Star-Dust is a Webnovel created by Fannie Hurst.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“Why, Zoe! Do I?”
“You know you do. I can feel you crying, and sometimes when I touch your face–“
“Why, child–that’s just my way. At night–things can be so real–so terribly real. It is something you cannot understand yet.”
“Do I make you sad?”
“No! No! No! My light, my life.”
“Is it–Bruce?”
“Why, child–you talk nonsense! Don’t speak of him as Bruce.”
“I hate calling him Mr. Visigoth. It sounds–meek. I won’t be meek! Are you sure, Lilly, it isn’t him–he?”
“Why, child, in Heaven’s name should it be?”
“He looks at you so, Lilly. Maybe he makes you cry the way Bernhardt makes me cry. By what he doesn’t say. Sat.u.r.day afternoons when I call for you–he looks at you so when you’re not looking.”
“Why shouldn’t he? We’ve worked together for all these years.”
“You and he, when you stand up together you look so–so–_right_.”
“Zoe, you are talking nonsense.”
“But you’re all red, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Was it s.e.x to say that?”
“No.”
“Are you glad he is coming to-night?”
“Mr. Visigoth and I have business together, Zoe. We cannot sit around in public places and discuss matters. I’m reading Mrs. Blair’s play to him.
Go to bed now, dear.”
“Mayn’t I stay up?”
“No.”
Her child looked up at her, chin cupped in her small hand and crystals of light out in her eyes.
“Please, Lilly–why do you cry?”
“Why, darling, I don’t cry because of anything you are quite ready to understand. You know that, don’t you, dear? There is nothing mother won’t talk over with you as soon as you are ready to take it all in.
That is part of her scheme for keeping life beautiful and free of rude shocks for you.”
“But I do understand–Lilly.”
Long after her child slept that night Lilly sat beside her. She loved the willful way the curls flung across the pillow. She leaned to the full deep-chested breathing; leaned to kiss the lips which, slightly parted, were perfect with the pollen of vitality.
CHAPTER II
She drew the screen finally about the little davenport, fussing at the room, straightening it into a sort of formality with a woman’s intuition for this chair one-half inch closer to the hearth and that picture ever so slightly straighter. The sheer frock she hung up in a closet, covering it with a shroud of tissue paper, wadding her daughter’s none-too-carefully flung stockings into her shoes and tiptoeing to place them beside the davenport. They were strong, ribbed stockings, still warm and full of curves. She stroked over each. Once she paused at the mantelpiece mirror, drawing back her lip from the even whiteness of her teeth, perusing her points rather absent-mindedly.
Time had handled Lilly with a caress. At past thirty she was herself at twenty, with even more youth, because at twenty she had looked herself almost ten years hence. She had rounded out a bit, but not fatly. If stouter at all, it was only in the slightly deeper look to the cream-colored skin. There were two lines across her forehead, but they had been there at eighteen and were quite obviously the result of tilting her eyebrows so that the flesh folded; and besides, they relieved her clearness, these horizontal traceries, of utter limpidity.
She had drifted, not all unconsciously, into a certain picturesque uniformity of dress and could smile now over the large, cart-wheel hats, coa.r.s.e embroideries, and short-vamp shoes; neither was she often above mentally contrasting herself in her annual seventy-five dollar suit of dark-blue serge, natty sailor hat, and impeccable blouse, with a certain coffee-colored linen with its slashings of coffee-dipped embroidery, and the blouse that twirled with yards and yards of cotton Valenciennes.
There was still something of the look of the nun to Lilly, but a bit too pinkly, as if she had dressed the part for Act One, but wore the ballet skirts for Act Two underneath.
Her reaction a.s.serted itself in her child. At thirteen Zoe wore straight frocks of navy-blue alpaca with wide patent-leather belts and deep Eton collars. They were mistaken sometimes, and, strangely enough, to Lilly’s invariable chagrin, for sisters, and Lilly, in her refutation, could be smitingly swift.
At nine o’clock, to the staccato of three rings, she admitted Bruce Visigoth, leading him down the tube of hallway. It annoyed her unspeakably that Harry Calvert, collarless, poked out his head from a doorway as they pa.s.sed, and she was suddenly conscious of the smell of stew. She had meant to burn an incense stick.
But she walked with that free, h.e.l.lenic stride of hers, without apology and ahead of him.
“This is our room. Zoe is asleep there behind that screen. Won’t you sit down?”
He placed his hat and a light bamboo stick across the center table, obviously oppressed with a sense of close quarters.
“Tell you what! Suppose we taxi over to Claremont. It’s mild enough to sit out on the terrace.”
She met him with her levelest gaze.
“Aren’t you going to be comfortable here?”
“Of course I am. There you go, getting sensitive right off. Only it is a warmish evening, and why keep the sun-child awake?”
“Zoe can sleep,” she said, with the barely perceptible arch to her brows, “even through the fire of your presence.”
“Good!” he said, seating himself in great good nature and trying not to be quizzical. “So this is where you live.”
He was frankly curious, his gaze humorous, but traveling over details, his head upflung and the scenting movement to his nostrils. He had not changed in weight, but in compactness and as if the house of his being had settled with a fine kind of firmness. He was a bit squarer of jaw and shoulder and ever so prematurely, and to the enormous fancy of women, inclined to a h.o.a.r frost of gray at the temples.
She seated herself across the little square of table.
“You don’t seem to care for us here.”
“Certainly I do, only–only–“
“Only what?”