of such a secret, or to discourage me in any attempt to find out its
nature. I resolved to lose no time in probing the unworthy thing to
its depths.
My mother-in-law's next words crystallized my determination.
"I think I ought to see Richard at once," she said. "I am sorry to
give up our trip. I had quite counted upon seeing some of old New York
today, but I wish to lose no time in seeing him. Besides, I do not
think I am equal to further sightseeing."
"It will be of no use for you to go home," I said smoothly, "for
Richard will not be there, and he has left the studio by now, I am
sure. He has an engagement with an art editor this afternoon. We may
not be able to look at the churches you wished to see, but you ought
to have some luncheon before we go home. I will call a cab and we will
go over to Fraunces's Tavern, one of the most interesting places in
New York. You know Washington said farewell to his officers in the
long room on the second floor."
The first part of my sentence was a deliberate falsehood. I had no
reason to believe Dicky would not be at his studio all day, but I had
resolved that no one should speak to my husband on the subject of the
secret which his past and that of Lillian Gale shared until I had had
a chance to talk to him about it.
I do not know when a simple problem has so perplexed me as did the
dilemma I faced while sitting opposite my mother-in-law at lunch in
Fraunces's Tavern.
With the obstinacy of a spoiled child the elder Mrs. Graham was
persisting in sitting with her heavy coat on while she ate her
luncheon, although our table was next to the big, old fireplace, in
which a good fire was burning. Indeed, it was the table's location,
which she had selected herself, that was the cause of her obstinacy.
She had construed an innocent remark of mine into a slur upon her
choice, and had evidently decided to wear her coat to emphasize the
fact that in spite of the fire she was none too warm, and there she
had sat all through lunch with her heavy coat on.
As I watched the beads of perspiration upon her forehead, and her
furtive dabbing at them with her handkerchief, I realized that
something must be done. I saw that she would soon be in a condition to
receive a chill, which might prove fatal.
Suddenly her imperious voice broke into my thoughts.
"Where is the Long Room of which you spoke? On the second floor?"
"Yes. Would you like to see it?"
"Very much." She rose from her chair, crossed the dining room into
the hall and ascended the staircase, and I followed her upward, noting
again, with a quick remorsefulness, her slow step, the way she leaned
upon the stair rail for support and her quickened breathing as she
neared the top. It was a little thing, after all, I told myself
sharply, to subordinate my individuality and cater to her whims. I
resolved to be more considerate of her in the future. But my native
caution made me make a reservation. I would yield to her wishes
whenever my self-respect would let me do so. I had a shrewd notion
that a person who would cater to every whim of my husband's mother
would be little better than a slave.
She spent so much time over the old letters in Washington's
handwriting, the snuff boxes and keys and coins with which the cases
were filled that I was alarmed lest she should over-tire herself. But
I did not dare to venture the suggestion that she should postpone her
inspection until another time.
But when I saw her shiver and draw her cloak more closely about her, I
resolved to brave her possible displeasure.
"I am afraid you are taking cold," I said, going up to her. "Do you
think we had better leave the rest of these things for another visit?"
Her face as she turned it toward me frightened me. It was gray and
drawn, and her whole figure was shaking as with the ague.
"I am afraid I am going to be ill," she said faintly. "I am so cold."
I put her in a chair and dashed down the stairs.
"Please call a taxi for me at once, and bring some brandy or wine
upstairs," I said to the attendant. "My mother-in-law is ill."
As the taxi hurried us homeward I became more and more alarmed at her
condition. Her very evident suffering now heightened my fears.
"Are we nearly there?" she said faintly. "I am so cold."
"Only a few blocks more." I tried to speak reassuringly. Then I
ventured on something which I had wanted to do ever since we left the
tavern, but which my mother-in-law's dislike of being aided in any way
had prevented.
I slipped off my coat, and, turning toward her, wrapped it closely
around her shoulders, and took her in my arms as I would a child. To
my surprise she huddled closer to me, only protesting faintly:
"You must not do that. You will take cold."
"Nonsense," I replied. "I never take cold, and we are almost there."
"I am so glad," she sighed, and leaned more heavily against me.
As I felt her weight in my arms and realized that she was actually
clinging to me, actually depending upon me for help and comfort, I
felt my heart warm toward her.
I have never worked faster in my life than when I helped my
mother-in-law undress before the blazing gas log, put her nightgown
and heavy bathrobe around her and immersed her feet in the foot bath
of hot mustard water which Katie had brought to me.
As I worked over her I came to a decision. I would get her safe and
warm in bed, leave Katie within call, then slip out and telephone
Dicky from the neighboring drug store. I did not dare to send for a
physician against my mother-in-law's expressed prohibition. On the
other hand, I knew that Dicky would be very angry if I did not send
for one.
The hot footbath and the steaming drink which I had given her when she
first came in, together with the warmth of the gas log seemed to make
my mother-in-law more comfortable. As I dried her feet and slipped
them into a pair of warm bedroom slippers she smiled down at me.
"At least I am not cold now," she said.
"Don't you think you had better come and lie down now?" I asked.
"Yes, I think it would be better," she asserted, and with Katie and me
upon either side, she walked into her room and got into bed.
I slipped the bedroom slippers off, put one hot water bag to her
feet and the other to her back, covered her up warmly and lowered the
shade.
Her eyes closed immediately. I stood watching her breathing for two or
three minutes. It was heavier, I fancied than normal. As I went out
of the room I spoke in a low tone to Katie, directing her to watch her
till I returned.
As I descended the stairs all the doubts of the morning rushed over
me. It was long after 2 o'clock, the hour when Dicky usually returned
to the studio. I had jumped at the conclusion that Dicky was lunching
with Grace Draper, the beautiful art student who was his model and
protégé.
It was not so much anger that I felt at Dicky's lunching with another
woman as fear. I faced the issue frankly. Grace Draper was much too
beautiful and attractive a girl to be thrown into daily intimate
companionship with any man. I felt in that moment that I hated her as
much as I feared her. I hoped that it would not be her voice which I
would hear over the 'phone. I felt that I could not bear to listen to
those deep, velvety tones of hers.
But when I reached the drug store and entered the telephone booth, it
was her voice which answered my call of Dicky's number.
"Yes, this is Mr. Graham's studio," she said smoothly. "No, Mr. Graham
is not here, he has not been here since 11 o'clock. Pardon me, is this
not Mrs. Graham to whom I am speaking?"
"I am Mrs. Graham, yes," I replied, trying to put a little cordiality
into my voice. "You are Miss Draper, are you not?"
"Yes," she replied. "Mr. Graham wished me to give you a message. He
was called away to a conference with one of the art editors about 11
o'clock. He expected to lunch with him and said he might not be in the
studio until quite late this afternoon."
"Have you any idea where he is lunching or where I could reach him?" I
asked sharply.
"Why! no, Mrs. Graham, I have not. Is there anything wrong?"
"His mother has been taken ill and I am very much worried about her.
If Mr. Graham comes in or telephones will you ask him to come home at
once, 'phoning me first if he will."
"Of course I will attend to it. Is there anything else I can do?"
"Nothing, thank you, you are very kind," I returned, and there was
genuine warmth in my voice this time.
For the discovery that I had been mistaken in my idea of Dicky's
luncheon engagement made me so ashamed of myself that I had no more
rancor against my husband's beautiful protégé.
I laughed bitterly at my own silliness as I turned from the telephone.
While I had been tormenting myself for hours at the picture I had
drawn of Dicky and his beautiful model lunching vis-a-vis, Dicky had
been keeping a prosaic business engagement with a man, and his model
had probably lunched frugally and unromantically on a sandwich or two
brought from home.
XVIII
"CALL ME MOTHER--IF YOU CAN"
"Will you kindly tell me who is the best physician here?"
"Why--I--pardon me--" the drug store clerk stammered. "Wait a moment
and I'll inquire. I'm new here."
"The boss says this chap's the best around here." He held out a
penciled card to me. "Dr. Pettit. Madison Square 4258."
"Dr. Pettit!" I repeated to myself. "Why! that must be the physician
who came to the apartment the night of my chafing dish party, when the
baby across the hall was brought to us in a convulsion."
A sudden swift remembrance came to me of the tact and firmness with
which the tall young physician had handled the difficult situation he
had found in our apartment. He was just the man, I decided, to handle
my refractory mother-in-law. So I called him up and he promised to
call as soon as his office hours were over.
My feet traveled no faster than my thoughts as I hurried back to
my own apartment and the bedside of my mother-in-law. I dreaded
inexpressibly the conflict I foresaw when the autocratic old woman
should find out that I had sent for a physician against her wishes.
As I entered the living room Katie rose from her seat at the door of
my mother-in-law's room.
"She not move while you gone," she said. "She sleep all time, but I
'fraid she awful seeck, she breathe so hard."
I went lightly into the bedroom and stood looking down upon the
austere old face against the pillow. It was a flushed old face now,
and the eyelids twitched as if there were pain somewhere in the body.
Her breathing, too, was more rapid and heavy than when I had left her,
or so I fancied.
My inability to do anything for her depressed me. By slipping my hand
under the blankets I had ascertained that the hot water bags were
sufficiently warm. There was nothing more for me to do but to sit
quietly and watch her until the physician's arrival.
I wanted to bring Dr. Pettit to her bedside before she should
awaken. Then I would let him deal with her obstinate refusal to see a
physician. But how I wished that Dicky would come home.
As if I had rubbed Aladdin's lamp, I heard the hall door slam, and my
husband came rushing into the room.
"What is the matter with mother?" Dicky demanded, his face and voice
filled with anxiety.
I sprang to him and put my hand to his lips, for he had almost shouted
the words.
"Hush! She is asleep," I whispered. "Don't waken her if you can help
it."
"Why isn't there a doctor here?" he demanded fiercely.
"Dr. Pettit will be here in a very few moments," I whispered rapidly.
"Your mother said she would not have a physician, but she appeared
so ill I did not dare to wait until your return to the studio. I
telephoned you, and when Miss Draper said she did not know where to
get you, I 'phoned to Dr. Pettit on my own authority."
"You don't think mother is in any danger, do you, Madge?"
"Why, I don't think I am a good judge of illness," I answered,
evasively, unwilling to hurt Dicky by the fear in my heart. "The
physician ought to be here any minute now, and then we will know."
A sharp, imperative ring of the bell and Katie's entrance punctuated
my words. Dicky started toward the door as Katie opened it to admit
the tall figure of Dr. Pettit.
"Ah, Dr. Pettit I believe we have met before," Dicky said easily.
"When Mrs. Graham spoke of you I did not remember that we had seen you
so recently. I am glad that we were able to get you."
"Thank you," the physician returned gravely. "Where is the patient?"
"In this room." Dicky turned toward the bedroom door, and Dr. Pettit
at once walked toward it. I mentally contrasted the two men as I
followed them to my mother-in-law's room. There was a charming ease
of manner about Dicky which the other man did not possess. He was,
in fact, almost awkward in his movements, and decidedly stiff in his
manner. But there was an appearance of latent strength in every
line of his figure, a suggestion of power and ability to cope with
emergencies. I had noticed it when he took charge of the baby in
convulsions who had been brought to my apartment by its nurse. I
marked it again as Dicky paused at the door of his mother's room.
"I don't know how you will manage, doctor." He smiled deprecatingly.
"My mother positively refuses to see a physician, but we know she
needs one."
"You are her nearest relative?" Dr. Pettit queried gravely, almost
formally. His question had almost the air of securing a legal right
for his entrance into the room.
"Oh, yes."
"Very well," and he stepped lightly to the side of the bed and stood
looking down upon the sick woman.
He took out his watch, and I knew he was counting her respirations.
Then, with the same impersonal air, he turned to Dicky.
"It will be necessary to rouse her. Will you awaken her, please? Do
not tell her I am here. Simply waken her."
Dicky bent over his mother and took her hand.
"Mother, what was it you wished me to get for you?"
The elder Mrs. Graham opened her eyes languidly.
"I told you quinine," she said impatiently. As she spoke, Dr. Pettit
reached past Dicky. His hand held a thermometer.
"Put this in your mouth, please." His air was as casual as if he had
made daily visits to her for a fortnight.
But the elder Mrs. Graham was not to be so easily routed. She scowled
up at him and half rose from her pillow.
"I do not wish a physician. I forbade having one called. I am not ill
enough for a physician."
Dr. Pettit put out his left hand and gently put her back again upon
her pillow. It was done so deftly that I do not think she realized
what he had done until she was again lying down.
"You must not excite yourself," he said, still in the same grave,
impersonal tone, "and you are more ill than you think. It is
absolutely necessary that I get your temperature and examine your
lungs at once."
As if the words had been a talisman of some sort, her opposition
dropped from her. Into her face came a frightened look.
"Oh, doctor, you don't think I am going to have pneumonia, do you?"
I was amazed at the cry. It was like that of a terrified child. Dr.
Pettit smiled down at her.
"We hope not. We shall do our best to keep it away. But you must help
me. Put this in your mouth, please."
My mother-in-law obeyed him docilely. But my heart sank as I watched
the physician's face.
Suddenly she cried out, "Richard! Richard, if I am in danger of
pneumonia, as this doctor thinks, I want a trained nurse here at once,
one who has had experience in pneumonia cases. Margaret means
well, but threatened pneumonia with my heart needs more than good
intentions."
"Of course, mother," Dicky acquiesced. "I was just about to suggest
one to Dr. Pettit."
"But, doctor," Dicky said anxiously when we followed him into the
living room, "where are we to find a nurse?"
"Fortunately," Dr. Pettit rejoined, "I have just learned that
absolutely the best nurse I know is free. Her name is Miss Katherine
Sonnot, and her skill and common sense are only equalled by her
exquisite tact. She is just the person to handle the case, and if you
will give me the use of your 'phone I think I can have her here within
an hour."
"Of course," assented Dicky, and led the way to the telephone.
I did not hear what the physician said at first, but as he closed the
conversation a note in his voice arrested my attention.
"You are sure you are not too tired? Very well. I will see you here
tonight. Good-by."
Woman-like, I thought I detected a romance. The tenderness in his
voice could mean but one thing, that he admired, perhaps loved the
woman he had praised so extravagantly.
After he went away, promising to return in the evening, I busied
myself with the services to my mother-in-law he had asked me to
perform, and then sat down to wait for Miss Sonnot. Dicky wandered
in and out like a restless ghost until I wanted to shriek from very
nervousness.
But the first glimpse of the slender girl who came quietly into the
room and announced herself as Miss Sonnot steadied me. She was a "slip
of a thing," as my mother would have dubbed her, with great, wistful
brown eyes that illumined her delicate face. But there was an air of
efficiency about her every movement that made you confident she would
succeed in anything she undertook.
I have always been such a difficult, reserved sort of woman that I
have very few friends. I did not understand the impulse that made me
resolve to win this girl's friendship if I could.
One thing I knew. The grave, sweet face, the steady eyes told me. One
could lay a loved one's life in those slim, capable hands and rest
assured that as far as human aid could go it would be safe.
"Keep her quiet. Above all things, do not let her get excited over
anything."
Miss Sonnot was giving me my parting instructions as to the care of my
sick mother-in-law before taking the sleep which she so sorely needed,
on the day that Dr. Pettit declared my mother-in-law had passed the
danger point. Thanks to her ministrations I had been able to sleep
dreamlessly for hours. Now refreshed and ready for anything, I had
prepared my room for her, and had accompanied her to it that I might
see her really resting.
She was so tired that her eyes closed even as she gave me the
admonition. I drew the covers closer about her, raised the window a
trifle, drew down the shades, and left her.
As I closed the door softly behind me, I heard the querulous voice of
the invalid:
"Margaret! Margaret! Where are you?"
As I bent over my husband's mother she smiled up at me. Her
illness had done more to bridge the chasm, between us than years of
companionship could have done. One cannot cherish bitterness toward
an old woman helplessly ill and dependent upon one. And I think in
her own peculiar way she realized that I was giving her all I had of
strength and good will.
"What can I do for you?" I asked, returning her smile.
"I want something to eat, and after that I want to have a talk with
Richard. Where is he?"
"He is asleep," I answered mechanically. In a moment my thoughts had
flown back to the day my mother-in-law and I had met Harry Underwood
in trip Aquarium, and she had discovered he was Lillian Gale's
husband.
What was it Dicky's mother had said that day in the Aquarium rest
room?
"I have a duty to you to perform," she had declared, "a very painful
duty, which involves the reviving of an old controversy with my son. I
beg that you will not try to find out anything concerning its nature.
It is better far that you do not."
She had wished to go home at once and talk to Dicky. I had persuaded
her to go first to Fraunces's Tavern for luncheon. There she had been
taken ill, and in the days that had intervened between that time and
the moment I leaned over her bedside she and we around her had
been fighting for her life. There had been no opportunity for a
confidential talk between mother and son. And I was determined that
there should be none yet.
In the first place, she was in no condition to discuss any subject,
let alone one fraught with so many possibilities of excitement. In
the second place, I was determined that no one should discuss that old
secret with my husband before I had a chance to talk to him concerning
it.
"Well, you needn't go to sleep just because Richard is."
My mother-in-law's impatient voice brought me back to myself. I
apologized eagerly.
I have never seen any one enjoy food as my mother-in-law did the
simple meal I had prepared for her. She ate every crumb, drank the
wine, and drained the pot of tea before she spoke.
"How good that tasted!" she said gratefully as she finished, sinking
back against my shoulder. I had not only propped her up with pillows,
but had sat behind her as she ate, that she might have the support of
my body.
"I think I can take a long nap now," she went on. "When I awake send
Richard to me."
I laid her down gently, arranged her pillows, and drew up the covers
over her shoulders. She caught my hand and pressed it.
"My own daughter could not have been kinder to me than you have been,"
she said.
"I am glad to have pleased you, Mrs. Graham," I returned. I suppose
my reply sounded stiff, but I could not forget the day she came to us,
and her contemptuous rejection of Dicky's proposal that I should call
her "Mother."
She frowned slightly. "Forget what I said that day I came," she said
quickly. "Call me Mother, that is, if you can."
For a moment I hesitated. The memory of her prejudice against me would
not down. Then I had an illuminative look into the narrowness of my
own soul. The sight did not please me. With a sudden resolve I bent
down and kissed the cheek of my husband's mother.
"Of course, Mother," I said quietly.
It must have been two hours at least that I sat watching the sick
woman. She left her hand in mine a long time, then, with a drowsy
smile, she drew it away, turned over with her face to the wall, and
fell into a restful sleep. I listened to her soft, regular breathing
until the sunlight faded and the room darkened.
I must have dozed in my chair, for I did not hear Katie come in or
go to the kitchen. The first thing that aroused me was a voice that I
knew, the high-pitched tones of Lillian Gale Underwood.
"I tell you, Dicky-bird, it won't do. She's got to know the truth."
As Mrs. Underwood's shrill voice struck my ears, I sprang to my feet
in dismay.
My first thought was of the sick woman over whom I was watching. Both
Dr. Pettit and the nurse, Miss Sonnot, had warned us that excitement
might be fatal to their patient.
And the one thing in the world that might be counted on to excite my
mother-in-law was the presence of the woman whose voice I heard in
conversation with my husband.
I rose noiselessly from my chair and went into the living room,
closing the door after me. Then with my finger lifted warningly for
silence I forced a smile of greeting to my lips as Lillian Underwood
saw me and came swiftly toward me.
"Dicky's mother is asleep," I said in a low tone. "I am afraid I must
ask you to come into the kitchen, for she awakens so easily."
Lillian nodded comprehendingly, but Dicky flushed guiltily as they
followed me into the kitchen. Katie had left a few minutes before to
run an errand for me.
Dicky's voice interrupted the words Lillian was about to speak to me.
I hardly recognized it, hoarse, choked with feeling as it was.
"Lillian," he said, "you shall not do this. There is no need for you
to bring all those old, horrible memories back. You have buried them
and have had a little peace. If Madge is the woman I take her for she
will be generous enough not to ask it, especially when I give her my
word of honor that there is nothing in my past or yours which could
concern her."
"You have the usual masculine idea of what might concern a woman,"
Lillian retorted tartly.
But I answered the appeal I had heard in my husband's voice even more
than in his words.
"You do not need to tell me anything, Mrs. Underwood," I said gently,
and at the words Dicky moved toward me quickly and put his arm around
me.
I flinched at his touch. I could not help it. It was one thing to
summon courage to refuse the confidence for which every tortured nerve
was calling--it was another to bear the affectionate touch of the man
whose whole being I had just heard cry out in attempt to protect this
other woman.
Dicky did not notice any shrinking, but Mrs. Underwood saw it. I
think sometimes nothing ever escapes her eyes. She came closer to me,
gravely, steadily.
"You are very brave, Mrs. Graham, very kind, but it won't do. Dicky,
keep quiet." She turned to him authoritatively as he started to speak.
"You know how much use there is of trying to stop me when I make up my
mind to anything."
She put one hand upon my shoulder.