The Quicksilver Pool

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “How do you like it here in the North, Rebecca?” she asked of the straight back ahead of her.

  Rebecca did not so much as glance over her shoulder. “It’s fine up here, ma’am,” she said.

  “Do you have friends here on Staten Island?” Lora went on, probing a bit more personally.

  There was the briefest of pauses before the girl answered. “I wouldn’t rightly say I’ve got much time for friends, ma’am.”

  “But you must have time off and friends to visit?”

  “Watch the mud there, ma’am.” Rebecca turned to hold back a flapping branch.

  Lora sensed that she had been mildly rebuked. By no least word did Rebecca mean to betray her real self to a strange white woman. This was no new thing to Lora. There had been many Negroes in the town she had come from, and they had always been friendly, courteous, helpful—but you never knew what they were thinking. You never penetrated past the special face they turned toward white folks. Only Doc had been able to get past that guard and get them to talk to him, forget their caution, be themselves.

  When they reached the turn on the path where it wound about the woodland pond, Rebecca moved more quickly and kept her gaze from the shimmering pool, as if she shrank from looking at it.

  “I suppose you knew Miss Virginia, didn’t you?” Lora asked, still seeking a way past the guard that held her off.

  Rebecca moved more quickly than before. “Yes’m,” she said. “A real nice lady she was. That was a sorry thing that happened, ma’am.”

  For an instant she glanced around at Lora, but her eyes were blank, unrevealing. They saw, but they did not betray.

  “Wait!” Lora cried. “I’m out of breath. Let’s stop a minute and rest, here by the pool. How beautiful this place must be in the springtime. I can hardly wait for warm weather. I’m afraid I’m not used to real winter. Did you have trouble getting used to the cold, Rebecca?”

  The girl shivered, but Lora could not be sure if it was because she had mentioned winter, or because of the nearness of this pond where Virginia Tyler had died.

  “Yes’m,” the girl said dutifully. “It was real hard to get used to.” She stood with her back to the pond, resembling some wild, richly plumaged bird about to take flight.

  Lora walked down the bank to the edge of the water. “Jemmy says it’s very deep out there.”

  “I reckon that’s right.” The girl turned suddenly, showing her first sign of emotion. “Mrs. Tyler, this is a bad place. If you want to rest, we can go a mite higher up the hill.”

  But Lora took quick advantage of this slipping mask. “Miss Virginia’s death must have been a tragic thing for everyone, Rebecca. But it was an accident. That doesn’t make this a bad place. We musn’t blame the water, or the trees, or that rock out there, you know. The place is still beautiful and good.”

  The girl watched her, wide-eyed for a moment. Then heavy-lashed lids drooped once more over dark eyes and she started quickly up the hill as if she did not care whether or not Lora followed. She almost ran now, as if some demon from the pool pursued her, and Lora followed after, knowing there was no use in trying to dispel whatever haunting lay upon the pool for Rebecca.

  They reached the big house without further conversation and Lora was ushered at once into the drawing room, where only one fire burned today. Somehow the room looked austere and cold and less richly glamorous than it had to Lora’s eyes the first time.

  Rebecca took her wraps silently with only a murmured acknowledgment when Lora thanked her, and went off to summon her mistress. This time Lora did not seat herself timidly before the fire, but walked boldly across to the French doors to look upon the brilliantly sunlit view. How wonderful it must be to occupy the very crest of the hill, instead of being tucked away in a hollow below. From the upstairs windows of this house, both sunrise and sunset vistas must be magnificent.

  When she had her fill of the view, Lora turned back to the room. Her eyes searched out the great portrait at the far end, but today the painting of Morgan and Virginia had been hidden by the green velvet draperies pulled completely across the picture.

  Mrs. Channing came in so softly behind her that Lora was unaware of her presence until she spoke. “How nice of you to come, Lora. I may call you Lora, may I not? I dislike formality between friends.”

  She wore black again today, with only a pearl brooch and earrings to relieve its somber hue. Yet she was not in mourning for her husband, since she had been gay in white and turquoise the night of Serena’s party. Black suited her, Lora decided. It heightened her dramatic quality, whitened her skin and made her dark eyes all the more brilliant.

  Morgan had not missed the look of interest Lora had been giving the hidden picture. She nodded carelessly toward the pulled draperies.

  “Sometimes I weary of looking myself in the eye. Particularly when I am my own sole company.”

  Lora smiled uncertainly and took the chair which a gesture from Morgan indicated. This woman always made her faintly uncomfortable and a little unsure of herself.

  “I’ve been away, you know,” Morgan said. “To Albany.”

  Lora had not known. In the tight little world of the Tyler household, concerned more than ever with its own problems, little news of the outside world had penetrated for the last two weeks.

  “I attended Governor Seymour’s inauguration on New Year’s Day,” Morgan went on. “Mr. Norwood is very close to the governor, as well as being an old friend of my husband. Nicholas was always interested in the political scene and he could never keep me from becoming interested too. I like to be near the seats of the mighty.”

  She laughed at Lora’s puzzled expression, and rang the little bell at her side as a signal for Rebecca to serve tea.

  “I can see that you don’t approve of a woman who interests herself in politics,” she went on. “But I cannot see myself sitting idle and alone in this great house. I want activity and life about me. Important activity.”

  “It isn’t that,” Lora “confessed. “It’s just that—well, the other day you seemed to speak very sincerely about wishing there was some way to stop the war. And now—”

  “I am sincere,” Morgan broke in. “That is why I’ve asked you to come here to see me today.”

  Rebecca moved unobtrusively and hardly lifted her gaze from the tea tray and the passing of small cakes. Her gold earrings tapped her cheeks gently as she bent to serve, but what she was thinking, what private longings or antagonisms she might feel behind her golden brown mask, there was no telling.

  When she had gone from the room, Lora stirred sugar into her tea and spoke thoughtfully. “Did you know that Rebecca is afraid to go past that pool in the woods?”

  Morgan shrugged. “That’s natural enough with these people. I presume they are all ignorantly superstitious.”

  Lora let her words pass, though Morgan’s tone caused a prickling of sensitivity along her nerves. She had spent too many years in the company of her father to accept so careless a dismissal. There was more behind the masked exterior of this colored girl than Morgan knew.

  “What sort of life does she have up here?” Lora went on.

  Morgan looked as surprised as if she had inquired whether the mantelpiece spoke French. “Life? How should I know? She serves me well and I pay her well. I’m not concerned about her personal problems. I doubt if she has any.” The subject was evidently unwelcome and she changed it quickly. “How charming you look today, Lora. Gray becomes you far better than green.”

  Lora set her teacup down and met the other woman’s eyes. “I did not wear your sister’s gown by choice the other night. I’m sorry if it disturbed you.”

  “Why should it disturb me? I’ve told you there was little affection lost between my sister and me. From the time when we were small children, we had no common meeting ground. It’s a fable that blood relatives should necessarily like each other. But I haven’t asked you here to talk about Virginia or Rebecca. From something you said the other day I gathered t
hat you would lend your help if you could, toward any movement which might lead in the direction of halting this dreadful bloodshed.”

  “That’s quite true,” Lora said.

  “Good. First, I’d like you to know that we have Governor Seymour on our side. Of course, he cannot come out openly and officially oppose the Administration. Not with any show of force, at least. But he will sanction what we do and will lend us behind-the-scenes support. Have you heard of the Knights of the Golden Circle?”

  “Vaguely,” Lora said. “I’ve heard them labeled Copperheads.”

  “Many people don’t understand their work and purpose,” Morgan said blandly. “The Circle is opposed to the continuation of the war. Its members want a peaceful settlement with the South and they are by now many thousand strong in the Middle West. Murray Norwood is one of those chosen to start new castles in the east.”

  “Castles?” Lora asked.

  Morgan smiled. “Between you and me, Lora, I will acknowledge that there’s a good deal of the small boy in many men. They like to dress up, use passwords and exchange secret handshakes. They love the mystery of the secret society and all the trappings that go with it. ‘If I go to the East …’ and ‘What of the night?’ ‘Morning cometh,’ and all the rest. But let them have their ritual if it appeals to them. Let them have it if it will stop the war.”

  She had set her tea and cakes upon the table beside her and was leaning earnestly toward Lora. There was no doubting her sincerity now, or her driving intensity.

  “But what can they do?” Lora asked.

  “You’ve heard of the coming draft, have you not?”

  “I don’t know much about it, I’m afraid.”

  “What an ignorant little thing you are! Don’t you realize that the Union cannot possibly win this war unless it has more men? But men of the North are no longer flocking like sheep to throw their lives away. If President Lincoln cannot raise his quota the war will stop because it will be impossible to fight on. Stop the draft in New York State, as they are going to stop it in other states, and we stop the war bloodlessly.”

  “But how can the draft be stopped? If the government—”

  “Ah, but you don’t know the power we have on our side. We have a magnificent leader out in Ohio—Clement Vallandigham. And Governor Seymour himself is opposed to the draft. We have only to organize and stand fast.”

  Lora sighed. “I’m afraid I am ignorant of all this. In any case—what do you want me to do?”

  Morgan glanced toward the closed velvet draperies and grimaced. Then she rose and strode the length of the room to fling them open so that her counterpart, more beautiful, but less vital, looked down upon the room. Morgan turned and came toward Lora, her smile flashing.

  “Now there are two of us on my side,” she said. “You can never hold out against us both. And the thing we ask of you is so simple, so easy. We need someone of influence here on the island. Someone who is strongly against the war and who is liked and trusted by other islanders. A man, of course.” She paused, watching Lora.

  “You mean—Wade?” Lora asked, more puzzled than ever.

  Morgan returned to her chair and took up her teacup again with a gesture elaborately casual. “Of course. And you are the one who can draw him into this.”

  “I!” Lora cried. “I’m afraid I have little influence with him. Besides, what could Wade do? His mother is very ill just now and he is not well himself. He has taken no part in island life since his return.”

  “But he did at one time,” Morgan said. “And he will again if it is urged upon him. He had a taste of it the other night at Serena’s party. Perhaps you haven’t seen enough of that side of your husband to judge. He has always been extremely well liked and influential too, thanks to his name and position. We need to draw men of his sort in with us. Will you help us, Lora?”

  Lora moved her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You must know how he feels about—well, about this house. He would never, I am sure, agree to come here.”

  “I appreciate your delicacy, but we need not mince words.” Morgan’s smile was wry. “It is I whom he wishes to avoid, not the house. However, as you must know by now, it is child’s play to wrap Wade around your finger. You can get him here if you try. Not for my sake. I am nothing in this. But to meet Murray Norwood. Once Murray talks to him I feel certain that Wade will be with us. Then he can use his influence to draw others to help us.”

  Lora shook her head, quietly stubborn in the face of Morgan’s assurance. “I don’t want to wrap Wade around my fingers, or to see anyone else do it. I want him to think for himself and do what he believes is right.”

  Morgan nodded tolerantly. “You are honest, my dear, but you are also very young. There are certain facts you must face sooner or later. Believe me—I have known Wade all my life and I know he will always need a stronger hand to mold him, guide him.”

  Lora moved restlessly in her chair. There had been times lately when she had almost thought the same thing. But on Christmas morning Wade had stood up to his mother in the matter of the puppy. No one had made him do that. No one had forced his hand. In fact, the greatest pressure had been in the other direction, yet he had not so far given in to it. So there must be some core of strength in him that was his own. He had even confessed that he was struggling to hold something of himself away from his mother.

  “I think it quite possible that you underestimate my husband,” she told Morgan firmly.

  For just an instant Morgan’s eyes flashed anger, and though she suppressed it swiftly, there was a tinge of irritation in her laughter.

  “You are a young wife in love,” she said. “I apologize. You must learn to know Wade for yourself, of course. I had no right to say such a thing. Suppose we start over. Two tremendously important factors remain. I believe you are sincere in wanting to aid in the cause of bringing this war to an end. I also believe you are sincere in wanting to help your husband recover from the shock from which he still suffers. To speak frankly—the shock of my sister’s death. Am I not right?”

  “Of course,” Lora said.

  “Very well. Help him find something he can throw himself into—something he can do that counts. There lies the way to recovery. You have only to persuade him to see Murray Norwood.”

  Rebecca returned softly to the room bringing fresh hot water for the tea, replenishing the cake basket. Morgan waved her aside somewhat impatiently and waited for her guest to speak.

  There was a reasonableness about Morgan’s words, Lora had to admit. She had touched on the truth concerning Wade and her counsel was good. Yet Lora felt helpless to judge the worth of the cause she proposed to work for. The word “Copperhead” had a smell of treason, as that man at Serena’s party had said, and she knew nothing of this so-called Circle.

  “I just don’t know,” she said at length. “Perhaps if it were only a matter of meeting Mr. Norwood, talking to him—”

  “But that is all we ask,” Morgan said quickly.

  “Meeting him elsewhere. Not here,” Lora added.

  Morgan shook her head. “I am part and parcel of all this. Murray needs me, needs my house and whatever else I can contribute. The men who work with him must accept my presence and my help. I am accustomed to entertaining constantly. No one thinks anything of the flow of guests to my house. This is an ideal location for a castle. But this is not something I expect you to run about and announce to the four winds. I weighed you carefully before I decided to make this gamble in talking to you.”

  “I understand,” Lora said. “But as for getting Wade to come to this house, I know it’s impossible.”

  Morgan went on as if she had not spoken. “First you will tell him that Murray Norwood is interested in a plan which will oppose the draft and become a force in halting the war. Say nothing of the Circle. Let us tell him about that. He may set the time for meeting Murray himself and the meeting will be in this house.”

  Lora shook her head. “The whole thing is hopeless. I don�
�t know anything about the quarrel between you and Wade, but I know he becomes very angry when your name is so much as mentioned.”

  “I realize that,” Morgan said, her tone studiously light. “A childish notion on Wade’s part. We had no quarrel. Nevertheless, there is one weapon you can use to bring him here. An infallible weapon.”

  Lora waited, instinctively ready to resist this woman’s persuasiveness.

  Morgan leaned forward in her chair and Lora noted that there were amber flecks of light in her eyes; an amber that seemed to glow when she was moved to intensity.

  “Make him angry,” Morgan said. “Tell him that he is afraid of me, tell him that is why he avoids me. Tell him you think the war a more important cause than his own feeble fears. If you make him feel he must prove his courage, he will come. I know him, Lora. I know him clear through.”

  Lora regarded the woman before her with increasing distaste, but she managed to answer quietly. “The method you suggest would not be mine. I have too much respect for my husband.”

  She rose with a dignity which put her on the same footing with Morgan in spite of her lack of years.

  “I really must be getting back home now. It was kind of you to invite me here today, but I’m afraid there is no way in which I can help you.”

  She was aware of Morgan’s anger, though the other woman’s manner remained carefully unperturbed.

  “What a contrast with Virginia you must make for Wade. How much suffering you must inevitably cause him!” There was malice in Morgan’s laughter as she walked with “Lora toward the door.

  Lora found herself surging with resentment against this woman. But she would not give Morgan the satisfaction of suspecting how indignant she was. At the door her hostess held out her hand and Lora put her own into it briefly.

  “I will expect to hear from you,” Morgan said. “Not for my sake, or for yours. But because I believe you truly want to help Wade. And this is an opportunity for doing so.”

  Lora made no answer. She said a polite good day, and went down the driveway, sensing that Morgan stood in the doorway staring after her.