singer sewing machine and along the wall a narrow bed. Cotton frilled curtains were at the single window and on the floor a circular cotton rug in gay colours. On a painted white chest of drawers there was a big bowl and a pitcher, and over it hung an old calendar from the grocer’s. There was also a green metal trunk w
ith handles and two plush pillows on top as if it were used for an extra place to sit. But in the exact centre of the room a delicate rosewood tea table was laid with a shining silver service and the fragile teacups that Victorine had imagined. They were decorated with plump pink cupids resting on light blue clouds and pale green garlands passed from fist to dimpled fist. Two painted Sheraton chairs were placed at each oblong end of the little polished inlaid table.
Sadie Lovejoy, dressed in the floor-length skirts of her era with a quantity of old lace as Victorine had imagined, gracefully slid on to one of the chairs and motioned Victorine to do so, too. Soon a discreet knock sounded at the door and Hilda came in in her frilled apron and black dress to serve them. Bright yellow pound cake with brown edges lay limp on a silver plate and Hilda lit the alcohol lamp under the silver urn and measured out three teaspoons of tea into a fine china teapot. “Is that all, madam?”
“You may go, Hilda, and you may lay out my black lace for dinner.”
As soon as Hilda had gone the old lady poured the tea. “If you don’t mind, dear,” she said and before Victorine’s astonished look she poured her cup of tea into the saucer. “It cools it,” she said. “Well, dear,” she went on, “it’s a pleasure to have a pretty child to tea. I see so few people, it is lonely; I hope you will come often.” She nodded and smiled and sucked the tea from her saucer in little slurps.
Victorine was hungry and ate three pieces of pound cake. “Good,” she said, feeling quite at ease.
“I knew your father,” said the old lady.
Victorine looked up, “My grandfather?” she suggested.
“No, your father, a charming boy and such a pretty name—Homer.”
“My father?”
“Yes,” the old lady smiled and opened her lips, but said nothing.
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