The Oldest Flame (2 page)

“I hope I haven’t done anything to offend
her,” said Mrs. Meade.

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Lansbury. “It isn’t you.
That’s just the way she is—now.” She looked out of the window, and
then the two women began slowly to ascend the stairs together. “I
invited her here in hopes of improving her spirits a bit, but so
far it doesn’t seem to have succeeded. She’s just come back from
California, you see, after spending some years out there. I hadn’t
heard from her in quite a long time until recently. She doesn’t
tell me much, but I gather that there was a—an unhappy love-affair
of some sort out there, which seems to have left her rather
bitter.”

“Dear me, not another one,” murmured Mrs.
Meade.

“You know all of our little dramas already, I
see,” said Mrs. Lansbury with a smile.

“
Little
dramas?”

“Well—they seem that way, against the
backdrop of a big world. But I know they are terribly big and
important to the young people living them.” They paused for a
moment on the first-floor landing. “That’s why it’s pleasant to
grow older, in a way—you gain the ability to take things a little
more levelly. But it is rather distressing not to be able to feel
the sympathy for those passionate young ones that you ought, just
because you feel that
you
could handle their troubles more
easily if you were in their place.” She smiled affectionately at
Mrs. Meade. “But you, I think, have never lost the ability to see
things through everyone’s eyes. That’s the thing that is special
about you.”

“Oh, dear, no—not special,” said Mrs. Meade.
“It’s really only taking an interest in things—or rather, in
people. One must have some kind of an interest in life, after all,”
she said, quietly, “and I can’t think of one more rewarding.”

“If a little trying, at times,” said Mrs.
Lansbury.

“You mustn’t ever think I mind being made a
confidant, if that’s what you are suggesting,” said Mrs. Meade.

Mrs. Lansbury laughed. “Very well! You may
consider yourself established as the official confidant of our
party. I just hope”—and her smile may have been slightly shadowed
with unease—“that we won’t have too much need of you.”

* * *

It was curious, thought Mrs. Meade, that the
party gathered around the dinner table should be composed of so
many individual cases of despondency and failure. Taken in theory,
the people collected here ought to have made very good company. But
there was something amiss with each which kept them from being
their usual selves, and cast a decided damper over the proceedings.
There was Miss Parrish wrapped in the silence of her own wrongs,
Mark and his unhappy love. And there seemed to be something brewing
in the business sector as well. Both Mr. Lansbury and Mr. Grey bore
the abstracted look that seemed to indicate they were thinking of
something that dinner had called them away from, and that they were
looking ahead to the moment when they could take it up again. In
the intervals when the main flow of conversation passed them by,
they talked in low voices across the corner of the table. And Mrs.
Lansbury, as the hostess, could hardly fail to sense the effect
these undercurrents were having on the general tenor of the party
she had put together. The only two people who seemed entirely happy
and at their ease—aside from Mrs. Grey, whom Mrs. Meade mentally
counted aside as the light-hearted, unperceptive sort of woman who
seldom notices things which lie beneath the surface—were Rose Grey
and Steven Emery.

Rose was alive with youth and spirits,
glowing like a little rose with happiness at simply being where she
was, at the pleasure of entertaining and being entertained, and at
the attention that her dinner companion devoted to her. That this
meant much to her was evident in the quick, eager little sideways
glances she turned up to Steven Emery as he talked, and the shy,
pleased smile that quivered on her lips when he gave his attention
to something she said. Their conversation ran on easily, often
including Mrs. Grey, regardless of the silence or hesitancy of the
others at the table.

Rose was a child still, Mrs. Meade thought as
she watched her, but she was at the age where young girls wish to
be as grown-up as possible and scorn youthful things—hence her
attraction to the older, distinguished Steven Emery and her
tendency to look down on her old childhood playmate. It was
unfortunate, too, that Mark, on the other side of the table, was
incapable of concealing just how hard he was taking it. For most of
the meal his eyes had been on Rose, the hurt in them plain at every
word she exchanged with her companion. Beside Steven Emery, who had
the good grace not to notice his hostility, he appeared merely a
jealous and somewhat sullen boy.

And yet even Steven Emery seemed to have
something on his mind. Occasionally when Rose was talking
animatedly to her mother or someone else, Mrs. Meade observed him
stealing a look at her that seemed considering, possibly a little
doubtful. Was he wondering if he would be able to win her? All the
signs certainly looked favorable. He was said to be well-off
financially; he seemed an acceptable suitor in every personal
respect. Perhaps he was merely attacked with the self-doubt that
sometimes overtakes a man in love. He did not look like a man who
lost his self-possession often. In his early thirties, yet handsome
enough to look younger, well-dressed and with a distinct charm of
manner, he certainly had every advantage calculated to make a good
impression. Mrs. Meade, fond as she was of Mark Lansbury, had to
acknowledge that there was no good reason why Rose should
not
fall in love with Steven Emery.

“It’s only the time that makes it difficult,”
Mr. Lansbury was saying, turning a small silver fork over slowly in
his fingers. “If I had an immediate prospect of capital to show him
it would be a different matter altogether.”

“I wouldn’t be upset if you fail this
once—you’ve had so many successes. Everything
you
do seems
to go right,” Grey added, with a slight laugh that did not quite
succeed.

“Well, you may have something there,” said
Lansbury. “Perhaps I am too used to having things go my way.
Unfortunate for me, if so, but I’m afraid it doesn’t affect my
belief in this project.”

“You can’t fault Thornton for doing things in
order,” observed Grey.

“No,” said Lansbury dryly, “except when it
inconveniences me.”

There was a general laugh at this, a slight
lull in the conversation having made these remarks audible to the
rest of the table. The two gentlemen looked up, smiling a little,
though it was clear they knew there was less humor in the remark
than any of the others appreciated. Mrs. Lansbury may have known,
for she sent her husband a gently appealing look from the foot of
the table which seemed to ask that he leave business topics for
another time. He answered with a look of comprehension and a barely
perceptible nod.

“Always railroads!” said Rose to Steven Emery
in an undertone, with a pretty little look and smile that was also
meant to be one of understanding. He had been listening
abstractedly to the other men for a moment, a shade of
thoughtfulness on his face, and she guessed that the subject did
not interest him.

Whatever the case, he returned the smile. “I
shouldn’t despise them, if I were you. Among other things, they may
be the reason we are all sitting here at this table tonight.”

“What do you mean?” said Rose.

“Well, aren’t they directly responsible for
your father’s and Mr. Lansbury’s success? If one wants to be quite
literal about it, we can attribute the very roof over our heads and
the salad on our plates to the first pickaxe-blows struck on Carver
Cut.”

“Oh, of course,” said Rose, smiling. “And I
don’t despise them by any means! I was nearly as interested in the
construction as Papa was last winter, and I enjoyed it when he took
me to see the work at the Cut. But I’m afraid I’ve never been able
to take an interest in the part of railroad business that concerns
stocks and shares and such, so I should be left in the dust if the
talk turned that way.”

“Well,” said Steven Emery, smiling, in a
slightly lower voice, “you could be no less lovely listening than
speaking.”

It was low enough that Mrs. Meade only caught
a part of the words, but Mark and Miss Parrish both heard it. The
effect on the former may be imagined, and it did nothing to improve
the latter’s humor either. All evening Miss Parrish had been
regarding Rose’s merriment with an air of disapproval worthy of an
unfeeling spinster aunt. The line of her fine, almost colorless
lips expressed something that approached dislike every time she
looked across at the younger girl. Every manifestation of
light-heartedness on Rose’s part seemed to grate on her, and she
did not even make an attempt to hide it.

Rose could not speak for a full moment. The
conflicting feelings of delight and shyness glowed on her face like
changing lights, and she did something with her napkin on the edge
of the table to hide her confusion, looking for the moment even
younger than she was. Steven Emery seemed a little amused as well
as gratified at the effect of his compliment—and he had the
delicacy to wait until Rose’s heartbeat had steadied before he
spoke again.

He leaned toward her slightly. “Perhaps this
is not the best conversation for a dinner-table either.”

Rose flashed him a quick, daring glance from
her bright, long-lashed gray eyes. “Then you will have to think of
another place!”

* * *

After dinner the ladies withdrew to the
library, a large, pleasant room at the rear of the house that
overlooked the garden through several long French windows, which
stood partly open to admit the cool evening breeze. Mrs. Lansbury
and Mrs. Grey sat down together by common accord, but Miss Parrish
took a seat at some distance from them—and Mrs. Meade, after a few
seconds’ consideration, crossed the room and sat down in a chair
rather near to Miss Parrish than otherwise. She would have been
assured of a pleasant time in the company of her friends, but
somehow she did not feel it right to leave Miss Parrish alone. Miss
Parrish might choose to draw apart, might not wish to be disturbed,
but at least she should not have the opportunity to indulge in
self-pity over the fact that no one wanted to be near her—a
reaction Mrs. Meade judged as likely to follow as any other.

Rose did not sit, but wandered lightly about
the room, looking at the titles of the books on the shelves and at
the oil painting above the fireplace, and eventually came to stand
at one of the windows, a few yards away from where Miss Parrish and
Mrs. Meade sat in pensive but not unfriendly silence. Mrs. Meade’s
eyes rested on Rose with a touch of the same fondness they had
earlier shown towards Mark. She had known Rose as a little child,
and now she was seeing her growing up into a woman. She was so
unconsciously lovely as she stood there with the tint of the sunset
light falling over her, one slender hand resting on the edge of the
open window, with her rich deep-gold curls swept up in that new
grown-up style that was still curious to see framing the familiar
little features of her face. And Mrs. Meade became aware that Miss
Parrish was silently watching the girl too, from her chair in the
shadow, and wondered why the gulf between those two, separated only
by moderate differences in age, character and style of beauty,
should in this instance be so very large.

It was while she was thinking this that she
saw Rose’s expression change, and her attitude become one of
definite consciousness. Mrs. Meade looked out through the window
into the garden and saw that Steven Emery had just come into view
there, walking slowly with his hands in his pockets. He glanced up
toward the window, and smiled as he saw Rose standing there. The
smile was an invitation. Rose gave a quick glance over her shoulder
toward her mother, then slipped out through the open window and
went toward the edge of the terrace.

Mrs. Meade looked over at Miss Parrish, whose
face had settled once more into that set look of disapproval.
Perhaps her glance asked a question, but at any rate Miss Parrish
felt called upon to speak.

“It is difficult for me to understand why a
self-centered child should be such an attractive thing to so many
people,” she said.

“Rose may be a little flighty,” admitted Mrs.
Meade. “But I do believe she has good sense at heart. Most young
girls go through a time when they particularly relish what may seem
like frivolity to us.”

There was a slight emphasis on the “us” that
would have made most women flinch a little under the gentle irony,
for a greater difference than the one between the elegant younger
woman and mild, middle-aged Mrs. Meade could hardly be found. But
Miss Parrish did not seem to notice.

“That is something which experience will cure
her of soon enough,” she said, looking out of the window.

She said nothing more, and so they sat
silently again for a few moments until the sound of footsteps and
voices in the hall betokened the approach of the men.

It was Mark who opened the door and came into
the room a few steps in advance of the others, his eyes already
going from one person to another in search of the one. It took him
only seconds to see that Rose was not there. His eyes fell upon the
open window. A look of comprehension and resentment overspread his
face, and he turned abruptly away into a corner of the room.

Mr. Lansbury had entered closely followed by
Mr. Grey, but their bearing and brisk pace indicated they had come
for some specific purpose rather than to join the party. Lansbury
went directly over to his wife and took her hand. “My dear, I hope
you won’t mind if we abandon you for a day or two,” he said. “I’ve
just had a telegram from Thornton in Denver, and I’ve decided I
ought to go there and see him about it. George is going to
accompany me.”