The Quicksilver Pool

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “Who on earth was that?” Lora asked.

  Jemmy seemed relieved to escape his moment of dark emotion. He was markedly casual as he turned away from the pool.

  “That’s only Rebecca. If she’s back, then that means Morgan Le Fay is home. Of course Morgan’s not really Le Fay—she’s Morgan Channing. But she’s sort of like Le Fay in the King Arthur stories so I call her that.”

  Of his own accord he turned toward home and she followed him willingly. There had been enough of the tragic and she sought for some subject which might distract and cheer him as they went downhill. An appropriate one offered itself easily.

  “What are you planning for Christmas, Jemmy? Are you making presents for everyone? And when do we open them—Christmas Eve or Christmas morning?”

  Looking back at her, a faint stirring of interest came alive in his eyes, but almost at once he shook his head.

  “Grandmother says Christmas is a time for praying.”

  “Of course it is,” Lora agreed. “But it’s also a time to be happy and to make others happy. After all, it’s the celebration of a very special Birthday. Don’t you do anything about it at all?”

  “We used to when—when Mama was here,” he said. “But last year Papa was away and Grandmother was too sad. But I went to the Lords’ for a party anyway. Mrs. Lord’s mother was German and she always used to have a Christmas tree, the way German people do. So Aunt Serena likes to have one for Temple and Eddie. There were presents on it for me, too, and Grandfather came to the party.”

  Grandfather, Lora thought in surprise, remembering the handsome, florid face of the portrait in the Tyler parlor. But of course he must mean Virginia’s father. She had not realized that he had any other grandparent living.

  “I tell you what,” she hurried on, striving to hold that look of interest in his eyes. “We’ll have a wonderful Christmas this year. Perhaps if we can get one we’ll even have a Christmas tree. Would you like that?”

  He was an excited small boy now. Would he like it? Oh, and how much he would like it!

  “I have some ideas for making presents too,” she told him cheerfully. “We’ll get to work on them right away and we’ll have the nicest Christmas ever.”

  They reached the lane and, spurred on by urgent purpose, walked quickly toward home. Just before they reached the steps Jemmy slipped his red-mittened hand shyly into hers.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, Lorie,” he said, and then pulled away and ran ahead of her, engulfed by embarrassment.

  A tingling of happiness went through her as she watched him run up the steps. Even if the skies fell she must try to help Jemmy. Then she saw Ellie in the doorway. Reading her expression, she knew that the skies were likely to start falling this very moment. But at least she no longer felt futile and helpless. Because of Jemmy and his need of her, courage swept back.

  “Miz Tyler is up from her nap,” Ellie told them, looking slyly pleased. “An’ she wants to see you both right away. I don’t mind telling you she’s hopping mad. Such doings on a Sunday!”

  “That will be enough,” said Lora, surprising herself by becoming suddenly the mistress.

  Ellie’s toothy grin vanished and her eyes widened. She bobbed a curtsy she had not intended and murmured, “Yes’m, Miz Lora.”

  Lora held out her hand to Jemmy and they went down the hall together and into Mrs. Tyler’s presence.

  The old lady sat in the wing-backed chair before the fire and Lora saw that she had been reading from a small Bible in her lap. The look she turned upon them was dark and bitter.

  “May I ask where you have been?”

  “It was such a lovely day that we went for a walk in the woods,” Lora said simply.

  Mrs. Tyler’s lips tightened to a thin line that resembled Jason Cowles’s mouth in the portrait behind her. But before she could speak Jemmy put himself between Lora and his grandmother.

  “It’s not Lorie’s fault, Grandmother,” he said. “She didn’t know about not going outside on Sunday. And I didn’t tell her. So I’m the one to be punished.”

  Lora rested her hands on his shoulders and felt their slightness beneath her fingers. She knew he was trying to “protect” her from his grandmother, as he had once protected his own mother. But though she was touched by his gesture, Doc Blair’s daughter needed no protection.

  “I knew that you might be displeased, Mother,” she said. “But Jemmy and I feel that God is out there in the woods just as much as He is in this house. We don’t feel that He is displeased with us.”

  There was a flare of color to Mrs. Tyler’s cheekbones, but she turned her attention upon Jemmy. “You at least knew you were doing wrong. You may go to your room for the rest of the afternoon.”

  The boy threw Lora a worried look as he left, but she smiled reassuringly.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked when the door had closed behind him. She would not stand there like a prisoner at the dock, but moved calmly to a small chair opposite Mrs. Tyler and held her hands to the fire. She felt surprisingly calm and unruffled.

  “So you went into the woods?” the old lady demanded.

  “Yes, we did. The woods on the uphill side.” Lora looked up from the fire and met the other woman’s gaze steadily. “Jemmy showed me the pool where his mother drowned. Did you know that he has some twisted idea that he is to blame for her death? Why hasn’t someone helped him to get over that?”

  The heavy lids came briefly down over Mrs. Tyler’s eyes, but she was not one to reveal surprise easily. Nevertheless, Lora had the feeling that his grandmother had not realized this queer idea of Jemmy’s.

  “No one knows exactly what happened,” Mrs. Tyler said. “The child was in bed at the time. Why should he blame himself?”

  “Because he thinks his mother was trying to get him a turtle to replace one that died.”

  The rings on the old lady’s hands flashed color as she moved them in dismissal of the notion. “What if she was? The boy reads too many books. But it is your conduct I wish to discuss, not his. I find it necessary, Lora, to point out the fact that you have not shown yourself properly willing to fit into the life of this household. You have flown in the face of my wishes as well as Wade’s. I cannot regard your behavior as the dutiful conduct of a good wife.”

  “I want to be a good wife,” Lora said. “But I don’t think this can be accomplished by obeying edicts which seem unreasonable to me.”

  Mrs. Tyler sighed. “I suppose allowances must be made for the fact that you are hardly more than a child. It is to be regretted that you have been allowed to grow up in so willful and headstrong a manner. These qualities are not ones which will help you now. I cannot tolerate or permit them. Do you, or do you not want to make my son happy?”

  “Of course I want to make him happy,” Lora said earnestly. “But it seems to me—”

  The old lady did not permit her to continue. “Today you have done nothing but upset him and increase his unhappiness. When he hears of your trip into the woods he will feel even more disturbed. Perhaps you had better go to your room now and pray for forgiveness and guidance.”

  Her earlier calm was treacherously forsaking her and Lora longed to make the hot retort which rose to her lips. But she suppressed it and forced herself to rise without hurry from her chair.

  “I’m sorry to have displeased you,” she said, and went quietly from the room. But when she reached the staircase she picked up her skirts and ran all the way up in order to release herself in physical action.

  Once in her own room, she went to work building a furious blaze in the fireplace, feeding on the small logs until the fire purred and crackled.

  Because she had promised Jemmy a lovely Christmas she must refrain from open warfare with that autocratic woman downstairs. For Jemmy’s sake and for Wade’s she must find some way to possess her own soul and still give a pretense of submission to Amanda Tyler. But, oh, it was always so much harder when the time came than she ever anticipated.

&nb
sp; The sudden clamor of the doorbell sounded through the house and she rose from her knees and went to her own door, opened it softly. Since there were not likely to be Sunday visitors, this must be Wade coming home. Would she be able to see him alone now and smooth things out between them?

  She heard Ellie’s shuffling steps and then the sound of her greeting.

  A voice which was not Wade’s said, “Mrs. Lord’s compliments to Mrs. Tyler, and a welcome home to Mr. Wade and his wife. My sister has sent over some preserves and fruit cake.”

  It was Adam Hume, and Lora continued to listen at the crack of the door. Ellie led him back to Mrs. Tyler’s parlor and the door below opened and closed upon him. Lora shut her own door thoughtfully. Serena’s brother had been unpleasantly forthright in her single encounter with him, yet she sensed honesty in his directness. What was more, he had proved himself a friend to Jemmy Tyler. Because of that there was something she wanted very much to ask him. Something he might answer far better than Jemmy’s father, or anyone else in this house.

  She flung her shawl about her shoulders in order to be ready and when she heard again the sound of opening doors, she went out upon the upper veranda toward the front of the house.

  When Ellie had closed the front door after Adam, she called to him softly. He turned on the drive, looking up through the branches of the big chestnut tree. Today he wore sober black broadcloth which seemed to pinch at his breadth of shoulder, giving him none of Wade’s elegance. He had not yet put on his hat and his rusty hair shone in the sunlight.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I was told that you had retired with a severe headache.”

  She grimaced involuntarily and used Jemmy’s term. “I’m in disgrace. I have no headache.”

  For the first time he smiled and resembled his sister Serena to a greater degree.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” she whispered. “Jemmy says you’re his friend and I thought you might know what he would best like for Christmas.”

  He looked up at her with a certain speculation. “If you could manage it—a dog,” he said. “I’ve never seen a boy who needed a dog more than Jemmy does. He’s crazy about our Whiskers.”

  Lora put her hands on the veranda rail and felt the gray paint scaling beneath her fingers. “I’ll manage it,” she promised. “Somehow I’ll manage it.”

  He turned his hat thoughtfully in his hands. “I’m not sure that you can. I doubt that his grandmother would readily permit him to keep a dog and I’m thinking it would take somebody a lot bigger than you to stand up to her. This could mean a major engagement—and, as I recall, you don’t think much of fighting.”

  She turned away without replying, but he spoke again softly, his words faintly mocking. A tree branch had cut him from her view now, but she waited to hear and he knew she was still there.

  “My sister Serena has an enormous curiosity, Mrs. Tyler. She has bidden me extract from you certain information if the opportunity arose. Of course she has also bidden me to be delicate about the extraction. But as you may have gathered, delicacy is not a matter in which I have any skill. She wants to know whether or not you have met Mrs. Channing.”

  He was of course being in supportably offensive, but somehow his honesty was a relief after the hidden currents and the evasiveness in the Tyler house. Besides, she herself was growing curious about this Mrs. Channing.

  “No,” she said, “I have not met Mrs. Channing. But since I have heard her name mentioned a number of times, I would like very much to know who she is.” She stepped back to the edge of the railing where she could see him again.

  He gestured in the direction of the hilltop. “So they haven’t told you? She is the widow of a wealthy Southern planter, Nicholas Channing. If you want to know more, you had better ask Wade or his mother. Here comes your husband now.”

  She saw the carriage on the lane in front of the house. It turned into the drive and Peter helped Wade out. Adam extended his hand in greeting, and Wade took it in a somewhat restrained fashion. At any moment, Lora thought, Wade would look up at her. He must surely have seen her on the veranda as he drove up. But he did not speak to her, even when Adam Hume took his departure after a too elaborate bow in her direction.

  She saw Wade come slowly up the steps and disappear into the house, looking pale and very tired. She flew back along the veranda to her own room and through to the hall, where she could wait for him to mount the stairs. But he did not so much as glance her way when he came up. Instead he went straight to the door of the shuttered front room which had been Virginia’s and went in, closing the door behind him.

  Dismayed, Lora returned to the warmth of her own fire and curled herself on the hearthrug to think. The problems of this household seemed to loom larger by the moment. If only it were possible to get Wade and Jemmy away from this house, away from the domination of Amanda Tyler. What chance would there ever be for Wade to forget his lost love under this roof? There must be reminders of Virginia at every turn, and remembering could be a sickness. Worst of all, there was that closed room at the front of the house—always an invitation and a torment. Had it been kept as it had been when Virginia was alive? she wondered.

  She sat very still before the hearth, listening with all her senses. But the only sound which came to her was the whinnying and stamping of horses in the stables and the faint, silvery tinkle of Mrs. Tyler’s bell, with its everlasting summons of Ellie.

  The feeling grew in her that Wade ought not to stay in there alone. That was why she was here—so that he might have someone to turn to in his need.

  She got to her feet and went softly into the hall.

  VI

  At the door of the room which had been Virginia’s, Lora listened, holding her breath. She still heard nothing, and after a moment she tapped lightly on the wood panel. There was no answer, no whisper of sound. When she tried the knob it turned easily under her hand. At least he had not locked himself in.

  She opened the door quietly and looked into the dim room. Faint light seeped through closed shutters, but here there were no portieres to reduce the room to night. A heavy scent of long-dried rose leaves enveloped her too sweetly in the unaired room.

  She could see the bed with Wade lying face down across it and as she moved toward him the room emerged and made itself known to her. It was a pretty room, with frilly, feminine touches that bore no trace of Amanda Tyler’s severity. Virginia too had had her haven of escape. But the scent of rose leaves and the stirring of long-quiet dust as Lora’s skirts rustled about her made the air stuffy, and she wanted to get away quickly.

  She put her hand upon Wade’s shoulder. “Come, my dear. Come with me. You mustn’t stay here.”

  He turned over and looked at her dazedly, as if grief had somehow confused him and he no longer knew who she was.

  “Please come,” she repeated in the firm tone she might have used to a child. “I want to talk to you, Wade. I must talk to you. But let’s talk in my room, not here.”

  A little to her surprise, he sat up and she reached quickly for the crutch beside the bed and gave it to him. Moving at his own awkward gait, he followed her down the hall to her room. Here she made him comfortable on her wide bed, plumping pillows behind him, pulling off his shoes. When she had covered him with a quilt she went to poke up the fire and add more wood. Then she sat beside him on the bed, holding his scarred left hand as she had done so often in those long days when he had hovered between life and death.

  He lay back with his eyes closed and she saw the shadows beneath them, and the grooved lines beside his mouth. If only she could get him to talk about those things which he had always held from her. Putting his grief into words might be good for him.

  “Tell me what she was like,” Lora said softly.

  He did not open his eyes, but his fingers tightened about her own and then relaxed. His words came slowly, faltering at first, then more quickly as memories crowded upon him. It was not of Virginia he spoke, however, but of his
own childhood in this house.

  “I can remember how different it was. When I was a little boy and my father was alive, that is. The house was always filled with his friends. There were always loud voices and people laughing, sometimes until late at night. Mother never cared for his friends any more than they cared for her, and she withdrew from them. On Sundays she made me keep the Sabbath with her in the same way Grandfather Jason used to keep it—with prayers and quiet and all the shutters closed. But we had to keep it by ourselves in the sitting room downstairs because my father would have nothing to do with gloom and solemn voices. He was a very hearty and popular man and I wanted with all my heart to be like him. But he was always so confident, so sure of himself, and that was a quality I lacked.”

  “And your mother?” Lora prompted.

  Wade did not open his eyes. “She was determined that I should not be like him at all. I already looked like him and I suppose that frightened her into thinking that I might grow up a wastrel too. I suppose that’s what he was, really, for all his charming ways. It’s a mystery why she married him. But she was bound and determined that I must grow up in the solid mold of her own father, whom she’d loved and admired more than any other human being.”

  “Can you remember your grandfather?”

  “He died before I was born,” Wade said. “But I feel as if I’d grown up in the same house with him. Mother must be greatly like him. She wanted me to care about the shipping business and take an active interest in the bank as I grew up. When I was little she used to send me on trips to the docks sometimes with Mr. Niles. She would have taken me herself if that section had not been too rough for the presence of a lady. I loved the docks and all that busy life down there—but not in the way she intended that I should.”