“Nothing, thank you,” said Lora, and Ellie went away.
A bathroom! She had heard of houses that had whole rooms put aside for the purpose of bathing, but she had never been in one before. At home a tin tub in the kitchen had always served her needs.
She was glad to close the door behind her and be alone with her thoughts. How strange for husband and wife to have separate rooms, as was apparently the custom in this house. She felt no hurt, however, but only a faintly guilty sense of relief. She could not deny that it would be good to have a haven of her own to come to; a place where she could think her own thoughts without fear of betraying them to other eyes.
She stepped onto the oval rag rug before the fireplace and bent to warm cold fingers. Then, turning her back to the flames, she surveyed the little room. There were cheerful yellow nosegays in the wallpaper and a flowered yellow globe on the china lamp. Ruffled white curtains framed a window that looked out on the rear of the house, while at the side were long glass doors with outer shutters closed against the night. The battered trunk she had shipped north was nowhere to be seen, though she even looked for it beneath the high bed. Against one wall stood a huge wardrobe closet of mahogany and when she opened its creaking doors she found her few shabby garments lost in cavernous depths. The drawers of a mahogany dresser held the rest of her meager possessions.
A twinge of dismay pricked through her. She hated to think that strangers had handled her few belongings. Their shabbiness should have remained her own secret and she should have had their distribution left to herself. Mrs. Tyler, undoubtedly, had given orders that her trunk be unpacked.
The stairs creaked as someone climbed them and Lora waited, listening. Wade preferred to manage the climbing of steps himself and he was becoming fairly proficient in his use of a crutch. Nevertheless, his progress was painfully slow as he lifted himself stiff-legged from step to step. There came the long silence of a rest as he reached the top of the stairs. Then she heard his own door open and close. The house was quiet again.
She wondered if she should go to him. But if he had wanted to see her he would have come here to her room. His mother had put a strangeness between them—she had sensed it downstairs. And there was no telling what had transpired between those two after she had been somewhat curtly dismissed.
Weariness swept through her and she returned to the fire to undress. For once she braided her long hair without brushing it and crawled limply beneath the covers. The plump feather bed enveloped her body, soothing her physical being. But her mind would not cease its scurrying from one thought to another.
Mrs. Tyler, plainly, was ready to dislike her. Wade was still weak and it was not fair to submit him to any tug of war between them. She must try her best to please this old lady with the beautiful hands and strong will, and spare Wade any friction.
The dying fire muttered to itself as it crumbled into ash, but otherwise the house, the hillside, seemed utterly still. Only the distant, unfamiliar sounds of the harbor reached her from the window she had opened. Now and then the whistling of a boat, or the sound of a buoy bell clanging—sounds she had not noted until now, when they seemed suddenly to fill the night with clamor.
She closed her eyes and thought of that strange little boy across the hall, and her throat tightened in pity. What a dreadful thing for a child to say—that his father did not like him, and that he did not like his father. Jemmy must have loved his mother very much, must miss her pitifully. She must try, somehow, to fill his loneliness a little, to help him against what must seem a hostile world.
She found herself wondering how Virginia had died. That was something Wade never talked about, would not discuss. Probably his wife’s illness had been sudden and painful, leaving so deep and hurtful a shock that he could not bare it with words. She must think of these two, the boy and the man, and be nothing in herself. As her father had found contentment after her mother’s death in service to others, so would she.
But Martin would not have slept in that room across the hall. And now she no longer felt old, but all too young and uncertain. She turned her cheek against the feather pillow and felt a wet streaking of tears. Tears were weak and she brushed them away impatiently. Doc had always said a fellow could do what he had to do if he had the gumption to try. And if she had no other possession in the world, she had gumption. He had seen to that.
If only this dull aching of loneliness would go away.
III
Sounds from the harbor woke her early Saturday morning, and she lay for a little while listening to them, snug beneath warm covers. Her depression and concern of the night before had lifted and she felt eager to be up and ready to meet the new day. If only her nose had not warned her that the room was icy cold.
While she lay gathering her courage to slip out into the chill air, Ellie’s tap announced the advent of hot water. The little woman ducked into the room and set the steaming china pitcher in a white bowl on the washstand. Then she slammed down the window and inquired sibilantly if Miz Tyler wished a fire set going on the hearth. Lora hesitated, not knowing the custom of the house and wanting to ask for no uncommon luxuries. Quickly Ellie added that there were fires downstairs by now and breakfast would be dished up by eight o’clock.
Lora let the fire go and the moment the door closed she forced herself to get out of bed and hurry to the marble-topped washstand and the steaming warmth of hot water. She put on her old brown dress, then flung a fringed shawl about her shoulders and opened the glass doors. The first thing she wanted was a clear morning view of her new home. She would even brave the cold for that.
The shutters pushed open easily and she stepped out upon the gray-painted boards of an upper veranda. A cutting wind from the harbor made her draw the shawl more closely about her, but she would not be vanquished by its sharp touch. First she must see what she could of Dogwood Lane and Staten Island. This corner of the house was tucked into a curve of hillside and all about rose the sear, dry brown of woods which must be lovely when in leaf. The hill rose steep above the house, and trees cut off any possible glimpse of the Channing place which stood highest on the hill.
Lora walked to the front veranda for a better view. As it climbed toward the Tylers’, Dogwood Lane made a sharp turn and then ran on a level along the hillside to the Lords’ house. That must be the Lords’ rooftop just visible through the woods along the road. Between the bare branches of a big horse chestnut tree which grew close to the veranda, Lora could see the wide brown hillside, dotted here and there with woods, sloping away toward flats along the water’s edge. Here the peaked white tents of an army camp were visible and she could hear the silvery note of a bugle. Beyond lay the harbor, still and cold and gray in the haze of early morning.
Directly beneath the front veranda spread a wide patch of yellow-brown winter grass, with here and there a few traces of neglected garden. It would appear that the Tyler place had once boasted elaborate flower beds and shrubbery, but for some reason they had been allowed to go untidily to seed.
The cold was growing penetrating and as Lora turned to hurry back to her room, she noted the long shuttered doors of a room at the front of the house. This closed room, according to Ellie, had been Virginia’s. So she too had had a separate room in this strange house.
Lora sped back along the veranda, pausing in surprise just before she went through the doors of her own room. At this side of the house and around to the rear before what must be Mrs. Tyler’s own windows downstairs, the garden had been kept neatly in order. Even though the bushes were bare and the flower beds only dead stalks at this time of year, there was evidence of loving care. In springtime this small area would be abloom.
How strange that Peter, or whoever tended the garden, had been permitted to let the rest of the grounds go neglected, while this one section was cared for so neatly. Wade had said that his mother got around downstairs quite well in her wheel chair, so she must know the condition of the rest of the yard.
The sound of a tappin
g on Lora’s bedroom door drew her back to the room and she closed the glass doors behind her.
“Come in,” she called, and Wade opened the door.
For just a moment she could only stare in astonishment. Always before she had seen him in his patched and shabby blue uniform. The fashionably clothed man who now stood in her doorway was a stranger to her eyes. He wore fawn trousers and a coat of broadcloth. There were pleats in his fine linen shirt and a cameo stickpin graced the carefully tied cravat beneath stiff white wings of collar. True, he exuded a pungent odor of mothballs, but that did not detract from the elegance with which he wore civilian dress. A tracing of shadow still showed beneath his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow, but he looked rested and was plainly enjoying her surprise at his appearance.
“You’re very handsome this morning,” she told him. “I’m not up to you in this old dress.”
He crossed the room on his crutch and put an arm about her. His cheek felt smooth and clean-shaven against her own. “We’ll change all that in a few days, Lora. We’ll get you new dresses and then you can be as free of your old things as I am free of that filthy uniform.”
She knew how he had grown to hate his uniform and the war that it represented. More than once she had pondered the impulse which had made him volunteer, when he was such unlikely material for army life. Probably it had been an effort to escape the grief of his loss.
“I’m glad you’re an early riser,” he went on. “Mother will approve. Suppose we go downstairs where it will be warm.”
She threw off her shawl and moved toward the door, but before he opened it he drew her back for a moment.
“Lora, you’ll bear with my mother? She may be difficult at times, you know.”
“Of course,” she assured him. “I want her to like me. I want to like her.”
He seemed oddly relieved and she wondered if he had feared some rebellion from her. It was true that she had an independent streak that he seemed to shrink from whenever it appeared, but people usually liked and respected her. Granted time and patience, it surely would be no different with Wade’s mother.
He went on gently, “If you can win her, then we can live in peace in this house, and more than anything else, Lora, I want peace.”
She cupped his face between her two hands and kissed him lightly. She too wanted peace and she would do everything in her power to please the old lady downstairs and win her liking.
In the hall she paused outside Jemmy’s room and heard sounds of someone moving about, so the boy must be up. She would have liked to stop, but Wade went on toward the stairs.
“I talked to Jemmy last night,” she said as they started down. “I like him, Wade. He’s forthright and direct, but he seems a lonely little boy.”
Again he glanced at her oddly and she had a fleeting impression that he was disturbed about Jemmy—as well he might be. Then they were at the door of his mother’s parlor and Mrs. Tyler was summoning them in.
The rush of warmth and the smell of wintergreen were already familiar, as was the sight of the straight-backed figure in black waiting for them in her chair by the fire. This morning she wore a white lace cap with lavender bows which seemed a little incongruous considering the severity of the rest of her dress. The sight of it made Lora warm to her a little. If Mrs. Tyler had a touch of feminine vanity, as seemed possible with that cap and her well-kept hands, she might have her softer side and be vulnerable to affection.
“I’ve been wondering when you were coming down,” Mrs. Tyler said, though the little clock on the mantel pointed only to ten to eight. “I trust you slept well, Lora?”
“I don’t think I stirred all night,” Lora said. “And you?”
Mrs. Tyler reached for the heavy wooden wheels of her chair. “I never expect to sleep more than a few hours.”
Even at this time of the morning she wore her rings and while the stones flashed a milder fire by daylight, their gleam was apparent whenever she moved her hands.
“Let me help you, Mother,” Wade said quickly and managed, despite his crutch, to rest a hand on the curve of the chair’s padded leather back and push it toward the hall.
When they reached the dining room, Ellie opened the door and closed it quickly. This room had a sombre air of stern dignity about it. No frivolous nosegays here, but a dim red paper on the walls, and furniture of dark walnut. The massive sideboard held silver dishes, branched candelabra and an impressive silver tea service. Behind polished brass andirons a fire crackled, but the room was big and draughty, less cozy than the sitting room they had just left. Lora suspected that it would be difficult to be gay in the cold, heavy gloom of this room.
Mrs. Tyler’s chair was wheeled to the table and Ellie slipped extra cushions under her. Wade pulled out Lora’s chair and touched her shoulder lightly as she took it. The old lady’s quick eyes did not miss the gesture and if anything they grew a degree colder. Lora looked quickly away at the still life painting which hung above the sideboard—a stiff and depressing representation of dead game and fish. A forbidding picture, she thought, and wondered if Wade could be persuaded to brighten the room with something gayer in spirit.
“Why isn’t that boy down, Ellie?” Mrs. Tyler asked as soon as they were settled.
“Gracious, ma’am, I’ve called him three times at least,” Ellie defended herself. “I don’t know what he’s dawdling about.”
Wade mentioned soothingly that it was still only five to eight, but his mother merely nodded to him and bowed her head for grace. Wade murmured the words of a rather long grace, during which Jemmy sidled into his place.
“Good morning, Jemmy,” his father said when they all looked up. “It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry to hear that you were ill yesterday.”
Jemmy only mumbled a reply, giving no sign that he had not seen his father for nearly a year. His grandmother told him sharply to speak up and Lora longed to say something warm and friendly to the boy, but the room forbade it. The heavy wine-colored wallpaper seemed to suppress any effort at cheer, and the dead game bird looked at them glassily, with its neck drooping over a table edge. Lora managed a smile in Jemmy’s direction, but he looked soberly away without returning it.
It was a relief when Ellie arrived with a heaping platter of wheat cakes and ham, hot biscuits and coffee. When their cups had been filled and Jemmy instructed to drink up his milk and no nonsense, Mrs. Tyler turned directly to her son.
“There is no necessity for rush, of course, but I’ve been wondering how soon you will be able to return to the bank.”
Wade did not look at her. He cut a piece of ham carefully before he answered.
“Not for a while, Mother. The trip to New York is too difficult for me at present.”
“You are of course planning to take your rightful place again in your grandfather’s bank?” Mrs. Tyler pressed the matter further.
Lora, all her instincts as a nurse alert, saw the beading of sweat that started out upon Wade’s forehead. This was a subject she knew nothing about, though obviously it caused anguish to Wade.
“Suppose we talk about it when I’m well again,” he said.
“This is what I have planned for, counted on ever since Wade was born,” Mrs. Tyler explained to Lora. “That he should follow in my father’s footsteps, do the things I could not do as well because of the handicap of being a woman.”
Wade toyed idly with the food on his plate and his eyes did not meet his mother’s. “In the meantime, while my leg is mending, I thought I might try my hand at something I’ve always wanted to do.”
“What is that?” Lora asked, trying to put encouragement into her voice.
He looked directly at his mother. “I have always wanted to write. I’ve long had the idea for a novel in my mind. I used to think about it sometimes when we were on the march, or spending dull days in camp. Now is my chance to write it.”
“A novel! What rubbish!” The old lady’s deep-set eyes could light remarkably in moments of anger. “Nothing i
n your training has pointed in that direction. You will only fail and become discouraged.”
“If it’s what you want to do, I don’t see why you shouldn’t try it, Wade,” Lora said quickly.
Mrs. Tyler turned upon her with a look which shifted the attack, but before she could speak, Jemmy burst into the conversation.
“Papa, are you really going to write a novel? What sort of story will it be? Will there be knights in it like Lancelot and ladies like Guinevere?”
“You were told to drink your milk,” Mrs. Tyler said, and Jemmy picked up his glass absently, his attention still on his father.
But Wade seemed not to hear his son’s words. Lora sensed the stiffening of resistance that went through him. He changed the subject abruptly.
“I walked around the house early this morning,” he said. “It’s quite evident that Ambrose has been coming down here.”
“Of course he has.” Mrs. Tyler helped herself to another wheat cake, showing an unexpectedly good appetite. “Peter has no genius for making things grow, as you are well aware. Ambrose understands what it means to me to have a garden to look out upon when I am tied to this house. In the spring that spot will bloom beautifully, thanks to the care he has given it all year.”
“I believe I made a request before I went away,” said Wade stiffly. “A request that no one from the Channing household be made welcome here.”
“Ambrose has scarcely been made welcome,” Mrs. Tyler retorted. “He comes in his proper capacity of gardener as he always has. He has the good sense not to expect to be accepted socially. Nothing ever made any difference to him in that.”
Mother and son exchanged a look across the table and the silence was weighty with some significance which Lora could not grasp. She glanced at Jemmy and saw that he listened with intense interest.
It was Wade who finally shrugged and smiled at his mother. “Of course you must have your garden. And I have nothing against John Ambrose himself. It is the present connection. But now, Mother, I wonder if you’ll agree to discuss the details of Lora’s wardrobe with her sometime today? I know she’ll need quite a few new things.”
The Quicksilver Pool Page 3