“I didn’t try,” Alice said. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Go and bring Ida. Ida is my friend. I can trust Ida.” She sat on the bed and smiled craftily in Alice’s direction. “You saw Ida’s ring, Alice? Pretty, isn’t it? How does it look on her? She’s’ got fat hands, hasn’t she? Fat red puffy hands?”
“You shouldn’t,” Alice said dully. “You shouldn’t have given it to her.”
“Does Philip know?”
“No.”
“You’ll bring it to his attention some time, won’t you? Promise me.”
“No. No, I won’t.”
“I want Ida,” Kelsey said querulously. “Go and get Ida.”
“I’ll have Maurice tell her.”
“No, you tell her, Alice.”
“Maurice will,” Alice said. “Will you be down for dinner?”
“No, I’m not coming down for dinner any more. I don’t want to see anyone.”
Alice closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a minute. Maurice hadn’t turned on the lights yet and the hall was dark, a place to hide in. When she was a child she had crouched here waiting for the doctor to come out of her mother’s room, waiting so she’d be the first to see his face and know if her mother had died. In this hall she had hidden, peering over the top of the banister, waiting for the arrival of her music teacher. Sometimes Maurice would pass close by her, calling, “Miss Alice! Mr. Harrington has arrived. Miss Alice, you’re not hiding?”
There was a feeling of guilt connected with this hall — perhaps she had wanted her mother to die; certainly she hadn’t wanted to see Mr. Harrington, ever — and it rose in her now, pressing on her eyes and ears, taut against her forehead like an iron hand.
I’ve done nothing, nothing to be ashamed of.
She heard a step on the stairs and turned her head. Maurice was coming up, looking faintly worried, just as he used to look when he was searching for her. She waited, hoping, almost expecting him to say, “Miss Alice, Mr. Harrington has arrived.”
But he didn’t even see her and it wasn’t the same Maurice after all. This one was old and couldn’t see very well, and Mr. Harrington had been dead for ten years.
Alice said, “Maurice, Kelsey wants Ida.”
He peered at her without surprise. “Yes ma’am. I’ll tell her.”
What a dreary voice he had, Alice thought, a voice to match the house and this dark hall.
Had it always been like this? Hadn’t there been laughter sometimes, and parties and dancing? Or had she only dreamed that people went through this hall to lay their wraps in the guest rooms, laughing and talking? And children, too, dressed in their Sunday best, drinking too much lemonade and eternally running to the bathroom?
No, the children were no dream. She could remember one of them well, a sober child with brown braids, who sneaked upstairs to listen outside her mother’s door and then crept back to the party. I am Alice Heath.
“Will that be all, ma’am?”
The lights were on and the child with the brown braids had gone back to the party.
“Shall I take Prince down with me, ma’am?”
Alice swung round sharply. In front of the door of her own room Prince lay with his head between his paws. His eyes regarded her, bright with interest. He had been there all the time watching her, knowing all about her, perhaps. She had the feeling again that the dog was human, that he could spy on her and be aware of her thoughts, even criticize her.
She called to him with a self-conscious laugh. He rose quickly and silently and stood beside her. She put a reluctant hand on his neck, as if she hated him but must be nice to him. Don’t tell on me, Prince. There’ll be something in it for you if you don’t tell on me.
There were only the three of them at dinner, Alice, Johnny and Philip, and they ate in the drawing room at a table drawn up in front of the fireplace. They spoke seldom at first, their voices polite and formal.
“More lamb, Alice?”
“No thank you, John.”
“Phil?”
“No thank you.”
“It’s a bit overdone,” Johnny said. “Reminds me of the time Phil gave the concert in that church on Bloor Street and the Ladies’ Aid or something made a supper for him in the Sunday School. Remember, Phil?”
“No,” Philip said.
His face was cold wax. Only the flicker of the flames gave it a vicarious life, moving across it like probing sculptors’ fingers, pinching the wax into a smile, smoothing it out again.
“I don’t remember anything,” he said bleakly. “I can’t afford to. I’ve got to start all over with my mind stripped as clean as a newborn baby’s. As clean as Johnny’s even.”
“So you’re still in a mood,” Johnny said, grinning.
Philip didn’t answer. His eyes were on Alice as she poured the coffee. When she handed him his cup he took it out of her hand quickly, as if he were afraid to touch her and wanted to get the contact over with.
“Johnny?” Alice said. “Have some?”
“Thanks. Maurice forgot the cognac. I’ll ring.”
“I thought you’d be going teetotal,” Philip said.
“Me?” Johnny stared. “Why?”
“The new girl disapproves, doesn’t she?”
“Oh. By God, she does. But you wouldn’t think she’d count a couple of drops of cognac in coffee.”
“T.T.’s count everything.”
“Well, by God,” Johnny said again. “Is that right?”
Philip smiled thinly. “Perfectly right. Be prepared to give it up for love. I seem to recall giving up a number of things for the same frail reason.”
“Philip,” Alice said sharply.
He didn’t look at her. “Smoking was my sacrifice. Not a very big one, perhaps, for such a holy cause, but a persistent, nagging one.”
“That’s different,” Johnny said. “Marcie is more reasonable than Kelsey.”
“Shouldn’t be hard for her. Kelsey is surely the ideal of unreason.”
“Well, don’t talk about it!” Alice said. “You’re going away. Leave it at that.” She turned to Johnny and gave him the parent-to-child smile that all women, including his sisters, were prepared to give Johnny when he was being a good boy. “You’re really serious about this girl, Johnny?”
Johnny leaned back in his chair. “She’s fine. You’d like her. She’s never had much of a chance...”
“So few of them do,” Philip said.
“Dry up, Phil. She dances. She does an acrobatic number at Joey’s. She can twist herself into the most fantastic shapes.”
“Oh, God,” said Philip.
“She’s good,” Johnny went on. “Joey’s isn’t much of a place of course.”
“Don’t apologize for her,” Alice said, frowning.
“But it’s a start. She works hard at it because she wants to be really good some day. She lives at home with her mother...”
“A prolific woman,” Philip said, “with a real talent for reproduction.”
Johnny scowled at him. “What in hell’s got into you?”
“Well, isn’t she and hasn’t she?”
“No,” Johnny said shortly. “I’d like to know what’s the matter with you tonight.”
“The matter is your sister.” He paused. “Yes, and I have a mouthful of sour grapes, grapes as big as oranges and stewed in quinine. I have to spit them out some place, and you’re handy, see?”
“You couldn’t,” Alice said coldly, “be expected to chew and swallow them like a civilized person?”
“Like Alice, like a civilized person,” Philip jeered, “No, never. I don’t deserve what I’ve got. Nothing has been my fault. Even that night I didn’t want Kelsey to drive. She was half-tight.”
“She was not,” Alice said.
“Ask Johnny if she wasn’t! She was feeling high and she said she wanted to drive. Johnny was in the rumble-seat...”