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Authors: Cornell Woolrich
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room.
“Rosita!” the mistress of the house called.
There was a wait that somehow suggested more a stage wait than an actual approach from a distance, and then a comely young girl-of-all-work, with a shawl already coifed around her head, materialized in the doorway, without any preliminary tread along the hall having been audible.
“Si, senora?”
“Was that the telephone just now?”
“The operator must have made a mistake. Nobody answered when I got to it, there wasn’t anybody on it.”
The Senora Viuda’s horizontal brow line arched slightly, then evened out again. “Every now and then that seems to happen in this house. You can take off your shawl, Rosita,” she added with an indifferent drawl, “you will not be going out.”
The girl put her hands to it, but left it in place, as if hoping the order might yet be countermanded. “But the Senorita Conchita wanted me to accompany her to—” she said with an odd sort of breathlessness.
“Call Dona Marta, she is to go with her instead.”
The girl’s black-pitted eyes were fixed on her mistress’ face with a sort of tremulous fixity that somehow suggested they wanted to direct themselves at somebody else in the room, but were being restrained. She gave a little knee dip, “Si, senora,” vanished from the doorway.
The Senora Viuda turned back to her daughter. The latter was sitting almost in the attitude of a penitent by now, her second ankle had retreated far under the chair to join the first, and she was busily engaged with both hands in pleating and smoothing out again a small section of dress over one kneecap. She could feel her mother’s gaze on her, looked up through her long lashes to confirm the impression, looked down again when she had.
Senora Contreras said, with an odd sort of kindliness seeping through her mien of authority, “Come here a minute, my child.” Conchita got up, moved to the side of the chaise longue, crouched down to the level of her mother’s face. The fan had finally stopped, for the balance of the interview; was laid aside. The Senora reached out, tipped up her hand to her daughter’s chin, held it under it in a sort of static caress. She looked questioningly into her eyes.
The girl’s eyes never wavered, they were crystalline innocence itself.
“I did not come into this world a middle-aged woman, a widowed mother, as you see me now, you know. I was a young girl myself once, and not so many years ago. Always remember, hijita de mi alma , anything you think, your mother thought before you. Anything you do, your mother did before you. And her mother before her. There isn’t anything new in women. I know, I know.”
“Know what, madrecita? ” the girl breathed so low it could scarcely be heard.
The Senora Viuda kissed her with classic benevolence on the forehead, then more fondly on the lips. “You are a sweet little thing. You are the morning sunlight in my dreary afternoon sky. It is not that you would do anything so unforgivable. It is just that there is a way of doing things that is right and a way that is wrong. You are young, and the world is old. When you are a few years older, I don’t want you to have to look back on anything lacking in dignity, in which you cut a ridiculous figure. Anyone who may become interested in you should come here to our house, as the established custom is with us; should be introduced to you by myself, or Uncle Felipe, or some other older relative.”
“ Mamacita , I don’t know what you mean—”
The Senora gestured leniently. “I haven’t said anything. It is just my heart talking to your heart. Now go there if you insist, with Marta, and come right back. The sun will soon be down, so don’t linger—”
Without actually springing up, the girl was suddenly all the way across at the open doorway, like something from which a leash has just been detached.
At the threshold she turned for a minute. “What, madre mia? ”
“Nothing. Run along.” What the Senora
“Rosita!” the mistress of the house called.
There was a wait that somehow suggested more a stage wait than an actual approach from a distance, and then a comely young girl-of-all-work, with a shawl already coifed around her head, materialized in the doorway, without any preliminary tread along the hall having been audible.
“Si, senora?”
“Was that the telephone just now?”
“The operator must have made a mistake. Nobody answered when I got to it, there wasn’t anybody on it.”
The Senora Viuda’s horizontal brow line arched slightly, then evened out again. “Every now and then that seems to happen in this house. You can take off your shawl, Rosita,” she added with an indifferent drawl, “you will not be going out.”
The girl put her hands to it, but left it in place, as if hoping the order might yet be countermanded. “But the Senorita Conchita wanted me to accompany her to—” she said with an odd sort of breathlessness.
“Call Dona Marta, she is to go with her instead.”
The girl’s black-pitted eyes were fixed on her mistress’ face with a sort of tremulous fixity that somehow suggested they wanted to direct themselves at somebody else in the room, but were being restrained. She gave a little knee dip, “Si, senora,” vanished from the doorway.
The Senora Viuda turned back to her daughter. The latter was sitting almost in the attitude of a penitent by now, her second ankle had retreated far under the chair to join the first, and she was busily engaged with both hands in pleating and smoothing out again a small section of dress over one kneecap. She could feel her mother’s gaze on her, looked up through her long lashes to confirm the impression, looked down again when she had.
Senora Contreras said, with an odd sort of kindliness seeping through her mien of authority, “Come here a minute, my child.” Conchita got up, moved to the side of the chaise longue, crouched down to the level of her mother’s face. The fan had finally stopped, for the balance of the interview; was laid aside. The Senora reached out, tipped up her hand to her daughter’s chin, held it under it in a sort of static caress. She looked questioningly into her eyes.
The girl’s eyes never wavered, they were crystalline innocence itself.
“I did not come into this world a middle-aged woman, a widowed mother, as you see me now, you know. I was a young girl myself once, and not so many years ago. Always remember, hijita de mi alma , anything you think, your mother thought before you. Anything you do, your mother did before you. And her mother before her. There isn’t anything new in women. I know, I know.”
“Know what, madrecita? ” the girl breathed so low it could scarcely be heard.
The Senora Viuda kissed her with classic benevolence on the forehead, then more fondly on the lips. “You are a sweet little thing. You are the morning sunlight in my dreary afternoon sky. It is not that you would do anything so unforgivable. It is just that there is a way of doing things that is right and a way that is wrong. You are young, and the world is old. When you are a few years older, I don’t want you to have to look back on anything lacking in dignity, in which you cut a ridiculous figure. Anyone who may become interested in you should come here to our house, as the established custom is with us; should be introduced to you by myself, or Uncle Felipe, or some other older relative.”
“ Mamacita , I don’t know what you mean—”
The Senora gestured leniently. “I haven’t said anything. It is just my heart talking to your heart. Now go there if you insist, with Marta, and come right back. The sun will soon be down, so don’t linger—”
Without actually springing up, the girl was suddenly all the way across at the open doorway, like something from which a leash has just been detached.
At the threshold she turned for a minute. “What, madre mia? ”
“Nothing. Run along.” What the Senora
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