Heavens, what was this? Hunters in red coats galloped over the walls, foxes died and horns blew. At least, horns ought to be blowing; one could see the puffed cheeks of the blowers. Of course, Deedee told herself in an effort to be calm, this was just the paper of which she had heard. But she had not known it would be like this—covered with pictures. “I wish the boys could see it,” she said in a strained voice.
The red of the hunters’ coats was repeated in damask curtains. Below the paper ran gray painted wood, and a cupboard of this color, built into a corner, was filled with brightly patterned dishes. There was a long polished table, of the mahogany, said Mme. Elmire, inlaid with satinwood. It matched the slender-legged chairs, with their seats of shining horsehair, and the sideboard, which bore a decanter full of wine and two cut glass water jugs.
“And where,” asked Deedee tremulously, “where is the harpsichord?”
“In the parlor, naturally.”
“But what is this, then?”
“The dining room. This is where he eats.”
A room just for eating!
But the dining room was as nothing to the parlor which lay beyond. Deedee’s ecstasy almost overwhelmed her as they passed into that. And when Mme. Elmire released her hand suddenly, murmuring that she would set the pilau off the fire, Deedee was of half a mind to follow. To be alone in such a parlor!
It stretched across the front of the house. At one end was an alcove with books in a fall-front desk. At the other an open door showed a hall with stately stairs climbing. There were three windows which should have disclosed the walls and towers of Snelling—Jasper Page had placed his house to look up at the fort, its only companion in polite society, but these windows to-day were veiled in snow, shutting Deedee into strangeness. A strangeness of papered walls with urns and wreaths of flowers strewn upon them. A strangeness of striped green damask festooning the windows and covering also the chairs, footstools and sofas. There were mirrors to reflect it all. Deedee’s eyes grew bigger and browner.
She tiptoed across to the harpsichord. It had been swathed in brown sacking when she had seen it at the landing. Now it stood revealed in glory, a mountain scene painted on its top. She tiptoed back to the mantel. The gilded clock was flanked by two small china men. With another passionate wish for her brothers, Deedee identified them: George Washington and Lafayette. She looked up to the ceiling. A shower of crystal drops concealed a circle of tall white candles. She had never seen such candles. She was staring up at them, entranced, when the outer door swung open and M’sieu Page came in with Mrs. Boles.
They were powdered with snow and both of them were laughing. M’sieu Page’s laugh made him momentarily lose majesty, brought him surprisingly to an age with Narcisse. Mrs. Boles’ cheeks were as pink as her pink velvet bonnet, overladen with plumes. A short fur cape was laid about her wide sleeves, and she carried a tiny muff. Her small silken slippers were wet with snow.
“Such slippers!” M’sieu Page was saying as they came in. “Mowrie ought to forbid them.”
Eva Boles looked down at her feet and her expression changed. “Does he even know I wear them?” she asked bitterly.
Deedee swiftly memorized the scrap of conversation. It wasn’t exactly clear, but she could ponder it later.
M’sieu Page caught sight of her and crossed the room quickly. “Andy is all right, my dear. Mrs. Boles was with him, and had the blood staunched when I arrived. I bandaged him a bit, and now he’s fit as a fiddle. I thought she’d better have a look at you, too.”
“I’m all right, thank you, sir,” answered Deedee, stiffening. In spite of the kindness in M’sieu Page’s eyes, she felt a roll of anger like thick dark smoke. Mrs. Boles had not cared about Andy, no matter what she had done.
“I’m glad,” said Mrs. Boles, smiling at her. Yet she knew, Deedee thought, that she was disliked.
“You’re looking much better,” said Jasper Page. He turned up her face with his hand. “See here, I don’t even know your name.”
“Delia,” said Deedee.
“You’re staying to dinner, aren’t you, Delia?”
“Yes, sir.”
He swung about, looking youthfully pleased with himself. “Well, I think that Mrs. Boles had better stay to chaperone you.”
Chaperone! There was a word with which one must make acquaintance at the earliest opportunity. Whatever it meant, to chaperone, Mrs. Boles liked to do it.
“Really, Mr. Page, I couldn’t, I’m afraid.”
But M’sieu Page’s spirits carried everything before them. “Nonsense,” he said, taking out his big watch. “It’s three o’clock. When you come to my house on an errand of mercy at precisely the dinner hour, you may surely eat some dinner.” He crossed the room and pulled a cord, setting a bell ringing.
“Mrs. Boles and Delia are taking dinner with me,” he told Mme. Elmire.
Mme. Elmire shot a startled look at Deedee. “I have a table set for the little one in the kitchen with me, m’sieu,” she ventured.
“No,” said M’sieu Page. “She’ll eat in the dining room.”
M’sieu Page excused himself. He wouldn’t dress, he said, but he would like to brush up. Mme. Elmire took the cape and muff and bonnet, and Mrs. Boles went to the nearest mirror, a gilded mirror with the American eagle spreading its wings at the top. Deedee watched silently, her brown feet planted a hostile space apart.
Mrs. Boles had light green eyes, round cheeks which one longed to touch with one’s finger, and a mouth like a sweet prim posy. She had fair hair, twisted high on her head in the fashionable bowknot. The trying lines of this were not much softened by the small cap nestling at its base, or the bunches of little curls hanging at her temples. But she was pretty enough to overcome even a bowknot. She was very pretty.
And this prettiness, Deedee discovered, lay partly in her neatness. Every hair of her head, every ribbon of her cap, every fold of her striped silk dress, lay in its place. Her fichu was the whitest thing Deedee had ever seen, and it crossed precisely at the buckle of her belt. Although she was already perfect, she continued to work before the mirror. She reset the pins of her hair with the most absorbed attention. She picked out her great sleeves, which extended like wings on their hidden cushions, amusingly emphasizing the smallness of her waist. She shook out her dainty ankle-length skirts, and reached into her reticule for a large, fine, snowy handkerchief at which she sniffed critically.
“I think you could enjoy looking at the books,” she said, noting the child’s scrutiny.
Books meant nothing to Deedee, but she went and stood before them. In a few minutes M’sieu Page returned. He was still in buckskins, but his cheeks were ruddy from cold water, his light hair and whiskers smoothly brushed. The Canadian men at the Entry wore beards which concealed all of their faces but their teeth and eyes. M’sieu Page’s fresh and handsome countenance held Deedee’s gaze. But M’sieu Page, with out regarding her, went straight to Mrs. Boles.
They talked together in low but perfectly audible tones. Mrs. Boles said, “I’ve been wanting to speak to you alone. I don’t know what to do. He drinks continually.”
M’sieu Page answered in a troubled voice that the frontier was hard on a man.
“It isn’t hard on you,” said Eva Boles, looking up at him with her pretty light green eyes. She sighed. “I wish that the Major had your ideas.”
“See here,” protested Jasper Page, embarrassed, “Mowrie’s a splendid chap. No doubt he has his own ideas. And he has you.”
“Yes,” said Eva Boles. “He has me.” Her tone added, “And much he cares.” She took out her handkerchief.
M’sieu Page jumped up and walked over to Deedee.