by Gwen Bristow
To be sure he did, and Mr. Abbott called for wine and Mr. Collins passed the cups around. As always, Mr. Abbott scolded Florinda for declining, but she laughed and said she was sorry but wine always gave her indigestion. The others drank a toast to the Brute’s health and happiness and a good voyage to St. Petersburg. Under cover of the welcoming voices, the Brute spoke to Garnet. “Where is John?” he asked.
Garnet felt as if a lump of dough had taken form in her throat and was dropping slowly down through her windpipe. “I don’t know where he is, Brute,” she said. “I thought you could tell me.”
The Brute shook his head in surprise. “No, I have not seen him. I have been up on my rancho. On the way here I went by Torosa, but they have not heard from him there, so I thought he was in Los Angeles getting married to you. You have had no letter?”
“No, except one I had last January, saying he had reached San Francisco.”
The Brute looked perplexed, but he smiled at her encouragingly. “It is hard to travel so far in the rainy season,” he said.
Garnet did not answer. She was tired of hearing that. Here it was the first of April, and she could not believe weather alone would hold John away so long. Not if he wanted to get through.
In a quick gesture of sympathy Florinda slipped her hand into Garnet’s, and changed the subject by asking the Brute about the preparations he had had to make before taking the ship. The Brute said he had engaged an overseer for his rancho, a smart Yankee who had come down from Oregon. The day of the great Mexican land-grants was over, and the men newly arrived were eager to get work on the ranchos already established. The Brute had brought some papers to Los Angeles to be put in the care of the American alcalde, Mr. Foster. These were orders that his land was to go to John, if he himself had not returned from Russia in ten years from now.
“Ten years!” they all gasped together.
The Brute smiled and shrugged. The Russian Czar did not send a ship to California every year, he reminded them, not by any means. And once a ship started, the voyage took a long time. At least a year, maybe a year and a half.
“How far do you have to go to get from here to St. Petersburg?” asked Florinda.
“Maybe ten thousand miles,” said the Brute. “Maybe more, maybe less, I am not sure.”
Florinda gave a long wondering whistle. “How do you get there, Brute?” she asked.
“We go around the Horn. Then up through the Atlantic Ocean and into the North Sea and then the Baltic Sea.”
“Where are they?”
“Why, I don’t know,” the Brute said innocently. “That is what the captain told me. I suppose I sailed through those same seas on the way here, but I didn’t know the names of them.”
“But won’t you die of scurvy?” she exclaimed.
“I don’t think so. I got here without dying of scurvy.”
“But really, Brute, aren’t you afraid you—” She stopped.
He laughed at her. “That I won’t get there? Of course that is possible. But I got here once.”
“You’re mighty calm about it,” she said admiringly.
“I have wanted to do this for a long time. I would not be happy if I did not see Russia again. So what is the use of being frightened?” He smiled around at them all, and spoke to Florinda again. “Now I must go to see Mr. Foster, but if you should invite me to supper I would come.”
“You’re invited,” said Florinda.
The Brute waved his hat to them as he went out. Florinda turned back to the counter. “Now about this calico, Mr. Collins. I like the blue flower print, and the white with the little green sprigs. Have you got some big white buttons?”
Garnet bought some calico too, but her mind was not on it. She was thinking about John. She was also thinking about how much she was going to miss the Brute. She wondered if he would like St. Petersburg.
That night their supper was half gay and half wistful. They were all thinking about how few more times they would be together like this. When Garnet and Florinda finally went upstairs, Florinda said,
“Garnet, I think that big savage is the dearest, kindest man I ever knew. If they aren’t good to him in St. Petersburg—” She stopped with a shrug. If they were not good to him in St. Petersburg there was nothing she could do about it.
Isabel had carried up a pile of Garnet’s laundry. While Garnet was putting away the clothes she found a petticoat that belonged to Florinda, and took it to Florinda’s room. Florinda was sitting on the floor in front of her chest, turning over the ornaments in her jewel-case. As Garnet came in she said,
“I was just about to call you. Look, Garnet, would you like to have this?”
Garnet sat by her on the floor. Florinda was holding out the ring with the great aquamarine.
“Why I couldn’t, Florinda!” Garnet exclaimed.
“Oh, take it. I wish you would. It’s quite pretty.”
“It’s much too pretty. And too valuable.”
Florinda tilted her shoulder carelessly. “I’m not giving you a fortune, dearie. Aquamarines aren’t very precious stones. Besides, I don’t value it.”
She tossed the ring into Garnet’s lap. Garnet picked it up. The candlelight stroked the blue-green surface of the aquamarine and struck glitters from the depths of it. Maybe it was not very valuable, but it was costly enough for her not to want Florinda to toss it into her lap like this. A guilty idea struck her, and she exclaimed, “Florinda, do you think I’m mad because of what you said about John last night? Because I’m not. I hope I’m not silly enough to be mad with you for speaking your opinion when I ask for it.”
“Oh, of course, I know that. But I was already planning to give you this ring. I don’t want it. I tried to give it to Doña Manuela, you remember, but she said she’d rather have the silver buttons. Don’t you like it?”
“It’s lovely,” said Garnet. “But I still wish you’d keep it.”
“I’ve got no use for it,” Florinda insisted.
“You don’t have to wear it on your hand,” Garnet urged, turning the ring again to watch it catch the light. “You can have it re-set. As a pendant to a necklace, for instance. You’ve got a lovely throat.”
Florinda did not answer. Still turning the stone. Garnet became aware of the silence. She looked up. Florinda sat watching her intently. There was a faint smile of astonishment on her lips. As she saw the smile, Garnet realized what she had said. Her own thoughts on herself and John, she had tripped over the resolution she had made in the hotel room in New Orleans, the resolution that she would never say a word about Florinda’s scars. She felt a hot wave of color creep over her cheeks as Florinda said,
“Garnet, do you know, in all the time we’ve been together, that’s the first hint you’ve ever given that there was anything wrong with my hands?”
Garnet dropped her eyes. “I didn’t mean to now,” she said faintly.
“Why Garnet, it’s all right,” Florinda said. “Don’t blush like that.”
But Garnet could not look up. “Please forgive me,” she said. “I won’t talk about it again.”
“But Garnet, I tell you it’s all right! Look at me, dear.”
Garnet raised her eyes. Florinda was smiling fondly.
“If you had asked about my hands that day in New Orleans,” said Florinda, “I couldn’t have answered. It was so new and I was still having a fight to keep going in spite of it. I expected you to ask me when I took off my dress, and I was going to say I had stumbled into the fireplace. But you didn’t ask. I knew right then what I thought of you. I knew you were great. I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t talk about my hands and what they meant. But I can now.”
Garnet shook her head. “You don’t have to, Florinda.”
“But I want to, Garnet. You see, one night I had a long talk with the Brute. I’ve felt better ever since. It’s sort of like I’ve got my mind swept clean. And you’re my best friend and I don’t want any more silence between us.”
“You don’t have to tell
me,” Garnet said in a low voice. “I mean—I think I know.”
“You know? But how?”
“I guessed it. That night after the earthquake. I think it was your little girl.”
Florinda nodded. She did not wince or shiver. She could endure a mention of it now. Garnet went on.
“You couldn’t talk about your baby, and you couldn’t talk about your hands. You couldn’t stand the smell and sound of burning flesh that day at the Archillette. Then that night when your dress caught fire and you screamed, everything seemed to fall into place.”
Florinda had listened with a tender surprise. “You’ve known for three months, and you never said a word.”
“No, and I was never going to. I didn’t know you felt any easier about it.”
“You dear,” said Florinda. For a little while neither of them said anything else. Florinda lifted her hands and turned them over, looking at them. “They aren’t as bad as they used to be, are they? Not so red. But they’ll always be pretty awful.”
“You manage very well with them. Your mitts are very becoming.”
“Oh, I manage. Sometimes the fellows catch sight of my hands and ask about them. I give all sorts of silly answers.” She moved her fingers. “Some things I can’t do. I can close my fists, see?—but I can’t spread my hands out wide. I couldn’t reach an octave on the piano, and I couldn’t move my fingers fast enough to play a guitar, and as you’ve noticed, I can’t do fine sewing. But still, I get along.”
She was speaking calmly, more calmly than Garnet had thought she would ever speak about her hands. Still looking at them, Florinda said,
“I’m glad you know. I think now I can bear to say sometimes, ‘Garnet, help me with this, I’m so clumsy about it.’ I couldn’t possibly say that before.”
She turned to look at Garnet again.
“Well, that’s over,” she said. “Now I can be honest about this.” She reached to pick up the aquamarine ring. “Garnet, I’m never going to wear this, either as a ring or a pendant, and I’ll tell you why. This is one of the presents my little girl’s father gave me.”
“Oh!” Garnet said with understanding. “I don’t blame you.”
“He gave me a lot of things,” Florinda continued. “He was rich and generous. If she hadn’t been born, I’d have thought no more of his presents than I think of any of these others. But after she died, whenever I looked at anything he’d given me, I just couldn’t wear it. So I sold them in New Orleans. The jeweler wouldn’t give me what this was worth, and I thought I’d sell it later when I got a chance. But then I came out here. So if you want this ring, you can have it, and don’t get the notion that you’re depriving me of anything.”
Garnet thought she would take the ring if Florinda insisted, but she did not think she would ever want to wear it either. Florinda looked down at the ring, smiling reminiscently.
“He was a nice fellow,” she said. “Terribly amusing. He had a wit like a firecracker. I wonder what became of him.” She raised her head with a sudden thought. “Why, Garnet.”
“Yes? What?”
“You could find out for me, couldn’t you?”
“Find out what became of him? But how could I?”
“You could ask. With all these New Yorkers in town, there might be somebody who knows him. I didn’t want to ask about him myself—you see, he was ashamed of the whole business, and besides he was about to be married and I wouldn’t want any of these boys to be going back to New York and embarrassing him. But he belonged in your social set. You could have known him. Maybe you did. You could say, ‘By the way, there’s an old friend of mine—’ couldn’t you?”
“Why yes, I could,” said Garnet. “Strange to think I might have known one of your admirers in those days. Who was he?”
Florinda handed her the ring. “Here, take it. He was highest society from Bleecker Street. His name was Henry Trellen.”
Garnet dropped the ring. It fell on the floor with a tinkling clatter. Florinda said,
“Why, you did know him, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Garnet. For a moment she could not say anything else. Henry Trellen, that pompous bore—and Florinda had just said he had a wit like a firecracker. Henry Trellen, walking down Broadway with her when she said she had never been to the Jewel Box, and stiffly answering, “I am sure, Miss Cameron, that the type of entertainment presented at the Jewel Box would neither amuse nor instruct you.” Henry Trellen, and Florinda! In a hoarse choked voice she gasped, “Florinda, when did you know Henry Trellen?”
“When I was at the Jewel Box. The last time I saw him was the night before I left New York. He told me—why Garnet!” Florinda broke off with a start.
“Yes, yes,” said Garnet. “When was that? Just when did you leave New York?”
Florinda’s eyes were wide and amazed. Her voice too had a strange sound. “In August ’44. He told me his mother had picked out a girl for him to marry. Garnet, did he ask you to marry him?”
“Yes. In September of that same year. Just before I met Oliver. He told you his mother had picked out a girl?”
“Yes, he said she was a nice girl and maybe she’d be the making of him.”
“He was talking about me.”
Florinda spoke unevenly, as if she was having to get her thoughts in order before she could put them into words. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised. There were mighty few people in New York Mrs. Trellen thought were as good as she was. And among those few there couldn’t have been very many marriageable girls. You had a proper family, you had been to a proper school, you were young and pretty and refined—she thought a girl like you could get him away from girls like me.”
“And all he was doing was minding his mamma!” said Garnet. “That fool. I might have known it.”
“But—Garnet!” Florinda exclaimed.
“What now?”
“Did you know he was the heir to all that money?” asked Florinda. She spoke with the awe she always felt before great riches.
“Why yes, everybody knew that. He was the greatest catch in New York.”
“And still you had sense enough to turn him down?”
“It didn’t take any sense to turn him down. He bored me stiff.”
“He bored you? But Garnet, he wasn’t like that! He was one of the most amusing men in town.”
“Maybe around you he was. Maybe he felt at ease with you. But with me—with girls like me—” Garnet could not say any more. She wanted to laugh, and she could not. She also wanted to cry, and she could not; and she did not know why she wanted to do either one. They sat there on the floor, staring at each other.
Thinking back, Garnet could see everything so clearly. Henry could not feel at ease with girls like her because he preferred girls like Florinda. He was always afraid she might somehow suspect his taste, and then maybe his mother would suspect it, that mother who looked like a marble angel. But evidently his mother had found out anyway, because she had made him give up Florinda. She had chosen the flowerlike Miss Garnet Cameron, and Henry had meekly obeyed her. Garnet thought of Henry, having said goodby to Florinda, writing that very formal letter in which he had laid his heart, hand, and fortune at her feet.
Florinda was thinking about him too. She thought about the pitiful sight of Henry when she told him what had happened to that child he had never seen. She remembered how he had said he was no good and never would be, but his mother had picked out a nice girl for him to marry and he supposed he would have to do it. She thought how sorry she had felt for him then. She had also felt sorry for that nice girl, who would be so dazzled by the Trellen fortune that she would not realize she was marrying a man who had no guts.
Florinda still felt sorry for Henry. Poor Henry, who had never deliberately set out to do evil, but who had not had the courage to do either evil or good. Poor Henry, who would go through life spending money he had not earned, and getting very little pleasure from it. Florinda had no objection to men’s spending money they had not e
arned, especially if they spent it on her; but she thought if they were going to have any fun they had better make up their minds what they wanted and use their money to get it. Still, while she had no respect for Henry, she had a great deal of respect for Henry’s wealth, and the fact that Garnet had not been dazzled by it made her feel an admiration that for a while left her speechless.
“Garnet,” she said at length, “how old were you then? When Henry asked you to marry him?”
“Eighteen. Nearly nineteen. Why?”
“And you were that smart at that age! Garnet, I’d like to tell you something. I’ll never speak another word about not being sure you ought to marry John. You’re smart enough to do anything you want to.”
Garnet smothered a giggle and said, “Thank you.” Florinda took up the aquamarine ring.
“Now what shall we do with this?” she asked. “Do you want it?”
“No, I don’t want it,” Garnet said decidedly.
“Let’s keep it then,” said Florinda, “and some day we’ll give it to somebody we both like.”
That seemed like a good arrangement, so Garnet agreed.
She did not have much trouble finding a New Yorker who had heard of Henry Trellen. The Trellen name was so well known that after a day or two of dropping carefully careless questions at the bar she found a young sergeant who could answer them. He had not known Henry Trellen personally—“Gee, Garnet, I never got about in society like that,” he said laughing—but he had an uncle who had done some business with the Trellen interests. Garnet asked if Henry still lived in New York. “Oh sure,” said the sergeant. “In one of those great big old houses on Bleecker Street.” She asked if he was married. No, not when the sergeant left home. She asked what he was doing now. “Why, he’s not doing anything that I ever heard of,” the sergeant returned. “He doesn’t need to.”