The White Lady

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Norah had obeyed his orders in a very short space of time, had set the soup before him, and was preparing a tempting lunch with all possible speed. Holly was swooping in the hot soup with audible satisfaction; his broad back to the wide hall doorway; his coat off, slung over the back of his chair; his shirt sleeves rolled high, showing his freckled, hairy arms; and his whole appearance extremely uncultivated, when Mrs. Wetherill appeared in the doorway.

  She had lain down obediently, as her granddaughter bade her do, but her mind had been by no means at ease. A number of things had troubled her of late, and she was puzzled beyond anything over some strange sounds and sights. She listened with her hearing made keen by suspicion, and distinctly heard Constance’s steps go to the kitchen then back to the hall and out the front door. Going with unusual haste to the window in Constance’s front bedroom, a room that she seldom entered, she caught a glimpse of the girl as she hurried out between the cedars, putting on hat and gloves as she went—a very strange proceeding for the carefully bred Constance Wetherill, to put on gloves after leaving the house. It was extremely countrified, and she felt she must speak to her about it.

  And why did Constance run around town in that strange way, and not send a servant? Were there no servants? Perhaps the proprietor was disagreeable, and Constance did not like to say anything because they seemed so nicely settled. But that must not be. She would speak to the manager herself and see that he understood who they were and that they must have proper service. If they wanted more pay, why, of course they should have it.

  She had not been downstairs since arriving, for Constance had impressed it upon her that the dining room downstairs was for the public. But now it seemed necessary for her to descend, if she would follow this thing up at once and find out. So, putting on her hat and wrap herself and carefully buttoning her gloves, a thing she had not done for herself for years, she set out to find the manager. She felt, it is true, somewhat like Columbus discovering America, for she had been so carefully kept that this seemed quite like an adventure to her; but she summoned all her stateliness of bearing, for which she had been noted in former years, and slowly descended the stairs.

  Elegant and lovely as a rare old withered rose, in her rich silks and foamy laces, with her crown of fluffy silver hair, she dawned upon the astounded Holly. She had been beautiful as a young woman, and she had lost little of her beauty as an old one. With the haughty manner of her time, she raised her gold-rimmed glasses to her sweet, dim eyes and gazed at the rough man who sat eating soup as if he were sucking it out of a trough.

  By some subtle law not understood by Holly, he became aware that a presence was near him, though he had been making a sound with his lips so near akin to the rustle of her skirts that he had not heard her approach. Slowly he turned around and met her gaze, and for one full, long minute they looked at each other. Then Holly recovered his speech and exclaimed, “Wall, I swow! Ef ’tain’t the old un!”

  “Sir!” said Mrs. Wetherill, in a gentle, stately tone.

  And then the front door opened, and Constance came in. She stood aghast for just an instant, taking in the situation, and then swept down upon her little silken grandmother and almost carried her out into the sunshine.

  “Grandmother!” she said. “What a start you gave me! Why did you come down before the car came? Did Norah put your things on? What a hurry you were in! But the car is coming now; here, let us go around to the side where they can drive in.”

  “But, Constance,” protested her grandmother as she was hurried along, “I don’t understand. What kind of place is this in which we are living? Do they allow their help to eat in the dining room at the public table?”

  “Oh no, Grandmother!” said Constance feverishly, anxious only to get her grandmother around the corner of the veranda before Holly should come out or any other guests enter. She had seen Jimmy in the distance as she came in at the gate, heading a band of urchins who looked as if they were coming on, ice cream intent. Mrs. Wetherill must not see them. But the old lady stopped short in her progress when she heard her granddaughter’s answer.

  “Well then, Connie, that man ought to be reported at once. Go in and tell them. I will not go a step until it is done. Such insolence ought not to be allowed. I saw him myself, a great, big, ugly creature that looked like a stableboy, and in his shirtsleeves! Think of it! And he was making a dreadful sound with his lips when he ate. It was disgusting.”

  Constance was divided between her desire to laugh and cry, but she knew neither would do any good at this critical moment, so she put her hand gently on the old lady’s arm and drew her along.

  “Grandmother, he is not a servant. Come on, and I will tell you about it. Here is the car. Do you think you can step in? It is not high. Put your hand on my arm. Are you comfortable? Drive down that pretty woodsy street beside the church, please. Now, Grandmother, let me tell you. You know this is a quiet little village, and there are a good many plain people, farmers and that kind, who do not pay much attention to city ways. Sometimes they come into town, and I suppose they get hungry. I knew there are a number of people who dress very curiously and have odd manners, but I am told they are very respectable people. I suppose perhaps that is why we have a separate dining room. Some of the people here are shy and like to take off their coats without being looked at.”

  It was a lame story and did not quite ease the old lady’s perplexity. “But, my dear, are you quite certain that this is a perfectly respectable house where we are? You know it is inexcusable to come to the table with one’s coat off. Everyone knows that. Not even a respectable servant would do it.”

  It was a trying drive. Constance was glad when a diversion occurred as they passed the minister. He bowed to them with a pleasant lighting of his eyes, and the old lady asked who he was. Constance explained, but when Mrs. Wetherill heard he was of another denomination than her own, she had little further interest in him, except to say that he looked a trifle shabby, and suggest that Constance send a contribution to his church, that probably they needed help. Constance turned her head away to hide a tear that crept into her eyes as she thought how they almost needed help themselves. She wondered how things were to go on if her grandmother became troublesome and whether she would have to tell her after all. Two or three times she almost tried to frame the words to let her know the truth, but somehow she could not bear to do it, and they drove back home without its having been revealed. It was a nervous strain to get the old lady into the house, for she seemed determined to see the manager and report about the strange man in the dining room before she went upstairs; but at last she was persuaded that the proprietor was busy and could not be seen, and she agreed to leave it to Constance to report the case.

  Much troubled, Constance at last left her grandmother comfortably ensconced upon her couch with three or four letters from home bearing the familiar handwriting of old friends. She stole to her room and lay down with closed eyes, feeling keenly the weariness of what she had been through that morning, wondering whether there was anything in religion to help in such a time as this. How she wished she could talk with the minister and get a hold upon something that would calm her spirit! How was it she had never known before how little real foundation she had for contentment in her life? Had money given her all that trust and lightheartedness, that freedom from care and fear that she had always had till now?

  Then, suddenly, in the midst of her troubled thoughts, she heard a slight sound. It was not much, but it was startling, the click of breaking glass, the gentle thud of something falling, the uneven shoving of a chair, that bespoke the unusual and gave the indefinable alarm.

  Constance sprang from her bed and flew into her grandmother’s room. She could not tell why, but she felt that something had happened. It might be nothing, but she must see.

  The old lady lay on the couch as she had left her, only the chair was shoved away as if in a sudden effort to rise. It had been grasped, and a small glass of water had fallen on the rug. Coming clos
er, Constance saw that her grandmother’s eyeglasses lay splintered on the bare floor beside the rug. But the old lady lay very still and rigid, one hand grasping the letter she had been reading.

  Constance knelt down beside her and spoke to her, and took her cold hands in her own, but the rigid hands did not relax, and the drawn, agonized expression remained fixed upon her face. With a cry the girl sprang to the bell and rang for Norah and then went back to the couch. She had no experience whatever with illness and did not know what to do.

  She rang the bell so violently that Norah came rushing up at once, with Jimmy at her heels. Jimmy always knew instinctively when there was anything happening, and in his boldness was somewhat like those people described as rushing in where angels fear to tread. He saw no reason why he should not follow and see whether he was needed; and it happened that this time he was very much needed.

  For Jimmy was a person of experience. He had seen a man that was taken off a train in an apoplectic fit, and he had been with his grandmother when she had her last stroke of paralysis. Such things were too common among the common people for Jimmy not to know what was the matter. With one lightning glance of pity toward his friend and patroness he turned, and yelling out as he went, “I’ll bring the doctor,” he sped down the pebbly path and out the gate, nearly knocking over Mrs. Bartlett, who was passing by, thereby adding one more to her list of reasons why the new tearoom was not needed in the town.

  Chapter 17

  Now there were a number of physicians in Rushville, and they lived in various directions in the town, but there was no hesitation in Jimmy’s flying feet as they reached the street. Straight as an arrow to its mark went Jimmy to the house of the doctor he had decided should be the man of his choice if ever any of his friends or acquaintances were sick.

  His choice was based upon two incidents in the worthy doctor’s career. Jimmy had once seen him pick up a stray kitten with a broken leg and care for it tenderly, carrying it away with him in his car. The doctor had also allowed Jimmy to “hitch on” behind sometimes in winter when the sleighing was good. There might be other good qualities in the other doctors of the town, but these were enough for Jimmy. Therefore to Dr. Randall he sped with all promptness, and it was Dr. Randall himself who presently came driving back with him at lightning speed, for Jimmy had represented the call as urgent.

  The doctor entered the old lady’s room, gruff, gray, grizzled, silent; and Jimmy lingered long enough to notice with satisfaction that he handled the old lady as gently as he had handled the kitten in the road. Then, as if he had known it would be so, he turned, contented, and sped away on another self-imposed errand.

  Jimmy had his eyes wide open always. He had noticed the look of fright and anguish on his dear lady’s face. He felt that she needed a friend and supporter in this trying hour and, looking about quickly in his untaught little mind for such a one to call, he could think of none more fitting than the minister.

  John Endicott was in his study, trying his best to banish the vision of Constance as he had seen her in the car that morning, and bring his mind to bear upon his next Sunday’s sermon. Try as he would, the sermon framed itself all for her, and it was her wistful eyes that looked up to him from each line that he wrote.

  Mrs. Bartlett was out. She was sitting at that moment, much shaken, detailing to a friend on the other side of town the account of how Jimmy had nearly knocked her over in front of the new tearoom. She did not often take the long walk over there, and it was likely she would stay until she was obliged to come home and get supper. The minister was conscious of satisfaction in her absence.

  Then Jimmy arrived with his imperative summons.

  “Come ’crost this here way,” said Jimmy doggedly as they passed a field on the other side of the street from the Bartlett house. “Thur’s a shortcut through the orchard. It’ll save a lot.” Jimmy in his secret soul wished to save the minister from the gaze of the street loungers. He had not fought his battle for his minister for nothing. He was learning how to protect him. This was not an occasion when there was time for fighting.

  The minister, nothing loath, followed Jimmy through the meadow and down the orchard path.

  “What did you say was the matter, Jimmy?” asked the minister, taking long strides beside Jimmy’s running trot. “Did you say they sent for me?”

  “Guess she’s got a stroke,” said Jimmy wisely. “Looked like it to me. No, they didn’t send fer nobody; I just come myself. Thur ain’t nobody thur to hep ‘cept Norah, an’ Miss Constance, she oughter have someone ter kind of hep her out. I went fer the doctor, but he has to tend to Mis’ Weth’rill. I thought they oughter have you.”

  Silently and gravely, like two engaged in the same important business, they walked across the orchard and skirted the pond, and so up to the house by the back path where John Endicott had first seen Constance in the moonlight. He looked kindly down on Jimmy’s earnest little freckled face and felt a warmth of kinship.

  “Good work, old scout!” he said gravely.

  Jimmy flushed under his tan and plodded along with only a flashing glance of gratitude toward the minister. But they walked together now as fellow laborers in one cause.

  Confusion still reigned in Mrs. Wetherill’s apartments. The doctor had issued his orders, and Norah and Constance were doing their best to obey him, but they were both untrained in nursing and were so nervous that they could not accomplish things as rapidly as a stranger might have done. Jimmy, after a bit of reconnoitering, led the minister straight upstairs, where Mr. Endicott found he needed no announcement. Quietly, as if he had been told, he slipped into line and did the next things that nobody else knew how to do. He helped the doctor to lift the old lady into the next room to her own bed, where she could be made more comfortable at once; he arranged window shades to make the light just right and took the doctor’s orders for some things to be brought from the drugstore, with merely a grave bow of recognition toward Constance when he entered the room. It was as if he had come in answer to her summons, and somehow there came to her a strong sense of security in having him near.

  It was the minister who volunteered to go for Miss Stokes, the village dependence for nursing. She was a plain-faced, amply proportioned woman with a kindly way and much experience; and when a couple of hours later, Endicott drove up to the Cedars in an old Ford he had hired and helped Miss Stokes out, Constance felt a relief that almost brought the tears. She felt so inexperienced and so troubled and alone!

  When Miss Stokes was established under the doctor’s orders, Constance took time to speak to the minister and explain. Norah made them sit down in the stately dining room that had been fitted out for Mrs. Wetherill with all the old furnishings from home. There she brought them a most delicious supper. It was all very pleasant to the weary man, who fairly hungered for a bit of companionship, and to Constance it was like having a strong new friend. She wished she might keep him there till the time of stress was over, but she knew she could not do that.

  “No, nothing happened that we know of to excite her, except the letter she was reading. It contained news of the sudden death of an old friend of Grandmother’s. Yes, they were deeply attached, and I suppose it startled her a good deal. It was careless of me to leave her with letters. I shall always blame myself. But I had been having a good many perplexities myself—you see, Grandmother knew nothing of my enterprises here. I think I shall have to tell you all about it. No one else in the world knows but Norah and my lawyer.”

  Constance told her simple tale in few words, and John Endicott, listening, watching her changing face, marveled that she could speak so composedly of the great change that had come into her life. A tragedy it seemed to him, for he who had never known luxury had been wont to pity those who had and were suddenly called upon to give it up. His heart longed more and more to help her. He must have shown this longing in his face, for Constance felt the sympathy and was comforted by it. He spoke but few words of comfort, it is true, but he showed by a number o
f small acts that he felt deep sympathy and would do anything in his power to help her.

  And after he had eaten the tender chops that Norah had broiled, the delicious salad, flaky bread and butter, and fragrant coffee, ending with some frozen dainty and delicate sponge cake, he went home to Mrs. Bartlett’s meager supper, well knowing that if he did not, he would have to give account of himself. The meagerness of it did not trouble him that night, and she wondered that he took but one slice of bread and ate but half of that. It was unaccountable. And he actually refused a second piece of gingerbread, a thing she had never known him to do since he boarded with her. She set her lips grimly and reported to Ellen Sauters, her next-door confidante, that he must be sick, that her gingerbread was “as good as anybody ever made—the sour milk was extra nice this time.”

  For although Mr. Endicott had promised to go back to the Cedars that evening to see whether there was anything further he could do to help, he yet saw no reason why Mrs. Bartlett should learn of Mrs. Wetherill’s condition until the next day, so he went out without saying anything about it. But he had reckoned without knowledge of his landlady’s resources. He had not been gone from the house more than ten minutes when Ellen Sauters entered the kitchen door with a quick glance, without the ceremony of a knock, and sat down to tell all about it.