Having dismissed the matter, the old lady returned calmly to the subject of Lora’s list and made suggestions about yardage, buttons, trim, patterns and so on. The morning wore on until Ellie came to see if Mrs. Tyler would continue to have luncheon served in her parlor as she had been doing when there was only herself and Jemmy.
“That sounds very cozy,” Lora put in. “That is, if you don’t mind having it here, Mrs. Tyler.”
“It’s time you began called me Mother,” the old lady reproved. “Very well, Ellie. You may set out the tea tables and call Mr. Wade.”
While Ellie busied herself about the room, Lora got up to stretch her cramped legs. She was accustomed to active work and the sudden freeing of her time dismayed her no little. From the side window of the sitting room she could look out upon withered brown shrubs, leafless trees, and the orderly outline of the little garden that would bloom with the coming of spring.
As she watched two or three sparrows picking about energetically, a man came around the side of the house. He wore rough work clothes and a cap pulled down over grizzled hair. His face had the leathery, weather-beaten look of one who was much outdoors, and in spite of the cold he wore no gloves on his hands. He looked about for a moment and then reached into the lower part of a tree and pulled down a broken branch. He did not glance toward the window at all as he moved through the garden, seemingly on a tour of inspection.
“There’s Ambrose, Miz Tyler,” Ellie said, noting the man outside.
Mrs. Tyler turned in her chair so that she could look through the window. “I thought he would be down today. There was a storm yesterday morning and he never fails to check up on any possible damage.”
As Lora watched, Jemmy scurried out the back door, without hat or coat, and flung himself into the old man’s arms. John Ambrose looked up toward the house over Jemmy’s shoulder and, seeing Lora in the window, touched his forefinger to his cap and gave her a friendly smile. She smiled back, liking him instantly. Then Wade came into the room behind her.
At a glance he saw what was happening in the garden and he reached the window quickly. With a sharp gesture he flung it open and told Jemmy to come into the house for lunch.
Jemmy would have continued to cling to his friend had Ambrose not released the grip of his small fingers and pushed the boy gently toward the house. When the old man looked up at Wade in the window, his smile was no less friendly than it had been for Lora.
“Good morning, sir,” he said. “I came down to see if I’d need to do some trimming after yesterday’s storm. But things seem right enough. Welcome home, Mr. Wade.” Once more he made the gesture of forefinger to cap and turned away from the house without waiting for the man in the window to answer.
“Now that you’ve frozen out the room, suppose you close the window and come to lunch,” said Wade’s mother testily. Once more Lora sensed undercurrents of emotion between these two which she did not understand.
Jemmy joined them, unsmiling and silent, and they sat down to the individual tea tables which Ellie had brought in. Lunch was a light meal with a fluffy omelet and popovers and hot tea. But it was anything but light in tone. Even the absence of the one-eyed bird did not lighten the atmosphere. Lora longed to find some way to inject a note of gaiety into the hour, but the energy and courage with which she had faced the morning were ebbing and she felt too limp to make any further effort at the moment.
Mrs. Tyler spoke with satisfaction of the list with which she was helping Lora. In a few days Lora must go over to New York and make these purchases. Of course she could not make such a trip unescorted, and Wade’s leg would not permit him to take her over himself for a while. Mrs. Lord might have been called upon if her husband had not been home on leave. Though, on second thought, it was better to keep the scanty state of Lora’s wardrobe strictly within the family. Ellie had a good head on her shoulders and she could accompany Lora on this trip to town.
Again there was a long silence, broken this time by an announcement from Jemmy.
“I showed Lorie my turtles this morning,” he said, buttering a popover and not looking at his grandmother.
Mrs. Tyler put down her fork. “You must not call Lora by her first name, Jemmy. She is your mama now and that is the way you must address her.”
Long lashes flew up as Jemmy widened his eyes defiantly. “I will not—” he began, but Lora spoke quickly before he could bring down lightning upon his head.
“Please don’t mind, Mother Tyler,” she pleaded. “You see, I once had a little brother and Jemmy reminds me of him. So we have decided that to start with we are going to be brother and sister. That way it will be all right for him to call me Lorie. I’m glad you’ve begun, Jemmy.”
She smiled at him, but he returned her look solemnly and she had a feeling that he had used the name mainly to defy his grandmother.
For once Wade came to his son’s support. “I see no reason why the boy should not call her Lorie if that pleases them both.”
“We will discuss the matter another time,” Mrs. Tyler said, and again silence lay upon the room.
Lora wished she could ask Wade what preparation the writing of his book required, and whether he had actually started it this morning, but that, like so many other subjects, seemed to be a forbidden one, and she found herself growing more and more tongue-tied.
After lunch Wade, who still tired easily, went up to his room to lie down for a while, and Jemmy took the opportunity to disappear into the library. Mrs. Tyler, it seemed, also took a nap right after lunch every afternoon, so Lora was left to her own devices. The moment she found that she would have a space of time in which she could do as she pleased, she ran up to her room and dressed in outdoor things.
More than anything else, she thought as she tied her bonnet strings, she wanted to escape from the gloom of this house. She longed to gulp deep breaths of fresh air, stretch her legs in the stride of a good fast walk, and turn up the corners of her mouth in a smile.
On the way downstairs she met Ellie and told her she was going for a walk. Ellie had picked up something of her mistress’s air of doubt over any purpose which did not originate with Mrs. Tyler. Her grunt suggested disapproval, but she offered no open objection. Lora closed the front door with a sense of escape and ran down the steps as if a reaching hand might snatch her back if she did not give wings to her feet.
IV
A hazy sun shone in the sky and here and there patches of the frozen road were thawing into mud. Lora leaped nimbly from one dry place to the next, or skirted the bad spots by following the dry brown grass along the road’s edge. Her black gaiter boots were sturdy and meant for walking.
She chose the level stretch of lane that ran straight on toward the Lords’ house. Above on her right woods crowded the hillside—birch, maple, oak, all wearing the dull brown of winter, with only the evergreens standing out in bold relief. Because of the trees she could not see the crest of the hill and the forbidden Channing house whose lights she had seen from a distance last night.
On her left the woods were more sparse. There were glimpses of the lower shore of the island with its mushroom tents and military activity, and the gray water of the harbor shining beyond. Across the water and down the bay she could see the buildings of New York, with the tall point of Trinity’s spire towering above all else.
Here and there nearby in the shelter of rocks and shaded spots white streakings bore evidence of earlier snow, but it had long melted from all exposed surfaces. Perhaps it would snow again before Christmas, Lora thought. She looked forward to her first snowstorm with almost childish eagerness. Perhaps she and Jemmy could go outdoors and roll snowballs, even make a snowman. As a child she had loved to read about snowmen, but she had never seen one.
A chill wind whipped at her skirts and she quickened her step, thrust her hands with their thin gloves into her sleeves for more warmth. But she did not really mind the cold. After that stuffy house the bracing sting of a fresh wind was exhilarating. It made her want
to skip and sing a little song to herself. She managed, however, to remember that she was Mrs. Wade Tyler and that she must behave with a proper dignity, though she grimaced to herself at the thought.
A short distance along the road, the sight of a lone chimney rising broken and black from a tangle of undergrowth brought her to a halt. Encroaching shrubbery and trees almost hid it from view of the road, but on peering closer she discovered evidence of what had once been a carriage drive, with the remains of a leaning iron fence beyond. Following the drive a few steps, she saw the crumbling walls of a house that had long ago been gutted by fire. There was something both sad and provocative about such ruins. She would have liked to pierce the protecting shield of vines and bushes and explore the old stones. But she remembered in time that this was the forbidden uphill side of the road and went regretfully on past the ruins.
A little further on a path opened up the hill, winding its way through the woods, and again she felt the tug of interest, the invitation to adventure. But again she set the impulse aside and went on. When she came upon a downhill path, however, she no longer resisted the invitation, but turned eagerly off the rutted road and followed a way which cut down through a clump of bare oak trees on a curving course.
Now the wide view of the harbor was clear and she could see the masts of many vessels, white sails and black smokestacks, and a dotting of tugs and small craft clear across to the Brooklyn shore. Far on the right the harbor narrowed and then opened into the sea. Lora stood for a long moment breathing deeply the pungent, not altogether pleasant odor of salt water carried shoreward by the wind. It was bracing, yes, but she would have to get used to it. She was more accustomed to the spicy scent of pines and the warm odors of sun-baked earth.
She paused near the edge of the woods, where a sloping brown meadow opened beyond and dipped downhill to disappear into more woods below. A dog barked, the sound of nearby voices came to her, and then the sharp, clear crack of a shot. Her stomach muscles tightened in immediate resistance to the sound and she stood utterly still, holding her breath. Then there was a second shot and she stepped cautiously into the open where she could have a full view of the bare expanse of hillside.
Across the meadow a target had been set up, its staring bull’s-eye shining with fresh black paint. As a safety measure it had been placed against an earth embankment that would prevent all but the wildest shots from going astray. Some paces back from the target stood two boys—one a red-haired boy about Jemmy’s age, the other a taller boy of perhaps thirteen years. The older boy held a rifle to his shoulder, and aimed carefully at the target. Once more the crash of a shot ripped the quiet and went echoing along the ridge of hills.
The boy who had fired waved his gun triumphantly aloft. “There!” he shouted. “I just got me another Johnny Reb!”
The smaller boy capered. “You sure did! You killed that no-good old Secesh deader than dead!”
Indignation swept through Lora and she hesitated no longer. She ran lightly across the meadow toward the boys, not sure of what she meant to do or say, but impelled into action because of the child’s words. The two boys heard her coming and turned to stare in surprise.
“You shouldn’t pretend you’re killing men!” she cried breathlessly as she reached them.
The red-haired younger boy seemed less taken aback at her sudden appearance than did the older one.
“Who else would we pretend we’re killing, ma’am? Who else but those old rebs?”
Lora managed to recover her breath and speak more quietly. “Have you ever known a Southern boy? They’re just like you, really. And you shouldn’t even pretend to kill.”
Teaching school had given her an air of authority when she chose to use it, and the two boys looked not only astonished, but somewhat abashed. The older one glanced sheepishly over his shoulder at a figure whom Lora had not noted until now. Near the edge of the woods a man sat cross-legged on the ground where he had apparently been watching the efforts of the two young sharpshooters. His hand was on the collar of a small, excited Airedale.
When he saw her eyes upon him he let go of the dog and got to his feet without undue haste. He wore a heavy blue jacket, but no cap, and his thick mane of hair was a darker rust color than the boy’s. The little dog, released, raced toward Lora in friendly fashion and she bent to pat his head as he stood on his hind legs and pawed her skirt.
The man followed the course of the dog in a more leisurely manner, and as he approached she found herself contrasting his appearance and manner with Wade’s. This man was somewhat stocky, rather than slender and tall. His features were rugged and he lacked any touch of elegance.
“Good morning,” Lora said with dignity. “I couldn’t help reproving these two boys for this game of killing Confederate soldiers.”
His eyes were gray beneath rusty eyebrows and they gave no quarter but met her own without blinking.
“Maybe you can tell me just what you think this fight is all about?” he countered. “Maybe you’ve got a notion that nobody is killing real men in this war?”
“I know very well that men are being killed,” she said quickly, “but that doesn’t make me ready to forgive it, or to sanction it when I see such imitation on the part of little boys.”
The younger boy capered again to get attention and the dog barked shrilly. “I know who she is, Uncle Adam. She’s Jemmy’s new mother. The one he doesn’t want.”
So this man was Serena Lord’s brother who had been in Libby Prison. Never, she thought, could one have found a brother who less resembled a charming sister.
Adam Hume put out a hand and touched the younger boy’s shoulder to silence him. “I don’t like killing any better than you do, Mrs. Tyler. But we’re in a war and if the North doesn’t settle the matter soon, maybe young Eddie here and even Temple will be fighting the same war in a few years. And it’s hard to win if you get to thinking about how the other fellow is no worse than yourself. Could be it’s better to go in there hating him a whole heap—the way the rebs hate us. That’s the only way to be a fighter.”
Lora shook her head vehemently. “Fighting’s no way to settle anything. I think the South has some right on her side too.”
“You sound like a rebel yourself. Are you?”
“I’m not on any side,” she said. “I’m against war with every bit of me. My father came from the North, but he taught me to love life, not to waste it.”
“You’re spunky anyway,” he said, appraising her with a look that made her tingle with annoyance.
She turned from him quickly and spoke to the two boys. “I know you’re Mrs. Lord’s boys.”
They nodded, not quite sure how to take this softening in her tone. The younger boy bent to pat the Airedale’s head, addressing him as “Whiskers.”
“Why don’t you both come over to our house to see Jemmy tomorrow?” she invited. “I’m sure he’d love to have you.”
Temple spoke his surprise instantly. “But tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Don’t Staten Island folks go visiting on Sunday?” Lora asked. “We always did at home.”
Both boys shook their heads and looked at Adam Hume, who answered for them shortly. “Not at the Tylers’.”
“Then you must come another time,” Lora said. She murmured a quick good-by which included Serena’s brother, and started back up the path by which she had come. Her encounter with the Lord boys and their uncle had somehow upset her and taken the edge off her sense of adventure.
She reached the Tyler house and let herself in through the front door. The dim, chill hallway was silent and she found herself instinctively tiptoeing toward the stairs. Then, moved by a whim, she paused with one hand on the newel post. So far she had been faced by so many closed doors that she had seen little of this house. The front room opposite the library must be the parlor, and there was no reason why she should not look in and see what the room was like.
She opened the door softly and blinked at the thick gloom. Not only were the shu
tters closed, but heavy draperies had been pulled across the windows, shutting out any seepage of daylight and turning the room to shadowy night. Lora remembered the candle she had seen on the hall table with a packet of friction matches beside it and she got it quickly. The striking of a match sounded all too loud in the quiet hall, but she lit the candle and went into the dark parlor.
The draperies were of wine-colored velvet and most of the furniture was dark, well-polished walnut. A huge Bible lay upon a table in the center of the room and all about were stiff, dignified-looking chairs. Lora held the candle high and moved toward a marble mantel above the cold hearth. From the wall above the mantel a portrait looked down at her.
Thinly her candle lighted the face of the man in the picture and for a moment she thought it was a portrait of Wade. But the full-lipped mouth was more sensual, perhaps a little cruel, and there was none of Wade’s likable appeal in the portrayed gaze. One sensed something robust and hearty, but no great sensitivity.
This then must be Wade’s father. It was difficult to imagine the grim old lady who held court in the rear parlor as the wife of this florid-faced man with the stamp of easy living upon him.
Lora moved on about the room, noting the stiff black haircloth sofa with its walnut frame, the whatnot in a corner, carrying a load of bric-a-brac.
Someone whispered from the doorway and she looked about to see Jemmy beckoning to her insistently.
“What is it?” she asked.
He put a finger to his lips and tiptoed into the room. “Ssh! Grandmother will hear you. You’d better come out quickly.”
Lora lowered her voice, but she made no move to leave the room. “I’m just getting acquainted with your house,” she told him. “After all, I’m going to live here and I want to see it.”
“You’re not supposed to come in the parlor,” Jemmy whispered. “Grandmother only opens it for company, and on Sundays. We’ll be here tomorrow. But if Grandmother catches you now she’ll be angry.”
The Quicksilver Pool Page 5