The Quicksilver Pool

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  His mother nodded vigorously and reached for another biscuit. “She does indeed. Naturally I will supervise the matter.”

  Watching the biscuit disappear, Ellie clucked in pleased fashion behind Mrs. Tyler’s chair. “Like a bird your mother’s been eating while you were away, Mr. Wade. Now we’ll get those roses back in her cheeks.”

  “That will be enough, Ellie.” Mrs. Tyler sent the little woman scurrying toward the kitchen with a glance. “As I was about to say, Lora, after breakfast you may bring your fancywork down to my sitting room so you can keep busy while we discuss your new wardrobe.”

  “Fancywork?” Lora echoed. What with teaching school, keeping house and helping her father, there had been little time for ladylike graces. “I’m afraid I have no fancywork,” she admitted. “But there are a good many things I need and I would be grateful for your help in making up a list.”

  Mrs. Tyler nodded. “We had a key which fitted the lock of your trunk, so I had it unpacked downstairs where I could look over your things.”

  Lora suppressed the flash of resentment that went through her. It didn’t matter, she told herself. There was no need to have a sense of false pride about her poor possessions. Mrs. Tyler’s next words startled her further.

  “Lay your hands on the table,” the old lady said.

  Lora placed her rather square, rough-skinned hands palms down on the white tablecloth where the broken nails and reddened knuckles looked more unladylike than ever.

  Mrs. Tyler inspected them in silence until Wade came gently to his wife’s defense.

  “She can take better care of them now, Mother. After all, she has been working very hard looking after me.”

  Lora returned her disgraced hands to her lap mutely. Once more Jemmy caused a diversion, and if he had seemed more friendly, Lora might have suspected that he did it deliberately to draw attention away from her discomfort.

  “Isn’t that a fine chair Uncle Adam made for Grandmother?” he asked his father.

  “I was wondering where it came from,” Wade said. “Adam Hume is Serena Lord’s brother,” he explained to Lora.

  “‘Uncle’ of course is a courtesy title.”

  “Adam seems to have picked up a number of things in Libby Prison,” Mrs. Tyler said dryly. “Fevers, new skills and new notions. Of course we had this chair, but he made the big side wheels and the small ones on the rear legs and fixed it up for me.”

  “How is Adam?” Wade asked.

  Again it was Jemmy who spoke up. “He gets sick sometimes. But when he feels well he takes me for long walks. He’s told me all about the fights they used to have at Libby and about how some of the men were digging a tunnel to escape. He’s still only a sergeant, Papa, but that’s because he likes being closer to the men than if he had a commission.”

  The boy seemed almost cheerful now and eager to talk about someone who he plainly admired and considered his friend. But Wade looked away as if he were bored and Mrs. Tyler stilled the outburst by ringing for Ellie.

  Wade pushed his mother’s chair across the hall and Ellie began to clear off the dishes. For a few moments Lora lingered in the dining room with Jemmy, her attention again upon the depressing still life of dead game over the sideboard.

  “That one-eyed fellow worries me,” she confided to Jemmy. “We don’t dare to laugh in this room with him watching us. What do you say we plot his downfall?”

  The boy gave her a shocked look and bolted out of the room so that she could not tell whether he understood her whimsy or not She made a little face at the glassy-eyed bird and went to join Wade in the hall as he came out of his mother’s room.

  “I’ve a few things to set in order,” she said, “and then I’ll come down to see your mother.”

  “Good. She wants to help you, Lora. But sometimes her ways are more autocratic than she realizes.”

  “I don’t mind,” Lora said. “I’m glad you’re going to start writing, Wade. If it’s what you really want to do, I don’t think you should let anything stop you.”

  There was a troubled look in his eyes, but he smiled at her. “I want to try, at least There are some old copybooks in the library desk. I think I’ll see how a pen feels in my hand again. You won’t mind?”

  “Of course not. I’m very good at amusing myself. Perhaps this afternoon I’ll go for a walk through the woods. I’d like to climb the hill and—”

  He spoke quickly. “Not up the hill, please. I’d rather you stayed out of the upper woods, Lora.”

  She could only stare in surprise. “But why, Wade? I’ve always walked a great deal at home. I could never stay cooped up in a house all day.”

  He looked so strangely unhappy that she put a hand on his arm, and he covered it with his own scarred palm. “Walk along the lane and in the downhill area as much as you like. But I’ll be happier if you stay away from the uphill side. Someday I’ll tell you why. But not now, Lora. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He took his hand from hers and his eyes were cool as if he saw her as a stranger. Without further comment he swung himself on his crutch toward the door of the library, calling for Ellie to come build him a fire.

  Lora went upstairs, more puzzled than hurt. The web of mystery that the members of this household seemed so busy weaving troubled her. She did not like mysteries or arbitrary rulings. If something was disturbing Wade, then the sooner he talked it out, the better.

  She could remember the way Doc used to say, “It’s a funny thing, Lorie, but sometimes the sick ones you can’t do much for will get a whale of a lot better if you just let ’em bend your ear for a while. Seems a silly waste of time, but I’m getting so I can catch a whole sixty winks and look awful interested while I’m doing it.”

  In her chilly room she threw a shawl about her shoulders and went to work unpacking the rest of the things in the carpetbag, rearranging her few possessions in an order that better pleased her.

  A light, scratchy tap called her to the door and she opened it to find Jemmy standing there holding a plump bottle of liquid. Grandmother had sent it, he said, for her to rub on her hands.

  “Thank you, Jemmy.” Lora took the bottle. “I’ll start using it right away.” She uncorked it while he watched and poured a few drops into her palm. The odor of rose water was pleasant, but the glycerine stung as she rubbed the sticky stuff into her chapped skin.

  “Have you decided about what I should call you?” Jemmy asked.

  She had forgotten, she thought guiltily, but now, with the night’s weariness flung off, a happy inspiration came to mind and she suggested it at once.

  “A long time ago I had a brother just a bit younger than you. He used to call me ‘Lorie,’ and that was a pet name my father used too. So why couldn’t we be brother and sister, and then it would be all right for you to call me Lorie.”

  He considered the matter solemnly, but he did not say what he thought of the name. “Would you like to see my turtles?” he asked, and Lora expressed immediate enthusiasm.

  “I used to have some turtles myself when I was a little girl. Run and get them while I move things around.”

  He was back almost at once with a pan which contained rocks and sand and a sunken saucer-pool. Jemmy set it on the floor and Lora let her unpacking go so she could be introduced to the three little brown-shelled creatures who had been jarred into pulling in their heads and feet.

  “That one’s Sir Lancelot,” Jemmy said, pointing, though the three looked exactly alike to Lora. “And that’s Merlin over there on the rock.”

  “Don’t you have a dog or a cat too?” Lora asked.

  Jemmy looked surprised. “Oh, no. Grandmother doesn’t like animals. My grandfather kept too many. But turtles are very quiet, so she doesn’t mind them.”

  “And what about playmates? Have you friends living hereabout?”

  “There’s only Temple Lord and his brother.” Jemmy poked at Merlin, who had put out a cautious nose. “Eddie’s too old. He likes bigger boys. Temple’s close to m
y age, but he’s a noisy sort of fellow and he doesn’t care for books the way I do.”

  “What about school? Don’t you have friends there?”

  “Some,” Jemmy said. “Temple and Eddie and I go to Mr. Sear’s Academy. But the boys don’t want to come, here much because Grandmother makes them be so quiet.”

  “I see.” Lora moved to safer ground. “Now I’ve met Merlin and Sir Lancelot, but you haven’t told me the name of your third turtle.”

  “That’s Guinevere,” said Jemmy, and prodded the queenly one into a scramble across the sand.

  “What—no King Arthur?” Lora asked lightly and was surprised at the stricken look Jemmy gave her.

  “King Arthur died,” he told her. Then he picked up the pan abruptly and carried it away, and though she left the door ajar, he did not return.

  Poor little boy, she thought. To be allowed so few pets that he could be cruelly hurt by a turtle’s death. It was one more thing to consider. There were more matters she wanted to talk to Mrs. Tyler about than the one of turning herself into a fashionable lady. But she would have to feel her way carefully and save the most important things until she was on sure ground.

  First of all she was eager to take on duties in her new home, find ways in which she could aid in the running of the household. Then there would be war work she might get into also. Her nursing ability should be put to use, since there were so few women with experience such as her own.

  Removing the last few things from the carpetbag, her fingers touched something rounded and smooth and she drew it out, knowing at once what it was.

  Years before, when Martin was no more than twelve, his parents had taken him on a trip to the coast. He had gone swimming in the ocean for the first time and had walked for miles along a sandy beach. This satiny, cream-colored shell with the brown speckles was one he had found on that beach and had brought home with others he had picked up for her. The rest had been lost or scattered, but this, the prettiest of the lot, she had treasured.

  The sudden sharp memory of Martin’s smile, the very look of him, swept back upon her as she balanced the little shell on her palm. What an anguishing thing it was that a mere shell could remain intact and tangible, when Martin himself was nothing. She longed to fling herself across the bed and cry out the hurt that was in her. But she knew she must not. She could afford no such weakening indulgence before she went down to see Mrs. Tyler.

  She thrust the shell quickly out of sight beneath handkerchiefs in a top drawer, straightened her shoulders and went downstairs to Mrs. Tyler’s sitting room.

  The old lady was still in her wheel chair, but when Lora came in she nodded toward a more comfortable wing-backed chair beside the fireplace.

  “Think you can help me into it?” she asked. “You’re not very big, but you look strong enough.”

  “I am strong,” Lora told her.

  She plumped up cushions in the other chair and then helped Mrs. Tyler over to it. The old lady clung to her heavily, but she was apparently able to take a few steps and with the aid of Lora’s support she was lowered into the other chair.

  “That’s better.” The old lady sighed in relief and patted her full skirts about her. “Sitting in one chair so long tires me. And the wings of this one protect me from drafts, so I’m more comfortable here. Now then, sit down and we’ll get to work.”

  A basket of knitting waited on a nearby table and Mrs. Tyler took up a set of bone needles, and the gray yarn that was being fashioned into a sock. There was a little stool near the hearth and Lora brought it for Mrs. Tyler’s feet, admiring the beautiful needlepoint covering as she set it down.

  “Virginia made that,” Mrs. Tyler said. “I had hoped that you were equally skilled in such arts. A great many things about the house were made by Virginia’s hands.”

  There was more than a hint of reproach in the words, but Lora overlooked it. Mention of Virginia’s name gave her an opportunity she had waited for. The sooner a few mysteries which concerned Wade were cleared up the better.

  She seated herself in a small armless chair on the opposite side of the hearth and folded her idle hands in her lap.

  “Was Virginia ill very long?” she asked casually.

  The twinkling of the needles ceased and the jeweled hands were forbiddingly quiet. “She was not ill at all. Her death was caused by a sudden and tragic accident. Wade has never recovered from the shock of it. This is a subject we never discuss in this house.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lora said gently, and the bone needles began to move again. In the face of the rebuff she could ask no further questions.

  “Bring that pad and pencil from the table,” Mrs. Tyler directed. “You will need to write down a list of the purchases you must make in town. Right after New Year’s when dressmakers aren’t so busy we will get one in and have her go to work on your wardrobe.”

  Lora looked up from her poised pencil. “I’m not very good at fine embroidery, but I can make my own clothes. I’ve done it all my life.”

  “So I have observed,” said Mrs. Tyler pointedly. “I think it would be wise to consult an experienced seamstress in this case. Someone who is up to date on styles. I would suggest an afternoon gown of silk foulard, perhaps. And of course several wool frocks for everyday. In gray and dark blue, I would say. Not that sallow brown you’re wearing. Then you must have an evening gown or two for such affairs as you may attend. Wade used to go to a great many balls and parties when his wife was alive—that is, Virginia. But I doubt that he will care for such gaiety now. However, something in a green moiré might be suitable.”

  “I’ve never worn green,” Lora explained. “With my coloring—”

  Mrs. Tyler nodded. “Yes—I can see that you have not protected your skin from the sun. But a little lemon bleach will help that. And when spring comes you can carry a parasol.”

  “I’ve been wondering …” Lora set down the pencil, feeling that it would be better to change the subject quickly before her growing sense of dismay betrayed her. “I’ve been wondering what duties I might be able to help with about the house. I do like to be busy and I’m sure with this big house …”

  “Ellie and Peter take care of everything,” Mrs. Tyler said curtly. “I hardly think they would welcome supervision other than my own. I still manage that very well myself.”

  “But if you aren’t able to get upstairs, there may be some small ways in which I might help.”

  Mrs. Tyler put an end to the topic. “That will not be necessary. Perhaps this would be a good time to tell you something of our family background. Possibly Wade has not told you very much about these things.”

  This was apparently a favorite subject with Mrs. Tyler and the old lady went into zestful detail. Not about Wade’s father or his side of the family, but wholly about her own. Jason Cowles’s interests had been vast and assorted and it appeared that his daughter Amanda, who should have been a son, had been raised with a knowledge of business matters unusual for a woman. She knew about shipping, about imports from China and exports to England. And she knew banks and banking from the ground up. Her interest in these matters was lively and astonishingly keen, considering that she was an invalid who never left the house. The ship holdings were few now, but Mrs. Tyler had remained in control of the bank on lower Broadway and it was in this bank that she expected Wade to take his proper place and follow in his grandfather’s footsteps. Mr. Niles, who was vice-president of the bank and her own personal adviser, was counting on this.

  “There is a picture of my father, Jason Cowles, on the wall behind you,” Mrs. Tyler pointed out.

  Lora turned in her chair and saw the gilt-framed oval portrait which hung on the opposite wall. His daughter looked very like him. There were the same deep-set eyes, the same strong nose. Even the mouth wore something of the same grim line, though Amanda’s lips were not so thin.

  “He would never have approved of this nonsensical idea of novel writing Wade seems to have in his head,” Mrs. Tyler said. “But I
suppose I must let him amuse himself for a few weeks until he becomes bored or discouraged with it. Then I shall expect you to help me get him back into work that is more fitting for Jason Cowles’s grandson.”

  Lora said nothing. She had already allied herself on Wade’s side in this matter and she meant to make no promises to his mother. Now she managed to turn the talk to the next topic which she had in mind.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well that there are few duties for me to take up here at home,” she said. “Since the need of hospitals is so great I feel I must offer my services as a nurse as soon as possible.”

  “A nurse!” Mrs. Tyler echoed the phrase in the shocked tones she might have used had young Mrs. Wade Tyler suggested going into service as a scullery maid.

  Lora went on quietly, but she was aware of a trembling that had begun inside her. “With the terrible flood of wounded coming into our hospitals and—”

  “You are much too young for such work,” said Mrs. Tyler flatly. “It would be entirely unseemly for a gentlewoman. You would meet coarse men, be subjected to intolerable insults. It is naturally unthinkable.”

  “Many of these men are too busy dying of dreadful wounds to have much time for insults,” Lora said. “Perhaps you have not heard that gentlewomen of the South are serving in the most humble and ignoble capacities. Yet they are not degraded by doing so.”

  “The South!” There was venom in Mrs. Tyler’s tone. “Don’t talk to me about the South! In any event, we shall not discuss so ridiculous a matter further. Perhaps you may on occasion accompany Serena Lord when she takes fruits and sweets to wounded soldiers. It may even be possible to help some poor fellow write a letter home. I know the Sanitary Commission has asked for volunteers for such missions.” The knitting needles flashed purposefully and the subject was closed.

  Lora looked into the fire and wondered what Wade Tyler would have done if she had been so ladylike as to shrink from the sight of blood, or from the misery and helplessness which could engulf a human body. But she was beginning to realize that Mrs. Tyler never lost an argument and that she seldom saw any viewpoint other than her own.