Little sister

by Mary Burchell

  "You needn't look so frightened. I only mentioned the harmless subject of food. Or does one—" his grey eyes twinkled then, though his mouth remained serious — "does one perhaps live on love and rapture after such an affectionate reunion?"

  Alix smiled faintly in her turn.

  "I'm not very hungry," she said huskily, and then realized that that couldn't be true, because for hours she had I nothing.

  Varoni, catching the last few words amid several conver-

  sations in which she was taking part, covered Alix's hand in a warm, sisterly clasp.

  "You must be starving, sweetheart." Extravagant terms of endearment dropped from her as easily as autumn leaves from a tree. But she turned away again, without waiting to hear by what means "sweetheart" would like to defeat starvation.

  The big, dark man opposite laughed and said something in German, which he illustrated with a couple of explanatory gestures.

  "Moerling says that you ought to have a steak as wide as this and a lager as tall as this, to put some colour into your cheeks," explained the Englishman amusedly.

  "Oh—" Alix smiled across the table at the man referred to as Moerling, and received in return a rather lordly little nod of acknowledgement. But before the brown eyes turned their heavy gaze elsewhere, they gave her a glance of almost shy interest that sat most strangely on anyone so overwhelming.

  "Who is he?" Alix asked in a whisper of her companion, because, somehow, it was rather easy to be confidential to someone who seemed to belong, at least slightly more than the others, to the world she knew.

  He looked surprised.

  "Moerling. Dieter Moerling, the conductor, you know," he said, as though of course the name explained itself.

  Alix successfully concealed the fact that the name explained nothing at all to her, and then he said:

  "While we are on the subject of names, shall we disclose our own identities to each other? No one ever introduces anyone at these affairs, but my name is Barry Elton. And yours is—?"

  "Farley. Alix Farley," Alix said, a little surprised to find she still was Alix Farley after all that had happened.

  "I see. I suppose 'Varoni 9 is some sort of compromise between 'Farley* and an Italian-sounding name?"

  "Yes, I — I suppose so," Alix agreed, and then hastily changed the subject to the business of selecting a meal.

  Not that she really knew what she ate that night, or remembered much of the conversation afterwards. It was all too much like a bright, fantastic, confusing dream. A dream which was dominated and guided by the dazzling

  personality of Varoni. Her mother — her sister — or simply a famous stranger. It was impossible sometimes to remember which, as the night passed slowly into the early hours of morning, and still the eating and drinking and talking and smoking went on.

  Every few minutes Varoni would smile at her or address a few words to her, but it seemed to Alix as though she could never seize hold of the moment before it was gone again. A dozen people claimed her mother's attention, a dozen conversations appeared to centre round her, and never once did that clear flame of smiling energy and vitality show any sign of waning.

  "I know what Grandma meant," Alix thought confusedly once. "There's a sort of uncanny driving-power about her sheer beauty."

  And apparently Alix was not the only one to notice it, for more than once, when she glanced at Barry Elton, she saw that he too was watching Varoni with a half-incredulous smile, in which amusement and admiration were almost equally mixed.

  Catching Alix's glance, he laughed a little and said in an undertone:

  "One would never think she had sung a strenuous operatic role this evening."

  "No." Alix smiled too then, with that odd feeling of shy pride in her mother asserting itself again, in spite of the blow she had received. "She's wonderful, isn't she?"

  "Yes, she's wonderful," Barry Elton agreed at once, but just a little coldly, almost as though he thought Alix were trying to find out something which was not her business.

  She felt unaccountably chilled, for until now he had seemed to her the most friendly and understandable person in this strange company. In something like silent dejection she went on slowly with her meal.

  But, oddly enough, those apparently lazy eyes of his seemed to notice everything, because almost immediately he bent his head to ask quietly:

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing!" Alix looked startled again at once.

  "I thought I had offended you," he said.

  "Oh, no." And then, rather artlessly: "I thought I ha offended you' 9

  "Indeed? In what way?"

  "Oh, please — never mind. It's all right now." She hardly dared to hope that he would leave the subject there, but with most blessed lack of curiosity he said:

  "Very well, then. It seems we're both of us quite impossible to offend, which augurs well for our friendship. And I should think it makes us unique in this set." Again he gave that very attractive smile which made his grey eyes twinkle so warmly and showed his admirable teeth.

  "I like him," thought Alix. "I like him quite a lot. And how nice of him to imply that we shall be friends."

  He didn't leave it simply at an implication either, but unobtrusively looked after her for the rest of the evening, supervising her meal, protecting her from too much unwelcome curiosity, and talking to her from time to time, in a quiet, conventional way which helped very much to restore her sense of balance.

  Of the other people she could make very little. They talked in at least four different languages — all of which seemed perfectly understandable to her mother; they ate the strangest assortment of food Alix had ever seen assembled on one table, and they all seemed familiar with a dozen different topics which conveyed little or nothing to her own bewildered ears.

  From time to time apparently fierce arguments broke out, which she thought at first must surely end in bloodshed. But it seemed they were only artistic discussions, and no one was a tenth as angry as he seemed. In most cases an abrupt word or two from Moerling appeared to be accepted as the final verdict.

  Beyond these occasional interruptions, Moerling ad-dresed most of his conversation to a bushy-haired little Austrian Jew on his right. Finally, pushing away the plates and glasses, they both put their elbows on the table, spread out between them what looked like a cross between a sketch and a diagram, and became completely oblivious of the rest of the company.

  With a glance at them, half contemptuous, half indulgent, Varoni then turned her shoulder to them and began to talk to Barry across Alix. Several people on that side of the table joined in, and after a while it seemed to Alix as though she were being slowly submerged in a warm sea

  of sound, which occasionally lapped against the edge of her consciousness with some significance, but for the most part eddied past in inarticulate waves.

  She thought it was the oddest party she had ever known, and she began to feel it had never had a beginning and would surely never have an end. Grandma and Betty and the cottage in Sussex all belonged to some distant previous existence, already half forgotten. All her life she had sat in this brilliantly lighted room, listening to a crowd of strangers talk of things she could not understand. And all the while beside her there had been this beautiful, dominating woman, who was her mother and yet not her mother .. .

  In the end, it was Moerling who finally broke up the party, about half-past three in the morning, with that one word of authority which seemed sufficient to make even Varoni obey him.

  Alix got to her feet with the others, scarcely able to stand with weariness, and, as she did so, Varoni passed an arm round her.

  "Why, baby, you're nearly asleep. Is it really so late, or are you half drugged by Moerling's interminable cigars?"

  The great conductor suddenly seemed to notice Alix's existence again.

  "She likes my cigars," he asserted, in slow but almost perfect English. "All women like my cigars. They are part of my directorial charm."

  "All wom
en?" Varoni made a little face. "What about me?"

  "I am unimpressed by the implication of that attractive grimace," Moerling assured her. "And I repeat — all women, from your charming self upwards."

  "Upwards?"

  "Forgive me. It is too late in the morning for accuracy. Of course I meant 'downwards'." And Moerling made her an ironical little bow which, to Alix's surprise, was returned by Varoni with a glance of mingled amusement and annoyance. She thought it the most natural and most intimate expression she had seen on her mother's face so far.

  And then she found that Barry Elton was saying a very cordial good night to her, and implying that of course he would be seeing her again.

  Varoni kept Alix there in the circle of her arm while she said good night to her other guests, but when Alix said: "I must go now, too," Varoni laughed.

  "No, no, darling. You stay here with me tonight."

  "But I have a room—" Alix began.

  "And / have a room for you here," Varoni said with a tender determination which bewildered her weary daughter afresh.

  Everyone had gone now except Moerling, who was regarding this scene rather cynically through a haze of cigar smoke.

  "I — I haven't even got a nightdress." To Alix's sleepy mind this seemed an immense difficulty, but Varoni apparently thought the objection unworthy even of an answer. It was Moerling who remarked dryly and unexpectedly:

  "But Nina possesses an unrivalled selection. She will lend you one."

  "What do you know about it?" Varoni demanded sharply. To which he replied smoothly:

  "I am judging by the extent of your day wardrobe — naturally."

  "Come!" Varoni turned back to Alix with an imperious little gesture which allowed of no more argument, and Alix realized there was nothing to do but return Moerling's grave good night and follow her mother.

  Across the great deserted lounge, full of shadows and silence now, into one of the noiseless lifts, up and up, and then out again into a wide, carpeted corridor which seemed to stretch its dull silver and rose length into eternity.

  She must be dreaming. Undoubtedly she must be dreaming. The length of the corridor was proof of that, Alix thought foolishly.

  Then Varoni opened a door and, putting her arm round Alix again, ushered her through a small entrance hall into a big, square sitting-room, where she had a confused impression of thick cream carpet, dark blue hangings, and the rich gleam of polished mahogany.

  As they came in, a quiet and rather elderly maid came to meet them from an inner room.

  "This is my sister, Miss Farley, Drayton. Did Prescott tell you to make up a bed in my dressing-room?"

  "Yes, Madame." The meekness of Drayton's voice sug-

  gested that there was no such word as "no" in the English language. Or if there were, she was not aware of its vulgar presence.

  "Can you manage for yourself, darling?" Varoni said to Mix.

  "Manage?" Alix repeated stupidly.

  "She's half asleep," Varoni laughed, and put her cheek against Alix's hair for a moment. "Do you want Drayton to come and undress you, or can you look after yourself?"

  That jerked Alix into shocked comprehension.

  "I can manage, thank you — of course** Every bit of Grandma's training went into the earnestness of that, and Varoni laughed again.

  "Very well. Here is your room — next to mine."

  Here, too, the carpet was cream and the hangings blue — but of a much softer, lighter blue — and the mahogany was exchanged for the pale, delicate charm of tulip and satin wood. Alix vaguely thought it the most beautiful room she had ever seen. She wanted to tell her mother so, and say how grateful she was for her kindness, but with Drayton standing by, she could only whisper:

  "Thank you. It's so beautiful. Like you," she added, more timidly than she knew.

  Varoni gave an exclamation and kissed her quickly.

  "Go to bed. I'll come and say good night to you in a little while. But go to bed now."

  She went out, the silent Drayton following, and Alix was left alone.

  It was much, much too late to try to think things out. And she was much, much too tired to make any sense of them if she did. All she could do was to obey Varoni's command to the letter.

  She began to drag off her clothes in a way quite unlike her usual careful, orderly movements, and it took all the twenty years of Grandma's discipline to keep her from dropping her things on the floor where she stood.

  She had never known anything like this hot weariness of body and mind. Even a hasty wash in the blue and cream bathroom did little to cool the fever left by hours of anxiety and disappointment and bewilderment. Then she came back into the bedroom and put on the nightdress which was lying on the bed.

  38

  It was an exquisite affair in softest blue chiffon, all tiny tucks and delicate hand-sewing. Alix had never worn such a garment in all her life and the feel of it was like a caress — oddly comforting. Grandma would have said it was both improper and unpractical, and possibly Grandma would have been right in both particulars. But Alix didn't even think of that as she crawled into bed at last.

  She was still sitting up, her head nodding a little, when Varoni came into the room a minute or two later. Alix forced open her eyes and gazed at her mother in even fresh astonishment at the innocent, youthful beauty which was hers in the soft white wrap which she was wearing.

  Alix couldn't know, of course, that a genius had designed that wrap to give the right air of girlish innocence in the last act of "Otello", nor that Varoni had been so charmed with the result that the wrap had been copied for her personal wardrobe.

  All Alix saw was that her mother looked so good and sweet that there must have been some mistake about that dreadful betrayal this evening — she must have been wrong when she thought Varoni's eyes had looked hard and secretive and calculating. It was a mistake somehow. A mistake, a mistake, a mistake.

  Varoni came straight across the room and, sitting down on the bed, took Alix in her arms. She did it so easily and naturally. It was as though it gave her real pleasure simply to touch her daughter. Something utterly different from the deep, but reserved affection of Grandma.

  Alix gave a long sigh, and pressed her cheek against the satin of her mother's wrap. Then she did a most peculiar thing. Very diffidently she pushed the wrap aside and leaned her hot cheek against her mother's bare shoulder instead. It was as simple and natural as if a kitten or puppy pressed close to its mother, and Alix thought:

  "I knew she would be cool and sweet. Just as she was warm when I came to her so chilled this evening. She's everything one wants, and so one can never go away. One can only beg and pray to be allowed to stay. What was that Grandma said about her being a witch? Oh no — that was someone else. I can't remember now. It doesn't matter. I'm close against Mother and she won't push me awav — yet."

  "Are you very angry with me?" Varoni said softly at that moment, bending her head to look into Alix's face.

  "Not angry," whispered Alix. "Only — only—"

  "I know," her mother interrupted. "I know. You're hurt and puzzled. I forgot that you wouldn't understand, and anyway there was no time to explain. But I couldn't allow myself the luxury of a grown-up daughter, love. At least, not in public. It wouldn't only advertise my real age, you know. It would give every rival soprano a chance to put ten years on to it."

  "But why should they?"

  Varoni laughed — a cool, hard laugh, but with real amusement in it.

  "I see you don't understand the A.B.C. of the game," she said good-temperedly. "Think of the pleasure it would give to any real or fancied rival to be able to say 'Varoni has a grown-up daughter. Twenty-five, if she's a day. And I don't expect Varoni was any schoolgirl when she had her. That makes her nearly fifty. Her voice won't last much longer. In fact, I thought there were signs last time I heard her'."

  "Would they really say such beastly, catty things?"

  "Of course. We all do. I do myself."

&nbs
p; The calmness of that appalled Alix.

  "Even when you know it's untrue?"

  "That's the least important part of it," Varoni said carelessly.

  "Don't!" Alix cried sharply. "Don't tell me such terrible things." And perhaps even Varoni knew that she meant: "Leave me a few of my illusions — just a few of them."

  "Hush, sweetheart. You'll get used to it when you've lived in that world a little while."

  4 Then am I — am I going to stay with you?" For a moment the rapture of that one fact swamped everything else, and the adoring hope that looked from her eyes made Varoni catch her breath,

  "Well, of course," she said slowly. And then, more eagerly: "Of course, darling — if that's how you feel."

  "Oh—" Alix clasped her. "But must I be — be—"

  "My sister?" Varoni finished the sentence. "I'm afraid so." Then, at Alix's expression, her voice became faintly impatient. "I've explained to you, child."

  "I know." Alix didn't meet her eyes.

  There was silence. Varoni looked at the downcast lashes and the slightly quivering mouth, the pale, chilled little face, with its transparent air of disillusionment. There was no anger in the child, but that heartwarming look of adoration was gone.

  "Mix."

  Alix didn't move.

  "You are my little daughter just the same, you know— w Then she stopped, because Alix had flung herself against her and begun to weep.

  "You do feel that, don't you? You do want to feel that you're my mother?" she sobbed.

  "Why, of course, child. Don't you see it's terrible for me too that I can't even own you?"

  "Do you — feel like — that?"

  Alix forgot the twenty years of unexplained silence — but anyway Grandma had insisted on that. She forgot the doubt and fear that had assailed her for hours. She only knew that tears — real tears — were in Varoni's beautiful eyes as she returned her eager kisses.

  Relief, which hurt almost as much as the anxiety, seemed to flood her.

  "It's all right. Oh, Mother, it's all right," Alix whispered, and with a sigh that was more than half a sob, she suddenly fell asleep.