V. V.'s Eyes Part 32

"You know what perfect _nuts_ it is to people," said she, "to think they have anything the least bit disagreeable on people they know."

"Isn't it?" replied Carlisle, with a repressed note of strong irritation. "Everybody has plenty of time to attend to everybody's business but their own."

Mattie glanced at her, wondering interestedly what had happened to Cally. However, she made no answer to the philosophic sarcasm, being now engaged in giving her hair one hundred and twenty-five brisk strokes before retiring, and not wis.h.i.+ng to lose the count.

Half an hour the girls had been in the flowing negligee stage, but they were still intensely busy with the Eleusinian mysteries.

After an interval Carlisle said: "I wonder how many of the people who criticize would put Turkish baths and--and dens in the Works if they had to do it out of their own pockets.... Why under the _sun_ should they?"

"Of course," said Mattie. "(Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.)--I think you're perfectly right, dear...."

"If people don't like the Works as they are, why should they raise heaven and earth begging for jobs there? I wish somebody'd explain that."

"Of course. (Twenty-five.)--And how could Mr. Heth spend thousands and thousands of dollars on such things without taking it _right out of your mouth_, don't you see?... Oh, _gosh_!"

"What?"

"Broke my best finger-nail--that's all! Just the tiniest rap on the chair. Where's the file, dear? Oh, Cally, remember, twenty-five.... How provoking!--I do think I've got the brittlest I ever saw ..."

Presently Carlisle, in a flowing silken robe, rose, went over to her dressing-table, seated herself and picked up a round cut-gla.s.s jar with a silver top. The jar contained cold cream, or something of that sort.

Mattie, having filed down her nail, was now faithfully brus.h.i.+ng again, in the forties. Her eyes followed Cally; rested upon her as she sat.

These eyes, large, dark, and grave, with the sweetest, curlingest lashes, had been the turning-point in Mattie's life. She had early recognized their unique merits and values, and round them, with infinite pains, she had built up her "type." And now at twenty-three, she was sweet, artless, and full of adorable intellectual dependences, deliciously stupid (with the spectacled young men), and her favorite expression was "poor little Me."

Mattie, brus.h.i.+ng, looked at Carlisle, and wondered if she possibly _had_ refused Mr. Canning, and, if so, why Mr. Canning had skipped back just to stay over Sunday and not go near her, and why Cally was so mysterious and secretive all of a sudden. She always told Cally every single thing about her affairs, reporting in detail what was "the most" each man said to her, and always bringing her their letters to read, even Mr.

Dudley's, who wrote such perfectly beautiful ones. Cally had always done the same with her, till lately, but now she was a _perfect clam_. Not a word would she tell about Mr. Canning, and to-night J. Forsythe Avery had proposed at last (Cally said), but she barely mentioned the fact, as if it were of no interest, and declined positively to repeat his words, which was always the interesting (and also the convincing) part of it....

"What's the matter?" said Mattie, aloud and alertly.

Cally, sitting and rubbing cold cream (or whatever it was) had suddenly given a long sigh. At her friend's question, she turned half round, but did not cease the rubbing.

"Mats, don't you ever get sick and tired of all these things we do to ourselves to make us look pretty and attractive and--desirable?"

Mattie, looking rather shocked, said: "Why, what things do you mean?"

"Oh, these things!... Ma.s.sage and manicure and primp!--hot baths and lotions and primp!--sleep and a little exercise to make pink cheeks and primp some more. Hours and hours every day just to coddling our little bodies! Isn't it all rather sickening, when you really stop to think?"

"I must say," answered Mattie, quite stiffly, "I can see nothing sickening about it. I think it's a woman's duty to look just as well as she can."

Carlisle rested her arm on her chair-back, and went on rubbing.

"Duty?--I wonder. Duty to whom, do you mean?"

"To everybody, to the world, to society."

"I was just trying to think," said Cally, "and it's quite fun. I believe I'll do it at least once a week after this.--What would we think of a man who spent four hours a day decorating himself, everlastingly working at himself to look pretty?"

Mattie opened her wide eyes yet wider. She was now plaiting her well-brushed hair, and looked very sweet and girlish.

"Why, that's a _very_ different thing, Cally! The same qualities aren't expected of men and women--or they couldn't complement each other! Women are _expected_ to be sweet and attractive, while--"

"Expected by whom?" quizzed Cally, and screwed the top down on her cold cream (if such, indeed, it was).

"By everybody," said Mattie, falling back upon her tried phrase, "by the world, by--"

"Why shouldn't it be expected of men to look nice, too, just as much?

Why should we have to do the whole performance? Why shouldn't we give some of all this time to something useful, as men do?--cultivating our minds, for instance?"

"But don't you _see_, Cally?--that isn't expected of us! Men simply do _not_ care for clever women," cried Mattie, who had built up a considerable social success on that very principle.

"Why should we let _them_ decide for us what we're to be? Why?--Why?

That's just what they do! We're human beings just as much as they are, aren't we?... Oh, I'm sick of men," cried Cally.

"_You're sick of men_!" echoed Mattie, aghast as at a blasphemy.

Cally nodded slowly, her lovely eyes on her friend's tremulous face.

"Oh, it's the men who make us put in all this time tricking up ourselves to look pretty. You know it, too, for you just gave yourself away....

Oh, Mats, wouldn't it be great to appeal to _somebody_ sometimes in some other way!"

Mattie, apparently on the verge of tears, murmured her complete inability to follow Cally's strange talk. Observing her, Carlisle gave a rea.s.suring little laugh and rose abruptly. Not that it made any special difference, but she didn't care about setting her best friend's alert wits too busily to work.

"Dear old Mats!--Don't take me so dreadfully _seriously_. It's all what I read in a magazine article to-night before the German, waiting for Robert to come. He thought he was displeased with me, and came very late, on purpose. You don't seem to like it?"

"I _don't_ like to hear you talk so, Cally, even in fun," replied dear old Mats, rather stiffly. "You've been strange all evening, and you told me you didn't care whether you ever saw Mr. Canning again or not.

It isn't a bit like you."

"It certainly isn't, as mamma frequently remarks," said Cally, her laugh dying. "Well, I'm going to be just like myself after this, never fear.... Gentlemen always welcome. We strive to please."

She put an arm over her friend's shoulder, and in this true-friends.h.i.+p att.i.tude they strolled through the little entry and connecting bath to the spare-room at the back where Mattie always spent the night.

"I feel terribly sorry for poor Mr. Beirne," said Mattie, in a just voice. "You know he had a sinking-spell, and they were saying to-night he can't possibly get well."

"Yes, I know," said Carlisle, stifling a yawn. "By the way, I must leave cards there to-morrow. Remind me. Climb in, dear. I'll tuck you in."

"I haven't said my prayers," said Mattie, standing by the bed. "Cally, suppose he dies and leaves a lot of money to that cunning nephew of his!

You know--Dr. Vivian--that I introduced to you that night at his house?

They say Mr. Beirne's terribly fond of him."

Cally nodded in reply, her gaze entirely blank. It appeared that in this world there was escape neither from the nephew nor from the topic of him.

"But what do you suppose he'd _do_ with it," queried Mattie, who was a dear romantic thing--"living off down there in the Dabney House?

Somebody told me he didn't care at _all_ for money, only think!"

"Perhaps he'd feel differently if he had any," said Cally. "Papa says coming into money's a sure cure for Socialism and everything of that sort."

"Why, don't you think he's terribly _sincere_?... Don't you think lame people usually are, somehow?"

"My dear child, I don't see why I should think about him at all.