THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS

An Evening in the Life of Mrs. Neale Crittenden

April 20.

Nowadays she so seldom spoke or acted without knowing perfectly well what she was about, that Marise startled herself almost as much as her callers by turning over that leaf in the photograph album quickly and saying with abruptness, “No, never mind about that one.  It’s nothing interesting.”

Of course this brought out from Paul and little Mark, hanging over her shoulder and knee, the to-be-expected shouts of, “Oh, let’s see it!  What is it?”

Marise perceived that they scented something fine and exciting such as Mother was always trying to keep from them, like one man choking another over the edge of a cliff, or a woman lying on her back with the blood all running from her throat.  Whenever pictures like that were in any of the magazines that came into the house, Marise took them away from the little boys, although she knew helplessly that this naturally made them extremely keen not to miss any chance to catch a glimpse of such a one.  She could see that they thought it queer, there being anything so exciting in this old album of dull snapshots and geographical picture-postcards of places and churches and ruins and things that Father and Mother had seen, so long ago.  But you never could tell.  The way Mother had spoken, the sound of her voice, the way she had flapped down the page quick, the little boys’ practised ears and eyes had identified all that to a certainty with the actions that accompanied pictures she didn’t want them to see.  So, of course, they clamored, “Oh yes, Mother, just one look!”

Elly as usual said nothing, looking up into Mother’s face.  Marise was extremely annoyed.  She was glad that Elly was the only one who was looking at her, because, of course, dear old Mr. Welles’ unobservant eyes didn’t count.  She was glad that Mr. Marsh kept his gaze downward on the photograph marked “Rome from the Pincian Gardens,” although through the top of his dark, close-cropped head she could fairly feel the racing, inquiring speculations whirling about.  Nor had she any right to resent that.  She supposed people had a right to what went on in their own heads, so long as they kept it to themselves.  And it had been unexpectedly delicate and fine, the way he had come to understand, without a syllable spoken on either side, that that piercing look of his made her uneasy; and how he had promised her, wordlessly always, to bend it on her no more.

Why in the world had it made her uneasy, and why, a thousand times why, had she felt this sudden unwillingness to look at the perfectly commonplace photograph, in this company?  Something had burst up from the subconscious and flashed its way into action, moving her tongue to speak and her hand to action before she had the faintest idea it was there . . . like an action of youth!  And see what a silly position it had put her in!