The Dark Lady Read Online Free PDF Page B

But you needn't worry. I shall not do it. Because I know it would kill him. I can imagine what you've all been up to—hounding him, persecuting him. And even if I rescued him from you, he'd always wonder if I'd done the right thing. You see, I know him. I leave him to you because it's easier that way. Easier for
him.
And I'll take that check, only because I despise you so utterly that it would be overrating you to reject it!"
    Ivy was never to forget the look of astonishment on the Contessa's face. Twenty minutes later she was on her way to Rome. In the dreary wilderness which choked her heart and mind she had yet the energy to face the fact that her disaster had not come wholly as a surprise. An expurgated
Jane Eyre
had become an expurgated
Portrait of a Lady.
That was all.

    When Ivy disembarked in New York she decided that she would remain in the city. It was not that she did not wish to expose herself to the humiliation of family sympathy in Auburn, it was simply that nobody could make a life for her now but herself. She owed her job on
Tone
to the intervention of a cousin, but thereafter she owed little to her relatives except for an occasional dinner at a restaurant when one of them came to the city, and this she more than paid for with her services as a guide. Her rise at
Tone
was slow but steady. She learned each department fully and finally settled in fashion, where she became the editor. She was never ill, never missed an opening, went to Paris every fall and developed a pungent style of her own, which made sensible dressing attractive and available to middle-aged suburbanites. She also intermixed her column with personal items about the best-dressed ladies of Manhattan, so that a blend of gossip and garments became her trademark. "Ivy not only tells you what the ladies put on," Sam Gorman, the feature editor of
Tone
used to say. "She also tells you when they take it off."
    Little by little she developed a social life. She drew an allowance from the magazine to cover choice little dinners, parties for eight, in her tiny but charming apartment at the Althorpe, furnished with presents from firms which advertised in
Tone.
People came because she did things well; they loved the rapid talk over lively topics in the oval green-paneled parlor hung with exotic oriental birds on satin. Ivy's trick was always to have one important, unexpected guest, an actress, a visiting designer, a popular woman novelist, and to be sure that the other six would be the sort to amuse her star. The efforts to which she went to procure the latter were as laborious as they were carefully concealed. But nobody ever heard her complain about the toil that went into the creation of a social life which a pretty face or a bank account would have made for her in a day.
    Ivy's greatest success was with the Steins. Her value to them was very much what it had been to her aunt and uncle: an ability to straighten out a party as one would a sheet on a bed, by giving it, all unobtrusively, little pulls and twitches. When the Steins took her to Europe she was helpful with timetables and accommodations; when they were ill she was as good as a trained nurse. Once when they were in Mexico, and David had been caught smoking at boarding school, they delegated Ivy to go up to Connecticut to talk to the headmaster, a matter she handled so skillfully that the dreaded suspension was avoided.
    And yet all was not perfect. There were times when the Steins seemed to forget about her altogether, when as many as six weeks would pass without an invitation. And then, when Clara did call, there would be only the cool formality of her usual overture: "Ivy, dear, would you by any chance be free on Friday? We're having some amusing people in." Irving even presumed to disinvite her if he saw fit. "Oh, Ivy, I know I needn't stand on ceremony with as old a friend as you. Nicolo has just given out, and I haven't a man to balance you. Ordinarily I wouldn't care a hoot about an