Yellow Room (2 page)

“Sorry, my dears,” she said in her light voice. “Some awful man here about the blackout. Have you had lunch?”

“We had trays up here,” her mother said, the injury returning. “I do think, Elinor—”

But Elinor was not listening. She glanced around the luxurious apartment, a boudoir and two bedrooms, and jerking off her hat, ran a hand over her shining blond hair. Carol, watching her and still puzzled, wondered how she had kept her beauty. Thirty-two, she thought, and she doesn’t look as old as I do. Or does she? Certainly Elinor was looking tired and harassed, and perhaps—if such a thing were possible—rather frightened.

“I hope you will be comfortable,” she was saying. “It’s the most awful rotten luck, but I have to go to New York tomorrow. In this heat too. Isn’t it dreadful?”

Mrs. Spencer stared at her.

“I do think, Elinor—” she began again.

“I know, my dear,” Elinor said. “It’s sickening. But I have to go. We’re giving a dinner next week, and my dress has to be fitted on Saturday. I had to have one. I’m in rags.”

Carol smiled faintly. Elinor in rags, with a dressing room lined with closets filled with exquisite clothes, was not even a figure of speech.

“Where will you stay?” she asked. “Your apartment’s closed, isn’t it? I thought Howard was at his club.”

“I’ll find some place,” Elinor said, still airily. “Maybe the Colony Club. Howard’s not coming out this weekend. He’s playing golf on Saturday at Piping Rock.”

Mrs. Spencer had lapsed into indignant silence. Elinor did not look at her. She was really not looking at anyone.

“I have a shocking headache,” she said, putting her hand with its huge square-cut diamond to her head. “Do you mind if I lie down for a while? Do what you like, of course.”

“Just what would you propose,” Carol said, amused. “I can curl up with a book, but what about Mother?”

Once more, however, she realized that her words had not penetrated Elinor’s mind. Behind her lovely face something was happening. It was as if her speech was following a pattern, already cut and prepared when she entered the room.

“Dinner’s at eight,” she said abruptly. “I’ll see you then.”

“I do think—” Mrs. Spencer began again. But Elinor had already gone, the door closing behind her. In spite of her bewilderment Carol laughed. Then, feeling repentant, she went over and kissed her mother’s cheek.

“Well, we’re here,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t bother about Elinor. Maybe she has something on her mind.”

Mrs. Spencer caught her arm almost wildly.

“Carol, do you think Howard is being unfaithful?”

“He may have a pretty lady somewhere,” Carol said. “But Elinor wouldn’t mind, of course, unless it got out.”

This picture of modern marriage proving too much for her, Mrs. Spencer closed her eyes.

“I think I’ll have some digitalis,” she said faintly.

Elinor left the next day, looking as though she had not slept, and piling her car with the numberless bags without which she never moved. She had not appeared at dinner the night before, sending word she still had a headache, and as she left shortly after lunch her mother’s grievance continued.

Elinor’s plan, it appeared, was to drive herself to Providence, leave her car there and take a train to New York.

“That leaves the limousine for you,” she explained. “You can use it all you like. Howard laid in plenty of gas.”

Mrs. Spencer said nothing resentfully, but Elinor did not notice. She talked on feverishly during lunch: Greg’s citation, the probability of his marriage to Virginia Demarest before he went back, the dress for which she was to be fitted. And—which was unlike her—she smoked fairly steadily through the meal. Carol was uneasy, and when Elinor went upstairs for her coat and hat, she followed her.

Elinor was at the safe in her bedroom. She started somewhat.

“Money for the trip,” she said lightly. “What’s the matter with you, Carol? You look ghastly.”

“I thought you did,” Carol said bluntly.

“Nonsense. I’m all right. See here, Carol, why not stay here for a while? Greg won’t go to Maine. He has other things on his mind, and it only reminds you of things you’d better forget.”

“I can manage,” Carol said rather dryly. “I can’t change the plans now. It’s too late.”

“Let the servants go up alone. Lucy Norton will be there, won’t she?” There seemed a certain insistence in Elinor’s voice.

“I’m leaving Sunday,” she said. “It’s too late to change.”

She watched Elinor at her dressing table, laden with the gold toilet things, the jars and perfume bottles which were as much a part of her as her carefully darkened eyebrows. She was running a brush over the eyebrows now, but the line was not too even.

Elinor’s hands were shaking.

T
HE TRIP TO BOSTON
was a nightmare. The train was jammed with a Sunday crowd, and stopped frequently with a jerk that almost broke her neck. It was still hot and her mind was filled with the events of the past three days.

Any attempt to locate Greg in Washington had met with failure, and Mrs. Spencer had taken refuge in her bedroom and a dignified silence. Then on Sunday she had openly rebelled.

“I think I’ll go with you, Carol,” she said. “I might as well. If all Elinor provides me with is a place to sleep and food to eat, I see no reason for staying.”

It had taken Carol a half hour to persuade her to stay. June was often cold in Maine, and the house would be damp anyhow, she said. Also the girls would have all they could do. Her mother would certainly be uncomfortable. Better to wait a few days. At least she was well housed and well fed where she was.

And that crisis was barely over when she had a visit from Virginia Demarest. Virginia was a tall slim redheaded girl, very pretty and very young, and just now very indignant.

“I wish you’d tell me where Greg is,” she said. “Or don’t you know either? I haven’t heard from him since he left San Francisco for Washington the first of the week.”

She lit a cigarette and threw the match away almost violently.

“We only know he’s in this country, Virginia. We are opening Crestview for him. Not my idea,” Carol added hastily, seeing Virginia’s face. “Mother thinks he needs to be cool after where he’s been. He’s somewhere in Washington probably. He was to get his medal or whatever it is this week. Of course he’s busy.”

“There are telephones in Washington,” Virginia said stormily. “All the phones in the country seem to have been sent there. Also I presume they still sell three-cent stamps. What does Elinor say?”

“She’s in New York. She hasn’t heard either.”

Virginia eyed her.

“She and Greg are a pretty close corporation, aren’t they?”

Carol smiled.

“I came along later,” she said. “Rather as an unpleasant surprise, I gather. Yes, they’re fond of each other.”

Virginia was not listening. She was looking at a photograph of Greg, tall and handsome in his flying clothes and helmet. Her truculence had gone now. She put out her cigarette and glanced rather helplessly at Carol.

“There’s something wrong,” she said. “Something’s happened to him. Ever since he left after his last leave his letters have been different. I suppose men can fall out of love as well as in.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Carol said, with spirit. “If ever I saw a man who had gone overboard completely it was Greg. Of course his letters are different. They had to be read by a censor. You know that.”

But Virginia was not convinced.

“They have girls out there,” she said. “Nurses, Wacs, all sorts. He may have found someone he likes. He’s no child. He’s thirty-four, and he’s been around. You know him.”

Carol knew him, she admitted to herself. She had always adored him, his good looks, his debonair manners, even the lightness with which he threw off his occasional lapses. It had been she, years ago, who had slipped to him the headache tablets or even the Scotch which braced him the morning after so that he could face the family. And she had understood him better than Elinor.

“You’d better grow up soon,” she had told him one morning, standing long-legged and gawky by his bed. He grinned at her.

“Why?” he inquired. “God, what awful mess is this?” He took it, grimacing. “It’s fun to be young, Carol. Or it was last night.”

She roused herself when she reached Boston. She managed to get to the North Station in a taxi which threatened to break down at any moment, and she found there three tired and discouraged women servants who had had no dinner and were standing by the bags they had carried themselves. Only Maggie, the cook, gave her a thin smile.

“Well, we’ve got this far, Miss Carol,” she said. “And if you know where we can get a cup of coffee—”

She got them fed after some difficulty, sitting with them at the table and trying to swallow a dry cheese sandwich. They cheered considerably after the food.

There were no porters to be had. They lugged their bags to the train and got aboard. It had taken on the aspects of adventure to the two younger girls, especially since Carol was with them. But when she tried to enter her drawing room the door was locked, and the porter said it was already occupied. It was useless to protest. If two tickets had been sold for the same room, you could blame the war and anyone who protested was unpatriotic.

She smoked a cigarette in the women’s room before she crawled resignedly into her lower berth. She supposed everything was all right. Elinor would be at home by this time, and Virginia would have heard from Gregory. But her depression continued. Partly of course it was the thought of men fighting and dying all over the world. Partly it was the belonging to what her friends called the “new poor” and having a mother who refused to change her standard of living. And partly it was an odd sense of apprehension, compounded partly of her dislike for returning to Crestview, where before the war Don Richardson had courted her so gaily and won her so easily. To escape she tried to plan about the house. Lucy had had too short notice to have done much, but at least she would be there, small, brisk and efficient. In that hopeful mood she finally went to sleep, and it persisted even when at six the next morning they got out onto a chilly station platform and looked for the taxi Lucy was to send.

There was no taxi there, only a sleepy station agent who regarded the summer people as unavoidable nuisances and disappeared as soon as the train moved on. There was a small restaurant not far away, and after a wait they got some coffee. But no taxi arrived, and at last Carol managed to locate one for the ten-mile drive.

It was cold. The girls shivered in their summer coats, and Carol herself felt discouraged. She did her best to keep up their morale, pointing out the fresh green of the trees and when they reached it the beauty of the sea.

“Look,” she said. “There’s a seal. They’re usually gone by this time. I suppose with no motorboats around—”

“It’s awfully lonely,” said Freda. Freda was the housemaid, young and rather timid. “I feel all cut off from everything.”

“You feel cool too, don’t you?” said Maggie briskly. “After the fuss you made about the heat. Just feel the air! Ain’t it something?”

There was of course plenty of air, all of it icy, and Freda shivered.

“I’ll be glad to get into a warm house,” she said. “Where are we? At the North Pole?”

Nora, the parlormaid-waitress, had kept quiet. She was not much of a talker at any time, but she looked blue around the lips and Carol felt uneasy. If the girls didn’t stay—

“Mrs. Norton will have breakfast ready,” she said. “The house will be warm too. And the lilacs ought to be lovely still. They come out late here.”

No one said anything. The taxi had passed Colonel Richardson’s cottage and turning in at the drive was winding its way up the hill to the house. Carol began to have a feeling of home-coming as the familiar road unwound. They passed the garage and the old stable, unused for years; not, she remembered, since Gregory had kept a saddle mare there and she her pony. She took off her hat and let the air blow through her dark hair.

“Look, there are some lilacs,” she said, hoping for a cheerful response. No one said anything. They made the last turn and before them lay the house, big and massive and white. It faced out over the harbor, but the entrance was at the rear, with the service wing to the left and what had been her father’s study to the right. She saw the two younger women eying it.

“It looks big,” Nora said, doubt in her voice.

“It’s not as large as it looks,” Carol said briskly. “It’s built around an open court. I wonder what has happened to Lucy?”

Except that the winter storm doors and windows had been removed, the house looked strangely unoccupied. The front door was closed, and no small brisk figure rushed to greet them. They got out and Carol paid off the taxi, but there was still no sign of movement in the house. Also to her amazement she found the door locked, and while the women stood disconsolately among their bags and the car departed with a swish of gravel she got out her keys. The door opened, she stepped inside, to be greeted only by freezing air and a vague, rather unpleasant odor.

The women followed her in, looking sulky.

“I can’t imagine what has happened,” she said. “Mrs. Norton must be sick. If you get a fire started in the kitchen, Maggie, I’ll telephone and find out.”

She put her hat and bag on the console table in the hall. It was impossible to take off her coat, and except for Maggie, starting toward her kitchen, nobody had moved. The two girls stood as if poised for flight.

“What’s the smell?” Freda said. “It’s like something’s been burned.”

“Leave the door open,” Carol said impatiently. “Mrs. Norton has been here. She may have scorched something. Go on back with Maggie.”

She went along the passage around the patio to the library. The old study was untouched, and the covers were still on the hall chairs at the foot of the wide staircase at the side of the house. But the covering was off the shallow pool in the patio, and the shutters off the French doors and windows opening on it. To her relief she found that at least an attempt had been made to make the library livable. The rug was down, the dust covers were gone, some of the photographs and ornaments were in place, and a log fire had been laid, ready for lighting.