The weather, of course, continued fair. No one could find the snake behind the bookcase, and the hedges, in particular the hedges along the walk to the secret garden, were clipped to bare bone. Aunt Fanny wore her mother’s diamonds every day, even at breakfast, and wore, besides, a look of quiet satisfaction peculiarly irritating to Mrs. Halloran. Maryjane’s asthma improved somewhat. Essex, who was skillful in slight arts, carved a tiny totem pole for Fancy’s doll house, with a recognizable likeness of Aunt Fanny at the bottom. Mr. Halloran asked that his nurse stop reading him weekly magazines and begin on Robinson Crusoe, and during the long afternoons anyone passing the doorway to Mr. Halloran’s sunfilled room might hear the flat level voice continuing, “A little after noon I found the sea very calm, and the tide ebbed so far out that I could come within a quarter of a mile of the ship, and here I found a fresh renewing of my grief; for I saw evidently, that if we had kept on board, we had been all safe . . .” Mrs. Halloran sketched out a rough plan for a tiny amphitheatre to be constructed on a little hill beyond the orchard, without announcing any particular design for its possible use, and one morning received word of the imminent arrival of guests.
“I am expecting guests,” she said at breakfast, folding the letter carefully and putting it back into its envelope.
“Here?” said Aunt Fanny blankly.
“Where else?” said Mrs. Halloran.
“This is still a house of mourning, Orianna. Had you forgotten?”
“You never remember Lionel, Fanny, except when he might be an inconvenience to me. I am expecting guests. A Mrs. Willow and her two daughters. Very old friends of mine.”
“From another walk of life, I suppose,” Aunt Fanny said with a little smile. “If they are such very old friends of yours.”
“No, Aunt Fanny, they will not please you. How delightful that I should be in a position to entertain them even if they do not please Aunt Fanny.”
“Two daughters?” said Miss Ogilvie. “Will they attend my little school for Fancy?”
“I hardly think so. The older of them must be nearly thirty, and I expect there is very little she can learn from you now, Miss Ogilvie.”
“At least,” said Aunt Fanny, with the same little smile, “we need not expect them to stay for long.”
“I have not seen Augusta Willow for nearly fifteen years,” Mrs. Halloran said with seeming irrelevancy, “but I cannot believe that she has changed that much.”
“When are they coming?” Miss Ogilvie asked.
“The sixteenth. That would be Friday, Essex, would it not?”
_____
A car was sent late Friday afternoon to meet Mrs. Willow and her daughters, and Maryjane finding herself unequal to meeting company so late in the day, Mrs. Halloran waited in the drawing room with Mr. Halloran by the fire, and Essex and Miss Ogilvie and Aunt Fanny to receive her very old friend, whose voice was heard from the driveway as she got out of the car, directing the disposition of numerous pieces of luggage. Mrs. Halloran smiled at Aunt Fanny, who seemed to be counting under her breath the severally designated little blue bags and large tan dress cases and hatboxes and jewelcases and overnight bags and dark red heavy cases, and said softly, “Aunt Fanny, how lucky that your father has set an arbitrary end to this visit,” and then, still smiling, rose to greet her friend.
Mrs. Willow was a large and overwhelmingly vocal woman, with a great bosom and an indefinable air of having lost some vital possession down the front of it, for she shook and trembled and regarded herself with such enthusiasm, that it was all the casual observer could do at first to keep from offering to help. Whatever she had lost and was hoping to recover, it was not her good humor, for that was unlosable, and seemed, in fact, as much a matter of complete insensitivity as of good spirits; Mrs. Willow was absolutely determined to be affable, and would not be denied.
“And you have gotten older, Orianna,” she said, entering, “how glad I am! The older we get ourselves the more we like to see it in our friends,” and she smiled amply around the room, as though prepared with only the faintest encouragement to gather them all to her bosom, that repository of lost treasures, and cherish them for having grown older every minute since they were born, “and I can’t say,” she continued happily, “that you’ve done anything to improve the looks of this old place. And I won’t say,” she went on, “that Richard Halloran looks well.” She nodded toward Mr. Halloran, in his wheel chair by the fire.
“This is a house of mourning, ma’am,” Aunt Fanny said.
“And this is Aunt Fanny. My sister-in-law,” Mrs. Halloran said. “I had forgotten what a disturbance you make, Augusta.”
“Don’t I?” said Mrs. Willow. She turned slowly, to regard with individual speculation each person in the room. “Who’s that young man?” she asked, as one going directly to the heart of a problem.
“Essex,” Mrs. Halloran said, and Essex bowed, speechless.
“Miss Ogilvie,” Mrs. Halloran said; Miss Ogilvie fluttered, looked for help to Richard Halloran, and made a weak smile.
“You remember my gels?” Mrs. Willow asked, gesturing. “That one’s Arabella, the pretty one, and the dark one’s Julia. Curtsey to your Aunt Orianna, pets.”
“Do try to call me Mrs. Halloran,” Mrs. Halloran said to the two girls. These, accustomed to the manners of their mother, tended clearly to underestimate the rest of the world; the dark one, who was Julia, nodded gracelessly, said, “Hello,” and turned away. Arabella, who was the pretty one, smiled prettily, her eye falling—as perhaps it had not before—upon Essex, behind Mrs. Halloran’s chair. “How do you do?” she said.
“Well.” Mrs. Willow, having surveyed the room and the people in it, turned back to Mrs. Halloran. “Pretty dull here, are you? You like my gels, Orianna?”
“Not so far,” said Mrs. Halloran. “Of course, it is not impossible that they may improve upon further acquaintance.”
“Richard,” said Mrs. Willow, going to him by the fire, “you remember me? Do you keep well? I can’t say you look fit.”
“My brother is grieving, ma’am,” said Aunt Fanny.
“It’s Augusta, is it not?” Richard Halloran said, looking up. “They think I am unable to remember, Augusta, but I remember you clearly; you wore a red dress and the sun was shining.”
Mrs. Willow laughed hugely. “I’ve come back to cheer you a little, Richard.”
“Do you remember,” Richard Halloran asked, raising his eyes to Mrs. Willow, “when we rang the bells over the carriage house?”
“Do I not,” said Mrs. Willow comfortably. “Ah, you used to be a gay one, Richard. Plenty of pranks in your time, I’ll be bound. But you’re too warm here by the fire; you,” she gestured to Essex, “come and help me move his chair.”
“If you please,” Aunt Fanny said, coming forward with dignity, “my brother is perfectly comfortable here. This is my father’s house, ma’am, and my brother may sit where he pleases within it.”
“Of course he may, dear,” Mrs. Willow patted Aunt Fanny on the shoulder. “Just as soon as I have him a little bit away from the fire.”
“This is what you bring into a house of mourning,” Aunt Fanny said bitterly to Mrs. Halloran.
Mrs. Willow was not listening; she had moved Richard’s chair enough away from the fire to allow her to stand wholly in front of the fireplace, and she lifted her skirt in back to warm her legs.
“I shall expect you to keep away from the servants, Augusta,” Mrs. Halloran said.
“Well, now,” and Mrs. Willow laughed, and the chandelier jingled. “Just because of one time I could tell you about,” and she turned to include the room in her confidential smile. “Imagine old Orianna remembering—I’ll tell you,” she added pointedly to Essex, “when my gels aren’t around. Now,” she said, “why don’t we get caught up on old times? Orianna, tell me everything that’s happened since I saw you last.”
/> Arabella, who was the pretty one, was already whispering confidentially into the ear of Essex, and Julia, who was the clever one, was listening to Miss Ogilvie’s whisper; “Someone to talk to around here,” Arabella was saying, and “Snake behind the bookcase,” Julia was hearing.
“I think you have quite enough company without me,” Aunt Fanny said to Mrs. Halloran. “Perhaps I might be permitted to spend the evening privately with my brother?”
“Splendid,” Mrs. Willow said heartily. “Poor Richard badly wants cheering. You give him a few good laughs, my dearie, and he’ll perk up a wonder.”
“Orianna?” said Aunt Fanny remotely.
“Of course, Aunt Fanny.” Mrs. Halloran looked without fondness upon Arabella. “Richard,” she asked, “shall we take you back to your room now?”
“I will not have eggs again,” Richard Halloran said. “Orianna, tell them in the kitchen that I will not have eggs again.”
“Certainly you will not. And Aunt Fanny will be with you; I believe that they have made you a chocolate pudding.”
“Orianna,” said Aunt Fanny in sudden apprehension, “where are you putting Mrs. Willow and her daughters? Naturally, in the left wing with Maryjane?”
“We must not intrude upon Maryjane’s grief, Aunt Fanny. They will be at the end of the long hall near the stairway, and on the floor above you. You cannot possibly hear them.”
“I will hear them, Orianna,” Aunt Fanny said tautly. “You know perfectly well. I will hear them; my rest will be constantly disturbed.”
“Then don’t tell anyone what goes on.” Mrs. Willow gave a huge wink and Aunt Fanny put her hand to her throat, and closed her eyes.
“Will you say goodnight, Richard?” Mrs. Halloran asked, turning the wheel chair, and Mr. Halloran bowed his head graciously and said, “Goodnight to all of you.”
“Sweet dreams to you,” Mrs. Willow said, and Miss Ogilvie said, “Goodnight, Mr. Halloran,” and Julia and Arabella glanced up, and down again. Mrs. Halloran took the wheel chair slowly out of the room and across the hall and Aunt Fanny gave one last malevolent glance at Mrs. Willow and followed her.
“That was sweet of you,” Julia said spitefully to her sister, “hanging around and whispering around her, and that big innocent stare.”
“We’re supposed to get along,” Arabella said, touching her blond curls lazily.
“Trying to cut me out with her the first five minutes we’re here.”
“We could see how she fell in love with you.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Mrs. Willow said. “You’re not here to squabble, my pretties. Belle, tomorrow I want you to offer to read to her, or hold her knitting, or some such—just stay around her. Admire the gardens, and get her to show them to you, and you can put in some good work there—you know, flatter her a little; we all like that. Julia, you’ve got more patience—you take up with—what’s the little one’s name?” she asked Essex.
“Fancy,” said Essex, enchanted.
“Fancy. Julia, you get after the little girl. Play with her. Tell her stories, comb her hair, look at her toys. Romp.”
“If you please,” Miss Ogilvie said stiffly, “Fancy is my pupil. She will be engaged at her schoolwork for the greater part of the day.”
“She will?” Mrs. Willow looked at Miss Ogilvie. “No one’s going to cut you out,” she said at last. “There’s plenty for all of us, honey.”
Miss Ogilvie laughed shortly. “Aunt Fanny’s father might not think so.”
Mrs. Willow frowned. “What have I got to do with Aunt Fanny’s father?” she asked. “The old boy’s dead fifteen years.”
Miss Ogilvie laughed again, glanced at Essex, and then leaned forward. “I suppose I had better be the one to tell you,” she said.
_____
“Good morning, Aunt Fanny,” Mrs. Willow said; the sun was shining goldenly on the terrace where Aunt Fanny and Maryjane were sitting after breakfast, “good morning to you. And to you,” she said, to Maryjane. “Are you the mother of that delightful child? My gels are both in love with her already.”
“You won’t get any breakfast,” Aunt Fanny said with satisfaction. “The table was cleared an hour ago.”
“I’ll run along down the kitchen in a minute. They will be sure to have something for a starving old woman. How well your brother is looking, Aunt Fanny. I am quite surprised to see how well he looks.”
“He has had a blow recently, ma’am; he could scarcely look very well.”
“A blow indeed,” Maryjane said darkly. “Unmotherly monster.”
“I?”
“A mother,” Maryjane explained, “who pushes her only son down the stairs and leaves his devoted wife a widow.”
“Maryjane,” Aunt Fanny said. “Not before this lady, please.”
“A widow,” Maryjane said. “A fatherless orphan.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” Mrs. Willow said inadequately, and then, in a rush to Aunt Fanny, “I think you were away when I visited here long ago; I have always remembered the magnificence of this house, and the kindness of your father.”
“My father was an upright, courteous man.”
Mrs. Willow’s voice was saddened. “You will certainly not believe this, but his passing was a deep personal loss to me. I valued him more than I can say; a truly upright man, as you say.”
“You are right,” Aunt Fanny said. “I certainly do not believe that.”
“Aunt Fanny,” said Mrs. Willow, “I do not want to keep on offending you. I have the greatest admiration and fondness for every member of your family, and so do my two daughters.”
“And well you should,” Aunt Fanny said. “I was not brought up to make friends out of my own class, Mrs. Willow.”
“But there are to be no more differing classes, are there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Ogilvie told us last night of the joyful message you had from your father; Aunt Fanny, you have been very much favored.”
“Good heavens,” said Aunt Fanny. “She actually told you?”
“I thought your father instructed specifically that all within the house were among the . . . ah . . . blessed. We have come, my daughters and I, in very good time.”
“Good heavens,” Aunt Fanny said again. “Good heavens.”
“Yes,” Maryjane said, “it is quite true. I am to have no more asthma. Aunt Fanny’s father said clearly that sickness, like my asthma, would vanish from the earth. I will never have asthma again, after the world has been cleansed.”
After a minute Aunt Fanny spoke faintly. “I have never disobeyed my father,” she said. “His instructions were quite clear; perhaps I was wrong in not telling you myself. Mrs. Willow, you and your daughters are—” Aunt Fanny gasped, and nearly choked “—welcome here,” she finished at last.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Willow said gravely. “We will try to deserve your kindness. And now,” she said, “I think I will dig up a little breakfast, and then drop in on old Orianna and pass the time of day.”
_____
Mrs. Willow settled herself dubiously into a delicate flowered armchair and relaxed slowly, listening for cracks in the wood. “Orianna,” she said, “you know perfectly well you ought to do something for me, me and my gels.”
“Girls,” Mrs. Halloran said. She had been working at the household accounts when Mrs. Willow interrupted her, and she kept one hand protectively on her pen, but without optimism. “Girls, if you please.”
“My little affectations,” Mrs. Willow said. “You know perfectly well you will have to do something for me.”
“And your daughters. Gels.”
“My big hope is getting rid of them, naturally. I always thought that bringing up children was a matter of telling them what to do, but they certainly make it hard for me. There’s no denying, for instance, that my clever Julia
is a fool and my lovely Arabella is a—”
“Flirt,” Mrs. Halloran said.
“Well, I was going to say tart, but it’s your house, after all. Anyway, it’s money we need, as if there was ever anything else. I don’t figure there’s any way you can come right out and give us some, but people as rich as you are must know other people as rich as you are and somewhere along the line there must be someone you can help us get a dime out of. Marriage would be best, of course; we might as well aim high while we’re about it. It better be Belle, though; she’s prettier and if you tell her anything enough times she’ll do it eventually. Besides if Belle married money the chances are good I could ease a little of it out of her; with Julia, I could whistle. Who’s this young character with the little kid?”
“She’s what my son Lionel married.”
“God almighty.” Mrs. Willow was wistful. “All his money. Even so, though, I don’t think I would have wished it on either of my girls, even Julia. On account of you, I mean; there’s no sense taking you on just to get our hands on enough money to try and live. I think,” Mrs. Willow said, “I’d rather die, actually. No offense intended, of course. She talks a lot, doesn’t she?”
“Maryjane?”
“Haven’t you heard the kind of things she says?”
Mrs. Halloran laughed, and Mrs. Willow nodded, and sighed. “Now that’s no way to go about it,” she said sadly, “you imagine me in a soft spot like that? What does she think it’s going to get her?”
“Perhaps it helps her asthma.”
“If it was one of my gels,” Mrs. Willow said with feeling, “I’d see that she managed it altogether different; she’s got the kid, after all, and there’s no one else, you’ve got to leave it to the kid unless she fouls it up somehow. She could be talking the kid right out of everything; what she wants to do is keep her mouth shut until it counts. Well.” She sighed. “You always see other people getting the good chances.”
“You might tell your daughter Arabella that Essex is penniless.”
“What?” Mrs. Willow glanced up sharply. “Yes? Well, I’ll tell her. You know,” she went on slowly, “they’re not bad girls. That is,” she said unwillingly, “they’re probably bad girls the way we understood it when you and I were bad girls . . . I mean, bad. But they’re not dishonest, or unkind. Not bad girls.”
The Sundial Page 6