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"I can't help it," she apologised. "I would if I could. Debbie, don't
go! Oh, my dear, don't think I envy you! Don't go yet! I want to tell
you something. I may never have another chance." "Of course I won't go
--I want to stay," said Deb at once.
And she stayed. The coachman was dismissed to get his meal, and
instructed to telephone to Bob to do the same. The sisters had a little
picnic dinner by themselves, washing up their plates and dishes in the
neat kitchen, Deb insisting upon taking part in the performance, and
sat long by the fireside afterwards. Fortunately, although the season
was late spring, it was a cold day; for the clear red fire was
the one bit of brightness to charm a visitor to that poor house. It
crackled cosily, toasting their toes outstretched upon the fender-bar,
melting their mood to such glowing confidences as they had not
exchanged since Mary was in her teens. No lamps were lighted. The widow
was frugal with gas when eyes were idle; her extravagant sister loved
firelight to talk in.
But for a while it seemed that Mary had nothing particular to
communicate. Deb did not like to put direct questions, but again and
again led the conversation in the likely direction, to find Mary
avoiding it like a shying horse. She would not talk of her husband, but
interested herself for an hour in the subject of Guthrie Carey,
Guthrie's wife, his child, his home, discussing the matter with a
calmness that made Deb forget how delicate a one it was. Then Mary had
a hundred questions to ask (probably on Bob's account) about the
Countess, of whom she had known nothing of late years, while Deb had
learned something from time to time, and could give an approximately
true tale. Quite another hour was taken up with Francie's wrongs and
wrong-doings, as to which Deb was more frank with this sister than she
would have been with Rose.
"It is no use blinking the fact," she said straight out, "that Francie
is no better than she should be. I can't understand it; no Pennycuick
that ever I heard of took that line before. She has a dog's life with
that ruffian, no doubt; and of course the poor child never had a chance
to enjoy the right thing in the right way--though that was her own
fault--"
"I don't think," Mary broke in, "that ANYTHING is ANYBODY'S
fault."
"That's a most dangerous heathen doctrine, my dear, but I'll admit
there's something in it. Poor Francie! she was born at a disadvantage,
with that fascinating face of hers set on the foundation of so light a
character. She was too pretty, to start with. The pretty people get so
spoiled, so filled with their own conceit, that they grow up expecting
a world made on purpose for them. They grab right and left, if the
plums don't fall into their mouths directly they open them, because it
gets to be a sort of matter of course that they should have everything,
and do exactly as they like."
"And the plain ones--they are born at a worse disadvantage still."
"No, they are not. Look at Rose. Francie, with her gilded wretchedness,
thinks Rosie's lot quite despicable; but I can tell you, Molly, she is
the most utterly comfortable and contented little soul on the face of
this earth. She would not change places with a queen." "But Rose is not
plain. Rose is the happy medium. And THEY are the lucky ones--the
inconspicuous people--the every-day sort--"
"What's luck?" Deb vaguely moralised. "I suppose we make our luck. It
doesn't depend on our faces, but on ourselves."
"Ah, no!" Mrs Goldsworthy received the well-worn platitude with a
laugh. "We don't make anything--we are made. It is just a dance of
marionettes, Debbie. Poor puppets of flesh and blood, treated as if
they were just wood and nails and glue! Who set us up to make a game of
us like this? Who DOES pull the strings, Debbie? It is a
mystery to me."
Then Deb waited for what was coming next.
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Cambridge, Ada, 1844-1926 - Sisters