“All right.”
Roy rose and stared across the veranda. “Hermy! We thought it might be you.”
Hermione Shaw was walking up the steps.
In view of her shell-spattering, brake squealing arrival, her appearance was startlingly composed and quiet, but then Hermione was always composed and quiet and very certain of herself.
The certainty and composure, and the remains of a rather feverish fine-drawn beauty had been Nonie’s main impression of Hermione Shaw. She looked at her now with deeper attentiveness, seeing in the revealing light of what Roy had said and what Jim had said, the fine sharp lines in Hermione’s camelia-white skin, the cruelly aquiline nose, the thin yet smiling mouth. Her dark hair was parted sleekly in the middle and rolled into a black smooth knot at the back of her neck; not a hair was out of place. Her eyes were a very light, cold gray, so bright and sharp that they seemed to see everything. She wore dark-red lipstick and dark-red varnish on her unexpectedly square and blunt fingernails. Somehow in that land of baking sunshine Hermione’s face and hands remained white; her figure was that of a young girl. It was indeed difficult to see why she was not still beautiful; yet there was a curious look of wasting in her face, as if some inward fire burned, consuming the quality of beauty and leaving only its shell.
Perhaps that fire, too, accounted for a kind of avid, hungry look in her mouth and eyes. She said however, smoothly, with a smile: “Hello, Roy—Nonie. I thought I might find you here, Jim.”
She wore a gray linen dress, miraculously sleek and neat, and high-heeled, lizard-skin pumps. She was too thin so the veins showed on her hands as she came nearer and the throb of a pulse beat hard under the paper-white skin along her temple. Roy said something about a chair, a drink, the heat, and, smiling, she interrupted: “Thank you, Roy. You must know why I came. I hope you’ve persuaded Jim not to do anything on an impulse.”
Roy looked hot and uncomfortable. Jim said: “I’ve got to get back to New York, if that’s what you mean, Hermione.”
There was no change in Hermione’s white, thin face; only the pulse along her temple seemed to throb harder. She said, still smiling, shaking her head gently: “Youth is so impatient. Please think a little, Jim. What will you do if the job doesn’t work out?”
“It will,” Jim said shortly.
Her eyebrows were as neat and shining as her hair; they lifted a little. “You were not satisfied with it before you came to Middle Road. That’s why you came here.”
“I came to Middle Road because …” began Jim angrily and then checked himself. “You know why I came!”
Her eyes were like gray jewels. “Were you going to say because I asked you to come? I did, of course. I thought you’d be happy here. I’m sorry—sorrier than I can possibly say, to discover that you are bored and discontented. I realize that it must seem dull to you. A sugar plantation is only a sugar plantation. Middle Road is like every other; I’m sorry you have tired of it but …”
Jim, very white, burst out: “I’m not tired of Middle Road. I love Middle Road …” and again stopped as if he didn’t dare let himself say more—or as if he would not give her the satisfaction of showing how words cut.
She saw it, though. Her fixed smile did not change but her eyes seemed brighter and rather pleased. “Then why leave, Jim? You have nothing to worry you here. I don’t begrudge you money, not in the least. You are my nephew—I’m delighted to give you all I can. The plantation is there and you can be of help to me. I’m sure you can be of help,” said Hermione in the soothing, indulgent voice she would have used in order to coax a child. “Just as soon as you get accustomed to the plantation there’ll be all sorts of things you can help us with.”
Jim picked up his bag and looked at Roy. “I’d better be getting along.”
Hermione’s smile did not
Roy rose and stared across the veranda. “Hermy! We thought it might be you.”
Hermione Shaw was walking up the steps.
In view of her shell-spattering, brake squealing arrival, her appearance was startlingly composed and quiet, but then Hermione was always composed and quiet and very certain of herself.
The certainty and composure, and the remains of a rather feverish fine-drawn beauty had been Nonie’s main impression of Hermione Shaw. She looked at her now with deeper attentiveness, seeing in the revealing light of what Roy had said and what Jim had said, the fine sharp lines in Hermione’s camelia-white skin, the cruelly aquiline nose, the thin yet smiling mouth. Her dark hair was parted sleekly in the middle and rolled into a black smooth knot at the back of her neck; not a hair was out of place. Her eyes were a very light, cold gray, so bright and sharp that they seemed to see everything. She wore dark-red lipstick and dark-red varnish on her unexpectedly square and blunt fingernails. Somehow in that land of baking sunshine Hermione’s face and hands remained white; her figure was that of a young girl. It was indeed difficult to see why she was not still beautiful; yet there was a curious look of wasting in her face, as if some inward fire burned, consuming the quality of beauty and leaving only its shell.
Perhaps that fire, too, accounted for a kind of avid, hungry look in her mouth and eyes. She said however, smoothly, with a smile: “Hello, Roy—Nonie. I thought I might find you here, Jim.”
She wore a gray linen dress, miraculously sleek and neat, and high-heeled, lizard-skin pumps. She was too thin so the veins showed on her hands as she came nearer and the throb of a pulse beat hard under the paper-white skin along her temple. Roy said something about a chair, a drink, the heat, and, smiling, she interrupted: “Thank you, Roy. You must know why I came. I hope you’ve persuaded Jim not to do anything on an impulse.”
Roy looked hot and uncomfortable. Jim said: “I’ve got to get back to New York, if that’s what you mean, Hermione.”
There was no change in Hermione’s white, thin face; only the pulse along her temple seemed to throb harder. She said, still smiling, shaking her head gently: “Youth is so impatient. Please think a little, Jim. What will you do if the job doesn’t work out?”
“It will,” Jim said shortly.
Her eyebrows were as neat and shining as her hair; they lifted a little. “You were not satisfied with it before you came to Middle Road. That’s why you came here.”
“I came to Middle Road because …” began Jim angrily and then checked himself. “You know why I came!”
Her eyes were like gray jewels. “Were you going to say because I asked you to come? I did, of course. I thought you’d be happy here. I’m sorry—sorrier than I can possibly say, to discover that you are bored and discontented. I realize that it must seem dull to you. A sugar plantation is only a sugar plantation. Middle Road is like every other; I’m sorry you have tired of it but …”
Jim, very white, burst out: “I’m not tired of Middle Road. I love Middle Road …” and again stopped as if he didn’t dare let himself say more—or as if he would not give her the satisfaction of showing how words cut.
She saw it, though. Her fixed smile did not change but her eyes seemed brighter and rather pleased. “Then why leave, Jim? You have nothing to worry you here. I don’t begrudge you money, not in the least. You are my nephew—I’m delighted to give you all I can. The plantation is there and you can be of help to me. I’m sure you can be of help,” said Hermione in the soothing, indulgent voice she would have used in order to coax a child. “Just as soon as you get accustomed to the plantation there’ll be all sorts of things you can help us with.”
Jim picked up his bag and looked at Roy. “I’d better be getting along.”
Hermione’s smile did not
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