East Angels: A Novel. Woolson Constance Fenimore
its disorder and comfort, where they had reigned so many years.
The superior table manners of Mrs. Thorne were never more apparent than upon this occasion. In this lady's opinion, when one was required to turn from intellectual occupations to the grosser employment of supplying nourishment to the body, one could at least endeavor to etherealize it as much as possible by confining one's self to that refined implement, the fork. In accordance with this theory, she scarcely touched her knife; once, under protest as it were, she delicately divided with its aid the wing of a wild-duck, but that was all. She encountered difficulties; slices of cold tongue betrayed a remarkable tenacity of fibre, portions of broiled chicken manifested a very embarrassing slipperiness under the silver tines, as she tried to divide them or roll them up. But she persevered in her efforts to the end, and succeeded, though her small fingers became deeply dented by the force she was obliged to exert.
When the meal was at length over, Mrs. Carew, with a bow to Mrs. Rutherford as her most distinguished guest, rose. Garda called Winthrop's attention, as they also rose, to the fact that she had scarcely spoken six sentences of Spanish during its entire continuance. "See how well I have obeyed you," she said.
"Surely I did not venture a command?"
"I think you did. At least you came as near it as you dared, and you are very daring."
"I? Never in the world! You are quite mistaken, Miss Thorne, I am the exact opposite of that," he answered, laughing.
"But I should think you would like me to at least believe you so," responded Garda, looking at him with wonder.
"Believe me to be daring? We probably use the word in a different sense; it isn't a word I am fond of, I confess; but I don't think you would find me lacking in any emergency."
"Oh, emergencies! – they never come to Gracias. Now please don't say, like the dear old Doctor, 'May they never come to you, my dearest child!'"
"I will say, then – may I be present when they do."
"But you won't be," responded Garda, her tone suddenly changing; "you will go away, Mrs. Harold will go away, everybody will go away, and we shall be left alone again, mamma and I, on this old shore!"
"But you have seemed to me very happy here on this old shore," said Winthrop, in a tone which was indulgent as well as comforting – she had looked so young, so like a child, as she made her complaint.
"So I have been – until now. But now that I have seen you, now that I have seen Mrs. Harold, I – I don't know." She looked at him wistfully.
This little conversation had gone on while they were all returning through the hall to the front drawing-room. Manuel, however, who was with Mrs. Harold, had a plan of his own, he turned boldly aside towards the closed door of the back drawing-room, his intention being to establish himself with the charming northern lady upon a certain sofa which he remembered at the extreme end of that broad apartment; if isolation were a northern fashion, he would be isolated too. But Mrs. Carew (with the returning lamp on her mind) saw his hand upon the knob, and summoned him in haste: "Mr. Ruiz! Mr. Ruiz!"
When he obeyed her call, she begged him fervently to promise to sing for them immediately that "sweet little air" which it seemed was "such a favorite" of hers, though when he asked her to define it more clearly, she was unable to recall its name, the words, or any characteristic by which he could identify it; however, by this effort of the imagination the door of the back drawing-room was kept closed, and all her guests were piloted safely to the front room by the way they had come. The lamp was in position, only the retreating legs of Pompey were visible through the dining-room door; the mistress of the house, unused to strategy, sank into a chair, and furtively passed her handkerchief across her brow.
Manuel was already tuning the guitar.
"Does he like to sing so soon after – after tea?" said Mrs. Rutherford.
But the handsome youth could sing as well at one time as another. He looked about him, found a low ottoman and drew it towards the sofa where Mrs. Harold was sitting, thus placing himself as nearly as possible at her feet; then he struck a chord or two, and began. He had a tenor voice (as Winthrop would have said, "of course"); and the voice had much sweetness. He sang his little love song admirably.
Garda was standing near one of the windows with Winthrop. When the song was ended, "How old is Mrs. Harold?" she asked, abruptly; that is, abruptly as regarded subject, her voice itself had no abrupt tones.
"I don't know," Winthrop answered.
"Isn't she your cousin?"
"She is my aunt's niece by marriage; Mr. Rutherford was her uncle."
"But if you have always known her, you must know how old she is."
"I have not always known her, and I don't know; I suppose her to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight."
"She is over thirty," said Garda, with decision. "Do you think her handsome?"
"She is considered handsome."
"But do you think her so?"
"That is rather a close question, isn't it?"
"It doesn't seem so to me; people are handsome or not handsome, it's fact – not opinion. And what I wanted to see was whether you had any eye for beauty, that was all. Mrs. Rutherford, for instance, is handsome, Mrs. Carew is not. Manuel is handsome, Adolfo Torres is not."
"And Miss Thorne?"
"She hopes she is, but she isn't sure," replied the girl, laughing; "it isn't 'sure' to be thought so by the four persons about here. And she can't find out from the only stranger she knows, because he hasn't a particle of expression in his face; it's most unfortunate."
"For him – yes. It's because he's so old, you know."
"How old are you?"
"I am thirty-five."
"You look younger than that," said Garda, after scanning him for a moment.
"It's my northern temperament, that keeps me young and handsome."
"Oh, you're not handsome; but in a man it's of little consequence," she added.
"Very little. Or in a woman either. Don't we all know that beauty fades as the leaf?"
"The leaf fades when it has had all there was of its life, it doesn't fade before. That is what I mean to do, have all there is of my life, I have told mamma so. I said to mamma more than a year ago, 'Mamma, what are our pleasures? Let us see if we can't get some more;' and mamma answered, 'Edgarda, pleasures are generally wrong.' But I don't agree with mamma, I don't think them wrong; and I intend to take mine wherever I can find them, in fact, I do so now."
"And do you find many?"
"Oh yes," replied Garda, confidently. "There are our oranges, which are excellent; and Carlos Mateo, who is so amusing; and the lovely breeze we have sometimes; and the hammock where I lie and plan out all the things I should like to have – the softest silks, laces, nothing coarse or common to touch me; plenty of roses in all the rooms and the garden full of sweet-bay, so that all the air should be perfumed."
"And not books? Conversation?"
"I don't care much about books, they all appear to have been written by old people; I suppose when I am old myself, I shall like them better. As to conversation – yes, I like a little of it; but I like actions more – great deeds, you know. Don't you like great deeds?"
"When I see them; unfortunately, there are very few of them left nowadays, walking about, waiting to be done."
"I don't know; let me tell you one. The other day a young girl here – not of our society, of course – was out sailing with a party of friends in a fishing-boat. This girl had a branch of wild-orange blossoms in her hand; suddenly she threw it overboard, and challenged a young man who was with her to get it again. He instantly jumped into the water; there was a good deal of sea, they were at the mouth of the harbor and the tide was going out; they were running before a fresh breeze, and, having no oars with them, they could not get back to him except by several long tacks. He could not swim very well, and the tide was strong, they thought he certainly would be carried out;