The Quicksilver Pool

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  She nodded, waiting for him to go on. The tea was hot and a little bitter. She had brewed it strong and heartening.

  He went on, still puzzling aloud. “As long as we work with men of reason, men of integrity, I can feel satisfied that the movement is honorable and its purposes worthy. But there are those in the group who are not preaching the passive resistance I had been led to expect. Today we went into quarters of New York where the very word ‘draft’ is enough to stir up violence. I’m not sure how this unlettered and even criminal element is likely to behave when the time comes. I heard one man assure the audience that Lincoln’s government was highhanded and oppressive. And he quoted Vallandigham in saying the draft was unconstitutional.”

  “But don’t political parties always talk like that?”

  “This seemed a deliberate effort to incite. I heard murmurings about how the Negro freedmen coming North would take away the jobs of New York citizens. There seems to be a mounting resentment against the Negro which is both regrettable and dangerous.”

  Lora listened, her dismay growing. None of this sounded auspicious.

  “If you don’t like the way things are going, isn’t it possible to withdraw from the whole thing?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure I want to do that,” Wade confessed. “So far I’m not sure of what the actual plans are, or where this whole thing is going. I doubt that either Morgan or Norwood trusts me completely. So far I’ve been kept on the outskirts of the movement, not admitted to its inner circles. Perhaps I can do more good by going along than by stepping out. If the worst came to the worst, I might be able to swing my weight in opposition.”

  “Is there any danger to you in this?” she asked uneasily.

  He hesitated just long enough so that his answer was not completely reassuring. “I’m scarcely involved. But I know they’re raising money out west to arm deserters. Editors who are in the movement are publishing demoralizing pieces in the papers. Copies are then sent to soldiers to encourage desertion. I don’t like it, Lora. This has its ugly aspects.”

  She reached for his hand and held it, that being the only comfort she could offer.

  His smile was suddenly contrite. “And you, my dear? I know I left you a difficult situation to handle when I went out this morning. I was pretty angry and upset.”

  “I’m afraid you did,” she admitted frankly. “Jemmy got sick again and had to be put to bed. Your mother was practically shooting out sparks of triumph and lording it over us. And Peter had already taken the dog away.”

  Wade set his cup and saucer down and leaned back against the pillows.

  “Why did you treat Jemmy like that?” Lora asked directly.

  He made no effort to defend himself, or to bring up the matter of the ruined shawl. He was plainly regretful now.

  “The boy was there before me,” he said miserably, “and suddenly all I could see was the harm he had done in telling Virginia about that day in the woods. Then he had told you the same story too, and I was cut to pieces all over again—remembering. When the matter of the shawl came up it gave me a chance to punish him—through the dog.”

  “And you’ve been sorry all day, haven’t you?”

  “Of course,” he said simply. “It’s not the boy’s fault, but mine. Yet I can’t help the way I feel about him. And now the thing is done.”

  Lora let his hand go and settled back on the hassock, clasping her fingers about her knees. “The dog has been taken only as far as Morgan’s. John Ambrose has him. He can be brought back whenever you like.”

  “Then get him back tomorrow. Settle things with my mother, Lora. You can handle her better than anyone else.”

  Lora thought about that. She could do what he asked easily enough. And if she performed this service he would be relieved and grateful. He would need to take no further blame upon himself if his mother became ill again, or otherwise behaved badly.

  “Lora,” Wade said softly, “what are you thinking? Where have you gone?”

  She looked at him then, seeing clearly what she must do. “I’ve been thinking of what you’ve asked of me, Wade—to get the dog back and deal with your mother. But the order was yours and the responsibility is yours too. I think you must stand by what you’ve done, or else undo it yourself.”

  There was disbelief and hurt in his look. Then he closed his eyes again. She rose and carried the tray out to the kitchen. She set the dishes in the sink and nibbled the last cookie. When she returned to the library she found that he had not moved. But he opened his eyes when she came in and looked at her.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” he said coldly. “You must understand that. If you will not help, then the dog must stay where he is. I will not stir everything up all over again.”

  “If that’s the way you wish it,” Lora said. She picked up his cane which had fallen to the floor and put it in his hand. Then she said, “Good night,” softly and went out of the room.

  Later, while she was undressing, she heard him climbing the stairs in his slow, painful way. She blew out her candle and crawled between cold sheets, shivering at their touch.

  She was not at all sure what she had done was wise, or kind, or sensible. Even now she longed to run to his room and tell him she would take the responsibility herself and do as he asked. Then he would be happy again and the forlorn look would go out of his eyes.

  Unbidden, Adam’s words returned to her: “You only care about those you can help.” Was this her own weakness perhaps? Were she and Virginia sisters, all too prone to make others dependent upon them?

  She slept fitfully that night and was early awake Saturday morning. Everything in her resisted the day ahead. It was a day which was likely to be fraught with hurt and resentment and argument. Or if not these things, then a cold, armed truce in which resentment seethed beneath the surface. That rain washed against the windowpanes was a matter which suited the mood of the day.

  At breakfast Mother Tyler was cheerful and triumphant. How fine, she said, that they were having a little rain. Not only because the farms on the island needed it, but because the woods were too dry and that always made for fire hazard. Too often in both spring and fall, fire swept through the beautiful island woods, destroying them.

  The old lady ate as she had not eaten in a long while, and she talked of news in the papers, of the last business word given her by Mr. Niles. She asked Wade no pointed questions about his absence the day before and did not mention the dog. But she wore her victory like a crown and because of it vitality seemed to surge through her.

  Wade was remote, retreating into a shell of absent-mindedness that seemed to give him some protection. Behind it he need not recognize the cause of his mother’s good humor. He need hardly see his son or Lora. Right after breakfast he said he was going to work on his book and shut himself away in the library. Jemmy was quiet as any mouse. He knew wherein lay the cause of his grandmother’s cheerful mood, but Lora saw by the secret look he gave her that he was putting every confidence in her promise to get back his dog, and that he was willing to bide his time until she could manage the matter. She was distressed, however, to see the expression he turned upon his father, who seemed not to notice his dark look at all.

  Mrs. Tyler did not wait for anyone to trundle her wheel chair back to the sitting room. When she had folded her napkin, she turned the wheels herself and sent the chair vigorously toward the door. As Ellie ran to open it, Mrs. Tyler spoke over her shoulder to Lora.

  “I know just what I’d like this morning, if you’re free, Lora—a good back rub. If the day clears later and the sun comes out, perhaps I’ll sit on the front veranda for a while. When Ambrose comes to spade the garden I want to talk to him. I’ve got some notions of my own on the subject this year.”

  Lora followed her into the sitting room where she was out of Jemmy’s earshot.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said evenly, “but I’ve made plans for Jemmy this morning. After the loss which has been inflicted upon him he needs comforti
ng. I won’t have time for your back rub today.”

  Mrs. Tyler looked plainly shocked at this open defiance. “Don’t be ridiculous! You can see that the boy is already over his upset about the dog. He never had one before, and he doesn’t need to suffer over not having one now. Besides, it was not I, but his father, who gave the order. You needn’t try to take it out on me.”

  “Would you like Ellie to rub your back?” Lora asked, moving toward the door.

  “Come back here!” the old lady cried. “I’m not accustomed to having people leave while I’m speaking. As I said before, you’ve been badly brought up, Lora. You need to learn courtesy for your elders.”

  Lora returned calmly to stand beside Mrs. Tyler’s chair.

  “I am listening,” she said.

  “Then do as I ask,” Mrs. Tyler snapped. “Jemmy and his imaginary sorrow can wait. Surely the comfort of an old woman must come before that of a small boy.”

  “Not for me,” Lora told her quietly. “You are strong and healthy and ought to be up and around, instead of babying yourself in a wheel chair. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go tell Ellie you want her.”

  “I do not want Ellie!” Mrs. Tyler raged, and now there was a shrill note in her voice. She enjoyed a fight only so long as she was winning.

  But this time Lora went out the door and down the hall, leaving the silver bell ringing indignantly behind her.

  Jemmy had already climbed the stairs to his room. When she looked in on him he was playing with his turtles, though without any great enthusiasm. Turtles must seem insipid company after a boisterous, affectionate little dog.

  “Do you think Hamlin misses me?” he asked as Lora looked in the door.

  She nodded her conviction. “I’m sure of it. Just as you miss him. But you may go up and see him again when it stops raining, and in the meantime I hope you’ll be patient. If Hamlin comes back this time, let’s make sure he’ll never be sent away again. Next time Peter might have to take him somewhere else. So let’s wait awhile, Jemmy, until everything can turn out for the best.”

  He nodded and looked out the window. “It shouldn’t ever rain on Saturday.”

  “Why not?” Lora asked. “A rainy Saturday is just right for doing things you don’t do other times.”

  “What things?” he asked, a faint interest stirring.

  “Well, we could explore the attic. You said you’d like to—remember? It would be warm enough up there today, since the sun beat on the roof all day yesterday. I’m going to put on an old dress and cover my hair with a sunbonnet to keep out cobwebs and dust. Then I’m going to dip into some of those old trunks and see what’s there. Your papa said I might. Of course, I wish I had a helper—but if you’re too busy with your turtles—”

  He dropped Lancelot back on his sand pile with a plop and grinned at her.

  “You make schemes, don’t you, Lorie? I like surprise schemes.”

  “I’m a very scheming woman,” she said. “I’ll call you when I’m ready,” and she went into her room to change her clothes.

  Her blue sunbonnet was an old, faded one she had often worn in the yard back home, though somehow it had never prevented her skin from turning brown. Mostly because she could never resist the temptation to lift her face to the sun’s warmth and soak it in through her skin. At least the bonnet would keep the cobwebs away.

  “You look funny,” Jemmy said as they climbed the attic stairs in single file. “Like a farm lady who’s going to milk cows.”

  “You’re wrong,” she told him. “I’m an island lady who is going to open trunks.”

  They had brought a half-dozen candles today and Jemmy set them around in places where they would do the most good and not catch anything on fire. Rain pattered cozily over their heads and gurgled in pipes and gutters. Shadows retreated to the corners, or swung themselves up the slanting beams of the roof, hovering there like giant birds. It was not exactly warm in the attic, but at least the cutting chill of winter was gone.

  The nearest trunk offered itself and Jemmy raised the lid eagerly. There were the usual old clothes, hats, shoes, faded artificial flowers. Jemmy found a battered top hat and set it on his head, where it slid down to his ears and made them both laugh. There were dust and cobwebs aplenty and now and then the explorers sneezed, but this was undoubtedly a wonderful way to spend a rainy Saturday morning.

  Now and then things which had belonged to Virginia turned up, but Lora noted that while Jemmy identified them and looked at them sadly, he did so without bursting into tears. The terrible urgency of sorrow had lessened in him with the passing months, just as it had in herself. The hurt was there, but the thrust was not as painful as it once had been. One could bear now to be reminded, and even begin to remember the comforting things that at first faded in the immediacy of loss.

  The third trunk they opened contained something different and Jemmy pounced upon it in delight.

  “There are Papa’s old toys, and even toys that belonged to my grandmother when she was a little girl. Mama showed them to me once when I was little. Lorie, do you think Grandmother could ever have been a little girl?”

  Lora laughed. “I’m sure she was. A little girl with griefs and disappointments and pleasures just like our own, Jemmy.”

  He pulled out a doll with a painted china head and kid body that must have been his grandmother’s, and studied it thoughtfully, but she suspected that he did not believe her words.

  She reached in next and pulled out a funny-looking clown that had obviously been homemade. Its suit was of black alpaca, with tufts of yellow yarn making pompons down the front. The cotton-stuffed head had been painted with goggle eyes and an enormous turned-up grin which had faded to a pale pink outline with the years. Orange-colored yarn had been sewed to make a shaggy, bright wig that topped the fellow off.

  “That clown belonged to Papa,” Jemmy said. “He gave it to me to play with when I was little. I wondered what happened to it. Grandmother made it for him. I used to sleep with it at night and Papa did too, when he was a little boy.”

  Lora perched on the corner of a packing case and held the clown in her hands. There were other toys of Wade’s coming to light now—a cart with one wheel, a garland of painted wooden spools, blocks with pictures of children rolling hoops pasted on them and curling off at the edges. But the clown intrigued her most, and she continued to hold him.

  “Look,” Jemmy cried, pulling out several copybooks, “these must have been Papa’s composition books.”

  But he was more interested in toys than in schoolbooks, so he dumped them beside Lora and reached into the trunk again. She picked one of them up and leafed through it idly. He had written a neat and decorative hand, that small boy. She glanced at the slanting writing on one page and saw that his description was of a visit to the docks, and read a few lines, her interest caught. The writer’s excitement and response to the color and life, to the odors of spices and tea, came through his words. What a shame that his mother had scorned these efforts and had discouraged them. It seemed that there was talent here—more than had been revealed in that stilted effort at a novel which he had read to her. She would take these books downstairs and read them more carefully.

  From the distant reaches of the house the jingling sound of the doorbell reached them and Lora went to the head of the stairs to listen. In a few moments she heard Ellie padding upstairs in search of her, and she turned to Jemmy.

  “It must be for me. Do you think you could put things back by yourself, Jemmy? We’ve really spent a long enough time up here for one morning. We want to leave something to look forward to on another rainy Saturday.”

  He was reluctant to stop, but agreed with a sigh as she hurried downstairs, still carrying the clown and the stack of copybooks.

  “It’s Mr. Adam,” Ellie told her, puffing from her climb upstairs. “He wants to see you, ma’am. I’ve shown him into the parlor.”

  Adam. That must mean news of Rebecca. She thanked Ellie and hurried past her down
the stairs, not even seeing her astonished look. She went into the parlor, where Ellie had lighted a lamp against the usual gloom, never thinking of her appearance until Adam stared at her.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Is this a new style? The wearing of sunbonnets on a rainy day?”

  She remembered then and set the clown and copybooks down while she untied the strings and pulled the bonnet from her rumpled hair.

  “I’ve been in the attic,” she said, as if that explained everything, and then hurried on. “Do sit down, Adam. Have you found out about Rebecca?”

  He took a chair, looking amused. “I’ve seen her,” he said. “I’ve talked to her.”

  “That’s fine!” Lora drew a breath of relief. Rebecca had been steadily on her conscience ever since she’d learned about the girl’s action. “Then she’s all right?”

  “Yes—and in good hands. The young fellow she’s been seeing has a very sensible and intelligent mother. Rebecca is staying with her. But the girl is upset and concerned over what she has done. She must have run away when her position became intolerable, and has been worrying about the consequences ever since.”

  “She doesn’t want to return to Mrs. Channing, does she?”

  Adam shrugged. “I know she fears that Morgan may take some action to punish her through her mother and sister. I tried to assure her that there was little possibility of that while the war is on.”

  “Morgan would find a way to pull strings if she wanted to,” Lora said. “Do you think the girl would return to her employ?”

  “From what she said, I gathered that she would. But she’s afraid that Morgan would never take her back now. That’s where you come in.”

  Before Adam could explain, the door of the library opened and Wade came across the hall to the parlor.

  “Good morning, Adam,” he said. “I heard voices and wondered if something was wrong.”

  Lora explained about Rebecca, and Wade, limping over to a chair, listened remotely.

  “I’m sorry for the girl,” he said, “but I heartily dislike having Lora meddle in Mrs. Channing’s affairs. If you’re interested in this matter, Adam, perhaps your sister, Serena—”