Bedelia (2 page)

Bedelia's prodigality astonished them all. These people were not accustomed to lavish giving. Even the richest, those whose safe-deposit boxes were crammed with New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad Stock, had been taught to be grateful on Christmas morning for an orange, a pair of mittens, a sock filled with hard candy, a copy of the Bible or Emerson's
Essays
. They had all, of course, brought something to the hostess whose Christmas hospitality demanded some return. But nothing to compare with the gifts she had for them. She had packages for the men as well as for their wives. And such luxurious trifles! All from New York stores! Silk tobacco pouches, monogrammed cigar cases, copper ashtrays, inkstands and blotters mounted in hammered brass, and drinking cups in leather cases.

Mrs. Bennett, who had brought her hostess three gingham potholders bought in August at a church fair and put away for just such an occasion, computed the cost of Bedelia's generosity. “We've none of us measured up to your wife's extravagance, Charlie. It's not our habit to be so ostentatious as Westerners.”

“Ostentatious” was not the right word for describing Bedelia's pleasure. She found it as blessed to receive as to give. Ordinarily the tidiest of women, she tore off wrappings recklessly and threw papers and ribbons on the floor. Every present seemed splendid to her, every giver prodigal. Charlie saw pathos in her extraordinary pleasure: the orphan made welcome in the warm-hearted family, the little match girl finally admitted to the toy store.

Lucy Johnson's eyes glittered as Charlie handed Bedelia the parcel with gold seals. Under the tissue paper there was a box painted with Japanese characters.

“Vantine's,” whispered Mrs. Bennett loudly.

Several women nodded. They also recognized the box and were wondering why Lucy had gone to New York for the Horsts' Christmas present.

Bedelia held up the gift for everyone to see. On an ebony board sat three monkeys. One held his paws before his eyes, one sealed his ears, the third his lips. The Judge glanced over his spectacles at Wells Johnson.

“Oh, thank you. They're just what I wanted.” Bedelia kissed Lucy Johnson.

Mrs. Bennett whispered to her husband. The Judge glanced over his spectacles at Wells Johnson. The Danbury Express whistled as it rounded the curve. Several men took out their watches to check the time.

Lucy chattered on. She had bought the three ivory monkeys because they reminded her of Charlie.

“Of me?”

“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Isn't that Charlie all over? His character. I tell Wells that Charlie has the strongest character of any man I know.”

Wells Johnson moved close to Judge Bennett. From behind his cupped hand he whispered, “Wanted to show my appreciation. Charlie's given me a lot of business this year.”

“Naturally, with the improvements on his property,” said the Judge, who held the mortgage on the Johnsons' house and felt that he deserved an explanation of their extravagance.

“More than that,” Wells hinted.

Curiosity shone through the Judge's gold-mounted spectacles. But Wells cherished his secret like money in the bank. When the Judge had begun to fidget, Wells said, “Can't talk about it now. Charlie doesn't like it mentioned with his wife around. She's sensitive.”

The Judge sniffed. “If he didn't carry insurance, she'd have reason to be sensitive.”

Bedelia turned her smile upon them and both men grinned self-consciously. She was different from the other women in the room, like an actress or a foreigner. Not that she was common.
For all of her vivacity, she was more gentle and refined than any of her guests. She talked less, smiled more, sought friendliness, but fled intimacy.

Charlie was restless. When the doorbell rang, he could not wait for Mary, but rushed off to answer it himself.

TWO WOMEN STOOD on the porch. One held out her hand and said, “Merry Christmas, Charlie.” The other shrieked and threw her arms around him.

Charlie had swung his hand toward Ellen Walker, but the greeting was interrupted by the exuberance of Ellen's companion. Ellen's hand fell limply. She followed Charlie and Abbie Hoffman into the hall.

“This is a surprise,” Charlie told Abbie.

“You old hypocrite, you knew I was coming.”

“Of course he knew,” said Ellen. “I told him weeks ago that you were spending the holidays with me.”

“I remember,” Charlie said.

“You forgot all about me, you fibber,” and Abbie pecked at Charlie's cheek.

He led them to the first-floor bedroom. Ellen Walker took off her hat without bothering to look in the mirror. She had bought herself a new coat that fall and no one liked it. Too mannish, they said. Ellen was a tall girl, but small of bone, delicately proportioned. Thirty years before she would have been called a beauty, but fashions in women change as drastically as in clothes. The Burne-Jones virgin had given way to the Gibson girl, and nowadays Ellen's face was considered too long, her head too narrow, the pale brown coronet of braids absurdly out of style. There was nothing memorable nor distinctive about her looks. A stranger would have remarked that she seemed calm and honest.

Abbie, on the other hand, wore a costume so striking that her face seemed merely an accessory. Charlie thought she looked like a drawing in a fashion magazine, dashing but one dimensional. Her lynx muff was as large as a suitcase and her hat burdened with such a wealth of feathers that just to look at it
made his neck ache. On a black net guimpe she wore a brooch so extravagant that it was obviously set with rhinestones.

“Come along when you've made yourself beautiful,” Charlie said and went off in search of his wife.

Bedelia was waiting in the hall. “We forgot about Abbie,” she whispered.

“It's my fault. I should have reminded you that she was coming.”

“No, dear, you mustn't blame yourself. You've got more important things on your mind. But we can't neglect Abbie. After our wedding present and the way she entertained us in New York.”

Charlie and Abbie Hoffman were first cousins. She had been a Miss Philbrick, his mother's niece. As representative of his people, she had welcomed his bride when Charlie brought Bedelia from Colorado, waiting on the platform for their train and treating them to an expensive lunch at the Waldorf-Astoria.

“You might explain that you ordered a gift and it hasn't been delivered,” Charlie suggested.

“That wouldn't do at all. There ought to be a package under the tree. Abbie mustn't feel neglected.”

The two girls came out of the guest room. Abbie kissed Bedelia and Ellen offered Charlie's wife her hand. As if this were a reception in a New York mansion, Abbie kept on her hat.

“Affected puss,” muttered Charlie, remembering his mother's phrase for Abbie. He stamped off to the kitchen to make some fresh drinks while Bedelia led the newcomers into the living-room. Most of the guests knew Abbie, who had been born a mile down the road and had lived in town until she married. That was the reason why Charlie could not forgive her for carrying her plumes into the living-room.

From the kitchen he heard laughter and shrieks of greeting. Charlie listened and shuddered. As he shook nutmeg into the eggnog, he rejoiced because his wife was without affectation.

The door swung open. “You'd better fill the bowl, Charlie. Most of the men are ready for more. And two hot grogs,” Ben Chaney said. “Need any help?”

Mary turned from her dishpan to stare at Ben. He was not tall, but he was muscular and compactly built. Against the gray paint of the kitchen walls, his skin seemed almost swarthy, and his abundant hair, curling like a poet's, was shot with red lights. His eyes were pinpoints of curiosity. All at once, irrelevantly it seemed at the moment, Charlie had a solution to the problem of Abbie's Christmas gift.

“Take this in, will you?” He handed Ben the tray. “And tell my wife I want to see her. I'll be upstairs.”

Mary sighed as Ben left, carrying the tray as if the punchbowl were the head of a vanquished enemy. Charlie rushed upstairs to wait in the front bedroom for Bedelia.

She did not come at once and he passed the time by looking at himself in the pier glass. It was tilted in a way that distorted his image, making his head seem too large, his torso too long, his legs stunted. This was absurd. Charlie was one of those lank, stork-legged men who could never put enough weight on his bones. His features were neat but thin, and he was too blandly tinted to be handsome. He compared his amiable pallor with Ben Chaney's rugged darkness and ran his hand regretfully through his thinning hair.

Bedelia had come into the room softly. She stood beside Charlie, the top of her head just reaching his nostrils. They had not grown bored with marriage and still enjoyed seeing themselves as a couple. Bedelia's expression changed suddenly, a look of pain crossed her face and she hurried to straighten the pier glass.

“You looked horrid, Charlie. Your lovely long legs, I couldn't bear to see them so short and queer.”

Charlie caught hold of her and held her close, breathing heavily. His eyes clouded. Bedelia slapped his cheek with light fingers. “We've got guests downstairs, we'll have to get back to them.”

The twilight had thickened. Bedelia went to the window. Her eyes were fixed on some distant point in the dusk. “Last Christmas,” she murmured. On the flowered drapes her hands tightened. “Last Christmas,” she repeated in a blurry voice.

“New Orleans?”

“We picked dark red roses and put them on the table. We had breakfast on the balcony.”

“Are you sorry to be here, Biddy?”

Her mouth, when it was not smiling, was small and perfect, a doll's mouth. There were times when Charlie felt that he knew nothing about her. All that she had told him of her girlhood and first marriage seemed as unreal as a story in a book. When she related conversations she had had with people she used to know, Charlie could see printed lines, correctly paragraphed and punctuated with quotation marks. At such times he would feel that she was remote, like the heroine of a story, a woman he might dream about but never touch.

“I've had an inspiration,” he said. “A Christmas gift for Abbie.”

“What is it?” Bedelia asked eagerly.

“The pearl ring.”

Bedelia did not say anything.

“Don't you think it's a good idea?”

“We can't, Charlie.”

“Why not?”

“You said it was cheap and vulgar.”

“On you, dear. But Abbie wears artificial stones.”

Bedelia shook her head.

“Why not?” asked Charlie.

“Your sort of people never wear imitation stones.”

Charlie wondered if she was making fun of him. “Abbie does, my cousin Abbie. Did you notice that brooch?”

Bedelia shrugged and walked away from her post at the window. She seated herself in a low chair which Charlie's mother had used when she sewed. For this chair, Bedelia had chosen a covering of old rose moiré. The drapes and bedspread were of the same fabric, but otherwise the room was just as it had been when Charlie's mother and father slept in it.

“Let's give Abbie the East Indian bangle,” Bedelia proposed.

Charlie was shocked. “You can't mean that.”

Charlie had bought Bedelia the bangle while they were on
their honeymoon. It was of finely wrought silver, as wide as a cuff and hung with small bells. Charlie, who liked to explore odd neighborhoods and queer shops, had wondered how the bangle had come as far west as Colorado, and because it seemed romantic to him had paid twenty dollars for it. This was too much to spend on a Christmas present for Abbie whom he saw not more than twice a year. Bedelia had paid five dollars for the black pearl ring. It was set in imitation platinum and surrounded by false diamonds.

“The bangle's too big for my arm. Too much bracelet.”

“You didn't say that when I bought it. You thought it very handsome when you tried it on.”

The doll's mouth could be petulant. “You liked it, Charlie, and wanted me to have it.”

“What I don't see is why you're so obstinate about that cheap ring. Since you say you won't wear it yourself.”

Bedelia sighed.

“Of course, dear, if you want to keep it, I shan't insist on your giving it away. But since you said you'd never wear it again . . .” Charlie waited.

She sat like a penitent child with bowed head and folded hands.

“Unless you want to keep it as a souvenir,” he said bitterly. “To remind yourself that you've married a prig.”

Bedelia smoothed the sheath of her velvet skirt over her legs, looked at the toe of a bronze slipper. “We can't give Abbie that ring because I don't have it any more.”

“What!”

“I've given it away. You didn't like to see me wear it. You thought it was vulgar.”

“Why didn't you tell me in the first place? Before I'd lost my temper?”