Another Woman's House (2 page)

“I could do little; you have done much to restore that—that normalness of feeling.” She said simply, “I think Richard has been thankful to have you here.”

Myra dropped the daffodil in her hand and stooped to pick it up. Miss Cornelia said, with an effort of briskness, “So let's have no more talk of gratitude, my dear! From you or Tim.”

Myra stood. She said rather desperately, “That's what I'd meant to say. It's—about—about Tim.”

Miss Cornelia's voice was suddenly alert and clear. “What do you mean?”

“You've done so much for us, money, everything. So now that Tim has a job …”

“Are you trying to tell me that you want to leave me?”

“Yes,” said Myra, her hands unsteady on the flowers.

There was a long pause. Again the fire crackled softly while the room—Alice's room in Alice's house—listened.

“Stop fooling with those flowers,” said Miss Cornelia at last. “You'll have them all on the floor. Look at me, Myra.”

Reluctantly, yet relieved, too, because she had said the thing she had to say, Myra turned to meet Miss Cornelia's clear and bright gaze.

“You don't really want to leave me, do you?” she asked after a moment.

“No.”

“I thought not. I know you, perhaps better than you know yourself. Well …”

She looked away from Myra. Her fine old face with its sharp, carved ivory lines was silhouetted against the mellow blue walls. Finally, she said very quietly, “I cannot leave Richard to face things alone. That's why I came back here to live. You realized that, of course. You came back with me, into this house. Into …” Again she made no gesture, gave no glance about her, and might as well have done so. “… into this room. I've been sick and lame. It was you, Myra, who restored its peace. When must you go?”

“Soon, I'm afraid.”

Miss Cornelia, staring at the fire, nodded slowly. “I don't know what to say. Age does not necessarily bring wisdom, my dear. Only acceptance. I love you, my dear. If you feel you must go, then you must go.”

How much did she know? How much did she guess of the truth?

“Come here, Myra,” said Miss Cornelia suddenly and gently.

So Myra went and knelt down before her; she put her head against the old woman's knee. They remained for a moment in silence. The beige wool skirt was warm against Myra's cheek, the fire crackled softly. Cornelia Thorne, Lady Carmichael, had given her everything that had made life a happy and gracious thing, and every moment now that Myra stayed on in that house was a denial of a deep obligation.

How much did Aunt Cornelia know? she thought again. How much did she guess?

Miss Cornelia sighed and put her fingers lightly on Myra's head. “I've lived long enough,” she said musingly, “to know that there is never any end to the shift and change of human relationships. There is only one certain factor in any human relationship and that is its continuation. The stubbornness and tenacity of its life. I don't think you understand now what I mean; you will understand. Now then, my dear, we'll not talk any more of this just now. Only …”

Myra lifted her head and Miss Cornelia's bright eyes were very gentle and tender. She said, “Only remember I love you, my dear. And that I've watched you grow up and that I know you. And I'm very proud of you.”

Barton in the doorway cleared his throat. Miss Cornelia, without turning, said, “Yes, what is it, Barton? Is Mr. Richard home?”

“Miss Wilkinson has called, Madam.”

“Oh. Well, ask her to come in here.”

Barton disappeared. Miss Cornelia gave Myra a gentle little pat, sniffed once and said, with a briskness that did not quite cover emotion, “I've never known Mildred Wilkinson to come at a time when you really wanted her. A statement for which I'd have roundly spanked you at any time when you were younger. Besides, Mildred has been very faithful to us. Loyal in spite of everything. Don't be sad, my dear; there's always a way out. Even if we can't at the moment see it. Now get up and go and fix your flowers. Let's not give Mildred anything to speculate about. She's a lonely, idle and frustrated woman in spite of her money, poor thing. Living alone in that barracks of a place with nothing to think of since her father died except herself and her imaginary ills and her neighbor's affairs. Well, well; get up, my dear.”

But as Myra rose she caught her hand and pressed it lightly to her cheek.

Barton's returning footsteps were padding along the hall accompanied by the regular thud of Mildred's sensible country shoes. Myra bent and kissed Miss Cornelia's soft cheek swiftly and went back to the flowers. It would give her, as Aunt Cornelia had known, a moment to steady herself. She hoped Mildred would not stay until Richard came.

Mildred reached the doorway. “Good afternoon, Lady Carmichael.”

“Come in, Mildred. How nice of you!”

“I brought you my first lilies of the valley. The moment I saw they had bloomed I thought those are for Lady Carmichael. I gathered them for you myself.”

“Oh,” said Miss Cornelia. “Thank you.”

“I know how terribly difficult it is for you to get outdoors and enjoy the spring. So I brought it to you!”

“Well,” said Miss Cornelia rather dryly. “I've just come from a walk in the garden. But it's very nice of you, Mildred.”

“Aren't they lovely?”

“Beautiful,” said Miss Cornelia. “Beautiful. Myra, dear, do you suppose you could find a vase?”

“Oh, hello, Myra,” said Mildred. “I didn't see you.”

Myra turned. “Hello, Mildred. How are you?”

Mildred Wilkinson, tall and drooping somehow in appearance, so that, in spite of inordinately expensive clothing, she always presented rather concave lines, stood beside Miss Cornelia, her long, freckled hands full of flowers. She was a woman in her mid-thirties or more, although even those who knew her best were not likely to know exactly Mildred Wilkinson's age. This was not, however, due entirely to vanity. Certainly Mildred spared no expense as to facials, permanents and clothing, but the Wilkinsons had always been very rich, and, so far as their own affairs went, very close-mouthed. Except, in Mildred's case, about her health; she was in no sense a hypochondriac; her vague complaints, her interest in pills and capsules were mainly and rather pathetically due to her lack of interest in other things. And that, too, was rather pathetic. Never, perhaps, an attractive or an energetic woman, she had lived since school days a secluded and ingrown life, alone with her father, unsociable, stiff-necked and extremely rich old Nelson Wilkinson. After his death she had seemed unable to stir herself from the lethargy of those years.

She said now, “Not too well. My headaches again and not sleeping …” She sighed and then brightened. “Dr. Haven always tells me to get out and get more exercise. See more people. Really sometimes I think he's getting too old to practice. But father liked him.” She thrust the lilies of the valley into Myra's hands.

Miss Cornelia said, “Do sit down, Mildred. Did you walk over?”

“Oh, no; I wasn't quite up to it!” She sat down in the ruby-red chair. Her colorless light hair was tightly waved; a heavily marked line accentuated her mouth; she adjusted her rather long brown tweed skirt and gave a bleak, shrinking look around her. “You always use this room!” she said distastefully.

Miss Cornelia's lips tightened, but after a second or two she replied quietly, “Certainly. Why not?”

She knew, of course; everyone knew why not. Mildred's pale eyes returned to meet Miss Cornelia's direct gaze. She did not reply. She said instead, “How are you now, dear Lady Carmichael? How is Richard? How is …?” She cleared her throat and said distinctly, “How is Alice?”

T
HE SWEET FRAGRANCE OF
the lilies was as delicate and gentle as the image of Alice that Mildred's question evoked.

And the lilies gave Myra an excuse to get away. As she went toward the hall she heard Mildred say again, “How is Alice?”

People, as a rule, did not mention Alice; but then so few people came to the house. Certainly Mildred had been, as Aunt Cornelia had said, faithful and constant in her visits to a house a less faithful friend might wish to avoid; certainly she had been devoted to Alice. Alice, indeed, had been one of Mildred's few friends. Mildred was older than Alice, yet they had been in school together and, after Alice's marriage, they had been neighbors. She had every right to ask questions.

The great hall was empty. Myra walked back along it, across the stately dining room with its dim portraits and mirrors and sparkling chandelier, to the little room off the butler's pantry where Alice had so faultlessly arranged her flowers.

The small chromium sink glittered; the vases stood in orderly rows. She selected a low, pale-green bowl for the tiny fragrant stalks—pulled off unevenly, as if Mildred had jerked at them quickly and impatiently.

The first step had been taken; she had told Aunt Cornelia.

Now to tell Tim; to explain that she wanted to live with him; that they could take a tiny apartment; that she'd do the cooking and cleaning and see to him; that their expenses really wouldn't be much. Tim loved her in his own rather incalculable way; he might not understand her action but she could count on his affection. In any case, she'd get some sort of job.

How much had Aunt Cornelia seen and guessed? How much did she know of the truth?

Myra stood for a long time looking at the lilies.

She was indeed so lost in thought that when at last she roused herself it was with an abrupt sense of much time having passed. And when she took up the bowl and went back to the library, dreading Mildred and her inevitable talk of Alice, Mildred had gone.

And Richard had returned.

He was standing before the mantel, talking to his aunt, his hands thrust into his pockets. Both of them looked up as Myra entered. “Hello, Myra,” said Richard.

He was a mediumly tall man with a compact, solid body. He did not at all resemble Miss Cornelia; he was too hard and masculine, but he had her forthright manner of speech and direct eyes.

“Mildred's gone,” said Miss Cornelia. “She said she could only stay a minute; she had so much to do. I can't imagine what. Poor thing, she'd be happier if she did have something to do. The flowers look very nice, my dear.”

The last time, thought Myra—the last time. Suddenly she hoped that Aunt Cornelia would remain in the room, stay downstairs to dinner; permit no moment for Myra to be alone with Richard.

She put the low green bowl down on a table near by. Barton came in with the tray of ice and glasses, soda water and decanters. He moved toward the ruby-red chair and lowered the tray to the table that stood beside it. “Anything else, sir?”

“That's all, thank you.”

Barton moved a decanter a fractional inch, eyed it scrutinizingly and, satisfied, went to put on a fresh log. Miss Cornelia said wearily, “I think I'll go upstairs now, Richard. Barton …”

“Yes, Madam.”

The two men made a linked cradle of their arms, and Miss Cornelia, leaning on Myra, slipped from the chair in it. She said, with a rather subdued twinkle, “I like all the attention I can get. Myra, if Tim phones tell him I insist on his coming.”

“Comfortable?” said Richard, looking down at the face so near his shoulder.

“Oh, quite.” She waved at Myra, and the butler and Richard, walking slowly and carefully with their light burden, carried her out of the library.

Myra went to the French window and looked out across the terrace. It was late; the clear glow of the spring afternoon was leaving.

Perhaps it would be better not to talk to Richard at all.

But he came back almost at once, striding swiftly along the hall and into the room, and he already knew. He came directly toward her.

“What's all this about leaving, Myra?”

She met his eyes for an instant and looked quickly away, but it was curious how, even when she didn't look at him, when she wouldn't look at him, she could still see him so clearly, the hard, compact lines of his face, the expression of incredulity—and question—in his eyes. Her throat was tight; she put her hand up against it. He said, “You can't be serious! Aunt Cornelia needs you. This is her home and yours.”

He was wrong; it was Alice's. Myra moved away, toward the ruby-red chair and the table with the glasses and decanter. “You've made me more than welcome, Richard,” she said stiffly.

Richard made a swift, impatient gesture. “Good Lord! You and Aunt Cornelia—well, you ought to know, you must know what it's meant to me to have you both here.”

“She wished to be with you, Richard.”

“She came to stand beside me,” he said bluntly. “She came as quickly as she could. She's like an army with banners, bless her. So are you, Myra.”

It was going to be even more difficult than she had expected. She said slowly, “I love her, Richard. I needn't tell you that.”

“But then why … ?” he broke off abruptly, stared at nothing for a moment, then came to pour drinks for both of them. He put a glass in her hand, and said, “Let's talk it over a bit. I don't see—well, sit down.”

So she sat again in the ruby-red chair where she'd sat for, now, so many evenings. He rubbed one hand through his hair impatiently, and frowning, went to his own arm chair opposite.

“Look here,” he said, and stared at the fire and drank slowly and repeated, “Look here. Why do you want to leave?”

Truth put itself into words: Because I discovered, only a few days ago, that I love you. Because you are Alice's husband.

Myra did not, of course, speak the words which truth so swiftly chose. She said, “Aunt Cornelia is much better. I'm going to live with Tim.”

Richard's face was in the shadow of the wing of his chair, but she knew that he glanced at her quickly and then looked back into the fire.