Harleigh someone would like a word with her, please."
"Yes, sir."
I left him on the stoop and let the door swing while I ran back down the hall to the kitchen.
"Is it the Colonel?" Mrs. Harleigh asked, rinsing a goblet
"No'm. It's Mr. Ott."
"Ott? Ott? I don't know any --"
"He has red hair . . ."
The goblet crashed against the porcelain sink and shattered. She stared at the broken pieces, then, methodically wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she removed her apron, and quickly left the room.
While I gingerly picked the fragments of crystal out of the sink, the murmur of voices drifted up the hallway. It was all unintelligible to me; presently the conversation stopped and the door closed. I waited for Mrs. Harleigh to come back to the kitchen, but there was nothing but silence. I dropped the pieces of the goblet in the can under the sink and went into the hall. It was empty. Walking to the foot of the stairs, I looked up and as I placed my hand on the newel post I heard a low muffled moan. It came from the dining room.
She was standing in front of the mirror, staring at her wobbly reflection jn the glass. She seemed unaware of me as I came in the room and walked to her side. I watched as long as I could in the mirror as a tear trickled down her cheek, then threw myself against her, holding her elbow in an awkward way, trying to squeeze her hand.
"Don't, please, Mrs. Harleigh, please!" I hugged her and tried to think how I could make her stop. It made me furious that a redheaded man in a snowstorm could cause such pain.
She was still staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her features looked distorted, narrowing and bulging with the imperfect glass. Then she wiped her eyes with my napkin in her hand, and as if to hide her image she hung the napkin on the mirror. Then she disengaged herself and removed the linen place mats from the table and put them away. "If we are truly to be friends," she said over her shoulder, carrying the saltcellars to the sideboard, "you must call me 'Lady.'"
Perhaps it should have been a thrill, her asking me to call her by the name all the grownups used, but I could think of nothing else but the man at the door, his bright glistening eyes, his tight, mean mouth, his snow-covered red hair. And not wearing a hat, on such a snowy evening. I could not then say "Lady," but "Please," I entreated her, "who was he -- Mr. Ott?"
"Mr. Ott?" She gave a wry twist to the name as she repeated it. "Who was he?" She thought a moment, then smiled a strange, bitter smile and, without looking, removed the napkin from the mirror and put it in a napkin ring. "Mr. Ott," she murmured with a trace of amusement. She lifted from the table the Oriental bowl holding the winter cherries, but the single shake of her head told me she had no reply to my question.
5
I did not see her again for some time. No one did, and Mrs. Sparrow gave out the news that Mrs. Harleigh "wasn't herself," and was going through another of her "retirements." Each day I eagerly awaited a glimpse of furs and a veiled hat, to catch her going out in the Minerva landaulet, but in the brick house across the Green behind the drawn shades all was silence and I yearned in vain.
In school and out, I languished like a lover and, like a lover betrayed, I thought all the worst, the unkindest things, telling myself she wasn't worth a second glance. How cruel she was. How unfeeling after having led me on, promising me "Larks, my darling, we must have larks," and then not even so much as a sight of her. Shut herself up in the house and nary a wave or a hello, let alone a musical evening. What was wrong with people like that? Didn't they know they hurt people's feelings?
Still, it was only my feelings I was concerned with, not hers. I gave no thought to what might have occasioned her "retirement," or what she might be suffering in consequence. I thought only of the promised musical evening, and every Sunday when Jack Benny came on the radio and said "Jell-O
"Yes, sir."
I left him on the stoop and let the door swing while I ran back down the hall to the kitchen.
"Is it the Colonel?" Mrs. Harleigh asked, rinsing a goblet
"No'm. It's Mr. Ott."
"Ott? Ott? I don't know any --"
"He has red hair . . ."
The goblet crashed against the porcelain sink and shattered. She stared at the broken pieces, then, methodically wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she removed her apron, and quickly left the room.
While I gingerly picked the fragments of crystal out of the sink, the murmur of voices drifted up the hallway. It was all unintelligible to me; presently the conversation stopped and the door closed. I waited for Mrs. Harleigh to come back to the kitchen, but there was nothing but silence. I dropped the pieces of the goblet in the can under the sink and went into the hall. It was empty. Walking to the foot of the stairs, I looked up and as I placed my hand on the newel post I heard a low muffled moan. It came from the dining room.
She was standing in front of the mirror, staring at her wobbly reflection jn the glass. She seemed unaware of me as I came in the room and walked to her side. I watched as long as I could in the mirror as a tear trickled down her cheek, then threw myself against her, holding her elbow in an awkward way, trying to squeeze her hand.
"Don't, please, Mrs. Harleigh, please!" I hugged her and tried to think how I could make her stop. It made me furious that a redheaded man in a snowstorm could cause such pain.
She was still staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her features looked distorted, narrowing and bulging with the imperfect glass. Then she wiped her eyes with my napkin in her hand, and as if to hide her image she hung the napkin on the mirror. Then she disengaged herself and removed the linen place mats from the table and put them away. "If we are truly to be friends," she said over her shoulder, carrying the saltcellars to the sideboard, "you must call me 'Lady.'"
Perhaps it should have been a thrill, her asking me to call her by the name all the grownups used, but I could think of nothing else but the man at the door, his bright glistening eyes, his tight, mean mouth, his snow-covered red hair. And not wearing a hat, on such a snowy evening. I could not then say "Lady," but "Please," I entreated her, "who was he -- Mr. Ott?"
"Mr. Ott?" She gave a wry twist to the name as she repeated it. "Who was he?" She thought a moment, then smiled a strange, bitter smile and, without looking, removed the napkin from the mirror and put it in a napkin ring. "Mr. Ott," she murmured with a trace of amusement. She lifted from the table the Oriental bowl holding the winter cherries, but the single shake of her head told me she had no reply to my question.
5
I did not see her again for some time. No one did, and Mrs. Sparrow gave out the news that Mrs. Harleigh "wasn't herself," and was going through another of her "retirements." Each day I eagerly awaited a glimpse of furs and a veiled hat, to catch her going out in the Minerva landaulet, but in the brick house across the Green behind the drawn shades all was silence and I yearned in vain.
In school and out, I languished like a lover and, like a lover betrayed, I thought all the worst, the unkindest things, telling myself she wasn't worth a second glance. How cruel she was. How unfeeling after having led me on, promising me "Larks, my darling, we must have larks," and then not even so much as a sight of her. Shut herself up in the house and nary a wave or a hello, let alone a musical evening. What was wrong with people like that? Didn't they know they hurt people's feelings?
Still, it was only my feelings I was concerned with, not hers. I gave no thought to what might have occasioned her "retirement," or what she might be suffering in consequence. I thought only of the promised musical evening, and every Sunday when Jack Benny came on the radio and said "Jell-O
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