The Strong City

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Moreover, she was always alert to the possibilities of new recruits among the maids who accompanied their mistresses to her millinery establishment. Therefore, when hastily called to the salon at the advent of the ladies of the Schmidt family, her hard black glance touched them swiftly, then fastened itself with a rapid fascination upon Irmgard. But this instantaneous appraisal was not obvious, and with obsequious murmurs and gestures, she gave all her flattering attention to Mrs. Schmidt and Ernestine.

  After a murmurous inclination of her head to Baldur, and a purred “Monsieur,” she led Mrs. Schmidt and Ernestine to a gray divan and beamed, and clasped her hands.

  “Ah, you are so a stranger, Madam Schmidt! And Mademoiselle! But so delightful to look upon you again! I am what ze call, overcome. A bonnet for Mademoiselle? A bonnet for Madam? For the winter mode? For the early spring?”

  Irmgard and Baldur sat side by side on another divan at a distance. Irmgard was both amused and enthralled and repelled by this woman, with her painted harpy’s face and tiny black cruel eyes and elaborate coiffure. Her body was apparently fleshless, and composed solely of tendons and nerves and stringy muscles under the sweeping black silk. Her hands, brown and lean, fluttered in the air like predatory birds. On one bony finger she wore an enormous marquise diamond, her sole ornament. She smiled, twittered, exclaimed, and her eyes, malignant and obscene in their cunning, never smiled for a single moment.

  She brought Mrs. Schmidt a bonnet of purple velvet trimmed with plumes of pale lavender tipped with the faintest rose, and floating with deeper mauve ribbons. She held it high in her hand, rapturously, her fleshless body curved sideways on its narrow waist, her head tilted. Her hair caught the sunlight, and one saw that its jet glossiness was obviously the work of a skilled cosmetician, for it had a purplish and metallic gleam. The sunlight also struck her cheek, showing its canvas coarseness, conspicuously veined and thickly crimsoned. Her painted lips grimaced in what she no doubt considered an ecstatic grin.

  “When I created this so chic bonnet, Madam, I said to myself: ‘It iss only for Madam Schmidt! No other lady is worthy of it, no, not even in New York!’”

  Mrs. Schmidt murmured deprecatingly. Her sallow face puckered with humble anxiety. Timidly, she glanced at Ernestine for an opinion.

  Ernestine clapped her small hands and bounced a little, so that her garments rustled gaily. “Do try it on, Mama! It is beautiful, just your style. There! Now tie those ribbons under your chin—so. It is lovely! It gives you such an air!” She looked eagerly at Baldur and Irmgard across the room. “Isn’t it charming? Do say it is, for you know I am right.”

  Baldur spoke solemnly and consideringly, but with a wicked twinkle in his blue eyes: “Mademoiselle Le Clair, croyezvous que le chapeau va bien à ma mère?”

  Mademoiselle Le Clair’s eyes flickered at him rapidly, and under the greasy crimson of her lined cheeks, a natural color ran congestedly. Then, coquettishly tossing her head, she raised a finger at him, and cried with great vivacity:

  “Ah, Monsieur Schmidt, you are a naughty, naughty boy! I am Americaine! I speak English!”

  “And quite well, no doubt,” said Baldur, gravely, the twinkle deepening in his eyes. “Well, speak English, if you must. But please answer my question.”

  Now her eyes were malevolent, full of hatred. Never had Irmgard seen such eyes, and a finger of ice touched the nape of her neck, absurdly. Her elbow furtively nudged Baldur, a gesture which merely elicited a polite and innocent stare of surprise at her.

  Feeling annoyed at the young man, and trying to control the corners of her lips which had a sudden tendency to turn upwards, Irmgard rose with dignity and approached Mrs. Schmidt and Ernestine, who were guilelessly puzzled. The girl looked down at Mrs. Schmidt, and thoughtfully considered the bonnet from all angles. Mademoiselle, understanding everything, smiled, grimaced, fluttered her hands, exclaimed, and all the time flickered her eyes at Irmgard with the most vicious enmity: “It is plain to see, my child, that you have ze most wonderful taste. Is not the bonnet charming on Madam?”

  Irmgard studied the rich violet and mauve hues of the bonnet, which cast a sickly yellowish shadow over Mrs. Schmidt’s already sallow complexion.

  “The bonnet is beautiful,” she admitted, doubtfully. “But the color—do you think it suitable, Mademoiselle?”

  “Oh, Irmgard,” said Ernestine, with playful impatience. “It is delightful. Look what it does for Mama’s profile.”

  Mlle. Le Clair, in whose sunken temples bruised pulses were visibly beating, held the mirror for Mrs. Schmidt. The poor lady, completely confused and uncertain, looked at herself with great anxiety. “Perhaps Irmgard is right, Ernestine. The color is quite wrong—perhaps?” She sighed, however, and her eyes yearned.

  Irmgard said quickly: “You like the bonnet, Mrs. Schmidt? Then, have it, please. One always looks well in something which one believes is flattering. It is the eye of the mind, and in some way, the belief of the wearer is communicated to the one who sees.”

  “Bravo!” said Baldur, ironically, from his divan, patting his hands delicately.

  The four ladies ignored him ostentatiously. Mlle. Le Clair, Ernestine and Irmgard bent over Mrs. Schmidt with the utmost concentration, as though this were a momentous matter. And poor Mrs. Schmidt, who had not desired nor thought of a bonnet for years, looked at her image in the mirror with shy pleasure. Irmgard understood, now, that the color did not matter. The thing of importance was that desire had once more stirred feebly in that meek and harassed breast.

  “I was wrong,” she murmured. “The color is truly beautiful on you, Mrs. Schmidt. Please.”

  “You see, Mama,” said Ernestine, happily.

  Still Mrs. Schmidt hesitated, turning her head, craning her neck. Under that color, her throat was brown as earth, and dull orange shadows streaked the discolored areas under her eyes. Then, timorously, she glanced up into the young faces of her daughter and her maid.

  “You are quite certain, children?”

  Hearing that note in his mother’s voice, Baldur no longer felt gaily sarcastic. He rose and came over to them, small and gnomelike under his long heavy cape. He was full of remorse.

  “Mama, I agree with the girls. It looks very well on you.” He put his hand on his mother’s shoulder, and pressed it gently. “You are young and pretty again, as you were when I was a brat. You must have no other bonnet.” He turned to Mlle. Le Clair, whose eyes flashed at him like the eyes of a hating rodent. “Please put it in its box, and we shall take it with us.”

  Mrs. Schmidt beamed at him with soft love and shy pleasure. “You truly like it, Baldur?”

  Mlle. Le Clair, determined not to allow doubt to jeopardize a sale, removed the bonnet from Mrs. Schmidt’s head reverently, as one might remove a precious crown. She laid it in a nest of paper in a round black-satin box, flourishing her hands. Mrs. Schmidt watched the operation with the innocent and jealous eyes of a child.

  “And now,” she said, breathing deeply and audibly, “there must be a bonnet for Ernestine, Mademoiselle.” It was evident that the pseudo-Frenchwoman intimated her, as all determined and inexorable people intimidated her. “Something young and pretty, perhaps.”

  “I have just the chapeau for Mademoiselle!” crooned the other. She put her head on the side, and surveyed Ernestine so critically that the girl blushed. “Ah,” breathed Mademoiselle, rapturously, as though overcome. “I know! I know!”

  She tactfully whisked the black satin box away with her, in order that during her absence no further and surreptitious tryings-on might ensue, with subsequent danger of final rejection. When she had disappeared behind the gray velvet curtains, a small hiatus resulted, and no one spoke. Then Ernestine said in a low voice:

  “Baldur, whatever possessed you? You seemed to want to torment the poor woman.”

  But Baldur, unrepentant, and still intoxicated by the nearness of Irmgard, replied lightly: “My dear child, I hate only two things in this world: a brute and a hypocr
ite. And our Mademoiselle Le Clair, née Murphy, is both.”

  “But so insignificant, and unimportant, surely,” said Ernestine, with a compassionate glance at the gray curtains.

  Irmgard looked at the smiling Baldur directly, and tried to make her voice respectfuly reproving: “Perhaps Mr. Baldur does not realize that most of us must pretend a little. Otherwise, we could not endure ourselves, as we are in truth.”

  He turned to her, and all at once he saw nothing else but that grave and beautiful face with eyes the color of water reflecting the green of spring leaves:

  “Irmgard, I know that only too well. Believe me.” His voice was quiet, but filled with such intensity that her face saddened.

  Mademoiselle emerged with a rustle from behind the curtains. By nature and profession, she saw everything, and she saw the faces of Irmgard and Baldur. Her eyes narrowed gloatingly, and her smile was arch and significant. In her hands she carried a gay little bonnet of soft blue silk flowering with yellow daisies and tea-roses, and dangling long blue satin ribbons. It was really a pretty thing, and everyone, including the thoughtful Baldur, admired it elaborately. Perched on Ernestine’s small dark head, it gave vivacity and light to ner heart-shaped face, in which her lips were suddenly blooming and her eyes sparkling.

  “A coquette! You will break hearts, Ernestine,” said Baldur, wishing to compensate for his unaccountable behavior over his mother’s bonnet.

  “My darling, it is lovely,” said Mrs. Schmidt, and love, admiration and tenderness brought tears to her tired and sunken eyes. She clasped her thin dark hands, trying to control a heart-breaking emotion. Never had she seen Ernestine look so gay and young, so irresponsible and so unutterably dear.

  “It is not too flighty?” asked Ernestine, with delight. She ran lightly to the mirrors on the opposite wall, and pirouetted and peered and almost danced.

  “But you are a flighty female anyway,” said Baldur, laughing, and wishing this were true. A pale sadness had settled over his joy and peace.

  Mademoiselle said nothing. She merely stood in a transfixed attitude of complete fascination, shaking her head a little, as though the picture Ernestine made was unbelievable, even to her.

  “Impossible,” she sighed, almost inaudibly, but, of course, not quite so.

  Ernestine looked at them with increasing and breathless delight, as a child might look who had been presented with an incredible and overwhelming gift. Her lips trembled and smiled; she blinked her eyes, speechless. She thought to herself: Perhaps, if he might see me like this—! Some morning, when he stands there—! Her color suddenly turned scarlet. It seemed that she might burst into tears.

  “Please, do not remove it,” said Irmgard, her heart aching. “It is too beautiful.”

  “Certainement!” cried Mademoiselle, deftly whisking Ernestine’s old bonnet into another black-satin box. “That is so clevaire! Mademoiselle Schmidt must wear it in the carriage, exciting admiration of the dull people!”

  “It might rain,” demurred Ernestine, wistfully, but her shy eyes urging the others to disagree with her.

  “Nonsense,” said Baldur, sturdily. “Irmgard is right. It is a fine day. And you must give other people a treat, you know. Life is dull enough, God knows.”

  The sale consummated, Mrs. Schmidt still did not rise. She hesitated. She flushed a little. Then, awkwardly, she reached for Irmgard’s hand and gazed up at her imploringly.

  “My dear, you will not be offended with me? But it would give me such pleasure—” Her eyes begged humble forgiveness, but yearned upon the girl.

  Ernestine came quickly to Irmgard’s side. She laid her hand on her arm, silently, eagerly.

  Irmgard said nothing. There was no false plebeian pride in her, and though she hesitated, it was not from offense, nor touchy fear of patronage. She knew indeed that the gift of a bonnet, to which she was completely indifferent, would give her employer and Ernestine an extreme pleasure which she had not the heart to refuse them.

  Mademoiselle, understanding again, had swiftly left the salon. She came back instantly with a bonnet in a poke shape, of thick deep green velvet, simple but exquisite, tied with delicate velvet ribbons. There were no flowers on the bonnet. But its shape, its material and air were elegant and rich.

  In a complete silence, she put it on Irmgard’s pale golden head, and with the slow momentous gestures of a priestess, she tied the ribbons under Irmgard’s white chin. The bonnet framed her still, beautiful face like a dark emerald halo, and brought out vivid clear green lights in her eyes. Ernestine exhaled a faint gasp, and clasped her hands tightly to her pounding breast. If I only looked like that! she thought, with intense admiration mixed with melancholy. But there was no envy in her, only a sad regret for herself. Mrs. Schmidt gazed at Irmgard speechlessly. Irmgard’s old bonnet was black and shapeless, and had made her look older than she was. But this bonnet gave her youth and splendor and feminine loveliness, and a grace that was almost incredible.

  Irmgard smiled at their awed delight in her. She glanced at Baldur, involuntarily. He was looking at her, and he was quite pale, not even smiling. A sudden fright touched her, a sudden sharp sorrow. She turned to Mrs. Schmidt too quickly.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Schmidt,” she said, simply. She had not even glanced at herself in the mirror which Mademoiselle was holding, and in which she had been trying to catch Irmgard’s reflection.

  Mrs. Schmidt stood up, feebly. Then, taking Irmgard’s face between her two hot dry palms, she kissed her gently on the cheek.

  Mademoiselle, smiling, looked only at Baldur, and there was an evil gloating in her eyes, and a thoughtful reflectiveness.

  CHAPTER 20

  The short December twilight was clouding the air with a dim mist, and the street lamps were already beginning to stain that mist with diffused yellow moons, when the party returned home to the dreary mansion on Grove Street. But they were very gay, if tired, and striped boxes and parcels filled every available inch in the victoria. Pearly satin for Ernestine, black lengths of bright velvet for Mrs. Schmidt, and green foulard the color of the wide bonnet for Irmgard, not to mention tasselled boots and gloves for all, and lace-bordered handkerchiefs, and delightful perfumes, constituted the loot which Morgan’s had yielded up to the bottomless purse of the Schmidt’s. One of the footmen held three boxes alone, which he considered violated his dignity, for he sat on his high perch with a fierce and remote expression.

  “Miss Zimmermann is really an excellent dressmaker, and I think it is an affectation for so many of the ladies to go to Philadelphia and New York for their gowns,” said Ernestine, bouncing excitedly in her seat. She turned to her mother. “And now, Mama, we must really have a party!”

  As Ernestine had never before in all her life suggested a party, Mrs. Schmidt was so overwhelmed that she could not speak. She could only smile tremulously, and press her daughter’s hand, trying to catch her breath. After several long moments, she said: “My darling, would you like a Christmas Eve dinner? A few friends—if they have not forgotten us,” she added, sadly.

  Ernestine’s eyes sparkled. “We could ask Mrs. Harcourt and Emily, and Mr. and Mrs. Burton, and Cecilia, and Mr. and Mrs. Uhl and the three girls, and their two brothers, and Dr. and Mrs. Bruning, and Fritz and Gretchen—”

  “And my poor sister,” suggested Mrs. Schmidt, timidly, thinking of her widowed sister in Philadelphia, whose only diversion since her husband’s death had been her endless ailments. “And she would bring little Dickie, and Marcia.” She looked at her daughter and son, with imploring hesitation. “Of course, your Papa might not like it. He was never fond of Elizabeth.”

  Ernestine and Baldur had no liking for their dolorous Aunt Elizabeth, but they expressed dutiful enthusiasm. Mrs. Trenchard was immensely wealthy, but her children were insupportable, in the Schmidts’ opinion.

  Mrs. Schmidt and Ernestine then began an anxious discussion as to whether Miss Zimmermann and her assistants would be able to finish the gowns by Christmas. In the meanti
me, Baldur said nothing. He looked at Irmgard, shadowy now in the twilight.

  Mrs. Schmidt, though she said nothing, was completely exhausted by the time the carriage reached home. She glanced up at the gloomy mansion, where not a window was lighted save for a dim spectral burning in the reception hall. Her spirits fell. She felt again the old helpless and dreamlike impotence she had always felt in that house, the old sensation that she did not really exist, but was some vague disembodied ghost lurking in her distant apartments.

  However, they had no sooner entered the house, with the coachmen carrying the many parcels and boxes, when Matilda advanced towards them like a compact violence. A servant came in her wake, lighting the gas, and carrying a taper in her hand. Matilda stood before the returning culprits, breathing heavily and audibly. Her eyes flashed upon them for an instant, but all their malignancy, at the last, was only for Irmgard.

  “So!” she cried, “the moment I am away, the mouse will play. It will take the poor sick lady out, to her death!”

  Her big stout body, enclosed in its tight black silk, her large red face and fiery blue eyes, seemed to vibrate. Her big hands clenched and unclenched like claws.

  “Matilda,” began Mrs. Schmidt, shrinking. But Ernestine paled. Her small face became tight and grim.

  “Matilda,” she said, quietly, “this is no way for our housekeeper to talk. We owe you no explanation. You will please help Irmgard take mother to her rooms.”

  Irmgard, composed, glanced at Mrs. Schmidt. How much did the poor woman know? How was it possible for her to know nothing? Yet, the girl doubted the extent of Mrs. Schmidt’s ignorance. She looked like death. Her sallow face withered and puckered. She dropped her muff; the sables sagged on her shrivelled body as though they would drag her to the floor.

  Then Baldur spoke, firmly. “You will obey Miss Ernestine at once, Matilda.”

  Matilda turned on him as though she would strike him. Her expression became one of coarse and brutal derision and contempt. But he fixed his calm blue eyes upon her, those eyes with the new deep spark of danger, and she subsided. She actually cringed, wetting her full red mouth.