“Do they seem so different?”
“They don’t seem, my dear girl, they are. It’s when you’re young that they seem. Later on, you begin to understand them—you get their number. And then—oh, my God—you want to exterminate the whole race of them. The nasty things!”
Miss Rooker felt herself blushing.
“Oh, I’m sure they aren’t as bad as all that!”
“Devil’s advocate! Miss Rooker.… Don’t try to defend them.… They’re all rotten.… Oh, I don’t mean that there isn’t a dear old parson here and there, you know—but then you remember the words of the song—‘Even staid old country preachers are engaging tango teachers.’ You can’t get away from it!… No, the man doesn’t live that I’d trust with a lead nickel.… By which, however, I don’t mean that I don’t enjoy having my hair done by a man! Ha, ha!”… Mrs. Oldkirk gave a queer little laugh, flaccid and bitter. She looked at herself, with parted lips, in the mirror: a distant sort of scrutiny, slightly contemptuous. Then, relaxing, she added, “Take my advice—don’t every marry. It’s a snare and a delusion.”
“Why, I should love to marry!”
“Oh, you would!… In that case all I can say is I hope you’ll have better luck than I did.…”
Miss Rooker was silent, confused.
“Tell me, has Betty, my husband—been flirting with you? Don’t be afraid to be frank—it doesn’t matter, you know!”
“Why, no—he hasn’t.”
“You probably wouldn’t tell me if he had. But if he hasn’t yet, he will.… Give him time!”
“Good heavens! What a thing to say!”
“Do I shock you?… I know him like the alphabet!… Poor old satyr.”
“You seem to!”
“Ah, I do.… Absolutely no principles—not a principle. There’s only one thing in Berty I’ve never been able to understand; and that’s his dislike of Miss Lavery. Ha, ha! That’s why I have Miss Lavery keep house for me.”
Mrs. Oldkirk closed her eyes again, faintly smiling. To say such things to her, a stranger! What was the matter with her? Miss Rooker was appalled at the indiscretion.… And Mr. Oldkirk and Miss Lavery going out in the dory at midnight, and talking, talking, long after everyone else had gone to bed.… And that footstep in the hall, and the long affectionate murmur—surely Miss Lavery’s voice?… It was all extraordinary. She had never been in such a queer place. She thought of the incident in the water, and then of Miss Lavery banging her rubber cap against the door, and saying, “I know why you did that!”… Well, Mrs. Oldkirk could sneer at Berty all she liked; but for her part—
“I think that’s enough, thank you, Miss Rooker.… You didn’t forget about the iced tea, did you?”
“No.”
“Do you know where Mr. Oldkirk and Miss Lavery are?”
“No—I think Miss Lavery’s lying down.”
“Well—three-thirty.… Would you mind picking up my magazine? It’s fallen down.…”
… Miss Rooker descended the shell path and sauntered along the hot beach. She sank down on the dry bedded seaweed in the shadow of the bluff. The seaweed was still warm, and smelt strongly of the sea … zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek.… So her eyes were naughty, were they! Perhaps they had more effect than she knew. She smiled. Perhaps Mr. Oldkirk—her heart was beating violently, she opened her book, for a delicious moment the type swam beneath her eyes.
IV.
“Good night,” said Miss Rooker. As she switched off the light and shut the door, the brass traveling clock began striking ten. She went down the stairs, carrying the tray. The lamp on the sitting-room table was lighted, a book was open, there was a smell of cigarette smoke, but nobody was there. The warm wind sang through the screens, fluttered the pages of the book. Where were they? She felt depressed. It was horrible—horrible! She wouldn’t stand it—not another day. Not another hour.… “Mr. Oldkirk, I want to speak to you: I feel that I can’t stay on here.…” Would he try to persuade her to stay? Ah! perhaps he wouldn’t.… They were probably on the beach—not on the veranda, anyway, or she would hear them. She carried the tray into the kitchen, pushing open the swing door. Mary and Hilda were standing close together at one of the windows looking out into the night. Hilda was giggling. They were watching something, standing still and tense.
“He is—he is”—said Mary in a low excited voice—“he’s kissing her. You can see their heads go together.”
“Well, what do you know.” Hilda’s drawl was full of wonder. “Sweet hour!… I wouldn’t mind it much myself.”
“Look! Do you see?”
Miss Rooker let go of the swing door; it shut with a thump, and the two girls started. Hilda’s face was scarlet, Mary was saturnine.
“Who’s kissing who?” asked Miss Rooker, looking angrily from one to the other. Hilda, still blushing, and putting back a strand of pale hair from her moist forehead, answered, embarrassed:
“It’s Mr. Oldkirk and Miss Lavery, miss.”
“Oh! And do you think it’s nice to be spying on them?”
“We weren’t spying—if they do it right on the beach, in the bright moonlight, it’s their lookout.”
Miss Rooker put down the tray and walked back to the sitting room. Her temples were throbbing. What ought she to do? It was disgraceful—before the servants like this! Shameful. She would do something—she must. She went out to the veranda, banging the screen door very loudly. Perhaps they would hear it, though she half hoped they wouldn’t. She went down the path, and as she got to the beach, with its moonlit seaweed, she began whistling, and walking toward the dory. What was she going to say? She didn’t know. Something. Something short and angry. The moonlight showed them quite clearly—they must have heard her coming, for Mr. Oldkirk was striking a match and lighting a cigarette, and they had moved apart. They were sitting against the dory.
“Why, it’s Miss Rooker!” cried Mr. Oldkirk. “Come and bask in the moonlight, Miss Rooker.”
She looked down at them, feeling her lips very dry.
“I felt I ought to tell you that the servants are watching you,” she said. There was a silence-dreadful. Then, as Mr. Oldkirk said, “Oh!” and began scrambling to his feet, she turned and walked away.… That would teach them! That would give that hateful woman something to think about!
In the sitting room she sat down by the table, sank her forehead in her hands and pretended to be reading. What was going to happen? The screen door banged and Miss Lavery stood in the hall, under the light.
“Miss Rooker,” she said. Her voice shook a little. Miss Rooker rose and moved slowly toward her, a little pleased to observe the whiteness of her face.
“What is it?”
“You’re a dirty spy,” was the low answer, and Miss Lavery, turning, went calmly up the stairs. She could think of nothing to say—nothing!… She burned. Anyone would suppose it was she who was in the wrong!… She sat down again, holding the book on her knee.… She would like to kill that woman!… Where was Mr. Oldkirk? She must see Mr. Oldkirk and tell him to his face—she would say that she was leaving tomorrow. Yes—tomorrow! By the nine-fifteen. They would have to get another nurse. Horrible! She discovered that she was trembling. What was she trembling for? She was angry, that was all, angry and excited—she wasn’t afraid. Afraid of what? Mr. Oldkirk? Absurd!… She began reading. The words seemed large, cold, and meaningless, the sentences miles apart. “Said she, he said, and said she, smiling cruelly.” Zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek—zeek—those damned crickets! Where, where in God’s name was Mr. Oldkirk?… Should she saunter out and meet him on the beach? No. He would put two and two together. He would remember her touching him in the water. She must wait—pretend to be reading. “The blind man put out his white, extraordinarily sensitive hand, his hand that was conscious as … eyes are conscious. He touched her face, and she shrank. His forefinger felt for the scar along the left side of her jaw and ran lightly, it seemed almost hysterically, over it—with hysterical joy. ‘Marie!’ he cried—‘it’s little Marie!…’” How perfectly ridiculous.… And to think of Mrs. Oldkirk, all the time thinking that Berty disliked Miss Lavery! That was the limit. Yes, the absolute limit. “That’s why I have her keep house for me.” But did she, perhaps, know it all the time?… Ah!… She was sly, Mrs. Oldkirk!… It was possible—it was perfectly possible.… Extraordinary house!