Free The Sundial by Shirley Jackson Page A

you,” Mrs. Willow said gravely. “We will try to deserve your kindness. And now,” she said, “I think I will dig up a little breakfast, and then drop in on old Orianna and pass the time of day.”
    _____
    Mrs. Willow settled herself dubiously into a delicate flowered armchair and relaxed slowly, listening for cracks in the wood. “Orianna,” she said, “you know perfectly well you ought to do something for me, me and my gels.”
    “Girls,” Mrs. Halloran said. She had been working at the household accounts when Mrs. Willow interrupted her, and she kept one hand protectively on her pen, but without optimism. “Girls, if you please.”
    “My little affectations,” Mrs. Willow said. “You know perfectly well you will have to do something for me.”
    “And your daughters. Gels.”
    “My big hope is getting rid of them, naturally. I always thought that bringing up children was a matter of telling them what to do, but they certainly make it hard for me. There’s no denying, for instance, that my clever Julia is a fool and my lovely Arabella is a—”
    “Flirt,” Mrs. Halloran said.
    “Well, I was going to say tart, but it’s your house, after all. Anyway, it’s money we need, as if there was ever anything else. I don’t figure there’s any way you can come right out and give us some, but people as rich as you are must know other people as rich as you are and somewhere along the line there must be someone you can help us get a dime out of. Marriage would be best, of course; we might as well aim high while we’re about it. It better be Belle, though; she’s prettier and if you tell her anything enough times she’ll do it eventually. Besides if Belle married money the chances are good I could ease a little of it out of her; with Julia, I could whistle. Who’s this young character with the little kid?”
    “She’s what my son Lionel married.”
    “God almighty.” Mrs. Willow was wistful. “All his money. Even so, though, I don’t think I would have wished it on either of my girls, even Julia. On account of you, I mean; there’s no sense taking you on just to get our hands on enough money to try and live. I think,” Mrs. Willow said, “I’d rather die, actually. No offense intended, of course. She talks a lot, doesn’t she?”
    “Maryjane?”
    “Haven’t you heard the kind of things she says?”
    Mrs. Halloran laughed, and Mrs. Willow nodded, and sighed. “Now that ’s no way to go about it,” she said sadly, “you imagine me in a soft spot like that? What does she think it’s going to get her?”
    “Perhaps it helps her asthma.”
    “If it was one of my gels,” Mrs. Willow said with feeling, “I’d see that she managed it altogether different; she’s got the kid, after all, and there’s no one else, you’ve got to leave it to the kid unless she fouls it up somehow. She could be talking the kid right out of everything; what she wants to do is keep her mouth shut until it counts . Well.” She sighed. “You always see other people getting the good chances.”
    “You might tell your daughter Arabella that Essex is penniless.”
    “What?” Mrs. Willow glanced up sharply. “Yes? Well, I’ll tell her. You know,” she went on slowly, “they’re not bad girls. That is,” she said unwillingly, “they’re probably bad girls the way we understood it when you and I were bad girls . . . I mean, bad . But they’re not dishonest, or unkind. Not bad girls.”
    “Just bad .” Mrs. Halloran smiled.
    “You remember, do you? Then you see they do deserve some kind of help? After all . . .” Mrs. Willow shrugged, and was silent. After a minute or so, during which Mrs. Halloran regained her pen hopefully, Mrs. Willow went on, “I tell you, Orianna, I’ve got to get rid of those girls; every time some young fellow looks twice at Belle or dances with Julia my hands start to shake and I get so anxious my teeth chatter. I just can’t afford them much longer, and you can see as well