As she stood on the rutted road below the house, recovering her breath and studying the windows without care whether or not the occupants saw her, the barking of a dog brought her attention to the open gateway through which the drive entered. Dogwood Lane went no farther along the hill, but ended before the Channing house.
Lora crossed the road and walked purposefully toward the drive. There was a gatekeeper’s cottage set beside the stone wall. Beyond, a brown and white shepherd and her litter of puppies gamboled on the dry grass. A man stood watching them and at the sound of Lora’s step on the gravel he turned and smiled. It was the man they called Ambrose, who tended Mrs. Tyler’s garden in spite of Wade’s disapproval.
She went to the gate, bidding him good afternoon. He touched his finger to his cap in recognition, noting her interest in the puppies.
“Funny little beggars, aren’t they?” he said. “Come in if you’d like to look closer, Mrs. Tyler.”
Lora went through the gate toward the place where the puppies rolled about on the grass. One fat little fellow with a white patch in his forehead nipped playfully at his tolerant mother and then rolled over and over in delight as she pushed at him with her nose. He had a roguish look about him, and he was obviously vain. While his brothers and sisters paid no attention to Lora, his alert gaze spotted her and he pranced over to present himself for her admiration. What a companion he would make for Jemmy! A demanding little dog who would insist on being loved.
Lora knelt and let him chew on her knuckles with his sharp little teeth. He never closed his jaws tightly, but he liked tugging at her hand and patting it with his paws.
“Do you suppose I could purchase one of these puppies?” Lora asked John Ambrose. “Are they for sale by any chance?”
The old man looked at her quizzically. “Just what would you be doing with a puppy down there, ma’am?”
“I want it for a Christmas present for Jemmy,” she told him. “I’ve seen you at the Tylers’. I know you’re his friend.”
He rubbed a rough, brown hand over his grizzled chin. “You’ve got Mrs. Tyler’s permission, ma’am?”
“No, I haven’t,” Lora admitted frankly. “She doesn’t know anything about it. But I think Jemmy ought to have a dog and I’m going to get him one.”
He shook his head, repeating the warning Lora had heard on all sides. “She’d never let the boy keep it.”
“But why not? Every child needs a pet. And Jemmy’s more lonely than most boys.”
Ambrose reached for the puppy who played at her feet and picked him up by the scruff of the neck.
“That one,” Lora pleaded. “That’s the one he’d like best.”
He rolled the puppy on its back and tickled the fat little stomach, to its intense delight. But he did not answer her directly. “I can remember one time I tried to get a dog for Jemmy’s father in the days when I used to work down there. But she wouldn’t have it then, and I don’t think she’s changed any now.”
“You used to work for the Tylers?” Lora asked.
“I grew up down there.” He regarded her frankly with keen eyes. “Spent my growing-up years working for the Cowles. And I stayed right on after Miss Amanda married.”
What had happened, Lora wondered, to make him give up working for Mrs. Tyler after all those years and come up here to be Mrs. Channing’s gardener? But this was no time to be curious about side issues. All she wanted was the possession of this engaging little puppy.
“If I give him the puppy on Christmas morning without Mrs. Tyler knowing about it ahead of time, she’d never have the heart to take it away from him. Will you sell it to me?”
“Maybe you’re the one to manage it, at that,” the old man said, and his look approved of her. “But anyway it’s not up to me to dispose of the pups. If you want you can go up and ask Mrs. Channing yourself.”
“I’ll do that,” Lora decided. She gave the puppy a last pat and started resolutely up the left wing of the drive.
The great white house awaited her coming, serene and proud, but it gave no sign by the least flicker of a blind that it noted her pigmy figure. Gazing out over the hillside toward the busy scene of the harbor, its air of superior indifference began to awe her a little as she followed the course of the drive. She had never set foot in a house as grand as this, and in spite of her strength of purpose she felt a little uneasy. Now she was truly on forbidden ground.
She crossed the brick veranda behind the pillars and went up the few steps to the center door. She hesitated only a second before she reached for the bell. She could hear the sound echo musically within the house. While she waited she turned to look at John Ambrose where he stood watching her near the gate. He made a slight signal of encouragement. Then she heard steps coming toward the door and braced herself for whatever welcome she might receive.
VIII
The young colored girl, Rebecca, opened the door and her dark eyes regarded Lora unflickeringly for an instant before she veiled them with long lashes.
“Please come in, Mrs. Tyler,” she said.
Her accent was softly Southern, yet without a slurring together of the words. The girl spoke like any well-educated Southern lady. Lora was more ill at ease than she.
“I haven’t come to call on Mrs. Channing,” she said quickly. “This is an informal visit. I wonder if I could speak to her for just a moment?”
Rebecca’s voluminous skirt was flowered green today and matched the perkily knotted bandanna about her head. She gestured toward a room on her left and went to open a door for Lora, her gold hoop earrings swaying as she walked. She moved with grace, her shoulders well back and her head high, her feet treading softly on the dark mirror of the floor.
“Please sit down,” Rebecca said, flinging open the drawing room door. “I will tell Mrs. Channing you are here.”
She closed the door and went soundlessly away. Lora, still ill at ease, looked about the room. Pale roses bloomed against the light green of the carpets. The room was so long that two fireplaces were necessary, each with its marble mantel and gift-framed circle of mirror above. Fires burned behind elaborate andirons. Fires in a room like this when there was no company!
Lora went to a nearby chair of gilt and rose damask and sat down in it stiffly. Mrs. Channing must indeed be a lady of wealth. Such chandeliers of crystal Lora had never seen before, or such ornate plaster carvings at every corner of the ceiling, such elegant green velvet draperies. Glass doors opened toward the white pillars that ran along the front of the house and Lora could imagine the view of harbor and hillside which could be had beyond.
Every wall was graced with paintings, but they were of foreign buildings, or woodland scenes, instead of the usual family portraits which most people hung in parlor and drawing room. Turning about in her chair, curious and interested, Lora saw that the only portrait in the room was a large one which hung behind her on the wall at the far end of the room. This picture was oddly framed by dark-green velvet curtains which cut down past the single standing figure of a woman, setting it off effectively, though hiding whatever else the artist might have painted in his picture.
The figure in the portrait stood beside long French doors and there was a glimpse of white columns beyond, so the picture must have been painted in this very room. The woman was strikingly beautiful, with great dark eyes that seemed to challenge the observer. She had been painted in a yellow gown that set off her dark beauty but did not detract from the center of interest—her arresting face. Studying the picture, Lora did not doubt that if this was Mrs. Nicholas Channing, she was a woman to be reckoned with. If Wade had quarreled with her, it must have been a resoundingly good quarrel, to say the least.
She heard the turning of a knob just then and swiveled about in her chair to stare with innocent attention at the fire in the nearby grate. She did not glance up until the original of the portrait stood beside her.
“Mrs. Tyler?” said a cool voice which carried no hint of welcome in it, and Lora looked into a face
that was far less beautiful than that of the woman in the portrait. Indeed, the artist had flattered her outrageously in his painting. This woman’s mouth was too big, albeit the lips were as red as the painted ones of the picture, and she had a faint hump to her large, strong nose. Only her eyes were the eyes of the portrait, dark and arresting, but far more vital in life.
Lora gave her hand into the long-fingered one that was held out to her. Mrs. Channing barely touched her fingers and then withdrew her own hand quickly. She went to sit in a damask chair opposite Lora and regarded her guest with a look that was appraising and far from friendly. Unlike the vivid figure in the portait, she wore black with a great hoop skirt; black relieved only by the jade of her long earrings, and the jade and gold brooch at the V of her gown.
“It is very kind of you to see me,” Lora faltered, sensing for the first time that there might be effrontery in her appearance here. If Wade brooked no friendship with the Channing household, it was equally possible that Mrs. Channing bore him a similar ill will.
“This is a surprise,” her hostess admitted frankly, and her level look seemed to pry past any guard Lora might wear. “May I ask if your husband knows you are here?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Lora said hurriedly. “I’m here for my own purpose. I happened to be passing on the road and I saw your shepherd dog playing with her puppies.”
Winged brows raised questioningly. “Happened to be passing?”
Lora flushed, but she did not allow her own gaze to drop. If this woman meant to be direct, she would meet her on the same ground.
“No, that isn’t true. The road ends here. I came because I wanted to see your house. I was curious.”
Mrs. Channing said nothing. She waited, long hands, graced by rings of jade and pearl, quiet in her lap.
“I will tell you at once why I’m here,” Lora said. “I would like very much to purchase one of your puppies. I want it for Jemmy Tyler.”
A hint of surprise flickered across Mrs. Channing’s face and there was a barely perceptible softening to amusement of her full red mouth.
“I will gladly give you your choice of a puppy if you can make Amanda Tyler accept it in her household,” said Mrs. Channing directly.
Lora raised her chin ever so slightly. “I see no reason why she should not accept it.”
The woman in the chair opposite relaxed against its back and her laughter was sudden and rich and unrestrained. Morgan Channing did not laugh like a well-bred lady and Lora was relieved at the sound.
“I’ll confess that I didn’t expect to like you,” Mrs. Channing said. “But I think I’m going to.”
There was a small bell of Chinese brass on a nearby table and she rang it with quick, vigorous flicks of her wrist. When Rebecca came into the room moving erectly but with always veiled eyes, Mrs. Channing spoke to her.
“Mrs. Tyler is staying to tea. Please serve it to us here by the fire, Rebecca.”
The girl curtsied and went off without speaking. Lora found herself looking after her curiously and Morgan Channing noted her interest.
“Nick bought her for me one time when we were in the South. Some bad fortune had overtaken friends of his and they were forced to sell their slaves. Rebecca was brought up with the daughter of the house and taught lessons with her little mistress. She is something of a treasure.”
Lora’s look must have been one of inquiry because Mrs. Channing smiled wryly and went on.
“Of course she is not a slave now. I pay her a ridiculous wage, considering that she needs no money and has no opportunity to spend it. She was given her freedom when the war started. Nick saw to that before he went on the trip on which he was lost at sea. Even though he was a Southerner he did not believe in slavery. Not that he could escape it in the South without impoverishing himself. Lately I’ve had a little trouble because Clothilde, the French housekeeper I recently brought home from Paris, does not like the girl. However, Rebecca is well trained and she amuses my guests.”
Lora winced at the woman’s careless tone, but she made no comment.
Mrs. Channing went on pointedly. “I’d like to know more about you. Tell me where you come from, Mrs. Tyler? Where did you meet Wade?”
Lora explained briefly that she had nursed him back to health after he had been wounded. She mentioned the border town where she had lived with her father, and Mrs. Channing seemed particularly interested.
“Having lived so close to the South, how do you feel about the war?” she asked.
That was a safer subject than to talk about Wade, and Lora expressed her own feelings frankly. Mrs. Channing listened, and although she made no comment, Lora sensed her agreement. This woman, too, hated the war. Whether or not Mrs. Channing’s reasons were like Lora’s own, there was at least this bond between them.
Rebecca brought lacquered Chinese tea tables of black and gold, set out sprigged plates and a silver cake basket. She moved unobtrusively and with grace. One sensed the training of a Southern mistress behind her, but Lora found herself wondering what might be hidden beyond the girl’s exotic façade.
“How does Wade feel about this fighting, now that he’s had a taste of it himself?” Mrs. Channing asked when Rebecca had left the room.
“He hates it too,” Lora said. Mrs. Channing, as a near neighbor, if not a friend, probably knew well enough that Wade had gone to war driven by the pain of his wife’s death. He had not wanted to fight, but only to escape—perhaps even in death.
Mrs. Channing nodded sympathetically. “There are many of us here in the North who are bitterly opposed to the war. We feel it should never have been fought and that the sooner it is stopped the better for our country as a whole.”
“But how can it be stopped?” Lora asked. “It’s too late now.”
The other woman was silent for a long moment. Then she shrugged. “Let’s not talk about gloomy things. Tell me, how do you like Staten Island? Has Wade taken you to any parties yet? There’s quite a social life here, you know.”
Lora sipped her tea and spoke readily of the inconsequential. After the stiff meals at the Tyler house it was a relief not to guard her tongue. She had, of course, seen little of the island, she explained, but the prospect of a social life sounded like fun. She hoped Wade would be willing to enter into it.
“He was gay enough in the old days,” Mrs. Channing said thoughtfully.
“Then you’ve known him for a long while?”
Again there was a flicker of surprise across the moody face. “All my life. And I can assure you that once he is out from under his mother’s wing he is popular enough. Especially with the ladies.”
Was there a faint scratch behind her words? Lora was not sure. At any rate, time was flying and she did not dare stay away too long. As soon as she could manage it courteously she said she must go, and Mrs. Channing rose to accompany her to the door.
“Then I may really have one of the puppies?” Lora asked. “Of course I wouldn’t want to take it now. But perhaps you could instruct your gardener to bring it down to our house Christmas morning?”
Mrs. Channing’s hand paused within reach of the crystal doorknob. “My gardener?”
Lora was puzzled. “The man they call Ambrose is your gardener, isn’t he? I spoke to him down by the gate as I came in.”
“Gardener? I—suppose he is.” Mrs. Channing let her hand drop to her side, and now there was wry amusement in her eyes. “How like the Tylers not to inform you about such things! He is also my father.”
Lora could only stare. “But he—he called you Mrs. Channing most respectfully.…”
“He likes his little joke,” the other woman told her dryly. “In return I call him Ambrose, and our masquerade serves me nicely at times. It saves me embarrassment with guests, since he prefers to remain what he has always been—a gardener.”
Lora felt like a child who must blurt out puzzling questions, however rude. “Then you—grew up right on Tyler premises?”
“I did indeed,” said Mrs. Ch
anning. “In the servants’ quarters with the smell of the stable below permeating everything.” Her dark gaze swept the length of the rich drawing room, and again there was wry amusement in her eyes. “I said I would change all that when I grew up. And as you can see, I have.”
Lora could find no words. She made an effort to recover from her surprise and moved again toward the door. But Mrs. Channing turned back.
“Wait a moment!” she cried and went swiftly toward the end wall of the drawing room where the portrait hung, her black skirts rustling over her wide hoop.
Watching in bewilderment, Lora wondered how she had ever thought this woman less striking than her portrait. No artist could ever catch such swift-moving vitality, or the ferment of nervous energy which seemed to drive her. Mrs. Channing might sit still and dark and silent as a night sky without stars. But she could also be the lightning which flashed across that sky with dramatic suddenness.
A long green cord with a tassel on the end hung down along one side of the picture. Mrs. Channing reached for it and as she pulled, the velvet draperies parted to reveal the entire portrait. The artist had painted a second woman who sat in a low chair, looking up at the figure in yellow. The second girl wore pale green and she was young and pretty, but with none of the arresting quality of Morgan Channing.
“My sister,” Mrs. Channing said. “Virginia.”
Lora was too startled to speak. This was Wade’s wife; the woman who had come first in his life, the woman he wanted her to resemble. She stared in fascination at the sweet young face of the girl in pale green. Virginia had light hair with a golden touch to the ringlets about her face. She held an embroidery hoop in her small hands with a needle poised above it, as if she had just paused to look up at her sister.
The Quicksilver Pool Page 9