The Quicksilver Pool

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “I was very fond of her,” Mrs. Channing said carelessly. “She was a silly, rather insipid little thing. I never understood what Wade saw in her.” The challenging gaze shifted suddenly from the portrait and fixed Lora candidly. “You are nothing at all like Virginia. How did Wade come to get over his great love?”

  The suddenness of the question shocked an equally candid answer from Lora. “He wants to think I am like her,” she admitted.

  Mrs. Channing’s unrestrained laugh rang out again. “This may be amusing to watch! Considering your behavior over this puppy, Wade could be in for a jolt one of these days.”

  “Not if I can help it,” said Lora stiffly. Suddenly she wanted to get away from this woman and this room. But Mrs. Channing would not release her so easily. She walked to the door with Lora and opened it.

  “We are going to be friends,” she said confidently. “I have offended you now. But you’ll forgive me in time. You will forgive because you are as direct as I am. Come see me again when that mausoleum becomes too much for you.”

  At the front door Lora managed to murmur a thank you for the tea and escape as quickly as she could. As she went down the same wing of the drive up which she had come, she saw an open carriage turning into the opposite wing. In it sat a handsome, youngish man with blond sideburns and rather intense blue eyes. He saw her and raised his gray top hat gallantly. She bowed in return and hurried on down the drive. Perhaps there had been reason for those two fires in the grate after all. Mrs. Channing must have expected company.

  Ambrose was tending the gate after the passage of the carriage, and his ready smile lighted his face when he saw her.

  “You’re to have the puppy, are you?” he asked.

  As she nodded a sudden realization struck her. There had been so many ramifications to the information she had just gained that she had not thought of this one till now.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize before. You’re Jemmy’s grandfather, aren’t you?”

  “I thought Mrs. Tyler hadn’t told you,” he said, seeming more amused than hurt. “It’s quite a blot on the Tyler escutcheon, you know.”

  She held out both hands to him on sudden impulse. “Jemmy loves you. I could see that Come down to visit him soon.”

  He hesitated just a moment, then wiped his own hands apologetically on the seat of his work trousers before he took hers somewhat awkwardly. “Jemmy and me—we find ways to see each other. But not down there. It’s better not, Miss Lora.”

  “You’re to call me Lora,” she said. “No Miss or Mrs. about it. You’ll help me with the puppy, won’t you? Because it’s for Jemmy, you’ll bring it down to me on Christmas morning?”

  “And because it’s for you,” said John Ambrose gently.

  She hurried across the lane to where the path led downhill. Then she turned and waved to him and he waved back. But as she hurried through the woods it was Morgan Channing who occupied her thoughts. The woman both attracted and repelled her, but more than anything else she made her feel uneasy, though Lora was not at all certain why.

  IX

  For once Ellie was not waiting with a summons to Mrs. Tyler’s sitting room as Lora went up the front steps. The library door was ajar and Wade called to her as she went past. His voice sounded cheerful, unperturbed, so her absence must have caused no undue alarm.

  “Come in,” Wade invited. “Did you have a good walk?”

  She nodded, and as she removed her bonnet she wondered what would happen if she told him the truth about her afternoon walk—that she had visited Morgan Channing and learned considerably more family history than either he or his mother had thus far given her. But of course she couldn’t do that. Not yet, at least. She disliked the restraint such playacting put upon her, but until Jemmy had his Christmas and was safely in possession of the puppy, she must be the very picture of decorum.

  So she merely said, “A lovely walk,” and went into the library. As she looked about, she was struck by the contrast between the heavy, dark furniture of the Tyler house and the gilt and damask elegance she had seen so recently at Morgan Channing’s.

  A large mahogany table strewn with books and newspapers stood in the middle of the room, its bulging claw feet resting on a carpet of Mrs. Tyler’s favorite gloomy wine color. Wade motioned her toward the dark-red sofa drawn before the fire.

  “Do sit down, Lora. You’ve come at just the right moment. I want to read you the first chapter or so of my book. Here, let me help you with your mantle.”

  When she was out of her wraps and comfortably seated on the red sofa, a pillow plumped behind her back and her feet on a small stool, Wade picked up a sheaf of manuscript from the desk where he had been working, and seated himself beside her. He had brought an inkwell which he set on a nearby table, while he held a long feather pen in his fingers as if it helped his thinking to have it there.

  But before he could begin reading, Lora put a hand on his arm. “Could Jemmy listen to this too? I know he’d be excited to hear the beginning of your book.”

  “It is not a story for children,” Wade said a little coolly, and she did not press the request. But again she was troubled by the sense of some disturbing thing that lay deep in Wade and kept him from his son.

  He read extremely well. The timbre of his voice lent itself to dramatic narrative and she was aware of its exciting quality. By his very tone and expression he made the characters and scene of his story come to life. She could not help but wonder if the narrative would have read half so well had she been reading it to herself.

  The novel, Wade explained, was to be a romantic tale of Italy—a country which he had always longed to visit and had read much about. The hero was a handsome, adventurous young American who had fallen in love with a countess married to a husband too old for her. None of it seemed very real to Lora and she found herself listening more to the sound of Wade’s voice than to the meaning of the story. Now and then she stole a look at his rapt face as he read. He seemed lost in the spell of the narrative and happier than she had ever seen him.

  Occasionally he paused to make a quick correction in ink, then went on. It was obvious that the exercise of putting his story on paper was doing him good. When he finished the first chapter and laid down the closely written script, his eyes met hers asking for approval.

  For just an instant she had to fight the impulse to tell him frankly that the story was not to her taste, that she thought these people both unreal and uninteresting. But she could not hurt him so, could not blight the healing that was apparently going on within him.

  “It is surely as good as some of the romances I have read in Leslie’s Weekly,” she told him.

  This at least was true. She did not see why an author should not tell about life as he found it among ordinary people. Why was all this tinsel melodrama necessary? But since it was what Wade was bent on writing, she must not speak her thoughts. Perhaps the writing of this manuscript would do him more good, perform a greater healing than any amount of nursing could achieve. And in that interest it was better to encourage him. If only he did not set so much stock in publication that later refusal of his book might cast him down to greater depths than before he had attempted the writing.

  He shrugged aside her comparison with the novels in current magazines. It was quite clear that he thought his own writing superior to any of these.

  “Of course I shall be grateful for criticism,” he said stiffly, but she suspected that he would not be. It would hurt him so much that she dared not give it.

  “I’m not qualified to criticize,” she told him gently. “The story is most interesting. I’m anxious to learn how Hamlin gets into Maria’s house.”

  “We’ll postpone that for another reading,” Wade said more cheerfully, stretching to get the cramp from his leg.

  Lora was grateful for an interruption when Ellie tapped on the door and brought in a note addressed to Mrs. Wade Tyler.

  “Mrs. Lord sent it over,” Ellie said. “The man’
s to wait for an answer. I’ll be back in a few minutes—there’s something boiling on the stove.” She went off in her usual scuttling manner.

  The square of pale-mauve paper gave out a scent of lavender as Lora slit the flap and took a single sheet from the envelope. She read it quickly and her eyes lighted.

  “Wade—Serena Lord is giving a party on Christmas Eve and we are invited. It’s to be a dance and late supper.” She held the note out to him.

  He shook his head. “Naturally we cannot go.”

  “But why not?” she asked in surprise. A party and dance at Serena’s sounded exciting and lively. A sudden desire for gaiety surged up in her.

  “After all,” Wade said, “there is a period of mourning to be observed for your father. And I have not felt like indulging in frivolity myself for a long while.”

  “Papa didn’t believe in mourning,” Lora told him quickly. “He never wanted me to wear black or go around with a long face.”

  She went to him, put light hands on his arm, gently pleading. His eyes softened and he bent to press his cheek against hers.

  “You are a wheedling one,” he said. “But have you forgotten that I cannot dance, thanks to my leg?”

  “I won’t dance either,” she promised. “I’ll sit beside you and we’ll watch all the bright things that are happening, together. It will be wonderful just to dress up and—”

  “Dress up?” he repeated. “But, my dear, you have no gown that would be suitable to wear. Christmas Eve is almost upon us and I understand a seamstress cannot be had at this time.”

  For just a moment her hopes fell. Then she lifted her chin in a gesture of determination.

  “I have the material now—that lovely garnet satin which is intended for a party gown. I can make the dress myself. I know just the style I would like. Please let me, Wade.”

  “Mother won’t approve,” he said, but he went to the fall-front desk and reached into it for notepaper. He brought a sheet to her and dipped the feather pen in ink before giving it to her. There was affection in his smite—as if she were a child he must indulge. “You may write our acceptance, Lora.”

  She rested the paper on the table and wrote eagerly, unable to suppress the feeling of pleasure that crept into her words and prevented them from being entirely formal. She knew Serena would understand and not condemn. Then Ellie was called back and dispatched with the note.

  Lora could not wait to be off to her own room where she could spread out the rich material on her bed, loving the shine, the feel, the very smell of it. There was something heady about the scent of new material. She would make herself the most beautiful gown she had ever possessed. She would be a credit to Wade at the party, and that would please him, be good for them both.

  Shears in hand, she hesitated only a moment when she was ready to cut. A certain courage was needed to cut blithely into the rich and lovely stuff. What if she should spoil it? But uncertainty did not hold her for long and the bright shears flashed confidently through the goods. She would need lace for trimming, perhaps, and velvet for bows. Tomorrow morning she would go down to the variety store on Bay Street and get whatever else she needed.

  From the rear parlor downstairs she could hear the silver notes of Mother Tyler’s bell calling Ellie, perhaps demanding details concerning the message from Mrs. Lord. But Lora worked on without heeding. Not even Amanda Tyler could stop her now.

  At dinner Wade mentioned the party casually and Mrs. Tyler expressed some disapproval, but not opposition. Plainly she did not like the idea that Lora meant to make the gown herself, but she was surprisingly moderate in her remarks. Nor did she object Saturday morning when Lora announced that she must make a trip to the store. In face she offered the use of the carriage, though Lora refused it gently. She loved to walk and the distance to the store was not great.

  After breakfast Lora donned mantle and bonnet and went out to the front drive. The day was bracingly cold and the usual fresh wind blew from the harbor. But there was a hint of sun breaking through the haze and brisk walking would quickly warm her.

  She got no farther than the lane, however, before young voices hailed her, and she looked around to see a wagon drawn by a dray horse lumbering toward her. Temple and Eddie Lord were waving to her from the body of the wagon, while Adam Hume sat on the driver’s seat flapping the reins. The dog, Whiskers, barked his own greeting.

  “May Jemmy come with us, Mrs. Tyler?” Temple called, pushing back the green knitted cap on his red hair.

  Lora looked inquiringly at Adam and he bowed from the seat of the wagon.

  “Good morning,” he said, elaborately formal, so that she knew he was mocking her again. “As you can see, we are off to purchase a Christmas tree. I understand a store on Bay Street has stocked a few. The boys would like Jemmy to come along, if you will so permit.”

  So far Mrs. Tyler had not sent Peter to procure a tree, either from the somewhat scrawny ones which grew in the woods, or by looking for one at a store.

  “I’m sure Jemmy will want to come with you,” Lora said. “I’ll go call him. But I wonder—do you suppose you could get a tree for us at the same time?”

  Adam’s eyes seemed to measure her. “Why not come with us and pick it out yourself?” he asked.

  She glanced uncertainly at the wagon. “You mean ride with you now?”

  “Why not? There’s room here on the seat beside me. And then you can be assured of getting the tree you want. I’ll be happy to haul it home for you.”

  At home she would never have hesitated. She had ridden in farm wagons most of her life and thought nothing of it. But here, where she was hemmed round by so many restrictions …

  “Are you afraid to be yourself?” Adam challenged.

  Once more the irritation he always managed to rouse swept through her. She knew she sometimes gave in too quickly to impulsive action—Doc had often warned her about being headlong. But she did not want to live a life where she could never be free to do as she liked. Behind Adam’s mockery lay a certain truth. She must not grow afraid to be herself.

  “If you will wait,” she said, “I’ll go get Jemmy. We’ll both come with you.”

  The boy was in his room reading and his eyes widened with interest when she told him they were going with Adam Hume and the Lord boys to get Christmas trees. While he was putting on warm things, she hurried to her own room and released the band that hooked about her waist supporting a tier of hoops. She could not clamber to the seat of a wagon in hoop skirts. And she did not mean to let that vinegar-tongued brother of Serena’s imply that she was timid. There was no sensible reason why she should not go along and help Jemmy pick out a tree. She was not a child who must ask permission at every turn for the things she chose to do.

  Part of a frayed string tore loose as she pulled her bonnet on too hastily and she had to resort to pinning. On the trip to town with Ellie she had made the purchase of two handsome new bonnets, but they were scarcely appropriate for wearing on such an errand. Jemmy was waiting impatiently at her door by the time she was ready and they ran downstairs together.

  Ellie came into the hallway and Lora told her briefly that she and Jemmy were going to look at Christmas trees with the Lord boys. Ellie had been more respectful since the day when Lora had curtly reproved her, and she offered no objection. Wade, of course, was working in the library and there was no reason to disturb him.

  Lora hurried down the front steps with Jemmy, feeling an odd exhilaration. This was escape and adventure and the fun of Christmas all rolled in one package. She had begun to think she would never be excited about Christmas again, but now there was a tingling in her at the prospect.

  Adam sprang down to assist her to the driver’s seat. She put her hand in his and went up the step lightly, glad to be free of cumbersome hoops.

  “I was going down to Bay Street to make some purchases,” she told him as he took his place beside her. “Do you think we might stop at my store on our way back?”

  Adam nodde
d. “Yes, of course.” He flapped the reins and the horse started ploddingly down the lane.

  Lora glanced back toward the house and saw that Wade stood in the library window, watching them leave. She smiled and waved to him, but he did not return her gesture, and she found herself sighing.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t have come. I’m probably doing the wrong thing again.”

  “You’re going to have trouble if you try to be what you want to be and what they want you to be at the same time,” Adam said. “Sooner or later you’ll have to go in one direction or the other. You can’t walk east and west at the same time.”

  There was some truth in this. It was what she herself was beginning to feel, but she did not want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. She pulled the knitted scarf she had thrown about her neck more closely under her chin to cut out the sharp wind and glanced at the boys in the bed of the wagon. They were already playing some game and absorbed in their own affairs, paying no attention to the two adults on the wagon seat. Jemmy had one arm around Whiskers.

  Here was her chance to ask Adam a few questions. Since he was so direct himself he would scarcely object if she was equally so.

  “Did you know Virginia Tyler?” she asked softly, looking straight ahead down the steepening hill.

  He answered without hesitation. “All her life. Serena and I knew her when she was Virginia Ambrose and lived over the stable behind the Tyler house. The burned-out place you may have noticed along the road was ours. We lived there through our childhood right next door to the Tylers.”

  “Am I anything like Virginia?” she went on, still not looking at him.

  She could sense his quick glance of surprise. “Of course you aren’t. Neither in appearance nor in manner. What makes you ask?”

  “I’ve wondered. Mrs. Channing too says I am not at all like her.”

  “Mrs. Channing?” he echoed. “So you’ve met Morgan at last? How did that come about?”