GITA, who, to use his own word, had pestered Mr. Donald for money to refurnish her house, had announced some time since that she had changed her mind.
“I suppose the house has changed it for me,” she thought; she condescended to no explanation to her lawyer, whom she delighted in tormenting. “I’ve an idea its walls would fall in if I took too many liberties with its sacred traditions.”
And now that the more anachronistic of the furnishings had been banished (what-nots, rep sets with antimacassars, walnut writing-desks, hat-racks, marble-topped tables, chiffoniers, commodes, ottomans, Victorian horsehair), and fresh air had exorcised the mustiness she had found so depressing, there was no question that tulipwood and hickory, spindle-legs and mahogany, carved oak and pewter, Sheraton and Windsor, lady-made tapestry, threadbare velvet, brocade and damask, however little they might harmonize one with the other, were as much a part of the historic old mansion as the family portraits; and nothing she could buy in New York or Philadelphia, even if she confined herself to “period” shops, would take their place. Like the walls they had been the mute companions of nearly three centuries of Carterets; and Gita, sitting on one of the faded chairs in the drawing-room, sometimes fancied there was a knowing smile on the lips of her grandmother’s portrait, painted shortly after she came to the manor as a bride, and smiled in unwilling response as she remembered one of her last conversations with the redoubtable old lady. She had surrendered to the house, no doubt of that. She had despised ancestral traditions as long as they had given her nothing, had been a convinced democrat, with leanings toward socialism, as long as she was a quasi-derelict; but now that she possessed an adequate and independent income, inherited from her line with one of the most historic old properties in America, she felt as if she were being reëducated in silent communion with every Carteret that had lived here before her.
There were family portraits all over the lower floor, and their painted unchanging faces had become as familiar to her as those of her lively and excessively modern young friends; she sat in the twilight and tried to visualize that long and vanished line that had contributed to the personality of the house even if their shades did not return to haunt it. She had no fear of ghosts and would have liked to see her Carterets moving about their old habitat in the picturesque costumes of their eras. The only ghost that would have frightened her was her too-recent grandmother’s, and if her father had stood before her she would have shrieked her dismay. She sincerely hoped his discarnate self was permanently impaled in a roasting pit.
Oh, the old house had got her! It was remaking her in a way, and at this conclusion she sometimes rebelled. She had looked upon Gita Carteret as a crystallized and unique individuality, and to be reconstructed by a combination of circumstances and ghosts gave her ego some intemperate moments; but finally she reasoned that as everyone was the sum of his ancestors, what she was developing into had really composed the foundations of her being, and was now enjoying its first opportunity to express itself. If she had been brought up at Carteret Manor, as her grandmother had insinuated, she would have been a Carteret to her still recalcitrant spine.
While drawing these wise conclusions she quite forgot poor Millicent, who, after all, had contributed, both by blood and counsel, a modicum of sweetness and adaptability—to say nothing of good manners when Gita chose to use them. No Carteret had ever been called adaptable or sweet. Their grim handsome hard faces were of men—and women—whom life had favored not chastened, and had bred out less powerful cross-strains necessarily introduced by marriage.
Gita had forgotten Eustace Bylant almost as soon as he had left her; forgot him as promptly after each subsequent visit; or, if he drifted across her memory, it was merely as a sympathetic and instructive mind, whose devotion to his mother had struck a responsive chord, and then delivered her own of its burden. As a man he was non-existent. Although she analyzed herself ruthlessly and as often as occasion demanded, on sex, either in herself or other women, she had never wasted a thought. She might resent being a “female,” but as to what it involved aside from its disabilities was no concern of hers. She had read enough to know that some women went through life as frigid as the disembodied, and she concluded, when she thought about the matter at all, that she belonged in their class. Odd if she did not, with her springs poisoned before they had reached the surface. Anyhow, it was one more matter for congratulation and pointed the wings of her freedom.
Polly strolled in on her one day when she was standing before the portrait of her grandmother, whimsically making faces at the intolerant beauty who had harbored no doubts of HER place in the general scheme, and laughed aloud.
“Why don’t you stick your tongue out at her?” she asked. “I often wanted to when I was a kid.”
Gita whirled, frowning. “I didn’t hear you!”
“Glad you didn’t. Caught another glimpse of your innards. Eustace Bylant would express it more stylistically, no doubt. Hear you’ve been seeing a lot of him lately. What’s happened? Thought you’d no use for men.”
“He’s brought me some books—jolly good ones.”
“But he’s a man, my dear. A two-legged, upstanding, at least eighty-eight-per-cent man.”
“Is he?” asked Gita indifferently. “What has that to do with it? I remember I told you once I’d no objection to talking to intelligent men as long as they behaved themselves.”
“Oh, he’s a sly old fox, but I’ll wager this is the first time he’s had to hold in and lay siege. Siege is generally on the other side.”
“Don’t talk rot. He thinks I need educating, and I certainly do. He might be a forty-per-cent as far as I’m concerned.”
Polly looked at her sharply, then laughed. “Poor Eustace! However, life, to say nothing of our own sweet sex, has treated him well. It would take a good deal to discourage him——”
“Don’t be a crashing bore. You look lovely. Why don’t blondes always wear pale yellow?”
“Like it?” Polly spun on her heel. She wore a woven silk sport suit and untrimmed felt hat of yellow the shade of her hair and looked not unlike a canary. “You’d be wonderful in yellow yourself and I long for the time when you’ll go into colors. I’ve thought out two gowns for you.”
Gita’s eyes sparkled and her faint annoyance passed, with all memory of Eustace Bylant. “I feel symptoms of taking a frantic interest in dress and wish I were rich.”
“Oh, you’ve enough. Lots of the girls have to manage. They’ve got hold of a little dressmaker lately who was with Langdorf and Dana for years and has set up for herself. She’ll dress you for hundreds where the old robbers would charge you thousands. And as Mr. Donald is dying to get rid of you he’ll not lecture you on extravagance—and that brings me to the object of this morning call. Mother is frightfully upset.”
“Is she? What’s the matter with her?” Gita was sitting on a low crinoline chair looking up at Polly, who had begun to walk restlessly about the room.
“Have to come out with it, I suppose, as I offered to take on the job. She hates scenes, and as for poor old Donald——”
“Scenes? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Well—she and Mr. Donald had a long pow-wow yesterday, and the upshot was they decided you must have a chaperon-companion—and at once.”
“Chaperon? I?” Gita sprang to her feet. “Are you raving?”
“Oh, come now, Gita, you’ve seen a good deal of the world, first and last. You know perfectly well that girls of our sort don’t live alone. Neither mother nor Mr. Donald thought it worth bothering about before, because you were in mourning, and because—well, because you were you. They never for a moment imagined you’d be receiving young men alone.”
“I’ll not let him come here again. I shouldn’t care if I never saw him again.”
“Poor Eustace! But the harm’s done, my dear. All Chelsea is buzzing——”
“Your crowd, you mean! They’re nice ones to talk. I thought they’d forgotten the meaning of the word chaperon.”
“Ah, but we’d never live alone, my dear. To be really free you must observe certain conventions just as you must wear the proper clothes. Keep your background intact and you may kick your slipper over the moon. Think of all the rascality men get away with so long as they keep within the law. Same idea. We’ll have to find a respectable companion for you——”
“No, you will not! I love living alone and doing just as I please. And no companion would stay with me a week, I’ll tell you.”
“Oh, she’d have a sweet time of it, no doubt of that. But, Gita, remember you’re coming out next winter——”
“I’ll settle that right here. If I have to choose between your stupid old Society and my complete independence I won’t come out. I could get a lot more out of New York, anyhow, by myself, and if I want to know people Elsie will take me among the sophisticates. You know perfectly well I’d be a failure in Society, anyhow.”
Polly was dismayed. She had watched the evolution of Gita with satisfaction and mirth, and was convinced that when she had shed the last of her bristles she would be a regular girl; not quite like anyone else, perhaps, but amenable. But this was taking freedom altogether too seriously. She gathered her forces and she was a hardy antagonist.
“Know what will happen?” she demanded, seating herself and lighting a cigarette. “The men of that sophisticate crowd will feel they can insult you with impunity. Pretty mixed crowd; not all gentlemen, not by a long sight. I’ve sneaked out and gone to several of their parties with Eustace. They don’t drink any more than we do, for they couldn’t, but our boys, rotten as they are, know how to treat us—have the same code—and some of those men, let me tell you, do not; when they’re lit, at all events. And, as you don’t write, or anything of that sort, they’d assume you were a blasée rich girl out for larks. You’re a beauty in your own fierce way, and they’d paw you till you were sick. Neither Eustace nor Elsie could protect you——”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Gita stamped her foot. Her black brows were an unbroken line and her eyes shooting sparks. “Don’t you suppose I know how to take care of myself? I’ve had enough experience, God knows. I’m not afraid of sophisticates; they’re probably babies beside European men, and if they were as bad as you make them out, which they probably are not, I’d keep them in their place. I haven’t been to any of your parties, but I’ve met men at your house and I wouldn’t put anything past them——”
“Right, right, my dear. But you’re not their sort—not yet at all events. Men have to be met half-way, these days. They won’t bother you——”
“You just said those other men were not my sort either.”
“More so, for they have brains. They’d go crazy over you because you suggest sex, all right, even if you haven’t any, and sex is their main preoccupation. You’ll be safe with us, my dear—and nowhere else.”
She had played her first strong card and was wise enough to break off and open her vanity-box, while Gita strode over to the window and stared moodily at the calm old oak on the lawn.
“I needn’t go into that crowd either.” Gita broke the silence after Polly had powdered her nose and lit another cigarette.
“Oh? Sure? You forget you’ve learned what companionship means, and I doubt if you could do without it. Eustace must have taught that hungry mind of yours a few things. Hasn’t he?”
“Well, according to your own account, I’d not find any of his sort in your set.”
“But I have a plan, if you’ll sit down and look at me. A real inspiration. Eustace is the only man I happen to know in that crowd; he’s a second or third cousin and mother used to visit his mother in Albany. I’ll take him on as a partner to make our house interesting to you. He’ll bring as many of his friends to us as he thinks worthy the honor of meeting you, and will give parties at his rooms, hand-picked. That way you’ll have the cream of both worlds and can enjoy yourself without wondering what will come next. I shan’t object a bit, myself, for novelty is the only thing to live for; and as for mother, she adores Eustace and wouldn’t mind a bit if I married him——”
“Why don’t you? You intend to marry some day and I should think he’d be more tolerable than most. He’s a gentleman, has plenty of money, and an occupation that would keep him out of your way most of the time.”
“I believe in mixed colors if not in mixed races. A brunette for mine. Not dark enough to be greasy, but a nice pale brown or olive. A man as blond as I am would make my skin crawl. Now, if you were to marry Eustace that would settle our problem nicely.”
Gita deigned no answer.
“Not for a year or two, really. I want you to find out what it is to be a girl first. But isn’t mine the perfect plan?”
“It sounds better than it may work out.”
“It appeals to you and you can’t deny it. And that brings us back to the main point. You must have a companion.”
“That I won’t.”
“Your voice has lost its emphasis. You know that you must. There’s an aunt of mother’s, poor but proud, who’s living on a dog’s income. She’s a perfect lady, wears caps, and takes nice little mincing steps——”
“Good lord!”
“Well, how about Mrs. Brewster?” She tightened the corners of her lips as Gita dropped into a chair and stared at her.
“Elsie! What an idea!”
“Fine idea. She would do for the rest of the year, and you’re coming to us in January.”
“Elsie? She’s about the only person I could live with.”
“Quite so. Think it over.”
“But—if she’d come.”
“She will when I put it up to her. I’ve only met her twice; once here, and the other night at a dinner Eustace gave, but she made me wish I knew her better. I’d like an excuse to call on her and if you say the word I’ll tackle her today.”
“She can’t work anywhere but in her study.”
“That’s the way Eustace talks. Sounds to me like bally rot, as our English friends say, but I suppose your geniuses know their own business. Anyhow, she could write at home and spend the rest of her time here. That mother of hers wouldn’t miss anybody, from all accounts.”
“Well—if Elsie’ll come I’ll have her; but no one else, mind you. And you mustn’t call on her in the morning. She doesn’t let anyone disturb her.”
“Then I’ll stay to lunch and see to it you don’t change your mind.”