Ellen Glasgow - The Sheltered Life

"I don't know. Perhaps their blood is thinner, or they take less exercise. But your grandfather ought to have gone to the White as usual. He can't do Etta any good by staying at home."

Poor Etta, who had suffered for weeks with an excruciating pain in her head, was being treated every day for an infected sinus; and since Mrs. Archbald was obliged to remain in town with her, the General had refused to open his cottage at White Sulphur Springs.

"He simply won't go anywhere without Mamma," Jenny Blair explained, "and of course she couldn't think of leaving Aunt Etta. We're all going just as soon as the doctor thinks she is well enough."

"I thought you were going abroad, dear, with the Peytons."

Jenny Blair shook her head. "I've been abroad twice already, and there wouldn't be a bit of fun in going anywhere with Bena. That is why I gave up the idea of living with her in New York and studying for the stage. She has her head full of boys, and I never liked them."

"But that isn't natural. You're young and you're pretty."

"I don't care. I like older men best, even very old men like Grandfather."

"How absurd, darling! I remember you used to talk that way about John when he was a boy; but I thought you'd outgrown that long ago."

"I haven't. I don't like him any better than I did years and years ago."

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Mrs. Birdsong was laughing, and her voice sounded natural and gay. "John has a brilliant career ahead of him. Every one says so, and in a few years, as soon as he begins to succeed, he will settle down in his views."

"I don't care. In his heart he doesn't like me any more than I like him—and that is not at all. You know as well as I do that John adores the very ground you walk on."

"But that's different. That's not being in love." A flush of pleasure dyed the delicate texture of Mrs. Birdsong's cheeks, and she looked suddenly animated and young.

"Well, he's not in love with me either. He says romantic love is a mental fever, and I don't care what anybody says, we don't really like each other. He thinks I'm selfish, and I think he's perfectly horrid. I'd rather be an old maid all my life than marry anybody like John."

"But you must marry. Every woman ought to marry. If she doesn't, she is sure to miss happiness." Though the accents were those of genteel tradition, the voice trailed off slowly on a note of broader humanity. "Not that marriage always brings happiness. I don't mean that; but I do think that every woman ought to have the experience of life."

"Well, I haven't seen a boy yet I'd like to be married to, and, most of all, I'd hate to be married to John."

"I can understand that, but you will have other chances. You're the kind of girl men fall in love with. I don't mean because you're pretty. There is something else in you that attracts, and I believe this something else counts more than real beauty in the long run. I'm not sure that great beauty, the beauty that brings fame while it lasts, is wholly a blessing. They used to call me the Virginia Lily because they said I was like Langtry," she added pensively. "There was one photograph in profile that was sometimes mistaken for a picture of her when she was young."

"I remember that one. But you were—you are far lovelier. Grandfather says her eyes could never compare with yours. Once, when I was a little girl, I asked him what the Mediterranean was like, and he answered, 'Like Mrs. Birdsong's eyes!'"

"That was dear of him, but he is always too kind."

"He says that there will be no great beauties, as democracy increases, just as there will be no more great men or great heroes. Do you believe that? Grandfather has very queer notions. Mamma told me he was so queer when he was young that everybody was surprised when he made a good living. I asked him about that, and he laughed and said that he made a good living by putting an end to himself. Do you see what he means?"

"I think I see," Mrs. Birdsong murmured in a wistful voice, "but you couldn't, dear, not until you are older. It may be better, I'm not sure, if what he prophesies does really happen and everything is made level. Any difference, especially the difference of beauty, brings jealousy with it, and worse things than jealousy."

"But it must be wonderful," Jenny Blair sighed enviously. "People love you without your having to take the least bit of trouble." Her eyes dwelt on the romantic contour of Mrs. Birdsong's head, with the soft twist of curls on the nape of the neck.

"Oh, you do take trouble if you have a reputation to keep up, and no fame on earth is so exacting as a reputation for beauty. Even if you give up everything else for the sake of love, as I did, you are still a slave to fear. Fear of losing love. Fear of losing the power that won love so easily. I sometimes think there is nothing so terrible for a woman," she said passionately, while her thin hands clutched at the blown curtains, "as to be loved for her beauty."

"But you have so much else. You have everything else. Grandfather says--"

"Ah, yes, your grandfather. . . . Men never know. Men know many kinds of fear, but not that kind."

How she loved her! Jenny Blair thought, how she pitied her! If only love, if only sympathy, could help one to bear pain! "Oh, you must not, you must not!" she cried, while the shadow of tears that did not spill dimmed the light.

"No, I must not make you sad." When Mrs. Birdsong smiled, the rouge on her cheeks and lips seemed to glow, too, with life. "You are a darling child, and I wish I could tell you the way to feel a great love and still be happy. But I cannot. I have never learned how it can be. I staked all my happiness on a single chance. I gave up all the little joys for the sake of the one greatest joy. Never do that, Jenny Blair." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she brushed the hair from her forehead as if she were trying to brush away a cobweb of thought. "Never do that." Putting the girl's arms aside, she rose and stoodwith her gaze on the azure drift of the morning glories. A bird outside called twice, and the canary answered gallantly but hopelessly from the cage. "I sometimes wonder," she said, turning away, "if it is fair to keep a single bird, even a canary, in a cage. If I let him out, what would become of him?"

"He would fly away. You would never find him again."

"Yes, when a bird flies away, you never find him again."

Walking across the room as delicately as if she were made of glass, she looked into the mirror with a scornful expression. Though she stopped only a minute, she winced and hesitated before she lifted her hand and tucked a silvered lock of hair beneath the bronze waves on her temples. Then, withdrawing a few hairpins, she shook her head and released the profusion of bright curls, which rippled over her shoulders and over the haggard line of her throat. "It is too hot," she complained fretfully.

"Curls are so becoming." Jenny Blair glanced round admiringly while she removed the coverlet from the bed and turned down the cool old linen sheets, which were scented with dried rose-leaves and lavender. "They make you look very young."

"And that I'll never feel or look again. Will you pick out a fresh gown, dear, or shall I wear the pretty one you've just given me?"

"Oh, wear mine, wear mine. I know it will look lovely on you. I told Mamma it was made for you."

Tossing her kimono aside, Mrs. Birdsong slipped the folds of blue crêpe de chine over her head, while her crumpled nightgown of batiste dropped to the floor.

"Is that right?" she asked listlessly, as she stooped to pick up the gown at her feet. "Have I put it on straight?" Then, without glancing at the mirror, she stretched herself between the sheets with a sigh of infinite weariness. "Will you lower the shade, dear, just a little. Yes, it is good to be in bed again, to lie flat and let everything, persons and shadows, go by without caring." For a moment she seemed scarcely to breathe, and in the mellow light, tinged with gold and ivory, she looked pale, serene, almost transparent. Her eyes were closed, she seemed to be dropping into a sleep of exhaustion, when suddenly her eyelids quivered and opened, while she started up and listened attentively. "George has come," she said softly, for she had heard his step on the walk. Her thin shoulders trembled erect, and she waited motionless, unnatural, and extraordinarily vivid, with her eager gaze on the door. "This is his afternoon for golf, and we are having lunch a little early. Can't you stay, Jenny Blair?"