GITA felt inclined to dance as she swaggered about the dilapidated old garden, her hands in her pockets. She felt uncommonly buoyant. Whether she liked Polly Pleyden or not she hardly knew, but the creature was certainly stimulating. And the future looked less gray. She would have felt no desire to go to the wild parties she had read about during those long days on the desert, even were her grandmother well and amenable, but if the other girls were as amusing as Polly she would have a lot of fun with them.
California had helped her, but it was time for another superstructure.
What would it be like? For a moment her feet in their heavy boy’s shoes danced on the path. Then she saw Topper approaching and tried to look indifferent and dignified.
“Mrs. Carteret would like to see you, miss,” said the old butler, who never looked otherwise than dignified.
She ran into the house and up the stair and for the first time showed a smiling face at the door of the sick-room. The old lady was sitting up in bed, an antiquated jewel-casket open beside her. She gave her grandchild a sharp glance.
“So! What you needed was young folks,” she commented dryly. “Polly Pleyden is a frivolous, fast, pert, painted minx, but I suppose she’s better than nothing. If she’d been properly brought up she’d have called a day or two after your arrival. But never mind Polly. Come here. I’ve something to show you.”
Gita, more interested in the contents of the casket than in her grandmother’s opinion of Polly Pleyden, came to the side of the bed and bent over a tray of necklaces, bracelets, rings, and brooches. The settings were old-fashioned, but the stones: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, were of fair size and perfect clarity. For the moment she felt acutely feminine. Her eyes sparkled and she touched them lingeringly with her finger-tips. She had read stories demonstrating the fascination of jewels, but had never imagined that her own response would be keen and ardent. In jewelers’ windows she had not given them more than a casual glance. But to be as close to them as this! To touch them, to bend low over their fire. . . . For a moment she was almost angry.
“Lift out that tray,” said Mrs. Carteret.
The next held a rope of pearls, large, evenly matched, very white, and with a sheen that gave Gita a curious thrill. There was a sense of life, of mystery . . . strangely remote and desirable.
“I always wore them at night until lately to keep them from dying. They are to be yours, of course. Put them on.”
Gita lifted the pearls over her head reverently, and ran to a mirror. “Are they really for me?” she gasped. “How can I thank you, grandmother! I never knew that pearls were beautiful before. But these! Mine!”
“Oh! You’re not a boy after all! Good.” Then as Gita frowned she added hastily, “Come back and lift out this tray.”
In the large compartment beneath was a heavy and hideous tiara of diamonds and emeralds. Mrs. Carteret sighed. “I suppose you’ll never wear it. I’m told such things are no longer in fashion. But many’s the time I wore it in the old Academy of Music—and in Covent Garden. Evelyn wore it in her day and was the most splendid figure in the Metropolitan Opera House. Her husband sent it back to me when she died. . . . Well, you can have the stones made into a necklace when you are older.”
“I? Am I to have all these wonderful jewels?”
“Who else? But you are not to sell them.”
“I’d never dream of selling them. When I’m blue I’ll just take them out and play with them.”
“That is the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say. And many are heirlooms, remember. . . . There was a magnificent diamond necklace your grandfather gave me, but it went to pay racing-debts after an unfortunate season at Saratoga. He was a good man, but insane about horses. I often feel thankful he died before this era of shrieking motors. They would have broken his heart. Sit down and play with these things now. I see they have cast a spell over you and I am beginning to feel hopeful.”
Gita took a low chair beside the bed and poured the contents of the upper tray into her lap, letting the chains run through her fingers, trying on the bracelets and rings. The fine stones seemed to wink at her knowingly.
“They’ll have to be reset,” said the old lady sadly. “Tout passé. Now,” she added briskly, “there’s another thing I want you to promise. If you don’t I’ll leave every one of these jewels to a hospital.”
“Grandmother! Blackmail! What is it?”
“You must wear mourning for me. I’m told it’s more or less out of date, but I believe in the decencies of life. You say neither you nor your mother approved of mourning, but that has nothing to do with me. You will do as I ask, I suppose?”
“Of course.” Gita was in a mood to promise anything.
“Well, that’s one point gained! And six months will be enough. I’m only your grandmother. But after that you are to dress not only like a girl, but a fashionable girl; you’ll give those ridiculous suits to the servants.”
“But all the girls wear tailored suits—and as for sport——”
“Like yours? No furbishing up?”
“Oh, they wear scarves and bright hats—other things, I suppose. I’ve hardly noticed.”
“But you have noticed they indulge in every feminine vanity, even if they’ve cut off the hair that Nature meant to be woman’s chief adornment and have neither the full busts nor the swelling hips that once made a beautiful woman’s ‘figger,’ as we called it. And the tiny waists!”
“They must have looked horrid,” said Gita sincerely.
“Not at all. Quite the contrary. I wonder men are ever attracted to women these days. Nature intended women to have figures entirely different from men. Else why didn’t she make them on the same plan and save them the trouble of starving themselves? Answer me that!” said the old lady triumphantly. “A girl in my day, my daughters’ day, had no chance if she looked like a lath. She padded. And these young ninnies of today may have a certain style but not a particle of elegance. No wonder they wear little straight frocks. It takes a figger to show off elegant gowns. What in the world started such a fashion?” she asked querulously. “Do you mean to tell me men admire girls that look like boys?”
“They seem to. Probably that’s the reason the girls have sacrificed woman’s chief adornment.”
“But men used to rave over woman’s tresses.”
“Well, the men nowadays don’t rave much except over bootleggers and motors. Perhaps that’s the reason they want the girls to look as much like themselves as possible. Or maybe they’re more in love with themselves than ever since the war and the girls imitate them without realizing it is a sort of subtle flattery.” Gita was unconsciously groping. She had never given the matter a thought.
Mrs. Carteret cackled, her frail body shaking. “I suppose that’s the reason you shaved your head, didn’t even leave a few locks in front to cover your ears and soften your forehead!”
“I?” Gita forgot the jewels. “I should think not. It’s about the last reason!”
“Well, jewels and hairless heads don’t go together. It will be a good time to let your hair grow, while you’re in mourning, and some clever hair-dresser will find a way to tuck it up. I suppose it is naturally straight but it could be waved. And that reminds me. I am making you promise a good many things but this is one of the most important. When the proper time comes Mary Pleyden will introduce you to Society, and you are to go to the best dressmaker you can afford and wear the most elaborate clothes that fashion permits.”
“Nothing is very elaborate these days.”
“So I understand. But you are to dress like other girls—the most sensible and feminine. That’s all I have to ask. Is it understood?”
“Yes, grandmother, but I don’t care for clothes, really——”
“Never had ’em. That’s the reason. You’re a stoic, I imagine, and wouldn’t permit yourself to want what you couldn’t have. Wait until you have a wardrobe full of pretty things.”
Gita shrugged her thin shoulders. “Perhaps. But I don’t care for society either, grandmother. I—I—don’t know how to dance.”
“I never heard of such a thing! But you can learn, I suppose. You’re naturally graceful. You wouldn’t be a Carteret if you weren’t.”
Gita hastily changed the subject. “And I never know what to talk to men about. I’d really rather live quietly here and go over to New York occasionally—to the theater and concerts and lectures. And the opera! I haven’t been to an opera since I was fourteen.”
“Shocking! Well, go to the opera and show yourself. And as for men they’ll soon teach you what to talk about, or you’re not a Carteret. We were all great gabblers. Now, put those jewels back in the casket and put that in the wall-safe over there behind the open panel, before that nurse comes back. She may be as good as she looks, but I never trust outsiders. I told her to send up Topper and he got it out for me. You may keep the pearls. Wear them as often as you can.”
After Gita had hidden the casket she returned to the bedside and brushed her lips against the old lady’s tabid cheek. “You are very kind and generous, grandmother,” she said gratefully.
“Thanks!” Mrs. Carteret’s voice was as dry as usual but her eyes gleamed. “And your lips are very soft, my dear. Here comes that woman. It is time for your dinner. And when you have replenished your wardrobe I hope you will dress for dinner every night, even when you are alone.”