interested in that little nurse?" she demanded.
There was a peculiar intonation in her voice which told me that in
her own queer little way she was trying to punish me for my failure
to come to see her oftener with inquiries about Jack. She evidently
thought that my vanity would be piqued at the thought of Jack becoming
interested in any other woman after his life-long devotion to me.
But I flatter myself that my voice was absolutely non-committal as I
answered her.
"Yes, I do," I agreed, "and what a tragedy it seems that he should be
snatched away from the prospect of happiness."
The words were sincere. I was sure.
And yet--
XXXVII
A CHANGE IN LILLIAN UNDERWOOD
"Well, children, have you made any plans for Dicky's birthday yet?"
I nearly fell off my chair in astonishment at the friendliness in my
mother-in-law's tones. She had been sulky ever since we had come home
from our autumn outing in the Catskills, a sulkiness caused by her
resentment of what she chose to consider the indiscreet interest
taken in me by Robert Gordon, the mysterious millionaire whom I had
discovered to be an old friend of my parents. I shrewdly suspected,
however, that her continued resentment was more because Dicky chose
to take my part in the matter against her, than because of any real
feeling toward Mr. Gordon.
Nearly a year's experience, however, had taught me how best to manage
my mother-in-law. When she indulged herself in one of her frequent
"tantrums" I adopted a carefully courteous, scrupulously formal
attitude toward her, and dismissed her from my mind. Thus I saved
myself much worry and irritation, and deprived her of the pleasure
of a quarrel, something which I knew she would be glad to bring on
sometimes for the sheer pleasure of combat.
Her question was so sudden, her cordiality so surprising, that I could
frame no answer. Instead I looked helplessly at Dicky. To tell
the truth, I rather distrusted this sudden amiability. From past
experiences, I knew that when Mother Graham made a sudden change from
sulkiness to cheerfulness, she had some scheme under way.
Dicky's answer was prompt.
"That's entirely up to Madge, mother," he said, and smiled at me.
Although his mother tried hard she could not keep the acerbity out of
her tones as she turned to me. She always resented any deference of
Dicky to my opinion.
"Well, as Richard has no opinion of his own, what are your plans,
Margaret?"
"Why, I have made none so far," I stammered, wishing with all my heart
that I had made some definite plan for Dicky's birthday. I could see
from my mother-in-law's manner that she had some cherished scheme in
mind, and my prophetic soul told me that it would be something which I
would not particularly like.
"Good," she returned. "Then I shall not be interfering with any plan
of yours. I have already written to Elizabeth asking them to come out
here for a week's visit. This is an awful shack, of course, but it
is the country, and the children will enjoy the woods and brooks and
fields, even if it is cold."
Dicky turned to her abruptly, his brow stormy, his eyes flashing.
"Mother, do you mean to say that you have already written to Elizabeth
without first consulting Madge as to whether it would be convenient?"
I trod heavily on his toes under the table in the vain hope that I
would be able to stop him from saying the words which I knew would
inflame his mother's temper. Failing in that, I hastened to throw a
sentence or two of my own into the breach in the desire to prevent
further hostilities.
"Dicky, stop talking nonsense!" I said sharply. "I am sure Mother
Graham," turning to my mother-in-law who sat regarding her son with
the most traditional of "stony stares," "we shall be delighted to have
your daughter and her family. You must tell me how many there are
so we can arrange for beds and plenty of bedding. This is a rather
draughty house, you know."
"I am better aware of that than you are," she returned, ungraciously
making no response to my proffer of hospitality. Then she turned her
attention to Dicky.
"Richard," she said sternly, "I have never been compelled to consult
anybody yet, before inviting guests to my home, whether it be a
permanent or a temporary one. I am too old to begin. I do not notice
that you or Margaret take the trouble to consult me before inviting
your friends here."
Dicky opened his mouth to reply, but I effectually stopped him, by a
swift kick, which I think found a mark, for he jumped perceptibly
and flashed me a wrathful look. I knew that he was thinking of the
strenuous objection his mother had made to our entertaining the
Underwoods, and to the proposed visit of Robert Gordon to our home.
But I knew also that it was no time to rake up old scores. I foresaw
trouble enough in this proposed visit of my relatives-in-law whom I
had never seen, without having things complicated by a row between
Dicky and his mother.
There was trouble, too, in all the housecleaning, the re-arrangement
of our rooms and in the laying in of a stock of provisions to meet
the requirements of the menu for each meal that Mother Graham insisted
upon deciding in advance to please her daughter and the children. And
then, the day they were to arrive, she received a special delivery
letter calmly announcing that they were not coming. But my
annoyance was forgotten in Mother Graham's very apparent and utter
disappointment.
When I broke the news to Dicky he suggested that we have a party
anyway, and Mother Graham sweetly acquiesced in our plans to invite
the Underwoods.
Lillian's voice over the telephone, however, made me forget all my
contentment, and filled me with misgiving. It was tense, totally
unlike her usual bluff, hearty tones, and with an undercurrent in it
that spelled tragedy.
"What is the trouble, Lillian?" I asked, as soon as I had heard her
greeting; "I know something is the matter by your voice."
"Yes, there is," she replied, "but nothing of which I can speak
over the 'phone. Tell me, are you going to have any strangers there
tomorrow?"
How like Lillian the bluff, honest speech was! Almost any other woman
would have hypocritically assured me that nothing was the matter. But
not Lillian Underwood!
"Nobody but the Durkees," I assured her. "They have already promised
to be here. But, Lillian, you surely must get here as soon as you can.
I shall be so worried until I see you. If you don't get here early
tomorrow morning I shall come in after you."
"You couldn't keep me away, you blessed child, if you are going to
have no strangers there," Lillian returned. "I don't mind the Durkees.
But I need you, my dear, very much. Now I must tell you something,
don't be shocked or surprised when you see me, for I shall be somewhat
changed in appearance. Run along to Dicky now. I'll be with you some
time tomorrow forenoon. Good-by."
I almost forgot to hang up the telephone receiver in my bewilderment.
What trouble could have come to Lillian that she needed me? She was
the last person in the world to need any one, I thought--she, whose
sterling good sense and unfailing good-nature had helped me so
many times. And what change in her appearance did she mean when she
cautioned me against being shocked and surprised at seeing her?
My anxiety concerning Lillian stayed with me all through the evening.
I awoke in the night from troubled dreams of her to equally troubled
thoughts concerning her. And my concern was complicated by a message
which Dicky received the next forenoon.
We had barely finished breakfast when the telephone rang and Dicky
answered.
"Hello," I heard him say. "Yes, this is Graham. Oh! Mr. Gordon! how do
you do?"
My heart skipped a beat.
"Why! that's awfully kind of you," Dicky was saying, "but we couldn't
possibly accept, because we have guests coming ourselves. We expect to
have a regular old-fashioned country dinner here at home. But, why
do you not come out to us? Oh, no, you wouldn't disturb any plans at
all--they've been thoroughly upset already. We had planned to have
my sister and her family, six in all, spend this holiday with us, but
yesterday we found they could not come. So we're inviting what friends
we can find who are not otherwise engaged to help us eat up the
turkey. You will be more than welcome if you will join us. All right,
then. Do you know about trains? Yes, any taxi driver can tell you
where we are. Good-by."
I did not dare to look at my mother-in-law as Dicky came toward us
after answering Robert Gordon's telephone message.
I think Dicky was a trifle afraid, also, of his mother's verdict, for
his attitude was elaborately apologetic as he explained his invitation
to me.
"Your friend, Gordon, has just gotten in from one of those mysterious
voyages of his to parts unknown," he said. "He was delayed in reaching
the city, only got in last night, too late to telephone us. Seems
he had some cherished scheme of having us his guests at a blowout.
Wouldn't mind going if we hadn't asked these people here, for they say
his little dinners are something to dream about, they're so unique. Of
course, there was nothing else for me to do but to invite him out. I
thought you wouldn't mind."
In Dicky's tone there was a doubtful inflection which I read
correctly. He knew of my interest in the elderly man of mystery who
had known my parents so well, and I was sure that he thought I would
be overjoyed because he had extended the invitation.
I was glad that I could honestly disabuse his mind of this idea, for I
had a curious little feeling that Dicky disliked more than he appeared
to do the attentions paid to me by Mr. Gordon.
It was less than an hour before the taxi bearing the first of our
guests swung into the driveway and Lillian and Harry Underwood stepped
out.
Lillian's head and face were so swathed in veils that I did not
realize what the change in her appearance of which she had warned me
was until I was alone with her in my room, which I intended giving up
to her and her husband while they stayed. Then, as she took off her
hat and veils, I almost cried out in astonishment--for at my first,
unaccustomed glance, instead of the rouged and powdered face, and dyed
hair, which to me had been the only unpleasant things about Lillian
Underwood, the face of an old woman looked at me, and the hair above
it was gray!
There were the remnants of great youthful beauty in Lillian's face.
Nay, more, there were wonderful possibilities when the present crisis
in her life, whatever it might be, should have passed. But the effect
of the change in her was staggering.
"Awful, isn't it?" she said, coming up to me. "No, don't lie to me,"
as she saw a confused, merciful denial rise to my lips. "There are
mirrors everywhere, you know. There's one comfort, I can't possibly
ever look any worse than I do now, and when my hair gets over the
effect of its long years of dyeing, and my present emotional crisis
becomes less tense I probably shall not be such a fright. But oh, my
dear, how glad I am to be with you. I need you so much just now."
She put her head on my shoulder as a homesick child might have done,
and I felt her draw two or three long, shuddering breaths, the dry
sobs which take the place of tears in the rare moments when Lillian
Underwood gives way to emotion. I stroked her hair with tender,
pitiful fingers, noticing as I did so what ravages her foolish
treatment of her hair had made in tresses that must once have been
beautiful. Originally of the blonde tint she had tried to preserve,
her locks were now an ugly mixture of dull drab and gray. As I stood
looking down at the head pillowed against my shoulder I realized what
this transformation in Lillian must mean to Harry Underwood.
He it was who had always insisted that she follow the example of the
gay Bohemian crowd of which he was a leader, and disguise her fleeting
youth, with dye and rouge. It was to please him, or, as she once
expressed it to me, "to play the game fairly with Harry" that she
outraged her own instincts, her sense of what was decent and becoming,
and constantly made up her face into a mask like that of a woman of
the half-world. No one could deny that it disguised her real age, but
her best friends, including Dicky and myself, had always felt that the
real mature beauty of the woman was being hidden.
"Of course, this is terribly rough on Harry," Lillian said at last,
raising her head from my shoulder, and speaking in as ordinary and
unruffled a tone as if she had not just gone through what in any other
woman would have been a hysterical burst of tears.
"It really isn't fair to him, and under any other conditions in the
world I would not do it. He's pretty well cut up about it, so much so
that he cannot always control his annoyance when he is speaking about
it. But I know you will overlook any little outbreaks of his, won't
you? He wanted to come down here with me, you know he's always anxious
to see you, or I would have run away by myself."
Her tone was anxious, wistful, and my heart ached for her. I could
guess that when Harry Underwood could not "control his annoyance" he
could be very horrid indeed. But I winced at her casual remark that
her husband was always anxious to see me. Harry Underwood held in
restraint by his very real admiration for his brilliant wife had been
annoying enough to me. I did not care to think what he might be when
enraged at her as I knew he must be now.
Nothing of my feeling, however, must I betray to the friend who had
come to me for help and comfort. I drew closer the arms that had not
yet released her.
"Dear girl," I said softly, "don't worry any more about your husband
or anything else. Just consider that you've come home to your sister.
I'm going to keep you awhile now I've got you, and we'll straighten
everything out. Don't even bother to tell me anything about it until
you are fully rested. I can see you've been under some great strain."
"No one can ever realize how great," she returned. "You see--"
What revelation she meant to make to me I did not then learn, for just
at that moment a knock sounded on the door, and in answer to my "come
in," Katie appeared and announced the arrival of the Durkees and
Richard Gordon.
XXXVIII
"NO--NURSE--JUST--LILLIAN"
"Tell me, Madge," Dicky's tone was tense, and I recognized the note of
jealous anger which generally preceded his scenes, "are you going to
have that old goat take you out to dinner? Because if you are--"
He broke off abruptly, as if he thought an unspoken threat would be
more terrifying than one put into words. I knew to what he referred.
As hostess, I, of course, should be escorted in to dinner by the
stranger in our almost family party, Robert Gordon, who was also the
oldest man present. Ordinarily, Dicky would have realized that his
demand to have me change this conventional arrangement was a most
ill-bred and inconsiderate thing. But Dicky sane and Dicky jealous,
however, were two different men.
Always before this day Dicky had regarded with tolerant amusement the
strange interest shown in me by the elderly man of mystery who had
known my mother. But the magnificent chrysanthemums which Mr. Gordon
had brought me, dozens of them, costing much more money than the
ordinary conventional floral gift to one's hostess ought to cost, had
roused his always smouldering jealousy to an unreasoning pitch.
Fear of hurting Robert Gordon's feelings was the one consideration
that held me back from defying Dicky's mandate. Experience had taught
me the best course to pursue with Dicky.
"If, as I suppose, you are referring to Mr. Gordon, it may interest
you to know that I have not the faintest intention of going in to
dinner with him," I retorted coolly. "Lillian wants to talk with him
about South America, and I shall have your friend, Mr. Underwood, as
my escort."
"Gee, how happy you'll be," sneered Dicky, but I could see that he was
relieved at my information. "You're so fond of dear old Harry, aren't
you?"
"To tell you the truth, I have to fight all the time against becoming
too fond of him," I returned mockingly. "He can be dangerously
fascinating, you know."
Dicky laughed in a way that showed me his brainstorm over Robert
Gordon had been checked. But there was a startled look in his eyes
which changed to a more speculative scrutiny before he moved away.
"Oh, old Harry's all right," he said. "He's my pal, and he never means
anything, anyway." But I noticed that he said it as if he were trying
to convince himself of the truth of his assertion.
When I told Harry Underwood that he was to take me in to dinner, and
we were leading the way into the dining room, his brilliant black eyes
looked down into mine mockingly, and he said:
"You see it is Fate. No matter how you struggle against it you cannot
escape me."
"Do I look as if I were struggling?" I laughed back, and saw a sudden
expression of bewilderment in his eyes, followed instantly by a flash
of triumph.
Everything that was cattishly feminine in me leaped to life at that
look in the eyes of the man whom I detested, whom I had even feared.
I could read plainly enough in his eyes that he thought the assiduous
flatteries he had always paid me were commencing to have their result,
that I was beginning to recognize the dangerous fascination he was
reputed to have for women of every station. I had a swift, savage
desire to avenge the women he must have made suffer, to hurt him as
before dinner he had wounded Lillian.
So instead of turning an impassive face to Mr. Underwood's remark, I
listened with just the hint of an elusive mischievous smile twisting
my lips.
"No, you don't look very uncomfortable. You look"--he caught his
breath as if with some emotion too strong for utterance, and then said
a trifle huskily:
"Will you let me tell you how you look to me?"
I had to exercise all my self-control to keep from laughing in
his face. He was such a poseur, his simulation of emotion was
so melodramatic that I wondered if he really imagined I would be
impressed by it.
A spirit of mischievous daring stirred in me.
"Don't tell me just now," I said softly. "Wait till after dinner."
"Afraid?" he challenged.
"Perhaps," I countered.
He gave my hand lying upon his arm a swift, furtive pressure and
released it so quickly that there was no possibility of his being
observed. I had no time to rebuke him, had I been so disposed, for we
had almost reached our places at the table.
I do not remember much of the dinner over which Mother Graham, Katie
and I had worked so assiduously. That everything went off smoothly, as
we had planned, that from the Casaba melons which were served first to
the walnuts of the last course, everything was delicious in flavor and
perfect in service I was gratefully but dimly aware.
For I felt as if I were on the brink of a volcano. Not because of
Harry Underwood's elaborate show of attention to me to which I was
pretending to respond, much to the disgust of my mother-in-law, but on
account of the queer behavior of Robert Gordon.
Lillian, who was making a pitifully brave attempt to bring to the
occasion all the airy brightness with which she was wont to make any
gathering favored by her presence a success, secured only the briefest
responses from him, although he had taken her out to dinner. Sometimes
he made no answer at all to her remarks, evidently not hearing them.
He watched me almost constantly, and so noticeable was his action that
I saw every one at the table was aware of it. It was a gaze to set any
one's brain throbbing with wild conjectures, so mournful, so elusive
it was. The fantastic thought crossed my mind that this mysterious
elderly friend of my dead mother's looked like a long famished man,
coming suddenly in sight of food.
By the time the dinner was over I was intensely nervous. Katie
served us our coffee in the living room, and when I took mine my hand
trembled so that the tiny cup rattled against the saucer. I rose from
my chair and walked to the fireplace, set the cup upon the mantel and
stood looking into the blazing logs Jim had heaped against the old
chimney. My guests could not see my face, and I hoped to be able to
pull myself together.
"Ready to have me tell you how you look to me, now?" said Harry
Underwood's voice, softly, insidiously in my ear.
I started and moved a little away from him, which brought me nearer
to the fire. The next moment I was wildly beating at little tongues of
flame running up the flimsy fabric of my dress.
I heard hoarse shouts, shrill screams, felt rough hands seize me, and
wrap me in heavy, stifling cloth, which seemed to press the flames
searingly down into my flesh, and then for a little I knew no more.
It seemed only a moment that I lost consciousness. When I came back to
myself I was lying on the couch with Lillian Underwood's deft, tender
fingers working over me. From somewhere back of me Dicky's voice
sounded in a hoarse, gasping way that terrified me.
"For God's sake, Lil, is she--"
Lillian's voice, firm, reassuring, answered:
"No, Dicky, no, she's pretty badly burned, I fear, but I am sure she
will be all right. Now, dear boy, get your mother to her room and make
her lie down. Mrs. Durkee and I can take care of Madge better with you
all out of the way. Did you get a doctor, Alfred?"
"Coming as soon as he can get here," Alfred Durkee replied.
"Good," Lillian returned. "Now everybody except Mrs. Durkee get out
of here. Katie, bring a blanket, some sheets, and one of Mrs. Graham's
old nightdresses from her room. I shall have to cut the gown."
Even through the terrible scorching heat which seemed to envelop my
body I realized that Lillian, as always, was dominating the situation.
I could hear the snip of her scissors as she cut away the pieces of
burned cloth, and the low-toned directions to Mrs. Durkee, which told
me that Lillian already had secured our first aid kit and was giving
me the treatment necessary to alleviate my pain until the physician
should arrive.
I am sorry to confess it, but I am a coward where physical pain is
concerned. I am not one of those women who can bear the torturing
pangs of any illness or accident without an outcry. And, struggle as I
might, I could not repress the moan which rose to my lips.
"I know, child." Lillian's tender hands held my writhing ones, her
pitying eyes looked into mine; but she turned from me the next moment
in amazement, for Robert Gordon, the mysterious man who had loved my
mother, appeared, as if from nowhere, at her side, twisting his hands
together and muttering words which I could not believe to be real,
so strange and disjointed were they. I felt that they must be only
fantasies of my confused brain.
"Mr. Gordon, this will never do," Lillian said sternly. "I thought I
had sent every one out of the room except Mrs. Durkee."
"I know--I am going right away again. But I had to come this time. Is
she going to die?"
"Not if I can get a chance to attend to her without everybody
bothering me. I am very sure she is not seriously injured. Now, you
must go away."
Mr. Gordon fled at once. And Lillian, and Mrs. Durkee worked so
swiftly and skillfully that when the physician, a kindly, elderly
practitioner from Crest Haven arrived, my pain had been assuaged.
By his direction I was carried to my own room. I must have fainted
before they moved me, for the next thing I remember was the sound of
the doctor's voice.
"There is nothing to be alarmed over," the physician was saying to a
shadowy some one at the head of my bed, a some one who was breathing
heavily, and the trembling of whose body I could feel against the bed.
"Of course, the shock has been severe, and the pain of moving her was
too much for her. But she is coming round nicely. You may speak to her
now."
The shadowy some one moved forward a little, resolved itself to my
clearing sight as my husband. He knelt beside the bed and put his lips
to my uninjured hand.
"Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" he murmured, "my own girl! Is the pain very
bad?"
"Not now," I answered faintly, trying to smile, but only succeeding
in twisting my mouth into a grimace of pain. The flames had mercifully
spared my hair and most of my face, but there was one burn upon
one side of my throat, extending up into my cheek, which made it
uncomfortable for me to move the muscles of my face.
"Don't try to talk," Dicky replied. "Just lie still and let us take
care of you. Lil will stay, I know, until we can get a nurse here,
won't you, Lil?"
As a frightened child might do, I turned my eyes to Lillian,
beseechingly.
"No--nurse--just--Lillian," I faltered.