seek her fortune, I said,” the woman repeated stoutly. The door was not very far open, but the tiger cat managed to parade through without any loss of dignity, and Miss Withers edged after it.
“I’m a sort of relative,” she announced shamelessly. “I just wanted to find out some things about Dulcie.”
The landlady pondered this. “An aunt from out of town, eh? Well, if you’ve come for her things I couldn’t really let you have them without you pay me the two weeks rent she left owing,” the woman continued apologetically. “Left in a hurry, the child did. But she was always in a hurry, always up to something. Such a one! And when I was her age I was such another, let me tell you!” The vast bosom sighed.
“So she rushed off to Mexico, eh? To make her fortune.” Miss Withers’ equine visage wore a somewhat puzzled smile.
“She did that. Some sort of job came up overnight, and whist! she was gone. Says to me, ‘Auntie Mac’ (my name being Macafee) ‘I’m going to Mexico, and I’m either coming back in such grand style that you won’t know me or else I’m not coming back at all,’ she says.”
“It was sudden, then?”
“It was and it wasn’t. Heaven knows she’d talked enough about Mexico and read all the books in the rental library. Being the kind of girl she was, a tomboy and a man-hater, I think foreign parts took the place in her mind that most girls give to being boy-crazy.”
“She didn’t leave because of a man, then?” Miss Withers wanted to know. “She wasn’t running away?”
“Her?” Mrs. Macafee laughed. “She wouldn’t run away from the divil himself if he stood in her way, and that’s a fact. As soon slap your face as kiss you, and likely to do both in the space of five minutes. But I tell you, men were no more important in her life than—than nothing.” Mrs. Macafee sighed again. “I wish I could say the same.”
“I wonder if I could see her room?” the schoolteacher hinted. “I know it’s late, but …”
“Her things are upstairs, two flights in front. I haven’t even got around to packing them and putting them down cellar, with this hot weather and all. As I said, I shouldn’t be turning them over to anybody until I get my two weeks’ rent—eighteen dollars it is and fifty cents telephone—but if she wants them sent to her I would be the last person in the world to say no, having been young once and poor all my life …”
The cat escorted them up the stairs into a long narrow room which still held a trunk and other traces of its former occupant. There were no less than a dozen empty picture frames on the wall, a row of well-worn dresses in the closet, and one bureau drawer was full of recipes. “Not that the child ever cooked anything,” Mrs. Macafee said. “But no magazine went out of this house without her bringing her little fingernail scissors—”
“You haven’t a picture of her anywhere around?” Miss Withers asked.
“Only this!” The landlady laughed. “Isn’t it a scream? Dulcie used to keep it around, she said, to keep from being vain.”
It was a faded photograph of perhaps forty little boys and girls, none of them over ten or eleven. In the front row stood a plump and freckled child with fat legs. Mrs. Macafee indicated it with her thumb. “That’s her, taken when she was in school. That’s the schoolhouse steps they’re on.”
Miss Withers nodded, recognizing those steps. Mrs. Macafee was opening a shelf in the closet. “And here are her newspapers—subscribed she did to every sheet in Mexico. Not that she could read a word of the lingo, but she’d spend hours over them every time they arrived.”
Miss Withers was slowly building up a picture of Dulcie Prothero, a picture composed of the drawer of recipes, the scent that clung to the top bureau drawers, the old class photograph …
Even the way the great tiger cat wandered purring happily through the place, as if a regular visitor there. Then there was the
“I’m a sort of relative,” she announced shamelessly. “I just wanted to find out some things about Dulcie.”
The landlady pondered this. “An aunt from out of town, eh? Well, if you’ve come for her things I couldn’t really let you have them without you pay me the two weeks rent she left owing,” the woman continued apologetically. “Left in a hurry, the child did. But she was always in a hurry, always up to something. Such a one! And when I was her age I was such another, let me tell you!” The vast bosom sighed.
“So she rushed off to Mexico, eh? To make her fortune.” Miss Withers’ equine visage wore a somewhat puzzled smile.
“She did that. Some sort of job came up overnight, and whist! she was gone. Says to me, ‘Auntie Mac’ (my name being Macafee) ‘I’m going to Mexico, and I’m either coming back in such grand style that you won’t know me or else I’m not coming back at all,’ she says.”
“It was sudden, then?”
“It was and it wasn’t. Heaven knows she’d talked enough about Mexico and read all the books in the rental library. Being the kind of girl she was, a tomboy and a man-hater, I think foreign parts took the place in her mind that most girls give to being boy-crazy.”
“She didn’t leave because of a man, then?” Miss Withers wanted to know. “She wasn’t running away?”
“Her?” Mrs. Macafee laughed. “She wouldn’t run away from the divil himself if he stood in her way, and that’s a fact. As soon slap your face as kiss you, and likely to do both in the space of five minutes. But I tell you, men were no more important in her life than—than nothing.” Mrs. Macafee sighed again. “I wish I could say the same.”
“I wonder if I could see her room?” the schoolteacher hinted. “I know it’s late, but …”
“Her things are upstairs, two flights in front. I haven’t even got around to packing them and putting them down cellar, with this hot weather and all. As I said, I shouldn’t be turning them over to anybody until I get my two weeks’ rent—eighteen dollars it is and fifty cents telephone—but if she wants them sent to her I would be the last person in the world to say no, having been young once and poor all my life …”
The cat escorted them up the stairs into a long narrow room which still held a trunk and other traces of its former occupant. There were no less than a dozen empty picture frames on the wall, a row of well-worn dresses in the closet, and one bureau drawer was full of recipes. “Not that the child ever cooked anything,” Mrs. Macafee said. “But no magazine went out of this house without her bringing her little fingernail scissors—”
“You haven’t a picture of her anywhere around?” Miss Withers asked.
“Only this!” The landlady laughed. “Isn’t it a scream? Dulcie used to keep it around, she said, to keep from being vain.”
It was a faded photograph of perhaps forty little boys and girls, none of them over ten or eleven. In the front row stood a plump and freckled child with fat legs. Mrs. Macafee indicated it with her thumb. “That’s her, taken when she was in school. That’s the schoolhouse steps they’re on.”
Miss Withers nodded, recognizing those steps. Mrs. Macafee was opening a shelf in the closet. “And here are her newspapers—subscribed she did to every sheet in Mexico. Not that she could read a word of the lingo, but she’d spend hours over them every time they arrived.”
Miss Withers was slowly building up a picture of Dulcie Prothero, a picture composed of the drawer of recipes, the scent that clung to the top bureau drawers, the old class photograph …
Even the way the great tiger cat wandered purring happily through the place, as if a regular visitor there. Then there was the
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