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Page 45
Mr. Harling had a desk in his bedroom, and his own easy-chair by the
window, in which no one else ever sat. On the nights when he was at home,
I could see his shadow on the blind, and it seemed to me an arrogant
shadow. Mrs. Harling paid no heed to anyone else if he was there. Before
he went to bed she always got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies and
beer. He kept an alcohol lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot, and
his wife made coffee for him at any hour of the night he happened to want
it.
Most Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits outside their domestic ones;
they paid the bills, pushed the baby-carriage after office hours, moved the
sprinkler about over the lawn, and took the family driving on Sunday. Mr.
Harling, therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in his ways. He
walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man who felt that he
had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so haughtily that he
looked a commanding figure, and there was something daring and challenging
in his eyes. I used to imagine that the ,nobles' of whom Antonia was
always talking probably looked very much like Christian Harling, wore caped
overcoats like his, and just such a glittering diamond upon the little
finger.
Except when the father was at home, the Harling house was never quiet.
Mrs. Harling and Nina and Antonia made as much noise as a houseful of
children, and there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the only
one who was held down to regular hours of practising, but they all played.
When Frances came home at noon, she played until dinner was ready. When
Sally got back from school, she sat down in her hat and coat and drummed
the plantation melodies that Negro minstrel troupes brought to town. Even
Nina played the Swedish Wedding March.
Mrs. Harling had studied the piano under a good teacher, and somehow she
managed to practise every day. I soon learned that if I were sent over on
an errand and found Mrs. Harling at the piano, I must sit down and wait
quietly until she turned to me. I can see her at this moment: her short,
square person planted firmly on the stool, her little fat hands moving
quickly and neatly over the keys, her eyes fixed on the music with
intelligent concentration.
IV
`I won't have none of your weevily wheat,
and I won't have none of your
barley,
But I'll take a measure of fine white
flour, to make a cake
for Charley.'
WE WERE SINGING rhymes to tease Antonia while she was beating up one of
Charley's favourite cakes in her big mixing-bowl.
It was a crisp autumn evening, just cold enough to make one glad to quit
playing tag in the yard, and retreat into the kitchen. We had begun to
roll popcorn balls with syrup when we heard a knock at the back door, and
Tony dropped her spoon and went to open it.
A plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the doorway. She looked demure
and pretty, and made a graceful picture in her blue cashmere dress and
little blue hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly about her shoulders and a
clumsy pocket-book in her hand.
`Hello, Tony. Don't you know me?' she asked in a smooth, low voice,
looking in at us archly.
Antonia gasped and stepped back.
`Why, it's Lena! Of course I didn't know you, so dressed up!'
Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for
a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head--or
with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was,
brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with
perfect composure.
`Hello, Jim,' she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and looked
about her. `I've come to town to work, too, Tony.'
`Have you, now? Well, ain't that funny" Antonia stood ill at ease, and
didn't seem to know just what to do with her visitor.
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